» The Worst Journey in the World

Repost!
No ticket.
After road tripping the US and Canada for a while, I decided that it was time to go back to Blighty. Thing was, I’d lost my Virgin Atlantic ticket from JFK to London. Both me and my folks at home spent many a long a weary hour on the phone trying to organise a replacement ticket from both ends of the Atlantic. No dice say bransons’ lot - I’d have to buy a new ticket, and get a refund for the old one. Fair enough, but I didn’t have the £1000 to get a new ticket.

Next best thing, get a cheap flight using a cheaper airline. Cheapest available? Pakistani international airlines.

By the time this lot get organised my visa has run out, so I’m now overstaying my welcome in the US. (If US immigration are reading, I’m making this part up) So, 2 weeks after my visa has run out, I turn up at JFK to board my PIA flight, this time to Manchester. I’m ok with that, I happen to live in Manchester with my girlfriend, so its all good. This ticket was bought online, an ‘e-ticket’ if you will, something flyers with easy jet are familiar with. During queuing, and feeling the whitest I’ve felt in my life, a little Pakistani lady comes up to me asking me to carry several items onto the plane for her. That’ll be a no then. She looks like I’ve slapped her in the face. So I get to the desk, the man asks for my ticket. “I’ve got an e-ticket!” say I. “I don’t know no e-ticket”. Bollocks.
Can you look me up? No. Piss off. You don’t have a ticket. Desk closes, plane takes off.

Pishflaps.


So, I’m in new york, with approx. $4.00 in my trousers and no way to get home, and in the country illegally. Goody! With nothing much else to do I decide to lag all my kit over to the virgin desk in another terminal to see if I can blag it.


I find it and talk to a girl called Lisa (I’ll never forget her, I swear) who after hearing my story looks at me and hand writes me a ticket (hand writes!) a ticket to London for me. And the fee? “It leaves in 30 minutes, run”


Honestly, I had tears in my eyes. I told her I loved her very loudly and ran.


The man at the checking didn’t look at my visa date, and I found my seat – the last empty one, right at the back – and flew to London.


I’d had 4 hours sleep in the past 3 days by this stage (good old road trips) so I was a little messed up. To get home I had to spend 8 hours in a national express coach to Manchester. I wasn’t feeling any better. My girlfriend meets me at the station, and I hug her, almost in tears. Then she informs me she wants to break up.

Good trip.
(Mon 11th Sep 2006, 0:27, More)

» I met a weirdo on the interweb

friends reunited
While minding my own business at uni in manchester i get an email from some girl living in dorset saying she knows me from home (n. ireland).
after a few checks with friends it turns out she does indeed know me (i have a shocking memory) so that much is true. After a few emails she calls me and all seems well. then she invites me down for a 'visit'. Moron face here thinks this is a great idea and hops on a train to dorset. bloody dorset like, who goes there? long story short, the nutter likes me and decides she wants us to go out. It's been two years. I live in dorset. We're buying a house. Help me.
(Wed 22nd Mar 2006, 1:59, More)

» Crazy Relatives

Fed up.
It might be a good story. You might even deserve to be on the front page. But I'll be dammed if I'm going to click your bloody story if you feel you have to add 'click this if you like toast' or similar at the bottom. Don't beg, it's pathetic. If your story is good enough, it'll win on its own merit. Sorry for off topic, but this epidemic is starting to get out of hand, it's making a mockery of these hallowed pages.
(Fri 6th Jul 2007, 11:41, More)

» Crap meals out

free curry
Back in the heady days of unemployment, my brother and I took a road trip to the Republic of Ireland on his faithfull GPZ500 Bike. Off we set, with a full set of camping gear on my back, with me on pillion to the depths of Ireland one shiny summer. Many a tea stop later, we arrive in Wexford, a charming place, and secure a camp site beside the sea and pitch our tent. All is well with the world. Bike engine quietly making 'pinging' sounds in the sun, tent pitched and we're preparing for a night out in a nice town. We find a club in Wexford (well, THE club) and secure entry, in exchange for several punts. (pre euro days) Inside, we find we can exchange our entry stubs for a free curry, provided by the club. wow, says us, great idea. The curry was rubbish. textureless and flavourless, it had no redeaming features whatsoever, over spiced, over cooked over priced at 'free'. I couldn't face mine after 1 mouthfull. Big brother on the other hand wolfs his, and mine, down in around 4 minutes flat. We continue our night out. ... several hours later, back in the tent, i am awoken by the sound and sight of my sibling franticly digging his way out of the tent in order to vomit. He can't get the zipper up. It's very much stuck. In the end, after 20 seconds of very frantic fighting, he gives up and with the strengh that only the truly desperate can muster, rips the lining of the tent, 'twixt front flaps and ground sheet and sticks his unshaven face out the resulting gap to hurl the 2 portions of curry onto Irelands fine green green grass.I giggle. We go back to sleep. Come the morning, we have to half crawl/half leap over the mound of vomit outside the entrance of our tent. on closer inspection, and to our wonderment, the puke has settled, upon ejection,into the form it was injested. That is to say, rice on the bottom, meat on the top. Nothing else sullying the fine disply, no carrots, nothing. It was almost a perfectly formed portion of curry, if slightly wafting of bile. After admiring this gastric wonderment, we realise we can't get back into our tent without disturbing this entity. Clean it up? Be buggered, we unpeg the dome tent and drag it 6 feet to the left and cover the extrusion with a placcy bag, secured with tent pegs.
(Tue 2nd May 2006, 0:25, More)

» Airport Stories

No ticket.
After road tripping the US and Canada for a while, I decided that it was time to go back to Blighty. Thing was, I’d lost my Virgin Atlantic ticket from JFK to London. Both me and my folks at home spent many a long a weary hour on the phone trying to organise a replacement ticket from both ends of the Atlantic. No dice say bransons’ lot - I’d have to buy a new ticket, and get a refund for the old one. Fair enough, but I didn’t have the £1000 to get a new ticket.

Next best thing, get a cheap flight using a cheaper airline. Cheapest available? Pakistani international airlines.

By the time this lot get organised my visa has run out, so I’m now overstaying my welcome in the US. (If US immigration are reading, I’m making this part up) So, 2 weeks after my visa has run out, I turn up at JFK to board my PIA flight, this time to Manchester. I’m ok with that, I happen to live in Manchester with my girlfriend, so its all good. This ticket was bought online, an ‘e-ticket’ if you will, something flyers with easy jet are familiar with. During queuing, and feeling the whitest I’ve felt in my life, a little Pakistani lady comes up to me asking me to carry several items onto the plane for her. That’ll be a no then. She looks like I’ve slapped her in the face. So I get to the desk, the man asks for my ticket. “I’ve got an e-ticket!” say I. “I don’t know no e-ticket”. Bollocks.
Can you look me up? No. Piss off. You don’t have a ticket. Desk closes, plane takes off.

Pishflaps.


So, I’m in new york, with approx. $4.00 in my trousers and no way to get home, and in the country illegally. Goody! With nothing much else to do I decide to lag all my kit over to the virgin desk in another terminal to see if I can blag it.


I find it and talk to a girl called Lisa (I’ll never forget her, I swear) who after hearing my story looks at me and hand writes me a ticket (hand writes!) a ticket to London for me. And the fee? “It leaves in 30 minutes, run”


Honestly, I had tears in my eyes. I told her I loved her very loudly and ran.


The man at the checking didn’t look at my visa date, and I found my seat – the last empty one, right at the back – and flew to London.


I’d had 4 hours sleep in the past 3 days by this stage (good old road trips) so I was a little messed up. After 8 hours in a national express coach to Manchester I wasn’t feeling any better. My girlfriend meets my at the station to inform me she wants to break up. Oh ffs…


Next day I wake up to find the twin towers have been hit. Yes, I’d managed to escape New York on September the 10th 2001.


Next year, I went to China, feeling that I'd had an unfair advantage in the U.S. by speaking the same language.
(Sun 5th Mar 2006, 3:59, More)