Nothing To Lose

In 2009 I happened upon a documentary about an Englishman who, rather unusually, cycled from Alaska to Argentina on a tandem bicycle. On his own. The really compelling part, however, was that he would pick up strangers along the way to ride in the second seat. For once, I thought, there is an adventure tale that I can feel something for. This was an expedition about people - the physical challenge was secondary to the bonding of strangers and cultures. There was no segregation of possibilities between myself and some hearty sportsman breaking a world record by climbing a mountain barefoot at record speeds. (I haven't really heard of anyone doing this. Although am sure it won't be long.)

I was so taken by this journey that I kept an eye on what this Englishman was going to do next. His name is Dominic Gill, and as it turns out, his next project was going to be even more incredible.

So incredible, in fact, that I wanted more people to know about it. I spoke to Dom Gill and pitched an article to a silly number of publications, but nobody seemed interested. I'm used to pitches and proposals being ignored, but this time it made me feel disappointed and frustrated in equal measure. "Don't ignore this one," I pleaded silently. Yet ignore it they all did.

All I want to do is tell this story, however, so if I have to do so here, on my blog, then so be it.

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THE DOM & ERNIE PROJECT

Ernie Greenwald, a 74-year-old from California, is going to fulfil the dream of a lifetime by cycling across the America he’s never known. It is no easy feat, but in this case it will be a far greater challenge, because Greenwald has lymphocytic leukemia.
Travelling with him is British adventurer and film-maker Dominic Gill, who proposed the idea to Greenwald after a chance meeting in 2006. Despite his condition, or perhaps in spite of, Greenwald accepted. As Gill explains, “Ernie wants to prove as much as possible that life is for the living. It’s almost as if he’s woken from a dream and thought ‘I’ve got nothing to lose’.”

Together Greenwald and Gill will travel coast-to-coast across the USA on a two-seater bicycle, taking in the country that Greenwald has lived in his whole life and never had the chance to explore. They will discover a variety of landscapes and culture, and hope encounter some good old American hospitality along the way.

Gill, 29, previously cycled a tandem bike from Alaska to Argentina for the documentary and book Take a Seat, inviting the people he met along the way to fill the second seat and join him in his adventure. It was on this journey that he met Ernie Greenwald, whose days as a keen cyclist were, it seemed, well and truly behind him, but who overcame his hesitation and took the opportunity to get back in the saddle.

They met while Gill was stopping for refreshments in the quiet concrete city of Lompoc, central California. Local resident Greenwald, a cycling enthusiast, was studying the tandem with some interest.
“He didn’t look like a keen cyclist anymore,” admitted Gill, but he offered Greenwald the opportunity to ride with him the next day. Greenwald’s hesitation was followed by the explanation that he had to stay and take care of his ailing wife. This might have been the end of their encounter, but 20 minutes later Greenwald came back and accepted Gill’s invitation. The next morning Gill and Greenwald cycled the 60-odd miles to Santa Barbara in the sultry Californian heat.

While physically it was tough, Greenwald enjoyed the challenge. It was not until later that Gill learned the sorry truth: that Greenwald’s wife had died six months before, and on top of that he was also suffering from chronic lymphatic leukaemia (CLL). Yet Greenwald relished his time on the tandem. Gill says it was as if Greenwald realised that he “could wallow in self pity or take an opportunity of a lifetime.”

Since this chance meeting, Gill could not forget Greenwald’s story. So he came up with a particularly edifying plan for his next adventure. “I contacted Ernie and asked if he would ride across America, if I facilitated it,” explains Gill. “He said he trusted me, and agreed.” And so the Dom & Ernie project was born.

Gill and Greenwald will set off from Santa Monica Pier in Los Angeles, on June 26 2010, cycling through the bottom of Utah, Montana, the Mid-west and across to the Eastern coast where they will finish in New York City. On the way they hope to take in Death Valley, the bright lights of Las Vegas, the wild grandeur of Yellowstone National Park, “windy” Chicago, and North Dakota.

The two will be cycling a Pino Tour bike from Hase - a semi-recumbent tandem. The special features of the bike include the position of the gears and steering rod at the back, rather than at the front, as on a typical tandem. This allows Greenwald to ride in front whilst still being the stoker’s position (which is normally at the back). The Pino Tour also has a freewheel mechanism which allows Greenwald to stop pedalling when he gets tired, and Gill to carry on cycling.

The two cyclists will also be accompanied by Greenwald’s RV, in which he currently lives alone with his two small dogs. As well as the benefit of carrying their gear and supplies, this will make the journey physically and emotionally easier on Greenwald.
“By taking the RV he has his bed, his dogs, nothing changes,” explains Gill. “And anything that gets Ernie across the States on a bicycle is good with me.”

Physically, Greenwald will have to be carefully monitored. Due to the cancer limiting his blood cells he gets very short of breath. He also has an erratic heart so has to take medication and therefore feels the cold.
“Ernie will struggle,” admits Gill. “But I will also struggle. I will be carrying about 70% of Ernie’s weight. However strong Ernie is, his upper ceiling is low.”
Greenwald’s oncologist has agreed to be at the end of a phone if needed, and there will be tests every month for his blood cell count and check his metabolic level.

Gill says the Dom & Ernie project is not a test of Greenwald’s physical endurance, but an opportunity for him to explore his country. “This is not about bravado, it’s about showing people adventure is for everyone. Ernie wants to give as good as anyone else gives.”

The Dom & Ernie project hopes to raise donations for Livestrong & the Lance Armstrong Foundation, which provides support for people suffering from cancer across the globe.

While this challenge is largely about Greenwald fulfilling the dream of a lifetime, Gill also has his own additional motivation for taking the journey.
“I want to change the misconception that the world is out to get you. We’re going to the most fear-filled nation, and I want to prove that if you stick your neck out, you won’t get your head chopped off.”

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SINCE THE ARTICLE....

Of course, this is not the whole story. In late May Ernie's health took a sharp drop and since then he has been in and out of hospital, and has had to undertake a brief course of chemotherapy.

LATEST UPDATE

Just yesterday, Dom made the announcement that Ernie would not be able to make the journey. At least, not the whole journey, and not yet. 

"I have just been to see Ernie in hospital. I have decided that he's not going to make the journey... maybe a portion of it, but not all of it."


I cannot begin to imagine the disappointment Ernie will be facing. One can only hope he will be strong enough to undertake at least part of his goal. However, it seems that now the project is going to become something special for even more people. The journey that Ernie has hoped to undertake to inspire others may become their own journey.

"During a visit to see Ernie in hospital two days ago, he said in no uncertain terms that the show must go on, if not with him, with other willing volunteers."
Dom is now looking for anyone with any ailment or disability which may have prevented them from completing a cycling journey or other physical challenge - or simply anyone who wants a "pick me up" - to take Ernie's place in the stoker's seat for a while. It's Take a Seat part 2, but with a greater goal.

Can you help?

- Do you have a friend with a disability that prevents them from getting outdoors as much as they would like?
- Do they live anywhere approximately on the Dom & Ernie cycling route ?
- Would they be excited about the prospect of a cross-country cycle journey on a tandem?
- Would they be happy to talk to a hand-held camera on the bicycle (held by Dom)?
- Would they be prepared to camp if all equipment was provided by way of a support vehicle (that can also be used to travel in should a problem arise)?

If the answer is yes to all of these, Dom would love to hear from you or them. He says "Being fit and strong is not necessary (I can take up the slack) but being prepared to cycle for 2 to 20 days and being up for the challenge is.The Dom & Ernie team are currently trying to source funding to ensure their riders have return travel to their start point."

"The journey - with an almost confirmed departure date of Wed July 3rd 2010 - has the potential to not only make an incredible story but provide and inspirational example to those that are striving to get out and achieve something in the face of adversity. We are all hoping that Ernie, the inspiration behind the project, will be well enough to undertake a stage of this journey, but for the time being will be relieved as and when he makes a full and speedy recovery. In the meantime, help us find others will to give adventure cycling a try - no previous experience necessary! Can you help us keep this dream alive?"

You can contact Dom Gill via the project's Facebook page, and to learn more about the project, visit www.domandernie.com. Please spread the word, and let's show Ernie, and Dom, and everyone involved, absolute support.

"Only those who will risk going too far can possible find out how far one can go."
~ T.S.Eliot

London Snapshot: Broadway Market

Although I've been in London for five years, and lived on the East side of London for three of them, I have only just been to Broadway market for the first time. Shame on me, I know, because anyone who knows East London is as familiar with this place as an old friend. Admittedly it's not the easiest place to get to - you're better off by bicycle - as the nearest Tube stop is a decent 15 min walk away, but this makes it a safe haven from hoards of tourists. It's practically the anti-Portobello road. Broadway market is jammed with locals and regulars doing their weekend shop and meeting friends. It has a fantastic atmosphere, avoiding the usual pretentiousness of other markets.


Food:

For me at least, the question in the forefront of my mind is always, "What can I eat?" I arrived at Broadway market hungry, and ready to treat myself. (Hell, I'd earned it).

There was such a tantalising selection of food stalls, and the prices are much more reasonable than I would ever have expected. After browsing the Jamaican hot pots, the vegan curries, the homemade pies, the burgers, the cheeses, pestos, olive oils... and many other mouth-watering delights, I settled on a classic falafel wrap, which at £3.50 was better than you could ask at your standard chain cafes, and unquestionably greater!

Whoops, but I'm allowed dessert too, right? It's been a tough week... and it's hey, it's Saturday! Again, there were plenty of sweets to take your pick of. Everything seemed to have its own eclectic style - one stall had heart-shaped chocolate tarts with intricate birds stencilled on the top, while another stall had owls made out of shortbread, with almonds for beaks. Frankly, I am amazed I managed to resist most of these things. I had definitely earned some sort of reward....

My friend had recommended Violet's cupcake stall. While I do love cupcakes, I feel that since London was first hit with cupcake fever, it's all got a little out of hand. And I was also tempted by a dark chocolate brownie I had sampled a few stalls down...
But in the end I was won over by Violet's cupcakes - solely because they make them in miniature. It's the perfect size! For 80p it was impossible to say no, and the flavours were refreshingly offbeat. I chose a "rhubarb and rosewater", with pale pink frosting, and while I couldn't say it tasted wildly like rhubarb (or rosewater for that matter) I do know it was very good. (So I got another one).

One to note.....
One of the most iconic food stores on Broadway is Fred Cooke's jellied eels shop. Apparently Fred was selling these gelatinous delicacies on Broadway Market as far back as 1900, and then opened the cafe you see today. I imagine this place has seen a hell of a lot - oh if the walls could talk! From hungry shepherds stopping in for a bite while bringing their flocks through the City of London, to facing the risk of bombs and world wars, it's been around a bit. Fred Cooke’s grandson, Bob, is now in charge, keeping the jellied eel tradition alive. I don't care much for the fare myself, but am glad it's here.

Shopping:

With appetites satiated, it's nice to walk about and peruse! This is East London, which means you can find your fair share of the creative and the edgy: old records, photography books and art.

Personally, I love old stuff. I enjoy the nostalgia of old things. The romance. The idea that in the "olden days" life was slower and more care was taken in everything that was made, done, said... call me old-fashioned (ha!) but I love that concept. It's why I love markets in the first place.

There are plenty of old things to be bought at Broadway market, including vintage. There was an especially good second-hand clothing stall there, and I even managed to find shoes in my size! Yep, they were second-hand shoes. But they were £5.

Whether they really were vintage or not, they are very old fashioned and they were orange. I had to have them.

Wandering around there was a lot to browse: a fabric store with long rolls of gorgeous silks and floral cottons along its walls, and jars of buttons in the window; crates of fresh flowers; new jewellery made from old watches; handmade soaps and hand lotions; fancy hats; pet accessories; children's clothes; and bicycles. (I even bumped into a friend of mine there, selling her own bicycle which was bought in an instant). I realised later that what was absent here, in comparison with other London markets, was the usual collections of London souvenirs and Union-Jack trinkets catering to tourists. It felt remarkably refreshing.

One to note.....

I am not a sweet tooth (*cough* apart from the occasional mini-cupcake *cough*) and I would almost never eat sweets these days. (My dentist has seen enough of me in my lifetime as it is, and sugar gives me a headache!)
But like I said before, I love old-fashioned things, and there are few places more fun than an old-fashioned sweet shop. London has a few of these around, and Brewode's Cornucopia is one of them. Nostalgia overload! The colours! The jars! The memories of childhood sugar-highs! The disbelief that so much pocket money was spent on this stuff back in the day!

I popped in there with a couple of friends and was kindly bought some popping candy, which I hadn't had since I was a kid. Standing out in the market, it was one-two-three and the whole packet goes in the mouth! I felt like I was 10 years old all over again... amazing what exploding sugar crystals can do.

More from Broadway Market:

There are plenty of other highlights. The Cat & Mutton pub is cool, although I think The Dove is even better, with a fantastic selection of foreign beers and ciders. There are some excellent cafes and many other shops and stalls not even mentioned here. Basically, if you ever get a chance to visit on a Saturday, I'd recommend spending the whole day there. It's a great little slice of London.

Jumping in Puddles

VIDEO: Hoppípolla - Sigur Ros



Hoppípolla is Icelandic for "jumping in puddles". Oh how I used to love jumping in puddles! Was there any greater thrill than the moment of impact? Feet hitting water, and seeing it fly with a satisfying SPLAT? The thing is, I still love to do it now, but I never have the appropriate footwear, nor do bystanders accept it any longer if I do. These are excuses though, aren't they? After all, as a child it didn't matter what shoes I had on: getting one's feet wet was a small price to pay for the exhilaration of making that rain water fly! And if bystanders ever were to click their tongues in dismay, it mattered not... their presence went entirely unnoticed.
So what happens to us when we grow up? Why do we stop playing the way we used to? Is it really maturity, or is it just fear? I think we worry about what people will say. We worry about having soggy shoes.


Children of yore, it's time to throw mature caution to the wind, and go back to jumping in puddles. Get your feet wet!

My Life In Tea

This morning a box arrived to my flat. I signed for it, and brought it inside, and only then did I wonder what it was. It was, I soon discovered, a "cheer up!" present from my brother in New Zealand.  There are few gifts more special than one that is given for no other occasion than to make you smile. Which this one was sure to do: my brother had sent me a box of a selection of fine teas.
Those who know me know how much I love my tea. Yet it's more than just a drink; it's something I have grown up with, and wherever I have travelled to, it has been a part of that journey.

Each cup of tea represents an imaginary voyage.  ~Catherine Douzel

CHILDHOOD TEA
When I was quite young, about eleven, I would work in my father's shop, helping serve customers, unpack stock, (and most of the time make a nuisance of myself) but I also made the obligatory cups of tea. I remember then that my own cup of "builder's tea" would require plenty of milk and a large heaping of sugar.  Often when I had gulped the last of the liquid there would still be a layer of sugar at the bottom of the mug.


As a teen I refined this syrupy recipe into, specifically, a splash of milk and two sugars. Or, "two and a moo," as I liked to say. By the time I reached 20 I had removed the sugar and replaced it with a single, questionable, artificial sweetener. Looking back it was clear I had so much to learn about tea.


ENGLISH  BREAKFAST
Then I moved to England, where tea as I knew it began to change. I still drank it every day, but I moved from "builder's tea" to English Breakfast. I had not yet developed my knowledge of teas beyond this staple, however, and while at one of my many jobs in London a colleague asked me to order some Earl Grey tea for the office. I distinctly recall raising an eyebrow and asking,
"Who on earth likes Earl Grey?"
"I do!" he replied. He was just as shocked that I didn't appreciate the Earl as much as I was shocked that someone would want to drink something that tasted like dishwater.

Something changed. Maybe it was the natural change that came with my slowly becoming Anglicised? Maybe I just developed further my sense of taste? Whatever it was, I soon became an Earl Grey drinker. And with it, I developed a fascination and thirst for the plethora of teas from all parts of the world. Tea became a passion.


BABINGTON'S TEAROOMS

The first time I had Earl Grey with lemon was, strangely, in Rome, at the gloriously decadent Babington's Tearooms. This fantastic place was founded in 1893 by two English women living in Italy, to create a simple sanctuary where homesick Britons could drink their tea and read the papers. Babington's sits at the foot of the Spanish steps, and it was here that I brilliantly decided to make the switch to lemon. This was also around the time that I realised the great flavours to be found in loose leaf tea, rather than in a teabag. It finally and completely opened the door to my truly appreciating good tea.




TÈ DIFETTOSO
Ironically, Italy was also the source of the worst cup of tea I've ever had. On the side of Mt Vesuvius, having zig-zagged around the slow ambling tourists and then being denied any decent trekking routes at the top for lack of a guide, finding a cup of tea felt like a matter of life and death. The refreshments truck on the volcano offered a variety of things, but tea was not one of them. Asking for some tea with milk was met with a strange look, and resulted in a cup of microwaved milk and peach ice tea. Of course, I shouldn't have been surprised - Italians are all about coffee.


TEA IN THE OUTDOORS
Most of the time the best cups of tea have followed some sort of hard phsyical slog or weary day. A particularly memorable cup of tea was had in Scotland, in a wild stretch of moorlands outside of Inverness. Having walked all day, there was some surprise to discover a hand-painted sign on the side of the path, which read, "TEA". 
This sounded great, but from where?
Some ambling off the path lead us to another sign reading "REFRESHMENTS", and behind it a corrugated-iron shed, a large crudely-constructed cage housing barking huskies, and a caravan. I couldn't help but wonder whether we we about to be captured and fed to the dogs - who had gone mental at the sight of us - when a tall, wild-looking bearded man came out to greet us. His name was Rory and he was a crofter, tending to the lands, who had not left the area for his entire life.
"Not at all?" I asked him.
"Why would I?" said Rory, stretching his arms out at the view. "I have all I need!"
He brought us some fantastic tea, (made to perfection by Rory who obviously cared about a good cup) which we sat and drank in his wild, overgrown garden.
"Just kick the chickens out of the way," said Rory.
It was one of the most surprising and inspiring tea stops of my life.

MINT TEA
In Morocco I experienced the renowned mint tea; a heady liquid stuffed with bright green mint leaves and sweetened with cubes of sugar. It was the warmth of it that tuned me into the frequency of Marrakech. I think one of the things that has always drawn me to Morocco is the role of tea within its culture. When you arrive anywhere you must have tea! If you begin a conversation you must have tea! And to accept tea from a stall-holder in the souk was to enter into a haggling game, during which the tea continued to be poured as long as one wished to bargain.


"You want some tea?” Mohammad asked, looking hopeful. This was his chance to really push the sale. We accepted. Now the haggling would begin.

Mohammad left his stall to organise the tea, and came back with tiny stools for us to sit on.  Amusingly, his own stool was between us and the door. The tea tray was placed on the floor, and the strong, sweet minty tea was poured into three glasses.
We made a toast, and discussed the popular subjects of football and Marrakech, but eventually it was time to get down to business.
- (from my blog, Two Weeks in Morocco)

WHISKY DU BERBER
In the Saharan desert I watched my nomad friends brew notoriously strong gunpowder tea leaves in a ceramic pot on the fire. They would pull a ludicrously large rock of sugar out of their pocket, break off half of it and put it into the pot. Tea (known as "whisky du berber", or "whisky of the berber") was the ceremony around which the rest of the day revolved. If you had reason enough to stop in the desert, then it was worth making tea for.

"Strange how a teapot can represent at the same time the comforts of solitude and the pleasures of company."  ~Author Unknown

One night in the desert, our camels had run away and our guides had been gone all day to find them. When the sun set, Ben and I were still alone, and so were forced to make ourselves a fire. Here I had a chance to try and make the tea as I had watched the nomads prepare it before. Yet it proved to me what I had already suspected - that for every kind of tea, there is an art to making it.

In the light of the headtorch I filled the little grey teapot with water and placed it on the fire. Once it boiled I opened the box of gunpowder tea, and scooped in a heap of the bitter black stuff. Thinking back to when I had seen Barack make it, I let it stew and then added a handful of sugar cubes. Tasting the tea, it was still terribly bitter, so I added another handful of sugar. It seemed there would be no room to add any more. 

Just as I was tasting it again, we heard a voice.
“Barack??” we called out into the dark. The moon had not yet risen, and there was no light except for the fire.
And then we saw a small dot of light moving towards us.
Barack had found his way back to camp, using his mobile as a torch. We each grasped his hand in warm greeting. Barack slumped himself down beside the fire.
“Tea?” I offered him. “It’s nearly ready.”
I was delighted to be able to offer our guide some tea, but it was still bitter.
Kindly, Barack drank the glass I offered him anyway.
“Is good!” he lied.
“Some more?”
He declined, and we laughed.
“Is no good!” I grinned.
“No no, c’est bon!” he assured me.


THE RITUAL OF TEA
Someone who appreciates really good wine, and the ceremony of sourcing it, pouring it, and tasting it, will understand the importance of doing the same for tea. Of course, such a person will usually go somewhere with a really good wine list and cellar. For tea-drinkers, there is The Ritz!  Ben and I were given the fantastic gift one year of afternoon tea at The Ritz hotel in London. (Frankly, anywhere that has a tea menu automatically piques my interest). There were more cakes and miniature sandwiches than any person could possibly eat, but more tragically to my mind, there were more teas than I could ever try in one afternoon. Darjeeling! Lapsong! Assam! Jasmine! Oolong! Where to start? And how to finish?





Actually, perhaps the greatest part of the Ritz experience was the heavy silver tea sets. It made the ceremony of afternoon tea all the more decadent and detailed. In the same way that the nomads took the time to make the tea just the right way, pour it just the right way, and serve it specifically to tradition, with their chipped glasses and fire in the sand; the Ritz hotel in London also gave time and attention to doing things right.


Everyone has their rituals. For me, the ceremony of tea is a comforting ritual, the way that the ceremony of prayer is a comforting ritual for the religious. Of course I'm not a religious person, and on Sundays I don't go to Church - instead I pick up the Sunday papers, make a pot of loose-leaf tea, and say a happy little hallelujah.


There is no trouble so great or grave that cannot be much diminished by a nice cup of tea.  ~Bernard-Paul Heroux

Dead Man Flying

Usually when I read the paper I'll come across a story or two which BOGGLES MY MIND. And this one in particular was too bizarre not to write about.

Last Saturday a pair of women went to Liverpool's John Lennon airport and attempted to check in a man in a wheelchair for a flight to Berlin. Not something that should cause a stir, except for one minor detail - the man was dead.

Understandably, he could not have checked himself in in such a state, so it was kind of the women to help him out. Naturally the police didn't see it this way, and arrested them immediately. Airline staff had became suspicious during the check-in process; likely when they asked him if he had packed his own luggage and the man didn't respond.

The thing is, he was wearing sunglasses - which makes me wonder if in fact these women had seen Weekend at Bernies and realised what fun times could be had with a deceased acquaintance. Why they chose to go to Berlin, rather than a beach house is hard to know - the house parties wouldn't be nearly as good.

OK seriously... this story is actually quite sad, if not bizarre. The women were his relatives and were trying to smuggle the body back to their native Germany to avoid the repatriation fees (which are pretty hefty it must be said). They apparently thought that telling airline staff that the man was merely asleep would be enough for them to get away with their plan. Did they really think they could get to Europe without somebody suspecting something was a bit odd? I mean, did they actually sit around and decide that this was the plan with the most potential for success?

I am sorry for the family's loss, and I can't help but admire their determination.
But everybody knows that you can't check in once you've checked out.

Loser Eats Win

It's a sad but honest fact that some people don't deserve to win things in life. Sure, I know that sounds a little harsh. But it's true. Classic example?

Ryanair Scratch-card Guy.

Flying on Ryanair from Poland to the East Midlands last month, our loser decided he would purchase one of the inflight scratch-card tickets. Somehow, somewhere in the deepest illogical corner of the universe, chances gave him a winning ticket. He won €10,000.

What happened next is somewhat extraordinary (and has become a classic example of why losers shouldn't win).

I wish I could have been a fly on the wall in that aircraft cabin. However all I have to go on are snippets from the newspaper article, and this is my own re-enactment of what reportedly happened:

Passenger (to Steward) : "Excuse me, I've won €10,000 on my scratch card."
Steward (delighted) : "Wow! Congratulations sir! ( To rest of plane) We have a winner here, folks!"
Passenger: "So, good, can I have my money please?"
Steward : "My good man, you'll have to wait till we land; then you can claim your prize from the scratchcard company."
Passenger: "What?! No! I want my money this minute! How dare you keep it from me!"
Steward (grin fading) : "Uh, but Sir, we don't have that kind of money knocking about the aircraft. It's in a safe place, with the scratch card company...."
Passenger: "It's my money! You swine!"
Steward: "Look, Sir, you can claim it when you land, you will get your money..."
Passenger (standing) : "This is an outrage! You thieves! You liars! You toy with my emotions! I shall not be a pawn in your ridiculous game!" (Stuffs ticket in mouth) Steward: "Woah! Uh! Wait, Sir, you don't want to do that. Just sit down, and..."
 Passenger (wide-eyed, mouth full of ticket) : "MMPPPH!" (Swallows ticket)
 Steward (eyes wide): "But...!" Passenger : "I will never fly your airline again, you crazy man!"

Ryanair donated the money to charity.

Losers should not be winners. It completely puts the entire universal balance out of order. Yet, this is what happens. Foolish people win money, get angry and eat their ticket. Nice sane people with big mortgages and rising debts don't get three matching symbols, and have to eat baked beans.

 The only consolation anyone has from this is knowing that charity gained.

Well that, and also imagining what that chap's wife must have done when she found out.

Plane Ridiculous

An airport worker is "traumatised" after her colleague used one of the new 'naked' body scanners on her while making lewd comments. Needless to say this is disgusting behaviour and I hope the louse gets fired. Yet this only fuels my abhorrence for these scanners and their ability to see through people's clothing. It's like something from the sci-fi fantasy of a horny adolescent geek.
If airport staff are traumatised by someone ogling their naked form, then has anybody considered that passengers will feel equally distressed by undergoing such indecency? I already anticipate having my dignity stripped away whenever I fly. Instructed to take off layers of clothing, and my shoes, to pass through security, I am then - semi-clad and barefoot - given a full body rub-down by a strange woman whose name I don't even know.

All this to go on holiday, eh?

I don't like these scanners, and if the day comes where I am forced to walk through one, I would rather opt for a pat-down and bag search... although if do take that option I risk being denied boarding. Taking off my shoes is one thing, but being seen naked by strangers to make sure I am not concealing explosives is the final straw for me. Frankly, I'd rather travel by train if only it were always a viable option. (This is a good move for environmentalists, it must be said).

Airline representatives can bleat on all they want about these naked images not being kept, or looked at for too long, but the fact remains - people I don't know get to see my private parts, and nobody can guarantee that lewd thoughts don't cross their minds, even for a second. This is the sort of treatment criminals get when being shuffled between prisons, and the general population does not deserve it.

Up until the introduction of the scanners, I thought airlines had gone bonkers enough. Let's consider the liquid restrictions on carry-on baggage. Passengers are forbidden to take liquids onboard of more than 100ml per item. (Unless, of course, you purchase them after you've cleared security. This prevents you from bringing on anything expensive that you could be buying from Duty Free instead. Hats off, this is smart business). The thing that really intrigues me, however, is the logic behind these restrictions on liquids.
A group of nutcase extremists once attempted to blow up a flight by packing some liquid explosives in their carry-on luggage. Their plan was to gather their materials together and construct the bomb on board the aircraft. Apparently they had two kinds of liquid explosives - one carried inside batteries (which, by the way, you are still allowed to take in your hand luggage), and the other carried inside 500ml drink bottles. Fortunately these human stains were caught before they could go through with it.

Following this near-miss, it seems a few chaps on a committee were feeling the pressure. So they got together and decided that from now on, passengers would only be permitted to carry containers of liquids no larger than 100ml, which they would present to security in a clear plastic bag. I do not fathom that they believed this would prevent such a threat from happening again. It wouldn't.

When I travel I can take at least six 100ml containers with me whilst keeping within security guidelines. Is 600ml of liquid in separate containers safer than 500ml of liquid in one bottle? Certainly it allows airport staff to keep an eye on things (other than our private parts, of course) but realistically, if extremists wanted to harm us again, this is not going to stop them. They can buy bottles of water once they clear security, decant their 100ml bottles of liquid into them, keep calm and carry on. (Sure I don't know the first thing about explosives, but I hear these terrorists are pretty persistent).

Similar confusing logic applies to the restrictions on hand baggage. Personally, I refuse to pay exorbitant amounts to check in a suitcase these days, and have now mastered the art of travelling with hand baggage only. I measure my baggage before I travel to ensure I am within the size restrictions. Weight might be another matter, although I find if I carry my bag on my shoulder, and act like it weighs nothing, nobody checks.

This is where it really gets ridiculous.

If you do get your bag weighed, and it's over the weight limit, you have to pay for it to go into the hold. Unless, of course, you take out some of your clothing items, and put them on. This is fine. It's also fine if you give some of your items to your travelling companion, if their bag is under the limit.

I cannot be the first person to realise that you are STILL TAKING THE SAME WEIGHT ONBOARD? All the rapped-knuckle-logic being spouted by the fluoro-clad airport staff about the importance of weight restrictions is ludicrous. It's fantasy. If my bag is 5kg overweight, and I take out 5kg of clothing and wear it on the flight, (where I will then take it off and put it back in my bag before I am seated), it makes no difference to anyone. Except the airline, who look like they are in control of the situation, should a situation ever occur.

(I don't blame the general airport staff - I have worked for major airlines in my time, and one of the reasons I left the business was because I didn't like spouting nonsense to passengers, when I knew it didn't make sense. I think it's safe to say most staff don't agree with, or even understand, half of what they are told to enforce).

This feels too much like a case of needing to be seen to take preventative measures, rather than taking measures that are actually preventative. Such measures probably don’t exist, short of banning everyone from flying. Taking religion's route of using fear and guilt to control the masses, these rules appear to be in place for no other reason than to make us feel like we're being protected. Yet at what cost? Where does the attempt to control our safety actually end?
Gone are the days of going on holiday and enjoying the journey as much as the destination. Now we are tagged, stripped, patted-down, searched, scanned, fined, and our good shampoo confiscated before we even get there.

Do I feel safe? I really couldn't say yes.