American Life In the Summertime #36 - All Aboard!

To accuse the French of being lazy would be to invite impassioned Gallic defence of their particular view of the world - at least until lunchtime when they have more important activités de loisirs.  However it cannot be disputed that work for the French occupies a tier approximately level with dog crap on the pavements of Paris, and people who do not speak French: annoyances to be suffered with extravagant French forbearance.   Countless times here I encountered businesses closed for many hours in the middle of the day, random days where they had apparently decided to not open at all, and a general feeling of resentment that you were interrupting their earnest study of Oops! magazine with your annoying expectation to be attended.  It appears in France that if you, say, drive a bus, then this is exactly what you do: drive A bus - one - reluctantly - for a single journey from one place to another, before disappearing for most of the rest of the day to do whatever it is that French people do when they are not working, which is most of the time.  Then, at the end of the day, you drive it back home - again reluctantly - and add another full day of service to your generous government pension.  What the French hope to be able to do with this pension when they retire is unclear, as every other shop, transport, service and business will undoubtedly also be closed when they come to spend it, but they seem content.  There can be no doubt that the French fought valiantly against German occupation in World War II, however it seems safe to assume that the initial invasion happened on a Tuesday when nobody was at work. 

Welcome - back - to France.  I found myself here after attending the wedding of a friend in the UK, and having a week to kill before meeting them again in Munich for Oktoberfest.  I had not necessarily planned to send an ALITS update on this trip as it was only three weeks and they have now taken on a life of their own, and must actually contain something worth telling rather than the minutiae of daily travel.  And for almost the entire trip this was the case.  However.........

Last night I arrived in Paris to take the overnight train to Munich, and found all carriages locked, and multitudes of people milling around on the platform.  As the departure time approached an announcement was made that there was a problem with the engine, and hence departure would be delayed.  Being a German train, I viewed this with some suspicion, and so I wandered the track until I found a group of rail employees standing in lively discussion.  Some stealthy eavesdropping revealed the true story (there is no doubt in my mind that each of them spoke both French and German fluently, as well as probably half a dozen other languages - the Europeans always have my absolute respect on this front.  But the eavesdropping was possible because the entire conversation was conducted in English:  I'm guessing because the German would not conduct it in French, and of course there was no way the French would deign to speak German, so English, as always, was the compromise): the train was supposed to have been cleaned after arriving from Munich earlier in the day, but had not (presumably it arrived during one of the many French rail staff breaks or strikes).  And of course now, as it would require them to actually do some work, the French were insisting that it was almost departure time so there was nothing for it than for the doors to be unlocked, everybody to be allowed on, and the train simply leave uncleaned.  The lone German rail representative was having none of it and was facing down a dozen French on his own with stout Teutonic resolve, saying that the instant the train crossed the border into Germany and returned to his authority, he would stop it immediately and drag them all the way back across the country to clean it, so do your bloody job.  A classic European impasse 1,000+ years in the making.  As it would also have meant no replenishment of stocks and thus no beer on board for the 11 hour ride to Munich, I was firmly on the German side here.  Eventually the French surrendered as they inevitably do and grumbled off to clean the train.

What happened next was yet another reminder of why you travel.  About 15 minutes into the cleaning, inside the carriage I happened to be sitting in front of (which had already been passed through by the efficient French cleaning squad), a disheveled head popped up & looked blearily out the window.  Then a drunken passenger, clearly having only just woken up from the previous journey despite the train having arrived hours ago, lurched down the corridor, opened the door from the inside & stumbled off up the platform into the Paris night.  This naturally sparked the crowd to rush for the door, and hundreds of people, concerned at missing out, crammed immediately onto the train through this one door.  The German rail guard, face now red, fronted the French group, asking the not unreasonable question of how, in their definition of "cleaning", they had missed such a leftover feature as a body.  However we were all already on board & after some minutes mob rule won out, and the announcement came that the train would be departing in 5 minutes, don't worry about which ticket or seat, just get on.  Which just goes to show that German order may trump French laziness, but being drunk is always best in the end.

And with that cheering thought it's time for a special one-off message from the great Jerry Springer:  'til next time, take care of yourselves.....and each other.

American Life In The Summertime #35 - Goodbye, Farewell, Amen

In Florida, a man was fined recently for making a 911 call to complain that his local Burger King had no lemonade.

It is probably no secret now that I like America, and Americans. This is my 5th trip to the US, I've now visited a total of 35 of the 50 states, and I went out with an American for 2 years. Many of the greatest achievements in human history have come at the hands of the yanks, and many of the smartest people on earth call the USA home. So I think my credentials as a Americaphile are pretty well established. And so as such, I also feel I can share these next comments with you with no accusations of America bashing.....

Americans are not stupid. They do, however, have the third largest population on earth (over 300 million people, behind only China and India), and as a result the number of inhabitants of both the top and the bottom end of the population pool is correspondingly larger. And the activities of those at the top of the scale are rarely as amusing. So allow me to share with you now my favourite collection of stories of some of our lesser-gifted brothers and sisters from the USA.

In Texas, a guy pretending to be a cop had outfitted his truck with police paintwork, siren, flashing lights and the whole bit. Well, almost the whole bit. Playing cop, he pulled over a motorist for reasons known only to himself. The motorist was alerted that things were perhaps not as they seemed when the "cop" presented an ID that was actually a restaurant gift card, still complete with the "Jalapeno & Chipotle Mexican Grill" chilli logo.

In South Dakota a man stole 2 cash registers from a local store, and was caught when the police followed a trail of cash register tape 50 yards to the man's nearby apartment, where he was attempting to crack them open.

In Florida (again) a woman with kids in tow was arrested in a store for shoplifting. Among the items found in her bag was a book entitled "101 Ways To Be A Great Mom'.

In Tennessee, a woman was pulled over for a common traffic violation, and the police had decided to let her off. She was so relieved that she lit up a joint to help her calm down. She was subsequently arrested.

In Texas (again), 2 guys mugged a couple but were subsequently caught when one of the muggers later used the woman's ID found in her purse to turn up on her doorstep to ask for a date.

A woman in Oklahoma was intrigued to see the items offered for sale at her neighbour's yard sale - she initially complimented the neighbour as many were exactly her taste, similar to items she had lost during a recent burglary. Closer inspection revealed that in fact they were exactly the same, as they were hers. The neighbour was arrested.

Firemen in New York in the 1800's were annoyed at not being one of the exempted occupations for the Civil War draft, and so set fire to the draft office. The fire spread and took them 2 days to extinguish. Most of the firefighters were subsequently drafted.

A man in Florida (are you seeing a pattern here?) was arrested when he robbed a bank with a note written on the back of a personal cheque. His own personal cheque. Already pre-filled out with all his details. From the same bank.


All in all however, despite the shortcomings of some of its less fortunate citizens, any country which has a TV channel seemingly established for the sole purpose of announcing, advertising and distributing the DVD "DD's & Derrieres 3" is alright by me. God bless America.

Finally, after a year of reporting on the unique characteristics of the good people of everywhere from Spain to Sweden, it seems only fair as this current version of ALITS draws to a close to turn an eye towards my brothers from the Land Down Under, and examine how they acquit themselves when they venture out into the world to become ambassadors for our country.

Australian backpackers are pretty much all the same guy. Something on their body will be tattooed or pierced, to reinforce their individuality. They wear thongs everywhere and have that fake tiny mohawk haircut which they will deny they specifically asked for and just somehow occurs naturally on their head, but which in fact cost far more than any man should ever spend on personal grooming. They have spent the past 3 months in the gym specifically in preparation to travel, and wear tank tops everywhere even in minus-30 degree temperatures, which actually allows you to watch them shrink before your eyes during their first week away as this artificial level of exercise returns to its normal rate of zero. They will speak to you in a voice far louder than necessary, hoping that a girl will hear their accent and therefore have sex with them, except that every other Australian guy within 50 feet is also doing the same thing and all you end up with is what sounds like the first round of auditions for the next Crocodile Hunter. They do this because Australian backpackers have an unshakable belief that every female within viewing distance wants to sleep with them simply because they are Australian, even if they are a moron with a monobrow whose best pickup line is "Brace yourself, Sheilah" while scratching themselves.

Within the first 3 minutes of your conversation with an Australian backpacker they will have managed to work in the entire story of every girl they have slept with since they left. This is to convince you what an alpha-male they are. (Any actual visual confirmation of these supposed conquests will reveal the true horror of the decision they made last night, or else reveal that they did not actually get any further than a reluctant conversation as she pleaded with her friends to drag her away.) It is quite amusing to introduce 2 Australian backpackers to each other as they will both become so focused on trying to prove who is the bigger pantsman that they will be stuck one-upping each other for the rest of the night and in fact have no opportunity to actually talk to women.

This, however, of course only applies if they are talking to another guy, who they think might be impressed. If you are the girl, your conversation with an Australian backpacker will involve him listing every place he has been so far, and then every place he is going from here, whether you asked or not, and will continue until he "casually" has his arm around the back of your chair to attempt to stake his claim & send a message to the 19 other Australians also hanging around trying to cut in with their own list of where they have been. At this point, convinced that he has done everything that is required, the Australian will lean in and deliver his proposal, and be genuinely shocked when he learns that this is not quite enough groundwork for you to disappear upstairs with him, having not actually been able to get a word in yet to even tell him your name.

Being so far away, Australians do tend to spend long times traveling, and as a result they do tend to have a lengthy list of ticks on their travel map. However this does not necessarily imply experience in the countries they have ticked, or even awareness. The typical Australian backpacker's idea of traveling in Europe is to sit on a bus with 50 other Australians, with whom they have already been out the night before and are now far too hungover to actually see anything of the city in which they find themself. They will sleep the entire way to the next city, and all check into the same hostel together and promptly go out again with the same other Australians, thereby achieving the difficult task of having been to many countries without having actually experienced anything within them. They will then get up the next morning and get on another bus with more other Australians, and sleep to the next new destination, and repeat until they have a sufficient body of travel "experience" to attempt to use it to seduce someone that night. Overall, the average Australian guy would be equally well served by taking a bus to Cairns, getting knocked back by 20 backpackers of various nationalities, and using the money saved for future hair services.

And so, after 12 months, 33 countries, 26,000 miles and countless hostel dorm beds, the longest chapter of ALITS yet is drawing to a close. After the last year I feel I will be paying off this trip for the rest of my life and will never be able to travel again, but for those who wanted to see ALITS - The Book or keep suggesting I do this for a living, contributions, donations and contacts in the publishing industry are now being gratefully accepted. And who better to finish off than the man who has brought such joy and wisdom to so many since the very first edition of ALITS 12 years ago, the great Mr Jerry Springer. 'Til next time - whenever that is: take care of yourselves.....and each other.

American Life In The Summertime #34 - You're Not A Backpacker Until.....

You're not a backpacker until you have:

• lived on peanut butter sandwiches for an entire week
• used the arm of your sunglasses to spread it because that's the closest thing to a knife you have available
• in an effort to stop people staring at the spectacle of you spreading peanut butter on your sandwiches with your sunglasses, immediately put those sunglasses back on your head without remembering to wipe off the peanut butter, thereby providing an even bigger spectacle than the one you were attempting to avoid
• crept downstairs to sleep in the TV room of the hostel because it's full for the night & you can't be bothered going to the next one, which is like a whole 20 minutes walk away
• then rinsed under a outdoor hostel sink as your "shower"
• laughed at language idiosyncrasies like the fact that in Lithuanian, "thank you" sounds like "ah-choo" and "you're welcome" is "bless-you"
• booked an overnight bus to your next destination to save cash on accommodation, been stuck sitting next to Polish lesbians who spend the next 14 hours destroying one of the only remaining fantasies you have, vowed never to do it again, and immediately did it again because your remaining transport budget has long since been eroded by beer
• had a dodgy 3 euro Spanish haircut from a student hairdresser in Madrid, conducted entirely in sign language
• marvelled at the Dutch practice of riding the worst, most decrepit bikes imaginable, chaining these bikes to light posts to avoid theft with elaborate locks which cost far more than the bike, and then wrapping the locks in comfy woollen socks to avoid scratching the paint on their crappy bikes
• drank warm beer off a supermarket shelf because the train just got in and you just checked into your hostel at 11pm and that's all that is open, and hot Belgian girls want you to join their drinking game
• been woken up by the worst snorer in history in a crowded dorm room & used your towel to flick him awake from across the corridor so you can be in bed "asleep" when he wakes up to see what happened
• been strangely glad of those times sitting alone in hostel bars reading the local newspapers, for otherwise you would never have discovered that local teenager George Garratt of Somerset has now legally changed his name to: "Captain Fantastic Faster Than Superman Batman Wolverine Hulk And The Flash Combined"
• messed up the complex "cheers" ritual in so many countries & accumulated so many misfortunes ("bad sex for 7 years" etc) that you wonder how you will ever find a woman again: "Well, I'm flattered, but I didn't look someone in the eye when I clinked glasses in Germany. We can try.....I guess....."
• followed someone around a strange town who "has been here before" and "knows exactly where we are", only to confiscate the map from him to discover he was reading it upside down (Brucey - Salzburg)
• been silently pleased at the reaction from American girls when you tell them that you always wear thongs in hostel showers ("thong" is g-string)
  Her: "Why, are you worried about hidden cameras, like in Big Brother?"
  You: "No, just careful about hygiene. Sometimes I even let my friends borrow them if they forgot their own"
• suddenly lost it in the middle of a crowded train platform at funny foreign place names: Wankdorf, Muff, Cockfosters, Ars
• wasted another hour trying to think of highly amusing questions to ask foreign rail staff about these places: "Excuse me, can you help me find Ars?"
• encouraged by the response, filled the remainder of the hour until your train leaves asking further questions of the poor helpful foreign rail clerks: "Is Ars popular here?" "Have you ever gone there?" "Do you like Ars?" "Yes, I heard it can get pretty crowded" 

This last game particularly kept me amused for many hours in Swiss, German and French train stations. And so I hope that this has kept you amused for a few minutes at least, as we remind you once again - 'Til next time: take care of yourselves.....and each other.

American Life In The Summertime #33 - Urinal Etiquette

And we now have come full circle as we welcome you.....back.....again.....to the USA, with the first American Life In The Summertime update from America, in winter. As such it seems appropriate to begin with an episode from the last time I was in the US, not exactly summer, but closer than now.

As a guy, there are certain rules that you pick up without even thinking at a very early age, which are designed to help you on your difficult and confusing journey to male adulthood. One of the most crucial of these is how to conduct yourself when you may be in some danger of coming into close proximity with another man, and one or more of you is in some way partially unclothed, a dangerous minefield that can lead to discomfort, confusion, and possible unintentional lifestyle change. When I was last in the USA I went with a friend to Austin, the Texas state capital and a great, fun college town. Naturally, we went out for drinks. At some point in the night, after several drinks I found myself in need of the bathroom. As I walked in, I was confronted with 6 urinals in a row against the back wall. The one guy already there had taken a urinal on the very end, as depicted in this artist's impression:





This, of course, correctly allows for later entrants to take positions as far from each other as possible. This is what I did now:

This continues to allow further participants to take positions ensuring the maximum possible buffer between guys. So can someone please tell me, when the next guy entered, why this happened?





No. Epic fail. You have just failed to demonstrate an understanding of basic urinal etiquette, and as a result we are both now suffering for it. You will also note that while there were 2 possible people to stand next to if he really wanted to mess up, he had chosen to walk as far as possible across the entire room to stand next to me. The first guy there saw what had happened and, as unfortunate as this was for me, rightly got out of there as fast as possible, giving me a look on the way out which said "I don't know if you guys planned this, but if not, good luck, pal."

Now I am not by nature a homophobic man (to which Mr Vandelay will attest), but given the choice between taking a whizz while standing right next to another man, or in as much solitude as possible, I'm going for the solitude. There is always a choice to make in situations like these. You can keep your eyes fixed firmly on your own job, squeeze off as quick as possible and quickly walk outside, hanging around just past the door pretending to take an inordinate interest in the neon beer advertisements adorning the walls until the guy leaves, and then try not to make eye contact as you walk back in once he has left, to finish off. Or, you can fix him with the "Dude, WTF?" look reserved only for men who find it acceptable to give you a shoulder to shoulder massage when you are the only two in a large room, and you are both unzipped. Being quite a few drinks up, including, I discovered later, several doubles bought for me by my drinking companion "to make sure that we were both getting the same amount of drunk" (the logic made sense at the time), I went for the WTF? look.

And the guy was smiling at me.

This at least solved the problem of having to finish up quickly and get the hell out of there. There is nothing like being smiled at in a Texas bathroom by a guy who has walked across an entire room to stand next to you to with your tackle out to bring a rapid end to proceedings. I exited the bathroom, grabbed my friend and soon after we were to be found in another bar as I tried to explain the massive breakdown in social order that had just occurred. She tried to be sympathetic and understanding but I'm not sure she understood the full impact of the situation, although at least she bought me another drink.

Now this is why I like meeting Australians when I travel. One afternoon here in New York I was enjoying a few quiet beers & watching the football, when beside me at the bar I heard someone order a beer in an accent that could only have come from somewhere close to Newcastle. It belonged to a guy from Taree, who was in New York on his honeymoon and actually staying in another nearby hostel. Yeah, actually that classy. Even better, he had left his fresh new bride back at said hostel while he came down to the pub to watch the football (the fact that she did not accompany him does not bear well for her future potential as a wife in my humble opinion, but I chose to keep this to myself). Having never met the bride, my only loyalty here was clearly to the groom and so we proceeded to toast each other, the pub, New York, New South Wales, the current and former players of the Liverpool Football Club, low rise jeans, Reese Witherspoon, the start of his new life of domestic bliss and whatever else came to mind before the bride finally appeared at our side, inexplicably looking somewhat miffed at the fact she had been left in a hostel on her honeymoon while her new hubby went down to the pub. Well, you didn't want to come, did you?

Summoning the best diplomacy of which I was capable at this point, I offered to buy her a drink to celebrate her fine choice of life partner and possibly give the happy couple a few brief minutes to chat while I was at the bar, as I had, with my superior grasp of human nature, deduced that this was what she appeared to want at this point. Surprisingly, she did not appreciate this gesture and in fact turned to her new hubby with a toss of the head which was clearly meant to dismiss me, and informed him to stay put because she "needed to pee badly", and then they were leaving. Well, I have feelings just like any other sensitive new age man and I'll be honest with you, they were somewhat hurt by this poor treatment. In retrospect I should perhaps have tried to be the bigger person, but that's never as much fun. I played dumb (not altogether difficult) and helpfully observed that if she needed to pee badly, then she could hardly do it more badly than to just stand right there & let go, which would accomplish the task very badly indeed. The look I received in reply confirmed that in fact it would perhaps have been more correct to say that she needed to go quite urgently, not that she had any particular desire to complete the task badly. This misunderstanding corrected, the bride turned on her heel and swept away to the bathroom, at which her new husband looked at me apologetically and suggested perhaps it would be better for him to move on now, and we parted with sorrow. I miss that guy.

Once again the USA has proved to be a source of continual amazement. There is way too much to express in one email but any society where you can be greeted pleasantly by a passing black lady on the street in Harlem at 8pm on January 13th, and wished a happy new year in a genuinely friendly manner, and then rudely challenged by guards in a subway station 2 blocks away carrying submachine guns (yes, normal guards, at a subway station, with submachine guns), is a society worth far more time than people normally give it. More later. And so, as we are finally back in the home of the great Jerry Springer, it's time to remind you once again 'til next time: take care of yourselves.....and each other.

American Life In The Summertime #32 - Scotland

In Scotland it is illegal to be drunk in possession of a cow.

Now before you start judging the Scots for not trusting themselves to have lowered inhibitions in the presence of barnyard animals, it is worth mentioning 2 things. First, it DOES get very cold, dark and lonely in some parts of Scotland, particularly this time of year. And second, the Scots are nobodys fools: you will note that the law does not outlaw being drunk in the COMPANY of a cow, only in possession of one. It would clearly be counterproductive for all concerned to shag your own cow, hence the law. However if you can sneak over the fence after a few pints and acquaint yourself with one of your neighbour's livestock without him seeing you, well, the Scots clearly feel this is fair play. 

Welcome to bonnie Scotland, land of haggis, highlands, and Hogmenay, the famous new year's eve street party in Edinburgh which is what brought me to this part of the word at this time of year. On a trip that takes an entire year you obviously can't be everywhere in summer, and due to filling the warm months with events on the continent of Europe itself (ANZAC Day, Running of the Bulls, Oktoberfest etc), I was left with winter in Britain. Backpacking in Britain out of season is a very individual experience. Every Saturday night the hostels are full to capacity with bucks parties, hockey teams and groups of drunk girls on weekends away, and then for the other 6 nights of the week they are completely empty and you are alone, or else you are sharing the dorm with one other person, who is always an old man who seems to live there permanently and is sitting on the floor doing yoga in his underwear. Thankfully at this time of year by 4pm it is dark and anonymous enough to be completely acceptable to retire to the pub for the next 8 hours to get away from him, although when you return he appears to have not moved from his cross-legged position in front of your bed, however somehow has managed to change underwear and has now established what I'm sure he feels is a very soothing humming sound to help share his zen-like calmness with his roommates. Being lulled to sleep by a nearly naked man sitting humming next to your face is perhaps not as calming nor soothing a bedtime environment as he believes, but at least he had invited no cows back to share the dorm. 

Scotland easily wins the "Most Helpful Locals" award of any country so far on this trip, as all you have to do is pull out a map anywhere in Scotland, even without looking lost, and instantly somebody will come up to you & offer help. At least, that's what I assume they were doing, because one thing about the Scots is true - their accents are completely incomprehensible. So you end up with a progression of people coming up with earnest, friendly expressions saying things like "Och - dyae nae ken y'ar, laddie?", at which you smile and both nod and shake your head to cover all options. Between the sparsely populated towns, the infrequent other backpackers in winter, and the accent, travelling alone in Scotland in winter can leave you feeling somewhat of an outsider, especially in the far north of the country, where ordering a beer becomes a half-hour exercise of exaggerated gestures and pantomime, followed once you have obtained your beer by standing at the bar looking blankly at each other because there is not the slightest chance of any further communication. You feel this is exactly the sort of town for which the cow law was made and you again regret not having obtained some of the quality bovine erotica from the village in Turkey (ALITS #21) which might help break the ice.

But the thing that defines the Scots more than anything else is that they are NOT ENGLISH. After more than 1,000 of years of border skirmishes, fights for territory and carrying off local maidens to one side or the other, things have cooled off slightly, but the Scots still delight in making fun of the English and stressing that they are a separate country. Most everybody knows of William Wallace, the Scottish patriot who lead the wars of independence against England in the late 1200's (and in Mel Gibson's movie Braveheart). William Wallace is a national hero in Scotland and unsurprisingly in a country whose chief unifying factor is a 1,000-year hatred of the English, there is a monument and statue of him at Stirling. The statue is based on Mel Gibson's depiction of Wallace and carved with the movie's famous cry of "FREEDOM!!!!!, however it has not had an easy life: parts of it are routinely chipped off by nationalistic Scots, while others are so aggrieved that their national hero has been made to look like an Australian actor that it is also routinely defaced and vandalised, to the point where there is now a fence around it to prevent further tampering. And so, as a result, you now have the enduring symbol of Scottish national independence and freedom..........in a cage.

The irony is just too delicious. And so in the words of that other great patriot Jerry Springer: 'Til next time, take are of yourselves.....and each other.

American Life In The Summertime #31 - England

Here in England there was a date rape case which made the minor news recently. Apparently it involved an after work get together that turned a bit drunken, with the girl claiming later that she was too drunk to remember what happened and, therefore, to give consent, and the guy claiming that until this point he simply thought he'd got lucky & had no idea anything was wrong. The case was eventually dismissed because it seems that a drunken hookup was not an unusual occurrence for the lady in question, and there was a significant level of playing along at the time, regardless of how much of it she remembered later. The relieved guy later had this to say to the press: "I'm not saying she had the time of her life or anything, but she was there." It has been said that an Englishman would rather be told he was a bad lover than that he has no sense of humour, and it seems this is probably just as well.

Welcome to England, land of pale bodies, flat beer, and 3 types of weather: either there has just been rain, or it's just about to rain, or it's raining. Despite the famous weather the English have managed to pack more than their fare share of history into their tiny island, nowhere more so than London. While in London I managed to get myself on a Jack The Ripper themed walking tour around the city, taking in the various grisly sites of his activities. The tour guide was telling us that standing on the side of the road in inner east London, talking to a group of tourists, with your back to the world, is an easy way to be targeted by various harmless wags looking to add their own flavour to the tour. One of these stories involves the actions of the occupant of a passing car who, upon spying yet another Jack The Ripper tour group standing looking earnestly at the guide, was moved to cruise past hanging out the sunroof of the vehicle singing Bohemian Rhapsody at full volume. Nude. The guy was sufficiently encouraged by the reaction he received on his first pass that he then decided to come back past again and repeat the performance, only this time in reverse. Even more impressive is the fact that he was the only occupant of the car and, therefore, also somehow driving it at the time, a feat which Mr Ripper would have been hard pressed to emulate, but I bet there won't be walking tours honouring this guy in years to come. And I ask, where's the justice in that?

It has been noted that virtually all editions of ALITS thus far seem to have have involved either drinking, or nudity, or both. So it seems worth assuring you that I have attempted to undertake some cultural activities during my trip. For me, this extends pretty much as far as sport, and so this involved a visit to the home of cricket, Lord's Cricket Ground in central London. The story of the Ashes is well known to most Australians, however it is perhaps difficult to describe the tension that surrounded the final day's play in the match at which the entire legend started over 120 years ago. According to reports faithfully recreated at the Lord's museum, as the match drew to its tense conclusion one spectator bit through his umbrella in suspense, while another died of heart failure. I'm not sure that putting an umbrella in my mouth would be my response to a close sporting contest, but each to his own. Ashes contests these days are perhaps not so hazardous to the health, although they are equally dramatic, and on occasion you discover little back stories which make it just that much harder to hate the Poms like you want to (apologies to the non-cricket fans out there for this next indulgence.....)

One of the 10 ways in which you can be out in cricket is to be "Timed Out", which means you have 2 minutes from the fall of the previous wicket to be out on the field ready to face the next ball. It's extremely rare, but during the previous Ashes tour here 4 years ago, the tension was high during a mini Australian collapse, and Jason Gillespie was due out to bat next. At Lord's, players must enter the field from the dressing rooms through the famous Long Room, and this includes international players even during an important match. During a big game the Long Room is obviously pretty crowded with people attending to watch the game, and players are required to make their way through this throng on their way out to bat. Such was the crowd on this occasion that Gillespie actually took 2 1/2 minutes to get to the crease, and the umpires offered England captain Michael Vaughan the option for Gillespie to be Timed Out. Vaughan, gentleman that he was, refused, and England went on to lose the match but win the series anyway and reclaim the Ashes for the first time in 16 years. And we can't even point to them being bad sports. Bloody Pommie bastards.

(ps as a result the Timed Out law has now been increased to 3 minutes. I was also rewarded for this nod to the higher arts when I bellied up to the Lord's bar next to one M. Gatting, former England cricket captain. He seemed a rather agreeable sort of chap, although he did appear to be still looking in bewilderment about his legs for Warne's ball of the century. Great moment, that).

I have to hand it to the English, their media is a source of continual amusement, if only for their faithful reporting of the stupidity of their citizens. My favourite at the moment is the recent story of a gang of criminals who attempted to forge the passport of The Office star Ricky Gervais, in order to use it to buy gold. The cunning plan came unstuck for two reasons: firstly, the photo they had used for the passport had simply been copied from the cover of The Office DVD, and as such featured a goatee-glad David Brent with that ridiculous, self-satisfied grin that we fans know so well. And secondly, under the section for Occupation, they had again copied some of Brent's best work and lifted verbatim a quote from the series, which I now relate to you with, I promise, not the slightest exaggeration: "Occupation: Friend first, boss second. Probably entertainer third." How they ever expected such a complete and well-researched document to fail them, I don't know. And so in the words of another great man, although Mr Springer would undoubtedly list Entertainer first on his long list of skills, it's once again time to remind you 'till next time: take care of yourselves.....and each other.

American Life In The Summertime #30 - Communism

After roughly 11 weeks altogether in various former Soviet-controlled countries of East Germany, Czech Republic, Slovakia, Hungary, Serbia, Slovenia, Romania, Albania, Poland, Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania, there is only one conclusion that can be drawn: Communism is stupid. I know that rogue countries such as Cuba continue to hold out and have produced one of the finest medical systems in the world - completely state provided and free - but despite these exceptions it was a perfect example of a good idea in theory which ignored some basic elements of human nature: mainly selfishness. It did however result in some amazingly absurd and bureaucratic rules, some of which survive to this day, my favourite being that dogs travelling on the Budapest metro still need their own travel pass, however in a concession to the difficulty of standing on hind legs in cramped photo booths, unlike passes for humans the pass is not required to contain a photo of said dog.

Being here reminded me that, amazingly, all this was only 20 years ago. A quick perusal of a 1989 Stasi (state security) list of punishable offenses in the former East Germany shows such dangers to society as "negative statements", "showing too little enthusiasm" and "persistent non voter". A gathering of 6 or more people was illegal. Independent thought was fiercely discouraged and an enemy was anyone who failed to conform to the system. Despite being heralded as a workers' paradise, incentive to actually work was low because if the State-set quotas were met, they were simply raised for the next year with no improvement to pay or conditions. The entire system was defined by a ruling class so far out of touch that the decisions they made demonstrated no knowledge of the real world; a swollen & largely untalented middle level of functionaries who were too scared to inform the rulers of their ignorance but whose chief ability was sucking up to those above them & reporting on those beneath them to curry further favour; and the masses, who didn't believe a word they were told by anyone in "authority" but held to the mantra I saw repeated several times in several countries here: "As long as they keep pretending to pay us, we'll keep pretending to work." Overall, the similarities to being back at work myself were spooky.

But as always, such nonsense eventually fails, and breeds a unique sense of humour and quirkiness in the people who live through it. I got a lift from Berlin to Prague with 3 German film students who were on their way to Prague to make the movie "David Hasselhoff and the Cold War", on the premise that the Hoff's 1989 appearance singing on the Berlin Wall singlehandedly brought about the end of the Cold War (and why not). In Prague, the Museum of Communism is now housed in the same building as McDonalds, and a casino. When I was in Bucharest a man threw his wife out of a window for refusing him sex, and was interviewed after on TV looking supremely calm as if this was an entirely reasonable response for one forced to put up with such inhuman conditions. People continue to hold old-style Communist market stalls in the quaint hope that someone will wish to buy their random collection of irons, electrical converters, juice, goats, shoe polish, belts, fruit, padlocks, and remote controls for appliances of the type not seen even in these countries since 1960. Despite the fact that the only possible people who would have any need for these goods would be the 400 other stallholders also selling exactly the same merchandise for the same price right next door, they are all there every day, shouting over the top of each other to attract the tourists. I think they just all buy from each other to swap their inventory around & provide some variety in the view from their stalls, which is about as solid a basis for an economy as the system they abandoned anyway.

Overall, the young people in the former Communist countries are engaging, vibrant, and hopeful for the future. The older generation - well.....not so much. It must be said they are not the most helpful of souls. Attempting to coax an answer from women at train station "information" desks is met with irritable stares for having interrupted their game of computer Solitaire, which I guess is a holdover from the days when your job was really not that necessary apart from to keep the masses busy & convinced of the joys of working together for the betterment of Soviet society. These days, however, some of the duties performed by anyone over the age of 40 might actually be of some importance, such as checking canine travel passes to crack down on rampant illegal use by other dogs. In any event, in the words of someone whose job is of supreme importance (ie providing lowbrow chat shows for my entertainment and to assure me that at least my life isn't *that* bad) - til next time: take care of yourselves.....and each other.