Getting to Paradise is anything but...

Anyone who has firsthand experience will agree that a holiday is never more deserved or earned than immediately after being stuck on a still gated plane for 10 hours – not able to get off, not able to take off. It is incredibly stressful – the ultimate state of limbo, that perhaps only Tom Hanks can trump. The sheer anxiety of wondering whether or not you’re ever going to take off is enough to send even the most gentile passenger into a clammy, overheated and red faced, aisle-activist:

In March last year I was due to fly out from Heathrow, and by way of Deli land in Bangkok – city of Smiles (and bedbugs) to spend a month with my almost estranged Californian girlfriend.

I got to the airport on time – that is to say, several hours early – and checked in my luggage with growing frustration at the pace of the queue. Shrugging the anticipated queue ordeal off my shoulders I sauntered to my gate head full of anticipation and excitement.

Good news! As a gate announcement said we’d be taking off 30 minutes early. This was so the plane could slip into an earlier taxing spot and evade predicted poor weather. “Thats a good idea, im certainly not complaining!” I thought - full of pep and potential energy. But that particular plan went awry when the cabin crew arrived 1 hour late. Consequently we ended up boarding the plane 30 minutes after the original time, not 30 minutes before.

What is obvious now, but alluded me at the time, is that delays have a concertina effect and a 30 minute delay can really mean ‘at least 30 minutes’ because now this meant we missed our taxing spot and had to wait for another. During the wait the snow came. The snow we wanted to avoid by leaving early.

I will avoid the minor details, but after a long wait with no announcements, people started to get agitated. The pilot finally trumped up some phatic hyperbole about the snow coming in and us waiting for a new time slot to take off (If this was a game of state the obvious she was doing a good job.). In fact, out of the total of three announcements that were made during our 10 hour gailing on the unmoving plane each was more and more obvious and late...I’m not even sure there was a pilot on the plane in the first place, perhaps there was just a camera linked to a room in a hotel somewhere. I say this because the most candid proclamation the pilot made was right at the end of our flightless flight when she stated that “we should all go home as there were simply no rooms left in any nearby hotels” – how she could possibly know that with such conviction is beyond me.

During this largely muted 10 hour strike at the sufferance of the passengers the crew also became angry and agitated. Now I would say (with my best hostess’ smile) that whether its agreeable or not, emotional labour is an institutionalized requirement of a cabin crews skill set. For me personally the cabin crews visible mood change wasn’t much of a problem – at least we all looked to be in the same boat (plane) now and in truth I am not an advocate of the superficial plastered on smile worn by staff members. Especially when you know that sometimes they harbour nothing but resentment and distain towards the very same person they are aiming the tooth clenched smile towards. That is not to say I think there shouldn’t be a level of respect towards passengers and I feel obliged to mention that at one point an elderly Hindi man approached a crew member to ask for a glass of water, and the retort was a sharp hissing “No! Go and sit down!”. “So much for bridging the gap and rallying together” I thought.

It gets worse. You know the irritation people within the whole fuselage feels when a baby is screaming? Well seemingly on purpose and all in unison - as if imbued with hyper senses that meant they knew something we didn’t - 3 babies started wailing and they didn’t really ever stop (I imagine to this day they are faced head up to the ceiling screaming like Regan MacNeil). As we were approaching our 5^th hour on the plane...at the gate, we were told that the plane needed to be de-iced. Imagine my shock as I watched the plane to the left get de-iced and then skipping us move to the plane to the right. Both planes then took off.  This was the moment I witnessed a fully grown man break down and cry.

The de-icing truck eventually turned its plastic trunk towards us. It spurted for 45 minutes and then disappeared. Now I should mention that when the de-icer started, and for the duration until it was finished, the air conditioning had to be turned off. So when the truck disappeared after 45 minutes it was already getting very hot, muggy, heavy and uncomfortable. The passengers were very agitation, and by now in desperate need of hydration – to either stop or stock up on their tears. The de-icing truck didn’t return for another hour and the air conditioning was left off! The truck finally sauntered back to our lonely plane and continued spewing over us (a good analogy to how we felt we were treated), and nearly 3 hours after it started, it stopped. 3 hours with no air conditioning.

After this point people thought that surely the plane would now get into the air; other planes were taking off as the planes either side of us had, the snow had stopped, the sky looked clearer, and so did the ground outside. And we were ice free. What else could go wrong? After a relatively short time, maybe 30 minutes, like Chinese whispers a rumour spread – this is how we got most of our information in our borderline mutinous cabin, it turned out to be true: If we took off at that point, which presumably we could have, at some point in the air the crew would exceed their maximum working hours which are understandably limited. So why the need to keep us on the plane for 8 hours?! Ive since done the maths and unless I missed something it suggests that even in the very best scenario I was forced to sit on a plane, extremely anxious, ill-informed, and increasingly angry and claustrophobic for 3 or 4 hours more than was necessary. Probably longer. This is when I witnessed two passengers raid the crew cupboards - possibly for any liquids to hydrate, or more likely liquor to sedate.

Soon after this we were released. We emerged into the light of the airport like bleary eyed hominids emerging from a dark cave into blinding sunlight – hair dishevelled, eyes burry and red, smelly, angry and confused, almost reluctant - I felt as though I had a mild case of Stockholm syndrome. Also trepidation, as if from the pan into the fire, because we all knew that stepping off a plane at the same airport you boarded is rarely a good thing, and over the next few days acquiring another seat on a new flight and during bad weather would be fraught with even more stress and woe.

Even though our flightless flight was honestly hellish, the only reason we were all on it for so long and that there was no bloodshed, was because we all honestly felt as though we were going to take off. Now we were offloaded, we all thought that was the end of our holiday/reunion of a loved one/or wedding. Now I previously mentioned that the pilot’s crystal ball had told her that all the hotel rooms in the area were fully booked. So when we bungled out the front of the plane we were all given a number to call which would tell us automated flight information and then we were all told to go home, be that in London, Sheffield or Worthing in my case. Luckily I actively disobeyed this didactic oration, and met a group of four girls from Bristol. Together we walked to the unnamed long haul company’s information stand (it rhymes with Air Windier).

I feel sorry for the people who did go home, because amazingly we were told they were endeavouring to re-seat us on the first available flight in the morning – some 7/ 8 hours later! When we boarded for the second time and 15 hours after the first, fantastically half of the passengers on this plane were familiar to me and my new motley crew - we 5 hardened travellers. Half of us were from the previous flight! However, this flight was also delayed for over 3 hours. It was around this time that somebody picked up one of the crew phones, dialled 31 for ‘Pilot’ and hysterically shouted down the line demanding information. The cabin crew were aware of what had just happened and tentatively beckoned the man to his seat. For the duration of the flight to Deli our luckless bunch were given a whole food and drink preparation area to ourselves to which we promptly turned into a makeshift mile high Euro/Indo bar. Honestly, a majority of the duration of this flight eludes me but when we got to Deli, myself in amongst this group of disbanded diasporic travellers I had become a part of, had to wait a further 9 hours for our connecting flight.

One and a half days after I arrived at Heathrow Airport and finally I set foot on Thai soil. Beside myself with excitement at the prospect of seeing my girlfriend as well as delirious with fatigue, and with a lot of rime to make up I set off post haste to the train station.

Unfortunately, that initial flight out would set the tone of the whole following month, but what I am thinking now is that I am owed 1 days holiday, and reparations for the unforced delay that occurred. If you look back to the beginning if this story I mentioned that we were due to take off and the crew were late which had the knock on effect that snowballed into the 10/15 hour delay incurred. It was not the snow that caused the snowball. So taking this into account, and the other instances of terrible service or outright neglect during what is my case and what should I be reimbursed? My flight cost? 50% of it? And just how common is this occurrence?

When Life Gives You Lemons Think Laterally:

Dear Reader,

In a locked room I have fought tooth and jaw in a battle of wits and tempered frustration to finally emerge victorious against 'The ID'! I have written an article that, I at least, deem noteworthy and encouraging to others in a similar situation. 

Regarding the article, I would say that the fact I tapped the buttons on my keyboard and didn't bludgeon it with a blunt object makes me victorious as this was a venting exercise designed to re-new my focus towards a truly frustrating and thankless self inflicted mission - MA funding and sponsorship sourcing. Since I now have 2000 coherent words and not a pile of techno rubble in my palms it would be foolish of me to squander such an opportunity - especially since there is only a finite amount of time every year that this topic is relevant and hot!

So, without further a-do here is what I have written from me to you (and me):

1 knock, 2 knock's, 3 knock's, 4? How many setbacks can a man take before he either completely gives up and the last sinew of supporting nerve finally snaps sending him plummeting downwards, or he does something totally elevated from his usual energies and transcends into a new chapter of his life?

When you are trying to reach a goal but the harder you try the further back you go - as if your trying to break some fundamental paradox – it creates a constant draining narrative that plays in your head on loop - occasionally inspiring, but mainly a growing monotonous drone analysing your current life and how to become better. Then looking back into your past, near or far, to look for blame.

Something spontaneous and with an energy kicked into gear! That is the polar end desired of this two option scenario. To lay down and give up leaves you with an attitude of ‘nothing begets nothing, therefore I am alone’ and we do not want that.

With an energy that is a multitude of times greater than your daily reserves you must channel this sudden force and use it for good! I think this is happening to me as I type, but I need to explain so let me set the scene:

I am 27 and life has been catching up with me for a while. Now all of a sudden its caught up and rudely shunted me in the posterior at a calamitous rate. When you are smart but have thus far not found the 'right' career you get very good at moving at the easiest possible pace very effectively. I live at home with my Mother and my younger Brother – who tolerate me. I feel like an adult sitting in a cresh-pen dressed as a baby, and who would get up to explain he is in fact an able adult but at that moment realises he’s made a kaka. Because I know I am cerebral and able yet I see how much most of my friends have achieved in their professional and personal lives and it frightens me when I see how much catching up I have to do. Or - for the pessimist's out there - how much further behind I may indefinitely stay.

I have always drawn things out to their last: events, ‘shtick’ and tomfoolery, and chapters in my life, all to their last iota - prodding life with a stick of rhetoric to the brink of expulsion. Not in a “Yeaah extreme! Live life to the max, Woohoo!” way, but in a “ Now you listen hear, ive had quite about enough of this”... (Prod!), “Riiight! Thats it!” kind of way. I have been called tenacious, and stubborn, unconventional and worse, to the point of insult, but these are not necessarily bad traits - albeit slightly narcissistic. This exhaustive attitude can make you appreciate what comes next, and ensures you do not miss what you are leaving behind. Also, in many aspects, you can generally get things done at a lot less personal expense.

So it wasn’t until I was 22 before I went to University. Again in typical fashion I stayed a year longer than normal. I went on a 2nd year exchange to California to study Cultural Anthropology. It was fantastic, glorious, but I neglected my studies and had to retake a module in a 4th year (draining my last bout of student finance). Although employing pig ignorance and lateral reasoning I do argue that it could also imply I have gotten more from my BA than all the rest in my course or potentially even the whole of the University’s 2012 alumnae. It also taught me a stern lesson, and at the humble age of 24 I learnt how to appreciate the causality between integral hard work and having pride in what you do, and the personal freedoms along with the liberating feeling that one has earn't such freedoms and rewards that may occasionally be offered in life as a result. It was a powerful and transcendent lesson.

When I graduated with a 2:1 I was elated. What is more I was potentially already entering into a Post-grad career. Quite touchingly - and on behalf of my old boss, more astutely than a psychic hypno frog - he offered me a position in Marketing to manage the end of line stock – the tertium quids and stuff that could not be shifted. This was a brave promotion to offer and an opportunity I could not pass up. From my position in warehouse logistics as a Packer - actually a fantastic environment full of great minds and encouragement - but true to form: responsibility free and easy, from nowhere I had been handed a brass ring. It hardly ever happens and it happened to me! For me though it turned out to be faux. Not much more than 12 months later I was made redundant. 

Yet again I was my own worst enemy:

I had been slowly realising that Amazonian e-Marketing was not for me, and also due to my late starts in life it took me until the age of 26 to realise that offices with no windows despite the good people were not conducive to a happy Louis. So I checked the hand of ‘Righteousness’ on my ‘wrist watch of mortality’ and saw I still had about 3 years and 2 weeks until I hit 30 – just enough time for me to channel the ample amounts of surplus deluded ideology which I had left over from my first 4 year of University I realised I could pursue a Masters before ‘Real Life’ caught up. I discussed this with the boss and he kindly let me move back to the warehouse and start applying to Universities.

2 months went by, the Christmas rush had died down and I was dead weight. The same week I was accepted to a prestigious University in my Home County and its name sake – Sussex - to study Social Anthropology I was asked to leave, and made redundant. All of a sudden in the rear view mirror I could see ‘Real Life’ in a matte black 69’ Buick Riviera Boat Back Edition flipping me off and tooting its horn.

In my time since then – roughly 4 months - I have struggled to regain a footing. I often have ideas that as I said are inspiring, but I lack the 'business' acumen to follow them through. In my evenings I have time to think and explore the world, and one thing that has struck me is the answer as to why so many people seemingly take the short cut rather than the scenic route and enter into Business BA’s – they on occasion may be boring cardboard cut out managers who largely miss what I think the point of University is (it should be about expanding your understanding of the world and enriching your character, allowing this knowledge to lead you to do something you are passionate about) and therefore sometimes suffer from an inspiration deficit or a defunct personality outside of the board room, but at least they know how to transfer an idea (somebody else’s no doubt) into reality.

I do now work 5 days a week at a garden centre and the event days at Goodwood race course as well as pursuing my hobby as a Writer and Floor Manager for United Magic Film. “All a little too late though!” ‘Real Life’ jeers with a toothy grin “It is your fault you feel this way; you should have grown up sooner!” I get pent up anxiety and bouts of self loathing because I don’t think I can fund my course this late in the year with only 2 months left to save. After rent I am not left with much - although the head gasket on my cherished Corrado - my dear car and compadre of 7 years - did explode last week halfway up the hill towards the race course...so at least I’ll be saving on petrol.

It is the constant inner nagging that also operates as an accountant; tutting and groaning autonomously as it seems I walk the edge between failure and the fiscal leverage I need to feasibly enter into a full time MA.

I have been selling nick-nack’s and treasures on Ebay and auction houses. I have been working for a film production company because it is a passion and it is wholesome and good for me, but sometimes it all gets too much, and for not enough return: Minimum wage jobs; No pay projects; No car; No replies from all the sponsorship letters if have sent out via post and pigeon; And protracted rent expectations due to being part of a low income family coupled with rising inflation and a stagnant economy.

So when does it all just become a bit too much and you either wake up in Estonia with concussion and a bashful return home ahead, or instead you do something creative like write a letter to yourself and whoever else might want to read it in order to clear your head?

Well, even though the modem broke yesterday so I had to trudge down to the local library...just after I tried (without succeeding) to top up my online only mobile account to find I didn’t have the funds available, which lead me to look at a payslip to see I haven’t  been paid the right amount - for the second week running – which then required I ride my bike in the rain to the bank to clear their mess up because the house phone has gone missing only to find my bank has charged me with £75 (!) of standing order fees for the third month running even though they were cancelled 3 months ago...

...NOW! Now is the time for action! There can be no more procrastination!!

We name this baby Sensational

Eye went up to Buckingham Palace quite by chance the same day the new Prince's name was revealed and the hysteria was thick in the air (or maybe the humidity being at 55% has played tricks on my memory).

I love the Royal Family - I love that they are antiquated; that they are essentially only symbolic; I love they're kryos nurture to the nation; and the good word they do as ambassadors and figure heads; I love that people from far and wide know them and come to see them. I am very proud of our Royal Family, but is this particular news feed not a little fatuous? For everybody involved - watching and filming - simply waiting to hear a name?

We all suspected it would be George,  and let's face it if you want unusual and interesting names your better off looking south to Africa - but that would cause a conflict of interest: because all these news crews hunger for is the stupid name of a very particular person. If they went to Africa the news crews would get caught up in all kinds of ungodly mess. Yes: death, civil war, rape, child soldiers, genital mutilation - from east to west ante-Christian cultures dealing with a post Christian corruption.

What is more important though? Take a look at the bigger picture and remember the responsibility the media has to report fair, just, relevant and informative information...what?! The baby has Louis as a middle name?! Woooo!! Nelson who?

Dear Louie. A letter to Louie C K

Dear Louie,

I have an anecdotal allegory that hit my mind and body simultaneously so hard the result was that I had a heart attack. This is how the story goes:

I was sitting in my room in a greatly chilled state of mind and I got to thinking about my day job: I work at a Nursery where we grow herbs. We sell loads! We’re herb dealers. Put that Mary Jane down son, throw that stuff away and pick up some RoseMaray. A thousand unit’s of Basil? Flip that. Ten thousand Chives? Done.

I started to think about the wastage – roughly 10% is grown and then thrown away...Due to it being too high, or whatever. All at once the word’s struck me, and the ‘Bit’ evolved:

So there’s this guy at work, Mikey - If this were Snow White he would be Dopey, and that’s for lack of mentioning his twin: Dumb Ass. One day Mikey came into work, and to the trained eye he was pretty drunk - I mean he smelt like Oliver Reed’s toothbrush did, and does now wherever it may be. This detail went unnoticed by our Manager and he set Mikey the - already in normal circumstances challenging - task of noting and throwing away 10,000 pot’s of Mint.

Well, Mikey got at it as best he could - feeling like he did and being how he is. Where the whole card house came tumbling down was because he also had to note every individual pot he threw into the compost heap: He was throwing two in and getting distracted, and not noting them, and then half realising, and then losing his pen – one time to the compost heap along with a handful of mint – and this went on...What I am trying to say is that he was trying to COMPOST MINT TOSS (!!!Compos Mentis!!!!)  but he couldn’t because he was so shit face drunk!!

Well that’s it for the story, but yet there’s still more!

When this came to me it creased me so hard inside it all got too much. Because what I was doing when I had this thought, was what I am usually doing when I have most Eureka moments – giving my man turkey the old hand jive. This sudden dual responsibility my mind had self inflicted on itself, of trying to process both deeply involved tasks at once was too much – and boom.

Next thing I knew I was in hospital and my first thought was recalling my last thought, as I hit the deck grabbing my neck and my ‘turkey neck’ equally hard: and that was You - not in a gay way but to tell you this little thing that did so much. I guess it’s actually a double whammy - an anecdotal allegory, inside an anecdotal allegory, and the message is: ‘Never strain yourself by tossing too hard if your either A: Drunk, or B: Stoned, because you’ll do yourself a mischief’

If this by any chance gets to you I’d love to hear what you think.

Regards, Louis. G. W.

England.

(N. B, - Fiction)

(Perhaps A Poem) An Inward Look

To the boy who can never keep his big mouth shut, who is surprised when he is beaten down by the wrath of his peers:

What would you do if one day that good hiding got you a broken leg? Would you fly away and cry?

Like a bird pushed out the nest.

You feel sorry for yourself like the world owes you a favour when times are tough. So why make them so tough in the first place?

You have yourself to blame.

Maybe you do have all the right answers most of the time. But who is going to listen when you spit them at people’s faces in a torrent of fury and self importance?

Have you learnt nothing from the religious zealots that you chastise so brashly, and cold?

It is not that the shoe is on the other foot, but the foot seems to be perpetually on the wrong side of the body – turning you round in circles.

If you flew away with a broken leg, would you come back anew with a spring in your step, once you had hit rock bottom?

Will you ever learn?

Me MeMe

MeanyMeMe:

            Immigration Nation: Nigel Farage

Leader of the UK Independence Party, Nigel Farage goes to Bulgaria to scare monger and stir up a story taking advantage of recent media interest regarding EU work restrictions being lifted from some of the less affluent members - Bulgaria and Romania "I think it is completely irresponsible, and wrong. In fact damned stupid to be opening up our doors to people from Bulgaria. If I was a Bulgarian, I would be packing my bags now". Well as it turns out perhaps Nigel's got it so wrong he's completely Bean'd up the whole trip and the political incentive for visiting, as numerous Bulgarians - including a Gypsy leader - reply: "No no, lots of rain, we are not used to the climate", and "I think that the culture there (UK) is lower, even though the people are richer".

Well Done Niiiige.

If you are Bulgarian or Romanian I would be really interested to hear what you think about Nigel Farage's visit to Sofia. Does he have his finger on the pulse of public opinion? Will the lifted EU work restrictions make the UK a tempting migration location for work? Or does the UK's failing economy mean the incentive is simply not great enough? What are the main reasons for and against such a consideration? I warmly invite your comments wherever you are from!

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YumMeMe:

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MeMemorial:

I am very sorry to hear of the recent fatality of Andrew 'Bart' James Simpson. He was a former World Champion and Olympian sailor from Surrey - very local to me. He recently passed away whilst racing in the America's Cup in San Francisco at the age of 36. He won a Gold Medal in the 2008 Beijing Olympics and a silver in the London 2012 Olympics. 

With deepest sympathy I wish his family good fortune and send my condolences.

United Magic - Bringing Film (and a bit of magic) Back To Sussex:

Something some of you may know, but most of you wont is that I am part of an up-and-coming 'grass roots' production company based in Worthing: United Magic. We are essentially a group of 10-20 graduates or final year students specialising in film or media related degrees. We are passionate about creating exciting innovative film, or works that help and promote local enterprise and exhibition. We are a young, bright bunch, who enjoy the art and want to make film not just as a hobby, but vocationally. Having a role and talent for every occasion and technical niche, I sometimes feel like im a part of the A-Team. FACE!

I am posting this blog today, because in a few weeks we embark upon our most aspiration project yet! In the first week of May the full crew and a cast totaling some 25 active minds and mouths (to feed - one of my high ranking tasks) will start filming a short psychological horror in one of Worthing's spooky old seafront hotels, using the working title 'The Graveyard Shift'.

(Click on this link to hear more from Director Jonathan Brooks & Matt Prior about the background and inspiration to 'The Graveyard Shift' as they talk to Alan Lewis from Splash FM)

If you would like to contribute to our project and help fund our career bolstering, experience building, monkey-not-yet-so-high-up-tree-bottom-is-exposed movie you can watch our Pledge Video on Kickstarter.com (in itself this website is worth visiting). We are humble and not too proud to ask for donations!!  There are tiered incentives, so maybe you'll see something that catches your eyeballs.

As I mentioned we have a varied medley of past works - Our archives are not yet so deep, but are as broad as (Alexander) Boris (de Pfeffel) Johnson's full name. Perhaps you have an inspiring or interesting idea or concept you'd like to tell us? Or perhaps you'd like to look at our back catalogue? Thats cosmic! Here is a link to the United Magic website - "thuD!"

'United Magic Website'

We are always open to ideas and welcome interesting potential projects and free pizza, so feel free to contact us! I personally cant wait to get started! Thank you folks for reading.

Arun District: The Classic-VW Enthusiasts Mecca

G-werks may have gone up in a flash of bad reputation and dodgy business, but that doesn’t mean the Littlehampton area has no facility to offer the passionate VW enthusiast or Corrado owner:

On the very same plot the infamous G-werks rose and fell in Lyminister is a bespoke interior specialist who has a penchant for VW’s and across the lot is also a body spray shop – ‘Total Paintworks’. These guys sprayed Karmann Dubz (my 93’ 16v) in Flash red and the finish was sublime, and very reasonable. Chris who owns Total Paintworks is a decent guy who visually upgrades a good rotation of expensive cars, so from my experience and what I’ve seen he is very good.

Down the road a few miles in Littlehampton behind the Tesco is John Mitchell Racing. Mr. Mitchell has a long history of attending to the older and classic VW’s and in particular specialises in Corrado’s. He also taught Darren (of G-werks), but this should not put you off – the passion for the German technik is shared between them, nothing more. In fact I am due to have my sunroof fixed by him soon. So any problems and ill update this post.

In Angmering village, maybe 4 miles away are another couple of VW orientated ‘Roughs’ where you may find the Diamond your looking for. The first caters in particular to the VW Camper or Beetle enthusiasts more than the more recent ‘classics’ such as the Golf or Corrado, and can be found next to Mayflower Way’s ‘Roundstone Car Sales’ although the name of the yard escapes me, it is there! 

The second is Arundel Road’s ‘Volkswagen And Audi Recycle Parts Centre’ in Angmering, and is a stone’s throw away from my house. Of all the places, this one is closest to mine, and yet it has been of the least help. They always have a wealth of 80’s, 90’s and 00’s VW’s including the rarer ones we’re focusing on, but they never seem to have any parts as they do most of their business via online sales – so once its in, its straight out again. Because of this consideration, if you are travelling quite a distance to visit, it would be a good idea to phone ahead and check the stock.

It is also worth noting as a compensatory post script that Parris Motors is adjacent to the Parts Centre and David  - one of the mechanics - owns and maintains a very good example of an Series 3 Golf. David and Parris Motors generally have done a fair amount of mechanic work on my car I can say that they are trustworthy if you need anything fixed and you happen to be in the area.

Finally if you cant find what your looking for around Littlehampton the VW Dealership in Goring may supply what your after, or even better: 5 miles down t’road in Worthing / Lyons Farm is ‘GSF Car Parts’. They are very competitive and reliable from what I’ve experienced in the past.

Well there we have it, all is not lost in the wake of G-Werks.

Drawn a Yarn: The A'eth to B'eth Zip-linear Express.

Chapter 1:

          If you ever find yourself stuck in Horley just outside London, and need to get out quick, you may be interested to know that I might be able to help. If you need to get to either High Sulkington outside Worthing, or Great Yawnmouth that is.

Located half way up an unassuming Oak tree behind a small parade of shops and conveniences, that include a Chinese restaurant I am almost certain is run by Mickey Rooney, is stop A.5 of the A'eth t B'eth Zip-linear Express - A fully neglected once operational Zip-line that starts on top of Worthing's High Sulkington and reaches allll the way to Great Yawnmouth. With One-Stop on the way for nibbles in Horley.

Conceived and constructed by myself one hot November's eve, the necessity and origins of the often mistaken and long mused 'A'eth to B'eth Zip-linear Express' are not generally known. Folks know it used to stop mid way for nibbles and hydration purposes in Horley, but this is the story of why that zip-line came to be, and why it started and stopped where it did:


So it seemed like a good idea at the time...I had been seeing a girl I met whilst clam jousting off Sheerness Pier. I was in the semi-finals and she was the judge. She called me in on a technicality - Shocker - and before tossing me off and out the competition we exchanged personals. A few happy summers went by with me visiting her up in Yawnmouth, and then I got myself a job - whilst still living in Sussex - painting Stern Warnings on the back of boats for the yearly Maritime Festival in, yes! Yawnmouth! Unbeknownst to Grape - that was her name, Grape, I'd stowed away aboard one of the vessels the day before tally hoe. I did this so I could surprise her at the Vineyard she co-owned through inheritance with her brother. Her name was an aptonym by the way. Her brother’s name was Boris, and his was not.

Something happened the first night I was tucked away in the bottom deck. The captain fell very ill. I think the First Mate was helping the Skipper untangle a Scalextric set, so faced with no real choice I came out of hiding, because the only way to save him was to take drastic measure. Harnessing all the health and safety knowledge I had amassed over the years I did the best and only thing I could, and with one heaving scoop motion I hurled him off the side of the boat. 


When I got to port early the next evening word soon got out about my ordeal, and I was hailed a champion. Although unfortunately, my swift thinking had not cured the Captain, but my fast reactions and good intent made me the 'Jimmy-good-shoes' of the whole town, and at one point I was even in the running’s for Mayor. This was all very well and good, perfect you could say, and it was. Except I had a present arriving 2 weeks late from a 9 month voyage, so to speak, back in Sussex. Grape, the good Captain, Boris nor even I saw that coming.

Chapter 2: 

Back in Sussex, and missing my new life with the girl of my dreams, I set to making the Reliant Scimitar kit-car I had ordered and quite forgotten about. Unsurprisingly since it had taken nearly twice as long as the estimated 5 month delivery time. The kit car never worked, but seeing my efforts, people would drop money into a hat for me as I toiled away. "Another new job." I thought and never being one to pass up an opportunity I scrounged quite a profitable failure out of my bungled attempt at auto-mechanics, and used some of the spare parts to construct the Zip-linear on the side to get me from my job - flipping and rolling parts of a car across my forecourt in frustration - to my gal.

I gave Grape the boot when I found out she'd been kicking it with an old cobbler down the road. I'd lost the right one anyway, so they were no longer a pair. We broke up soon after that. 



I often think of Grape. She went on to become an Actress whose early day’s Riddlin' Ruub - custodian and her first creepy fan – remembers well, when he used to watch from his vantage point up in the dusty rafters during her time at the Rose Bruford Academy; "She used to try and tackle really long sentences in one breath that were meant to be executed in two or three. Then she would, nearing the end of her lung capacity, try and remain relaxed causing her to sometimes pull funny faces - like dropping her jaw, a little bit in the fashion of Gordon Brown and protruding her tongue in clandestine exasperation whilst turning slightly magenta. This once, I heard a raspberry" Hm, creepy. Thank you Ruub. For that.

She changed her name - as was the done thing in that line of work - to Helen Hill, though I liked the name Grape; Simple, British, Traditional. Well it couldn't have done any harm as she had her new name outside all the Music Halls everywhere you went, and before I could say 'Max Millers a cheeky chappy' it was the same throughout Broadway for her first lead role in the 1950 hit talkie film 'Home Sweet Home'.

Strangely, I bumped into my Grape - the fans Helen - again, this time for the last time. It was the late 1950’s and we briefly came back into each other’s lives for one fleeting moment down a side alley, where they used to throw out all the drunks, stoners, and supporting acts. All in one miserable salutation come the end of a working night. Both of us now in the big city, travelling. Both from the same kind of small rural village life. She was the vineyard hand. I was a Stern Warning adherer. We chanced upon each other at the side of the Theatre Royal in Brighton (this was at a time when Brighton was still known as Gaietyburg, before it was changed due to the adjective for gaiety becoming offensive). I was working as The Shadows first touring agent dealing with some unsavory business, and Grape was catching some fresh air and a cigarillo mid-way break into a taboo soiree with David Niven in an adjoining hotel.

She helped me scrub the mud off of Sir. Cliff's - or Ricc-Hhard as he was known at the time - diamond boots, and as we crounched there over the boots in the turd tattered alley we, or at least I had, for one brief moment a memory of an alternative past where she hadn't stolen my boot, and we didn't end up parting ways. An alternative life where we zipped in tandem from one coast-line to the other, sharing tall tales and One-Stop bought Bloody Mary mixers...Perhaps it was the smell of the Indian strength boot polish getting up my nosepipes, but I thought if there was one girl I could ever share my zip-line with, it was Grape. It could have been great.

Review: Ren's Kitchen - Lyon's Farm

Ren’s Kitchen is a veritable gem amongst the rough foliage of Lyons Farm – an area of outer Worthing characterized by suburban superstores, the A27, and traffic lights. Just off the beaten track - one right turn before All Is Lost Av.  – is Ren’s Kitchen, nestled up cosy to Northbrook business park.

Ren’s itself is a small green cabin with a little picket fence and gardened to the entrance with some outside seating. It looks homemade, like a ginger bread house in an urban jungle. If I could eat it I would, because everything else I have eaten at this place is pucker-pout tasty.

All the food at Ren’s is prepared and cooked by the owner – Rrrr-en!

So far my stomach has dictated that I try their sausage roll, cheese burger, rocky road, and carrot cake – that’s two sweet and two savoury. All four, perhaps bar the sausage roll which was too doughy for my liking (although sheathed inside was the biggest sausage this side of Wiener) – I would have again. I have caught myself salivating over the thought of the latter three on numerous occasions now, and I will go back.

The carrot cake was moist, carroty, cinnamon scented, and cake-like...wait, I can do a bit better...it had a light creamy frosting on the top that was soft and smooth with perhaps a hint of lemon, and the carrot in the cake proper re-established my faith in vegetable ridden confection. Seriously, it put's my Mum’s attempts at producing a credible/edible sprout falls, or her menu muddled ‘Creamed Potato Brulee’ to shame. Sorry Mum.

The Rocky Road, as a form of public highway was a disgrace; bumps everywhere! Pot holes filled with marshmallow! Chocolate tarmac! That stuff melts as soon as you lay it. As a biscuit treat it serves us much better – truly ambrosial, very moreish, and for £1 per healthy (yet unhealthy) portion you can afford to go back for more.

I do amble and dawdle (note: that’s a great name for a Real ale). Briefly though I would like to say that the savoury selection is also very appetising. I spied gnocchi, lasagna,  pies, and quiches et al. They are all homemade, and the cheese burger had a rocket salad upon the patty, which beautifully complemented the cheese. The burger at Ren’s wasn’t as big as the All Beef Co. Burger. Nor was the burger selection as broad, but it had good flavour, not too greasy, and all together delicious and good value withal across the board.

This warm, homely cafe has gracious staff and is a place great for meeting a friend for a bite to eat, a lunch away from work, or as a quiet retreat to escape into a book.

Relax, 10 DONK'S OUT OF 13.

Review: The Swallows Return - Ferring.

Situated just off the Ferring/Goring roundabout and nestled down a long drive-way is a converted barn that is The Swallows Return - I suspect named so due to the gastric turbulence evoked when you eat 1 hour 20 minute old chips - if I were to hazard a guess.

I visited The Swallows last weekend with some chums for a relaxing hearty hangover cure. It was relaxing, with a good visual appeal due partly to three well designed consecutive open spaces: the forecourt; the inner foyer; and the back garden, impressing symmetry and space. This well thought out spacious design has a comfortable flow, coupled with the styling of the period architecture and aesthetic touches of suitably old looking ornaments - visually they have done a fine job.

Here we come to the food, and service. When I visited last Saturday it was not packed out and full to the brim, like Accessorize on February 13th, but it was busy - manageably busy. So my three comrades and I ordered some drinks at the bar. I, as I noted a few lines up, was feeling rather fragile so I ordered my self a manly Bloody Mary. It came in a premixed bottle and was poured out and given too me. I took one sip and almost flumed it back into the glass. Dolphin fountain style. The base ingredients were for all I knew decent enough - they tasted fine - but there was no Tabasco, no Worcestershire Source, and no celery. Bloody Blasphemy. Bloody Shame. Though this is not the reason I was surprised. £5.50 is why. For a small under seasoned drink that should have been £3.60 at a push.

To the table. Upon being seated our mood was jovial, in fact it was throughout, but we were feeling noticeably strained as I glanced left and right after nearly 40 minutes of wait time. There was a lady at a table opposite with her family who was complaining about her food being cold, and it was at this punctuation on my foodie festivities that I thought "Ah, I see a trend unraveling here". So we asked for an ETA from the waitress, who was friendly and trying at least. After 1 hour 15 minutes we were served. My chips were cold and below par. I am not a ponce - I will eat anything. Really. I am however always aware of value and what I expect to receive when I pay for something. This was not that - "Pmwaa-aa, nasty tatersis!" I exclaimed, to wit came our server. I explained my starchy predicament to her and, instead of taking them away for a fresh batch, first swooped in and plucked a chip straight off my plate with her bare hand and chomped it down. Concurred with me and then - with what was in my eyes a bear claw of a hand - scooped the whole lot off my plate and swiftly brought over some muchly better ones.

My point is this: The decor, the building, the prices were all fine - as in a bit classy, slightly grandiloquent, dear. Then some - very personable, friendly, informative - waitress with tri-tip steak's for hands comes along and fingers my food in a most unsatisfactory way. This expensive drink, farty varnished wood, and barn-owl-haven rafters was all bombast and a slap in the face ruse to get little old me to part with my cash all the while thinking i'm being treated to a little haute couture. No such luck, I see straight through you Swallows!!

I have since heard similar stories. So this is my summary, as I am a patient kind of person, I say this - Do not eat there if its busy. Do not expect Michelin, expect Beefeater. That way you will be impressed with the honestly delightful surroundings, and wont be too disappointed with very middle/low level time management and quality of food. Go there for big parties - there is ample space. I would also say go there for a wee tipple, but not more unless you are willing to pay for a taxi, as it is a little out the way and off a busy road.

Honestly - 6 OUT OF 13 DONK'S.

Review: ALL-Beef Co. Burgers - Worthing.

Good Sunday internet users. This is my first post! 

My apologies for the perceived lack of enthusiasm - this would usually entail a long slog of me choosing the correct semiotics, and trying to make a fantastic first impression on this digital recorder, But! Alas! I am hazing out on this day of rest...So instead I will be posting a picture of a tasty burger that I purchased from the name sake of this post - All-Beef Co. in Worthing.

Located just opposite the pier in Worthing - nestled in the Royal Arcade on the left hand side, and far enough in to be protected from the wind. This burger joint - and that's what it is, a rather good British burger joint - complements the beautiful surroundings of the pure white period Victorian arcade where you can sit and soak up the ambiance as smooth classical music wafts past you on the burger scented breeze.

The Alvaraz family run the establishment and proudly only sell 100% beef Beef Burgers. Pork, Venison Chicken and Vegetarian option are also on the menu, as well as a kids menu for the youngsters to choose from. The choice is great, with an array of Anglo variations on American cuisine in a bun such as 'The Mexican', 'The Avacado', 'The TexMex', as well as a host of classic options that you'd expect - BBQ, Chilli, Cheese, Mushroom. All great, with patties that are a good inch thick and still juicy.

The main talking point for me though is the student discount. If you are without such ID the prices are a little on the high side - but certainly no more than a large Burger King meal would cost, and cheaper than a restaurant burger yet most likely twice as tasty and moreish. If you have a student ID however you are eligible to 40% discount!! YES!! So now for the price of a Big Mac meal I can get a substantially larger big burger with fries/chips and a drink. All under cheese and steeped in history.

You heard it from LyricalLou first peeps! Check it out!

9 OUT OF 13 DONK'S