Canada: Veni, Vidi, Forgot My Coat
Canadian things Misssy loves, No1: Mikey JSo I went to Canada last week, but I also kind of didn’t. Such is my job, I often go places but don’t really, usually because I am having to film something irritatingly utilitarian like a refinery or a chemical processing plant, or in this case a sea going vessel that also turns into an oil rig like some kind of very dull Transformer.
However, because all this video crapola has to be done thoroughly yet squeezed into such a short timescale as possible to save the operating companies spending more money than is strictly necessary, I rarely get to see anything outside these portals of Hell. In all, I think I spent ninety minutes on actual Canadian soil (I’m not counting airports; I spent considerably longer in them). Don’t get me wrong, dear Canadian readers, those ninety minutes were lovely and involved some really nice (and welcome) alcohol, and I enjoyed checking out your fine moustachioed men, so no complaints there. In fact, I’d go as far to say I’d like to spend even longer than ninety minutes with you all next time. How about that?
Sadly, in this particular case I was forced to actually live onboard the tedious Transformer with no means of escape and was unable to go on the dry land of Halifax even once, which I was reliably informed by just about everybody that I met onboard, was “Really worth a visit”. Oh hahaha, everyone. Thanks for that. Yeah, I’d love to visit Halifax, if you lot would ever let me off your stupid boat, ya mongrels.
See how pissed off I am; I even broke into Australian there.
So yes, it was a great shame that all I could ever see of Halifax was a misty cityscape barely visible from the edge of the vessel through the fog and my salty tears about a couple of briny miles away. Before the trip, nobody told me the vessel wasn’t in port. We wrongly assumed that it might even have had a gangway allowing me and my crew to be able to get it off it and into a bar with ease once our daily work was done. Funny that no-one thought to mention that. Hmmm. Funny that no-one thought to question our human rights when the client told us that we didn’t need to book a hotel (which they would have been paying for) as there was “comfortable accommodation onboard”. Oh it just happens to be a mile or so into the middle of some big bit of water called the Atlantic. With no means of escape. And no telly. And fairly shit food.
In actual fact, I seem to distinctly remember our fifty-something client telling us weeks ago how great a place Halifax was and what a great old time we would have. Great restaurants, great bars, great people, he said. I actually remember him distinctly saying something about “There’s always a party going on in Halifax”. At the time I thought, “Hmmm, check you and your mid-life crisis” but now I’m thinking “How evil are you, chum?” He said the words “good time”, “great laugh” and used the word “party” as an actual verb at one point, yet all the time he sat there knowing that in fact he was going to imprison us in his watery metal fortress that didn’t even have TV. Evil, pure evil.
So this is just an intro, as my trip is notable for three things and as such warrants three further separate posts. So using the teasing techniques so often employed in crappy TV shows like Britain’s Got Talent and X Factor and just about every non BBC documentary that ever gets made these days, I’m going to tell you the best bits upfront so that you’ll hang on this week and read them all in full.
Anyway, doctor, here’s what thinly veiled rants disguised as treats you can expect from the Misssives couch this week:
1. I make two Canadians angry and they mildly insult me. It’s the closest I think Canada’s ever come to a declaration of war. It may have even made the television news. I don’t know if it did, because where I was they didn’t have telly. I may have mentioned that already.
2. I am hoisted 100ft into the air in the dark and the rain above choppy seawater and all I can think is “Thank God my Mum can’t see this” (with pics, possibly)
3. Once again I fail to get through Heathrow without avoiding the light of touch frisking official who upset Diana Ross that time, and subsequently developing an aneurism.
All will be covered in detail, unless I get hit by a truck, which given my luck this week is entirely possible.
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Another Pin in the Map
A mustachioed bandit
I may have mentioned that the Flying Martinis are set to inflict themselves on a foreign country once more this year.
I pontificated about a month or so ago that wherever we go, some kind of political or ecological, but usually violent, mayhem ensues. You may or may not have read the post.
In fact, many of you got in touch to plead with me not to visit your towns for fear of natural disaster, civil unrest or biblical pestilence. You’ll notice that I have complied with these requests (merely visiting France this year and causing only the ill-fated and ill-judged marriage of the President).
We, the members of the The Flying Martinis like to travel whenever we can, but as always my mother is on tenterhooks, every time we tell her of our plans to venture forth. She is terrified that mustachioed saber-wielding bandits will run off with her grandchildren for no reason.
Being on tenterhooks is pretty much a full time job for my mum. I largely ignore it, rousing myself only occasionally to take the piss out of her insane anxiety. This from the woman who turned a blind eye to me and my brother using a neighbouring building site as a playpark when we were kids. (Who needs a bike when you’ve got a JCB?)
Last week, it was in the balance whether we would go to India or Belize on our school trip with Meeester’s school. I told her the two options offered to the students, thinking that she would concentrate her anxiety on India.
I was wrong. She apparently has some privileged information about Belize. You heard it here first.
Note: this information has yet to be substantiated by any media:
“Belize??? Jesus Christ, Misssy!!! They KILL people there!!!!!”
Message to Missives Readers and Commenters.
O
ne of the best things about blogging is the feedback you get on your posts from your readers’ comments. I read recently that only 1 out of every 100 people that read a blog actually comment. So, I thank you for taking the time to comment and to do it with such regular wit and aplomb.How do I thank you?
We-ell, Starting from Friday 22nd Feb I am going to honour a great comment from one of my readers each week and link to their blog. You lot often steal my thunder, so I’d like to chuck some kudos your way.
Ooooh la-la!
I’m back from Paris.
So much to tell…no time to do it now, but check out these teasers from my weekend in Paris:
- Zut alors! Am I the most excited person in Paris? Yes! It’s official!
- Euro-shocker: the French are ace!
- J’taime and all that! I speak French even though I don’t know how!
- Merde!!! I nearly miss flight home and have to run “Frantic”-Harrison Ford-style through Charles de Gaulle!
- Excuse Moi!!!! How rude must I be for two French chicks to take me up on my rudeness? Answer: not very, but more of that later….
More tomorrow!
I’m Misssy: Fly Me!
Ian Brown: He’ll cut yer fookin’ hands off, apparently
I have just had the misfortune to travel by aeroplane in the UK.
I won’t bore you with the details. Suffice to say, Meeester and I were inconvenienced greatly throughout. We were subject to non-cleared icy runways, cancellations, delays, lost baggage, systems that don’t work, bad attitudes and soggy chicken sandwiches. It is safe to say that normal economy class passengers are treated like peasants and the only way to guarantee a journey that doesn’t induce a potential aneurysm or inevitable prison term, is to drive yourself by car to your destination. Or go by Private Jet, or at a pinch First Class.
A friend of mine is privy to the inside workings of British Airways and confirms this to be the case. If you are neither Business or First Class they couldn’t give the slightest nugget of shit about you. Fact.
At Heathrow we were ferried by body odour stinking bus from International Arrivals to Domestic Arrivals. This was despite the fact that we had not been anywhere international. They just had spat us poor passengers out at the wrong gate like the human chunks of vomitus we seem to be.
As we were bussed along the gunnels of the airport we noticed several signs proclaiming special VIP routes. Sign posts to the upper strata of rarified existence where one is kept separate from the Hoi Polloi and Muggles. An existence that few of us will ever savour.
Not for them, the ubiquitous unsmiling she-dragon at the check-in desk who when asked for assistance looks at you like you’ve just farted directly into her face.
Not for them, the lounges filled with disgruntled passengers who know nothing, other than the fact that their plane is going nowhere fast and their kids are re-enacting Lord of the Flies right in front their faces.
Not for them, the missed first day of their holiday because the parochial airport they are flying from didn’t read the weather forecast for snow and take action timeously.
Not for them, the lost bag with the kids’ presents in because they wouldn’t allow it on the plane as you were 1 minute later than some made up cut off point for getting luggage on board.
Not for them, the word “Sorry” uttered like it is an expletive.
Check these new (temporary) personal heroes of mine out:
Peter Buck from REM: Airplane rage incident 2002. I’m guessing he was not a shiny happy person that day. Charged but not convicted.
Ian Brown from Madchester: Airplane rage incident and prison term after threatening to cut the hands of an air stewardess off. She apparently offered him duty free. Did he perhaps mistake her comment for the oft heard “Your solo career is utter gash, Brown”. I’m just putting it out there…
Courtney Love, Hole: Airplane rage incident 2003. Her nurse wasn’t allowed to attend to her as she was sat in a different class. Two things occur. When was the word “nurse” changed to mean “dealer” and why was Love so tight as to have her “nurse” upgraded if she needed her so badly? Anyway, she said lots of swearwords loudly and folk don’t like that. To be honest, I said lots of swearwords yesterday but only under my breath to Meeester. I guess that’s the difference.
Diana Ross, La-la-land: Involved in a “security breach” after she complained loudly and aggressively about being inappropriately touched during a body search . I hear ya, sister, I had such an invasive search at Schiphol Airport by a female security attendant that I think it officially qualifies as a same sex encounter. But were 10 of your students standing watching whilst your tits were expertly cupped under the bra and your pudenda grabbed roughly by a large Dutch woman, Diana? Well, mine were, love. Mine were. I win.
Next trip for me is one to Paris in February. I wonder what treats await me there.
Apologies to my blogfriend Tattooed Atheist who is one of the fine people staffing the planes of the world, who no doubt have to deal with an enormous amount of utter horrors. But just let me vent for today, it’s my birthday and British Airways suck.
