tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66735462011-07-15T00:46:36.723ZMinor misfortune celebrated.Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comBlogger2931100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1165533693627388062006-12-08T11:21:00.000Z2006-12-08T18:56:28.673Z

Today's post is from a guest blogger. Not just any guest blogger, you understand, but nothing less than a genius. So much a genius, in fact, as to design the new logo for this fast-neglected blog. I thank him for this, and bestow him with virtual kisses by way of this thanks. Regular readers of London's 'Time Out' magazine will recognise themanwhofellasleep as a man who falls asleep, listens to

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1165451627434465752006-12-07T00:33:00.000Z2006-12-07T00:48:02.156Z

"They're not letting him in!" squealed the Joe Pasquale-like voice of Dorset Boy's Joe Pasquale-like faced friend (his voice not normally Joe Pasquale-eque, except when squealing, so adding to the overall Joe Pasquale-ambience of the evening)And a long evening it had been. It was raining inside, and the rain was battering hard on the roof of the converted Camden cinema, as we jigged among the

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1164154616219071002006-11-22T00:16:00.000Z2006-11-22T00:22:30.146Z

The doorbell rings, and I knew exactly who it would be.It would have come as a complete surprise but a couple of weeks before, but definitely not now.I hurry downstairs to greet my visitor."Mate" the late-night text had read, "Chantelle* and I have just split up. Might need somewhere to crash for a couple of nights."No matter it had been morning before I read it. I texted straight back, saying of

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1163454692187331972006-11-13T21:51:00.000Z2006-11-13T22:00:23.426Z

"No!" shouts the voice beside me. "You're wrong!!"The evening had been passing with the sufficient etiquette that such an event demanded. The assembling crowd, mostly of mature age, had queued in an orderly fashion at the entrance of my old school. Tickets were taken in, unfolded and counted by voluntary doorstaff, and names crossed off a pre-prepared list. Lottery-numbered vouchers were handed

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1162836164596539142006-11-06T18:02:00.000Z2006-11-06T19:00:23.040Z

Three days into my extended contract as a moderately-successful freelance digital marketer, I see fit to turn up with the Mother Of All Hangovers.The previous night having been Hallowe'en, I will not be alone, I presume.But alone is what I find myself as I apologetically munch on my rushedly-procured Sausage & Egg McMuffin™ at the start of our brainstorming meeting. I am no ambassador to the evil

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1162505172641128682006-11-02T22:06:00.000Z2006-11-02T22:12:38.970Z

"No, you're a cunt." announces the until-then mild-mannered singer.Dorset Boy and I interrupt our conversation, acknowledging that all is not well at the front of the stage."No." replies a short dark-haired man, "you eez a cunt!""No." assertively replies the singer, "you are a cunt.""Cunt!" replies the short dark-haired man, pointing at the singer."CUNT!" replies the singer, as the short

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1161804379332716692006-10-25T19:26:00.000Z2006-10-25T19:27:51.676Z

The entrance is unpromising: a badly-lit village hall in a desperate sleepy commuter town at the end of the District Line."I wouldn't bother" she'd told me, just over twenty-four hours previously.We gingerly ease inside, past the not entirely unpredicted group of hippies."But I'm on my way…" I'd protested, "to a fancy dress shop I looked up especially."The door creaks open to reveal the hall

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1161205701863153652006-10-18T21:08:00.000Z2006-10-18T21:08:21.920Z

Beep! Beep! beeped my phone."Sorry for tardy response" began her tardy response to this. "Don't suppose u r free sat 21/10" it continued, "for a sixties night?""Average age or decade?" was my immmediate reply, hiding what I considered to be a serious concern given her rapidly-aging divorced friend who she absolutely, definitely, honestly wasn't setting me up with."Decade of course" was her

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1160582157371199592006-10-11T15:55:00.000Z2006-10-11T15:55:57.456Z

I return to the cigar smoke-filled side-room of the East-End boozer.The convivial atmosphere which I had left but a couple of minutes previously has inexplicably disappeared.It had been a good evening. Old mates, warm beer, mild banter, stale rolls, inane chatter, bad darts. In my case, rubbish darts. Or at least, rubbish darts for a good two-thirds of the evening. The final third, alcohol having

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1160417697622551722006-10-09T18:14:00.000Z2006-10-09T18:14:58.030Z

I stand there, slowly motioning as I relieve myself just as mother nature intended.As I sway from left to right, out the corner of my eye, I notice something not normally found situated on the edge of a mens' urinal.Not a discarded fag, or half-eaten pie, or empty pint glass: these, for the uninitiated, are unremarkably common sightings.No, for it is a crisp five-pound note that I observe.Crisp,

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1159711544397859092006-10-01T14:01:00.000Z2006-10-01T14:05:44.420Z

“Everyone…”, I announce proudly to my New Media Friends* pointing to the tussle-haired colossus standing before us, “This is Dorset Boy!”(* i.e. My new friends, who work in media. Only a few of whom work in the strand of media now coined ‘new media’. But who are just as new as those friends who work in other strands of media. Hope that clears any potential misunderstandings up.)“Dorset Boy…”, I

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1159129965956896142006-09-24T20:32:00.000Z2006-09-24T20:32:46.066Z

"I don't want you to get the wrong idea!" she reassures me, "I just think you'll get on."I despise that, I think. An old friend popping up after so long, without explanation, carrying on as is everything is normal.Into my inebriated lughole, her conversation goes on to explain how she absolutely, definitely isn't trying to set me up with her friend. How despite our friendship picking up after the

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1132676041476670322005-09-28T16:12:00.000Z2005-11-22T16:23:37.533Z

It had supposed to have been straightforward.Clutching the photocopied leaflet that the kind Consulate woman had given me, I had ambled across the highway to the shopping mall opposite.“No ID?” the leaflet beckoned, “No problem!”Bereft of passport, driving license and bankcards, I was ID-less. Passing a TGI Fridays, Tommy Hilfiger and Mango, I was in Americanised-Quito – perhaps the only type

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1132236125428721102005-09-27T13:57:00.000Z2005-11-17T14:10:34.256Z

I lifted the receiver by the security desk, just as the Consulate had advised me from the protected side of the bullet-proof window, as a male and a female guard played cards in an otherwise deserted embassy reception."What the fuck has happened?" exclaimed the familiar tones of Bankboy from my London flat several thousand miles away.I explained to him, as I am explaining to you now, how on just

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1132068722158512382005-09-26T15:31:00.000Z2005-11-15T15:35:01.396Z

“So has it spoilt your time in Ecuador?” my fellow Essex man from the tour agency had enquired of me, that final night in the mock-English pub in Quito.“Not really” I shrugged, “though it’s prolonged my stay here by a week or two”.I knew exactly what the ‘it’ was he was referring to, as it had occupied much of our previous conversation.The Embassy Consulate had been a very nice lady, the

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1131627429616837732005-09-25T12:56:00.000Z2005-11-15T11:45:46.956Z

“Unlucky!” hailed the familiar voice as I walked into arrivals at Cork airport.I hadn’t planned to meet him there. I thought he’d be busy. “Over here!” he bellowed.The groom stood before me, waving furiously.It turned out he had received my panic-stricken messages. So knew I wouldn’t be on the afternoon flight. And happened to be looking out for me whilst picking up friends on the evening

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1131313395395930772005-09-22T21:43:00.000Z2005-11-06T21:44:24.616Z

My flight cancelled, I hailed a cab: "Marriot, please."I crossed my fingers hoping the airline would pay the exorbitant claim that would soon be coming their way.Running through my new itinerary in my head, the challenge ahead became clear:I would fly from Curacao 6:50pm Thursday, nine hours overnight to Amsterdam landing mid-morning Friday. Before a couple of hours wait and my transfer flight

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1131030482304037832005-09-21T15:08:00.000Z2005-11-03T15:08:46.133Z

In retrospect, it did seem slightly odd.Coming, like all good things, to an end, it was time for me to leave the country. I had been sitting atop my precision-packed rucksack in the sweltering heat generated by sun streaming in to the check-in area of Curacao airport for at least twenty minutes, arriving the requested three hours prior to departure. Under which context, the complete absence of

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1130602226453975262005-09-19T16:10:00.000Z2005-10-29T16:23:08.690Z

Much as I abhor the sheer concept of the "master-and-servant" relationship, it had after all been a rather long flight.Maintaining my deluded illusion that travelling from Buenos Aires to Curacao would be a mere detour en route for home, this "internal flight" transpired to be a 6-hour hop to Bogota, Colombia where I'd have to complain about my lost ticket for a couple of hours before taking the

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1130602210264811142005-09-15T16:10:00.000Z2005-10-30T20:35:40.876Z

"Without your onward ticket voucher" explains the Colombian airline clerk in perfect English, "we simply can't let you board, Sir."Sir always takes on a patronising tone when you're being told something you really, really don't want to hear, no matter how politely or sincerely it is actually being voiced."But they already gave me the boarding pass at Buenos Aires!" I exclaim (without succumbing

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1130602186871693812005-09-14T16:09:00.000Z2005-11-03T15:10:52.316Z

Due to my "broken boat", back through the palmtree-lined Uruguayan highways it was for me. To be followed by a short delay caused by an over-zealous customs official to catch the hydrofoil from Colonia del Sacramento. Then being driven by a trademark nutnut cab driver back to the same hostel from which I'd inadvertently stolen my keys a couple of days before. All in all, the perfect reverse of my

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1127311337446842812005-09-13T13:55:00.000Z2005-09-21T14:02:17.446Z

Colonia was all the more rewarding for its spontaneous choice.Perhaps because of this, perhaps because of its short walk from the port providing a welcome contrast to the vastness of Buenos Aires, perhaps because of its few hundred metres bordered by the Rio Plate housing narrow cobbled streets meandering from one pristine old building to the next, perhaps because of my copious amounts of

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1127310871420613352005-09-12T13:53:00.000Z2005-09-21T13:54:31.426Z

One hour, he confidently told me, would suffice.One hour, the hostel receptionist said, would be enough – in fact, more that enough, I got the distinct impression – to travel by cab to the port, buy my ticket, go through customs and board my ferry to Uruguay.Spontaneously deciding to visit Uruguay, you understand, is not quite as grand as it sounds. Chosen first stop Colonia del Sacramento is

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1127309561715376762005-09-11T13:32:00.000Z2005-09-21T13:32:41.723Z

I rapidly motion my right hand up and down frantically in front of my gob, simulate the swishing around of liquid, and pretend to spit the contents towards my left.It’s a virtuoso performance.“Ahah!” replies my Argentinian pharmacist, recognition clearly covering his face as he bends down and retrieves my desired purchase from behind the counter.I smile smugly, content that despite my temporary

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1127308599032570602005-09-07T13:14:00.000Z2005-09-21T13:16:39.036Z

I snap my eyelids closed from a sudden surge of utter disbelief combined with overwhelming fear.I just don’t see how he’s going to do it.Two cars ahead jostling for position amid one of Buenos Aires’ frantic highways, wingmirrors locking horns, my cab driver’s hurtling forward in a futile attempt to overtake.I prise one eye slightly open.He steers to the left, accelerates to near bumper-nudging

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1126484394440626182005-09-06T00:16:00.000Z2005-09-12T00:19:54.446Z

“No!!!!!” I exclaimed, as I look round at the screen in disbelief.“Si!!!!! Si!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” replied the exasperated receptionist at the hotel across town I´d decided to book a room at, the German Nymphomaniacs just having got a little too much for me.Only half-hour into their World Cup qualifying match against Brazil, Chile were already trailing 4-0.It had already been a football-filled

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1126482697867927122005-09-02T23:47:00.000Z2005-09-11T23:51:37.876Z

I hadn’t noticed them before.I hadn’t noticed them the first day, but was probably excusably tired from my flight.Nor had I noticed them the second day, but was hungover. On only four beers. Until I remembered at least two of those beers being ‘grande’size, which I made a mental note means 1-litre in Chile. But I noticed them the third day. Despite lack of sleep from the hostel kindly, in the

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1126275114108956642005-09-01T14:02:00.000Z2005-09-12T00:25:22.283Z

A bearded stranger is chasing me down the street.Which is odd, because he’d been perfectly pleasant to me just a few moments before. Moments so few, in fact, to provide insufficient time for me to become startled and break into a panicked run. But a moment enough for him to snatch back the card he had handed me but moments before.This strikes me as perplexing behaviour, but I shrug my shoulders,

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1125880949156001052005-08-31T00:41:00.000Z2005-09-05T00:47:35.510Z

“Listo, per favor?” I bound in confidently asking the receptionist as I wave my laundry receipt, as if my confident boundiness makes up for my admittedly-less-than-fucking-brilliant Spanish.She looks embarrassed.But I notice she is unable to prevent her eyes wandering towards the frantic activity that surrounds her.A middle-aged man to her right (my left) is folding my T-shirt.An old man to her

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1125879760919807182005-08-30T00:22:00.000Z2005-09-05T00:26:14.420Z

Thirty-five degrees centigrade.That’s what I´d got used to in Guayaquil. Tropical. Toe-toasting.But, stepping outside, I realise I had indeed heard the pilot correctly as we landed.For some reason, I’d had it in my head this would be an ´internal flight´. Which, in continental terms, of course, it was. Except this is a fucking huge continent. Five hours, two countries, one time-zone and over

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1125878442383448052005-08-29T23:58:00.000Z2005-09-05T00:00:42.390Z

I´m staying at the Hilton.Not staying in an overnight sense, you understand, just for the day.But all bloody day.And it´s hard work, I can tell you.Because, after the weekend’s aborted airticket-buying mission, I’m determined to see somewhere other than Ecuador so am back in the Hilton’s travel agency to meet the only person who could possibly help. And help, they do. Within half-hour, I have

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1125508390214893282005-08-28T17:08:00.000Z2005-08-31T17:13:10.220Z

Having aborted the previous day’s efforts to book onward tickets (everywhere I was told would be open and/or helpful either closed or with the only person who could possibly help not back til Monday), I decide to spend the day with my toes out at the Parrot hostel.The Strange Old Man is sawing a piece of wood to cover the small manhole cover by the pool, as his Strange Old Woman looks on

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1125506645382766532005-08-27T16:42:00.000Z2005-08-31T16:44:05.386Z

“I think it’s this way!” I confidently tell one of my Galapagos companions, as we bound out for the Scottish Rock Bar back in Guayaquil.We pass an old man carrying a big gun.“I think it’s this way!” she confidently tells me, perusing my map.We pass another old man carrying another big gun.“Very religous but very wild” I’d commented to the Laid-Back American in a Quito club but a few days into my

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1125248544604102402005-08-26T17:02:00.000Z2005-08-28T17:02:24.610Z

“So, what did we miss?” asked the Sarcastic Anglo-German tourist.Just days previously, I had been the one trailing group. The shameful laggard. Yet here I was, but days later, heading the group. Their natural leader.“Well,” I replied, boastfully, “you missed me wrestling a shark.”“You wrestled a shark on dry land?” queried the Obese American tourist, the sarcastic nature of her questioning

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1125247575529509902005-08-19T16:44:00.000Z2005-08-28T16:48:37.453Z

“I can´t believe that just happened to you!” exclaimed the bizarrelly-Irish-accented Swiss girl sharing my cab to the airport as she stared at the blood seeping from my cut hand just minutes after I had held her responsible for my almost getting run over by an overeagerly-driven bus whilst I waited for her to pick up her delayed laundry, the aghast look on her face evidence of her sincere

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1125246435930409162005-08-18T16:26:00.000Z2005-08-28T16:27:15.933Z

“I´m glad I´m walking with you” I complimented my newfound fellow Essex traveller, as we headed out through the threatening streets of Guayaquil´s relatively affluent northern suburbs, “because you have got a tattoo.”“I´m glad I´m walking with you”, he replied returning the compliment, “because you´re a tall bastard.”He was right, a short tattooed man alone was not going to help us out of trouble

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1125244291415551042005-08-17T15:50:00.000Z2005-08-28T16:17:26.793Z

Arriving from my early-morning flight to find, as my guide had forewarned, dream-inspired wall murals in place of the more traditional hanging sign, I located the heavyweight locked door and rang the buzzer, and on hearing the immediate chirrup of birdsong among the bustling suburban streets, suspected this would be no ordinary hostel.I was not let down.Crashing the door behind me, I wandered

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1125243666160171052005-08-16T15:40:00.000Z2005-08-28T15:42:36.873Z

The unsmiling receptionist shook her head, at possible the fourth, fifth or eighth kiosk we´d tried.Despite an apparent plethora of competion – dozens of operators at the city bus terminal apparently vying for the tourist dollar – the reality was that not one, it transpired, was willing to transport us to the local National Park we´d wanted to visit for the day.Not that this had been my first

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1125242947008137412005-08-15T15:27:00.000Z2005-08-28T15:30:45.766Z

“The trouble is” piped up a fellow Essex man from the tour agency I´d met earlier in the week, “that nothing ever bloody works the way it should in Ecuador”.“Nothing at all” replied the Kent barman, as we all nodded heads in agreement.My final night in Quito had been spent supping pints with likeminded Brits in a mock-English pub. It seemed somehow a fitting end after indulging in enough genuine

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1124308809718026842005-08-14T19:59:00.000Z2005-08-28T15:27:47.680Z

It was only a matter of time.In fact, it was inevitable.“Donde es?” came the innocent enough starting gambit as they served me in one of the few restaurants open in Cuenca on a Sunday.A restaurant bordering the city´s main Plaza. The beautifully sculpted plaza housing walkways, benches, plants, and flaura. Its beauty somewhat diminished by the booming from loudspeakers of Lloyd-Webber panpipe

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1124308089364630862005-08-13T19:47:00.000Z2005-08-17T19:48:09.373Z

“Heh! Heh! Heh!” boomed the deep, dulcet laugh of the Laid-Back German, as we basked in the sun on the hostel terrace during a mid-afternoon break from, well, nothingdom. “Shumone eez gruwin a happy plant, yez?” he observed as he stroked the green sprouts emerging from the otherwise innocuous-looking potplant next to him.“It would seem so” I replied cagily, trying to seem like someone who knows

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1124307430792071902005-08-12T19:36:00.000Z2005-08-17T19:37:10.800Z

A sharp shard of sunlight cascading from the conservatory skylight casts a mellow hue through the calming filter of my cream-coloured curtains as they motion slowly in the early-morning breeze.I turn restfully under my ample bedding, nestling my sumptuous pillows into shape as the soft twirping of Ecuadorian birdsong echoes from the garden, soothing me into a state of deeper slumber.The gentle

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1123978821172988512005-08-11T00:16:00.000Z2005-08-14T00:21:12.183Z

My alarm wakes me early.After my regular morning dump, I check the rotation of the toilet flush: anti-clockwise.I fly to Cuenca, although only Ecuador’s third-largest city, its calm, cobblestone streets providing a seaside-town-esque contrast to the hectic bustle that was Quito.Within half-hour, I’m at my hostel (which I’d pre-reserved in Spanish. Well, me trying Spanish. Them replying in English

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1123978187081501122005-08-10T00:08:00.000Z2005-08-14T00:09:47.086Z

I won’t pretend I’ve been doing very much these past few days.Because I haven’t.Just over a month ago, I was working my arse off. Evenings, weekends. Work overtaking social life: no time for real friends, or virtual friends. Little time was spared.But I am now reaping the rewards of this effort in this trip. If there’s one thing that’s surprised me, it’s how quickly I’ve unwound to travelling

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1123685483539172502005-08-04T14:51:00.000Z2005-08-10T14:51:23.540Z

"Hola!" I greet the goaty-beared stranger sat atop the concrete bollard outside the tour agents at this ridiculously early hour in the morning. "Quilotoa?"As there was nobody else about, there was a fair chance he was also waiting for the minibus to take us to one of Ecuador's many splendid lagunas."Si" he replies, before we revert to English having exhausted my fucking brilliant Spanish.Pretty

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1123685057970314752005-08-03T14:40:00.000Z2005-08-10T14:44:17.976Z

Arising early to catch the balmy morning sun before the clouds settle in, I set out in my de-rigeur tourist garb of T-shirt, shorts and sandals, and flag a passing cab."Quiera ir a" I begin, slowly, pedantically, milking the last drip out of every phonetic of my fucking brilliant Spanish, "el Telerifico, per favor."The driver looks perplexed."Donde?" he exclaims."El Telerifico", I repeat, this

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1123543576285445882005-08-02T23:25:00.000Z2005-08-08T23:26:16.293Z

Treating myself to a taxi to Quito's old town - all of three US Dollars - I stopped off in the city's resplendant Plaza de la Independienca.Soaking in the sun amidst the abundant culture around, I sat back on a bench, smugly pleased with myself.A grey-bearded Ecuadorian tramp shuffled past, scooping himself a cup of water out of the central fountain, his trousers in tatters around him. As he

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1123542294785512292005-08-01T23:04:00.000Z2005-08-08T23:04:54.793Z

"Gasolina! Gasolina!" sang Manuel excitedly. (Though his Spanish pronounciation sounded it more "Hayohina! Hayohina!").Squinting my eyes to verify my disbelief, I reopened them to discover that, yes, Manuel appeared to be not just singing but dancing in a slightly distressing fashion, his office swivel-chair jostling from left to right on the other side of the desk on which my Spanish-learning

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1123541516353177322005-07-31T22:51:00.000Z2005-08-08T22:54:02.920Z

"Your toes" declared Dorset Boy 2 ominously as we strolled along a Costa Brava beach a couple of weeks ago, his sunburnt face lit up as if on the verge of announcing a major scientific breakthrough, "are going to be out a lot more than they are in over the next couple of months."I pondered the significance of this statement before agreeing, yes, his hypothesis may prove correct.And Sunday was

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1123101077700450612005-07-30T20:30:00.000Z2005-08-03T20:31:17.703Z

Awaking at 6am for an early-morning cab to Quito´s bustling bus station, I soon found myself bound for Otavalo.Otavalo is a small town nestled up in the mountains some two hours drive from Quito, and Saturday is its famed market day.Hurtling through the winding hillside roads at breakneck speed, it was a bus-ride like none I have ever experienced in London.I had been enjoying using my new

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1123101019908498422005-07-29T20:29:00.000Z2005-08-03T20:30:19.910Z

"Oink! Oink! Oink!" shouted Manuel, my inevitably-named Spanish tutor.Realising my ten minutes listening to my Spanish CD on the plane before falling asleep would not suffice, I´d wasted no time in booking my first lesson.Despite the school´s recommendation for a minimum 2-week course, I decided upon two half-days to cover the basic."PIG!" I shouted back at the animated Manuel."Bien!"

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1123100966139640092005-07-28T20:28:00.000Z2005-08-03T20:29:26.140Z

Moving swifltly through customs, I flagged an official-looking taxi outside the airport.My Spanish no better than when I left England, I beckoned towards the hostel address in my guidebook.Hurtling through the frantic streets, it was apparent I was indeed in South America. Lane control seemed a world away, as I reached for my rear seatbelt only to find it secured behind the seat and without a

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1123100918965394622005-07-27T20:27:00.000Z2005-08-03T20:28:38.973Z

The plane landed, to rapturous applause.This was the third and final stop in an arduous 18-hour journey taking a flight into and out of Amsterdam, then the second flight having stopped for refuelling in Bonaire and then Guayaquil.Applauding a safe landing unnerved me, because it implied there were some occasions on which landings would not deserve applause.I pondered. But it had indeed been a

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1122488764230709602005-07-27T18:14:00.000Z2005-07-27T18:26:04.236Z

"Oiga!" I proudly beckoned the beautiful waitress in a picturesque Barcelona square, smiling smugly at Dorset Boy #2 at my newly-acquired language skills.The waitress approached us sternly."La questa, per favor" I continued, my smugness continuing."You what?" she asked, my intrinsic Englishness showing through.Then proceeded to disect what little language I had used."Oiga" she protested, "is

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1122384110630278442005-07-26T13:21:00.000Z2005-07-26T14:17:17.233Z

"We have received your email and have identified that it contains profanity", began the automated response to my hastily-constructed missive."Carphone Warehouse is a profanity free environment. Regrettably we are unable to respond to your email in its current format. Please resubmit your email without the use of profanity."I scratched my forehead, perplexed at how I could possibly have caused

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1122226993267234442005-07-24T17:43:00.000Z2005-07-24T17:43:13.303Z

June 2005, we drive to the Isle of Wight festival car park.It's attracted a real mix of punters, and the sun-soaked atmosphere's chilled - the short ferry-crossing perhaps kidding everyone into holiday mode.We miss three bands whilst getting to grips with assembling Dorset Boy's recently procured tent with its obviously misleading instructions.On site, we're privileged to enjoy a traditional

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1120912972381499192005-07-09T12:42:00.000Z2005-07-10T08:14:10.303Z

I'm fine, and everyone I know is fine. I hope the same for you too.It was somewhat surreal to receive Thursday's news during an appalling meeting in Stuttgart, and it certainly put mundane issues like work into perspective.London seemed understandably subdued yesterday morning, with fewer people, quieter shuffling, yet a more courteous nature and by the end of the day a more bullish spirit as we

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1120669771712449852005-07-06T17:09:00.000Z2005-07-06T17:10:31.463Z

"You need a yellow fever jab, luv" advised the nurse, inspecting my medical records, "Except we can't do it here... national shortage."This shocked me. In an age where our government scares us into the dangers of ricin and anthrax, I couldn't believe they'd let their guard slip elsewhere. With big cats being spotted in Sydenham, a yellow fever outbreak in Penge is not inconceivable.I trekked down

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1120416526612867012005-07-03T18:48:00.000Z2005-07-03T18:50:06.316Z

"Oh no" I cry down my mobile phone, "you haven't got them, have you?""No" replies Dorset Boy #1, straight and to the point.I'd only just remembered Dorset Boy #2 had asked for my address just days before."The tickets were being posted to me, weren't they?" I ask, by now rhetorically.They were, and I'd forgotten. So had ignored the pile of post on my doormat this morning, discarding it as

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1120077481455007412005-06-29T20:38:00.000Z2005-06-29T20:38:03.516Z

"Alright, boss?" he greets me, as he always does.I join the end of the queue, nodding at a former stranger who's almost become a friend over recent months.Because on my (very) occasional nights at home, depleted of nourishment in my fridge, I've become something of a regular at my local chippie."Chips'll be ready in a minute, boss" he announces.I shuffle forward."Chicken and mushroom pie" I

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1119819273418153742005-06-26T20:54:00.000Z2005-06-26T21:35:07.176Z

... for my continued lack of posting activity.Work has dominated my life somewhat, but is soon to draw to a close - as this means to the end which is travelling this summer is oh-so-very soon to take its place.Yes, for Unlucky man will be spending a couple of months abroad, which promises to bring with it a whole new strand of misfortune.With this in mind, anyone familiar with South America...

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1119388903895488682005-06-21T21:21:00.000Z2005-06-22T08:19:08.780Z

"Yah a fackin' temp???!!!" my cabbie splutters, "Yah should be slippin' 'er one right now, yah fackin' idiot!!!"As I decline his offer to turn back to her house, the meter clicks to twenty-five quid.Number Two had surfaced - eventually - from behind the toilet door. Where she'd frogmarched me purposefully out of the work bar but half-hour previously, I sheepishly guided her back into the bar.

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1119111621385874992005-06-18T16:20:00.000Z2005-06-18T16:30:55.770Z

"Are you still in there?" I shout, banging frantically against the door.The faint murmur of acknowledgement that filters through the pine panels indicates that she indeed still is.I nod politely and smile gingerly at the online creative bloke who passes me into the cubicle next door.Whilst waiting I use the opportunity to text Tall Stuttering Friend, to point out that his casual dismissal of my

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1118873118624369132005-06-15T22:05:00.000Z2005-06-15T22:08:55.133Z

It wasn't what I'd been expecting at all.Through the crowded bar, she'd made her way towards me, announcing her arrival quite firmly.Brushing her brunette locks against her soft-skinned shoulders, she swayed her beautiful head flirtatiously - swaying quite a lot, it has to be said - as she indulged me in the briefest of conversation.I was awestruck.But she was a girl who knew what she wanted, and

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1118388529045432742005-06-10T07:28:00.000Z2005-06-10T07:28:49.086Z

My mobile bleeps."Effin Travis are replacing Morrisey at next week's festival" announces the text from Dorset Boy #2, "Another opportunity for a kip methinks."I feel compelled to convey this news by texting friend-of-friend Hip Young Thing also attending aforementioned festival:"Terrible news!" I announce, "Mozza's pulled out of Isle of Wight - Travis in place."This will impress Hip Young Thing,

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1118133725672520102005-06-07T08:42:00.000Z2005-06-07T08:42:05.726Z

"Alright then" I reluctantly agree, and hand the barmaid my pound coin.I hadn't planned to go out again. At the end of a long bank-holiday weekend, I needed my rest. But, speaking to Ex-Boss on mobile, as I sat alone awaiting my little sister Babyhands return my misplaced iPod in a West End rail terminus burger station, as he sat alone having returned from holiday to find his promised-refurbished

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1117885438328453602005-06-04T11:43:00.000Z2005-06-04T11:43:58.386Z

It's been a tight schedule, but it looks like we've just about made it.Arriving in good time to help unpack the second van load (having cleverly missed the earlier, heavier first van load), my little sister Babyhands and boyfriend Vernon can at last pronounce themselves to have officially moved in to their new home.The boys rush the van back to the evil hire company for its 1pm deadline, or risk

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1117666358700269092005-06-01T22:52:00.000Z2005-06-01T22:52:38.756Z

"That was the most fucking amazing thing I've ever seen" I announce to Dorset Boy #1 "ever, in my life."Beck Hansen is purely and simply the coolest man in the entire world. Effortlessly blending his electic blend of rock, funk, folk, hip-hop and bluegrass, he is cooler, even, in my eyes, than Jon Snow. I'd just returned from the bar (Long queues. Bad system.). To find Beck's relentlessly upbeat

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1117363659573592652005-05-29T10:47:00.000Z2005-05-29T10:47:39.626Z

Lookie! Lookie!No, not here, I'm over there today.Read me and many others.(Oh, and do get back outside and enjoy the sunshine. I am.)

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1116366972436584822005-05-17T21:56:00.000Z2005-05-17T22:27:26.390Z

"Jahhhhh babbeeee!" purrs the lady-of-the-night sitting next to me. "I rilllly likes dis vun!"A bad Eurodisco song infests my ears. As had the one before. And the one before that. And that.The light dims, though apparently through malfunctioning rather than any intended effect. Through the smoky haze I can just about make out the barmaid leaving the establishment's only other customer at his

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1116181969694528902005-05-15T18:27:00.000Z2005-05-15T18:32:49.700Z

Like a shining beacon amidst this shameful disgrace, you'll find an altogether more wholesome post from me over at A Picture's Worth - a nice site hosted down under built on the impressively simple premise of inviting disparate individuals from across the globe to pen a few words about valued photographs.

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1116061247935048422005-05-14T09:00:00.000Z2005-05-14T09:00:47.986Z

Bruised from the previous night's rejection and battered from the day's ear-bashing, I meander alone through unfamiliar Stuttgart streets.I decide to join the strangers I see swarming into a small restaurant.I'm hungry. I'm depressed. I'm up for a good night out.The atmosphere's frenetic, which makes the service very slow. My rusty O-Level German manages to mis-order both the starter and main

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1115847957667670202005-05-11T21:45:00.000Z2005-05-12T07:03:15.346Z

It was a difficult, difficult meeting.It'd been a long time coming: long before I'd started working there, that's for sure.Like the professional that I am, I'd sat upon proceedings: Prioritised, progressed, chased.But at the end of the day, this contract had been a time-bomb waiting to go off. And it was about to go off."You guys" complained our German client, as I sat between my boss and the CEO

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1115794506811710112005-05-11T06:55:00.000Z2005-05-11T06:56:39.806Z

"You feeling better after that?" asks my CEO."Yeahhhh" I murmur, rubbing my eyes to wake up."Look like you needed it" he observes.I had needed it. I'd fallen asleep before take-off. And slept through until reaching somewhere above Belgium.It'd started out as a simple enough plan. I'd prepare for today's meeting, then swing by the exclusive London member's bar for a swift drink at the marketing

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1115676619153144132005-05-09T22:10:00.000Z2005-05-09T22:10:19.356Z

"Tomorrow?" I exclaim, "TOMORROW?".Alas, tomorrow it is. Mere hours after returning to work from the bank holiday weekend, my support is being sought at a crisis meeting with our client in Germany. This is bad news."But I'm supposed to be going out tonight" I moan professionally, "to find myself a wife."My new boss laughs, disbelievingly, but I patiently explain I'd been invited to a singles

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1115364989750878622005-05-06T07:36:00.000Z2005-05-06T07:36:29.886Z

Tuesday morning: the staggeringly depressing return to work following a long holiday weekend.I trundle up the steps of Knightsbridge tube station.Trundle, trundle, trundle.A hundred like-minded commuters trundle alongside, shoulders hunched, as we make our way upstairs above ground.Grey cloud greets us above the permeating air of downtrodden desperation.Until, as I cross the street, a vision

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1114725156474260672005-04-28T21:52:00.000Z2005-04-28T21:52:36.473Z

"W-w-w-we're downstairs", the voice on the end of my mobile announced, "i-i-i-in your w-w-w-work bar."(Actually, it didn't. It announced: "We're downstairs in your work bar". But he used to have a stutter. And is still tall. So the moniker of Tall Stuttering Friend stays. Awlright?!)It was a bit of a shock. I mean, I'd invited him: of that, there was no doubt. But I was surprised that this 6-foot

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1114462958569486972005-04-25T21:02:00.000Z2005-04-25T21:02:38.570Z

"Hey!" the attractive waitress exclaimed, pointing down at our table, "Is that your phone?"."Yes" I replied proudly, "that's my phone."."Shit, isn't it?" she announced, "Mine's always playing up. Yours?""Occasionally." I answered, "Just occasionally."She took our order. We enjoyed our food. Dutch courage. Before long, it was time to call for our bill."I'll do you a favour" I offered, "I'll give

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1114162956301886212005-04-22T09:42:00.000Z2005-04-22T09:42:36.300Z

Towards the end of a season in which my team has been oft labelled "beleagured" and "past its best" - despite still being second in the league - Saturday's victory paving the way to the Cup Final came as somewhat of a relief.A tetchy game, arguably with more bookings that goal-scoring opportunities, was capped by Van Persie coming late off the bench to claim a sweet double.I was privileged enough

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1113511751263993802005-04-14T20:49:00.000Z2005-04-14T20:49:59.146Z

1am, Thursday morning.Everything seems to be coming together nicely.Planning's concerns had been put to bed by late afternoon. Senior management seemed happy enough the ideas were on-brief, and had retired home in advance of their early morning flights. Creative are beavering away and replenished by the abundant pizza I'd ordered in for them. The repro house are on standby throughout the night to

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1113338825224911212005-04-12T20:47:00.000Z2005-04-12T20:47:05.223Z

An unlucky man pays £2 to enter the office Grand National sweepstake, and picks 'Joly Bey' out of the hat.He supplements this bet by placing £5 to win on 'Strong Resolve' at 11/1, and £2.50 each way on 'It Takes Time' at 18/1.Joly finishes 14th. Strong 17th. It 4th.By how much does this unlucky man win or lose - or just break-even?Answers in the usual comments box please.

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1112856614454667032005-04-07T06:50:00.000Z2005-04-07T06:52:43.066Z

My colleagues had had quite enough after another hard day's toil in the pressuring world of direct marketing.So to unwind they decided to step outside for a quick game of touch-rugby in the twilight.Minutes in, they agreed there were too few of them to have a truly enjoyable game.Inspired, one of our top strategists spotted an open opportunity:"Let's ask them!" he motioned towards the

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1112642972229504072005-04-04T19:29:00.000Z2005-04-04T19:29:32.230Z

It'd all started so well.I'd located my fellow walkers in the pub, and arrived only a little bit late.We'd followed the canal through Little Venice, Regents Park, St Pancras and Islington, stopping off at hostelries along the way whilst keeping to Bookseller's stringent schedule.But it was half-a-mile on, without warning, that a gridded gate greeted us: "PATH CLOSED".Over the fence was the only

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1112524212165995292005-04-03T10:30:00.000Z2005-04-03T10:30:12.166Z

After last weekend's bold promise to post more frequently, you might rightly be feeling let down.Alas reason this week is not work, but recovery back to full health.I hope to be able to share the story with you in good time, readers, for 'tis a good 'un.But for now feel my attempts at garnering sympathy may have been usurped this week by that American woman and Polish bloke.Back when better.UMx

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1112211809560320972005-03-30T19:43:00.000Z2005-03-30T19:43:29.560Z

"No, sorry sir, they're not in yet"Dorset Boy #2 looks disappointed.He's just received the same answer from the third Oxford Street tourist-tat shopkeeper in a row."But I do have this" the shopkeeper appeases, as he hands DB#2 a fridge-magnet instead.DB#2 brightens up.He pays his £2, but leaves the store still slightly disappointed not to have been able to buy what he came in here for. And the

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1112127815977289352005-03-29T20:23:00.000Z2005-03-29T20:23:35.976Z

"She's your type""Which one?""Her - right there", I point."Well spotted" he replies, "let's go over there and sit with them."It was an unusual display of bravado from the normally more reserved Bookseller but, at the end of a long evening - in fact, perhaps because it had been a long evening - with that comment he makes headway through the crowd for the seats besides the girls I'd spotted at the

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1111758968440042522005-03-25T13:56:00.000Z2005-03-25T13:56:59.590Z

And so it is...And very nearly unrecognised by myself until kindly alerted to me in my last comments box, this blog is one year old today.This makes me pleased and proud.Because whilst I didn't really know why I was starting it, it's become a nice little hobby. No more, no less... gladly not the time-consuming obsession it became in its first few months. But it gave me great pleasure reading

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1111476284641339192005-03-22T07:24:00.000Z2005-03-22T07:34:33.056Z

The queue slowly shuffles forward as we approach the airport security gate.Times have certainly changed when it's become necessary to pass through at least three high security checkpoints, in addition to a couple of passport checks.It's a sad sign of the times but one that is increasingly accepted to provide reassurance: a necessary inconvenience - no more, no less.The queue shuffles forward some

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1111249452030484862005-03-19T16:24:00.000Z2005-03-20T11:55:54.206Z

My Guinness tastes surprisingly good as I stand watching the Blarney-blessed guitarist sing. Barstaff serve up Oysters and various suspiciously green-tinted drink at increasingly regular intervals. Everyone's in good spirits as the packed crowd sway around me. I can almost feel the cobbled streets of Temple Bar beneath my feet and taste the sea-air of the Liffey as I take in the craic that

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1110926690259447632005-03-15T22:44:00.000Z2005-03-15T22:44:50.260Z

Back in a few days.(In latest news, boss described himself as a "very lucky man" to have his wife. Before giving me a frosty glaze.)

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1110548095082607552005-03-11T13:34:00.000Z2005-03-11T13:37:16.126Z

I meet my new boss for the first time on his return from month-long honeymoon.Before long, I get proceedings off to an excellent start by accidentally confusing his name with that off our notoriously difficult client. This client being, I'm reliably told, perhaps the most evil man in the world.Eager to impress, I arrange a 'catch up' meeting.As we sit down, an attractive blonde smiles over at us.

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1110412561642995522005-03-09T23:56:00.000Z2005-03-10T07:21:12.536Z

Well.... it wasn't any better, so out we go.Next year. Maybe. NEXT YEAR.

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1110316022882809652005-03-08T21:07:00.000Z2005-03-08T21:07:02.883Z

This simply won't do.I'm sorry. But it simply won't.Two weeks on, and I'm still banging on about a three-day trip.So, to milk no longer, a succinct close:Munich's Bierkellers were quite the splendid place to spend a day. Half-cut by lunchtime, the atmosphere was distinctly lively by mid-afternoon. Bayern-Munchen fans following a lone trumpet-player through the increasingly boisterous crowd only

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1110110159207650212005-03-06T11:55:00.000Z2005-03-07T11:06:03.293Z

Sometimes words can give only scant justice to an experience:We're still in Munich. It's still the same Monday night.(Sorry. I've been rather busy. So my blog has developed a bit of a backlog. Like 'Neighbours' in the 1980s, when UK broadcasts were 18 months behind Australia's. We knew from the press that Scott and Charlene were to marry, but were still watching the episodes where Mrs Mangel was

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1109806719964743602005-03-02T23:38:00.001Z2005-03-02T23:45:10.830Z

"Chicken jalfrezi, please""Chicken jalfrezi, please""Chicken jalfrezi, please""Hot?" asks our waiter."Yes please", we answer in unison.Später Montagabend, München.We all order the same dish, off a set menu, but in our individually distinctive voices.We wait as the snow softly cascades down onto the cobbled Bavarian streets outside. Ice-packed pavements are silent but for the squeaky shuffles of

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1109626881377698922005-02-28T21:41:00.000Z2005-02-28T21:56:40.326Z

Rachel Stevens. Ally McCoist. Gaby Logan, with Andy Townsend.We were in good company in Heathrow's departure lounge.My first choice of book, 'Black Box' (perhaps not the most appropriate choice prior to flying) having been rendered unreadable thanks to a hastily-spotted misprint, I reached for my second choice: Professor Richard Wiseman's 'The Luck Factor' (perhaps not the second most appropriate

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1109423647362148042005-02-26T13:14:00.000Z2005-02-26T13:48:15.340Z

Sidebar plummeters, I appear to have replicated the plummeting-sidebar problem, and to have resolved it - albeit in a cackhanded way.Is your sidebar now at the right-hand side, like?Little steps, friends, little steps.

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1109197993585981662005-02-23T22:33:00.000Z2005-02-23T22:33:13.586Z

Bleep-bleep! Bleep-bleep!Flitting back to my desk between incredibly important meetings, my mobile signals a text message has arrived.Probably a friend trying to catch up, I think, or the network trying to persuade me to upgrade my tariff.But it's not from a friend. Or the network. It's from someone - two people, actually - from whom I've never received a text before.Astounded, I open it:"Hello

Unluckymanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14237235900172383060noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1109066473775034582005-02-22T10:00:00.000Z2005-02-22T10:01:13.776Z

“They want this by then?” exclaims the Creative Director, pointing at the piece of paper I’d handed her.“Yes” I reply sheepishly.My first briefing on my new contract isn’t going well.“They always do this” she complains, “Asking the earth for yesterday and with no money. When we’re already up to our necks with half the staff off sick.”“Can we do it?” I ask, sympathetically.“I don’t know how” she

JonnyBnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673546.post-1108982931733078592005-02-21T10:47:00.000Z2005-02-21T10:48:51.733Z

First day on contract, I meet the account director I’m replacing.“I won’t beat around the bush with you” he introduces himself, “I’m leaving after only a few months because frankly I’ve had enough…”I nod.“The client’s a nightmare.” he continues, “Causing everyone on the account to leave…”I nod again.“…The creative team are all new, so just don’t understand the brand…”I nod twice this time, to

JonnyBnoreply@blogger.com