The Age Of Chivalry Is Not Dead

So this is what happened. The Groupie and I went to that London for the day to see Daughter Number One and her fiance (I know, exciting isn't it) and we did what environmentally responsible people do - we caught the train. On the way down we were an early enough stop to get seats but on the return journey Jean-Paul Sartre was again proved right - hell is other people, or to be precise, l'enfer, c'est les autres. A headlong dash to the train served to get us seats but the crowds kept on coming. I gave up my seat to an elderly lady. The age of chivalry is not dead (though clearly dying to judge by the unusualness of my gesture) but the age of manners may well be - miserable sod didn't even say than you. Oh well, Big Fat Pig will perhaps get his reward in heaven (stop laughing at the back).

All in all it was impossible not to compare the experience to my other recent experience of a long-distance train. Marseille to Paris was also very busy but everyone had a designated seat. Flexible tickets do have something to answer for.

Apropos of nothing at all, I will confess to a wry smile crossing my lips as I watched Eddie Jones's discomfiture at the hand of Warren Gatland's Wales. I like Gatland almost as little as I like Jones, but you have to say that he has galvanised Wales even if he did need Matthew Carly's barely moral refereeing against Fiji. England meanwhile lunber their way forward with Farrell seemingly re-established at fly-half. It will end in tears. 

That London; Hell Is Other People; Lives Of The Rich And Famous

An interesting and, on balance, most enjoyable Sunday. On the train to That London with Joey Barton sitting in our carriage, presumably en route to watch his boyhood team, Everton, who were at Arsenal. He behaved himself. So did I. Tempting to know what the odds on that double would have been. Should have asked him.

Rather bloody lovely

Once in That London we went for a longish walk on Hampstead Heath in the company of Daughters One and Two (I say that as if there might be more - there aren't). Now, I'm ashamed to admit it but notwithstanding my time at university in the Big Smoke, I'd never made it to Hampstead before. Rather bloody lovely - the sort of place where people can afford to be liberal. I pinched that line from an old friend from college days.

We rewarded our exertions with a late lunch at The Holly Bush: nice pub, good food, notably good service. recommended.

Hell is other people, most particularly on crowded trains going back to Liverpool full of football fans. At least they don't smash the trains up like they used to. Joey Barton was in our carriage again. What were the odds? Oh sorry already done that gag. Is Barton stalking me? Am I stalking him? He was not the only footballer on the train - two coaches of first-class had been commandeered for the Everton team and sundry hangers-on. They denied entry to autograph seekers but Barton duly signed for two youngsters. good on him.

A prejudice confirmed by yesterday's lunch: fish and chips should always be haddock rather than cod.

Back In Blighty

I am not a good traveller. I fret that something is going to go wrong. So when we approached Vancouver in the small hours of Saturday morning I convinced myself there would be no taxis to get us to the Airport Fairmont. Wrong. Next I fretted that we wouldn't get the desired seats on the plane. Well I was partly right on that score but the Groupie did some skilful negotiation and we were placed alongside each other. And then in a piece of great good fortune the seat on my other side was not taken and I luxuriated in a double space for the width of the Atlantic.

Thus had we made it to London in good shape. All that was left was the train back to Brum. On which I now sit, part of a seething mass of sweaty humanity, trying to ignore the pissed-up Scotsman behind me who has with him two bottles of Coke and a full bottle of scotch which he plainly intends to empty before the ultimate destination of Glasgow. It's good to be back.

Train Delay

We're on the way from Portland to Vancouver - slowly as it happens. We are three and a half hours in and already two behind schedule. But at least the internet thingy is working so I can bore the world in the accustomed manner.

Not in the Michelin Guide

It occurs to me that I omitted to mention the epicurean inconsistency in yesterday's eating. As I last blogged, we ate in the evening at the outstanding Paley's Place. Which was nice. At lunchtime we had nachos, fries and a beer (well the Groupie had wine) at the salubrious Buffalo Wild Wings sports bar franchise in downtown Portland. Which was also nice - and that, I think, is my point.

I've just watched the first episode of Phoenix Nights. Peter Kay, genius.

More Dining

Tucked just off the main drag of Vancouver's Gastown we (or more accurately Sharon) found another little gem for an early dinner (earliness explained below) - see Alporto

A nice prosecco was taken. We both settled on a pizza. These were delayed because the perfectionist chef was not satisfied with the first ones out of the oven. We were kept informed of progress and given complimentary starters to keep us occupied - a subtly spiced gazpacho. At the end of the meal we also got free, but wholly unneeded, liqueurs to compensate for what had been only a slight interruption. The pizzas were properly Italian in type and on the correct side of superb. Change from $100 (before the richly deserved tip). A great discovery - 7.5/10.

We dined early because we have had a pre-dawn start today and this missive therefore comes to you from the Amtrak Cascades train from Vancouver to Seattle. We've just crossed the border and they haven't got me yet. The cinnamon rolls from the buffet car are sodding enormous and reasonably priced. It's a beautiful day and the views are stunning. Sorry in a way to have left Vancouver but there are new discoveries awaiting us.

Last but not unimportantly I have bought myself a Vancouver souvenir teeshirt to augment my collection of snappy casual gear. Girls go crazy for a sharp dressed man.

... Are Brilliant Mark XV

Traditional British beer ... I have been off the booze for a month now and was going to wait until Katie's wedding on Friday before falling off the wagon but a bottle of IPA had my name on it.

The National Gallery. Free. Fantastic. And a cracking website. Today I was in that London and my meeting finished early so I studied not only Seurat's Bathers but his other smaller preparation pieces exhibited alongside it. Have a look for yourself - National Gallery-Seurat

Apple and granola muffins. Or more precisely an apple and granola muffin, singular, enjoyed in the National Gallery coffee bar.

Russian Caravan tea.

Trains when they run on time.

Of Train Journeys And Inflationary Spirals

It's amazing how much can happen to your average social commentator on one day. Wednesday passed was such a day.  These are things I am reminded I don't like.

• Crowded trains, especially when first class is full and I am thrown in with the sweaty masses.
• People on crowded trains who occupy a second seat with their grubby baggage.
• People on crowded trains who occupy a second seat with their grubby baggage and sit there insouciantly playing on their mobile phones.
• People on crowded trains who occupy a second seat with their grubby baggage and sit there insouciantly playing on their mobile phones and listening to loud shit music on their MP3 players.

Yes, I'm talking about you, you fat pikey.

And another thing - George Osborne and his ridiculous Budget with its pathetic attempts to rig the housing market and to stoke up a fresh inflationary spiral fuelled by easy credit. Will we ever even make a meaningful effort to wean ourselves off our addiction to debt? I've got a borrowed tenner says no.

Ooh ooh, Mr Peebly

However one good thing which happened in the last week was the outright destruction of an English scrummage by a fat looking bloke with bad hair. Adam Jones was the real star of Wales's evisceration of an over-hyped though honourable England team and gave hope to all of us who aim to maintain rugby as the game for warriors of all shapes. England's 2015 RWC group containing both Wales and Australia begins to look very tasty. As for the Welsh I repeat my mantra that they really do have to start caring less about beating England and rather more about giving a pasting to the likes of Australia, because they are good enough, notwithstanding they are also good enough to lose to Samoa. Go figure. They need to tap into that pathology that occupies them when the damned English hove into view.