Category Archives: Tourism

Airport security pre 9/11.

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Waiting at the gate is an exploit I remember from that Friends episode (“The One with Ross’s New Girlfriend”, 1995) when Rachel – peak Jennifer Aniston with flowers in hand – waits for Ross returning from China, only for him to emerge with a new missus. Much like the whimsical innocence of mid-’90s sitcoms, we’ll never see such things in an airport again.

Looking at pre-9/11 airports is as if being confronted with an alien entity – the lax rules, the laissez-faire atmosphere of the buildings, the … freedom of the places. I flew on about seven flights prior to September 11, and even as a teenager I recall the airport endeavour was a doddle, much like crucifixion in the Python cinematic universe. It explains the success of the hijackers, especially when you consider box cutters and small knives were permitted on certain aircraft at the time.

I don’t think anyone with a modicum of concern for their own or another’s safety is bothered about making the ‘sacrifices’ of conforming to post-9/11 air travel rules. No bottle of Volvic allowed from outside the airport? Diddums. It’s a small price to pay.

The awfulness stems from interaction with passengers who are thick as fuck, and these are voluminous. Airports appear to be a breeding ground for the bottom-rung IQ scale of the general public. I’m talking about fuckers who line up at the conveyor belt oblivious to the omniscient signs on display indicating the liquid prohibitions, clowns who try and smuggle Prosecco on board, the haughty lot who protest at taking their shoes off, the numpties who insist on walking through the metal detector with a pocket full of shrapnel.

They are the real pain in the arse.

Further reading:

https://www.farecompare.com/travel-advice/9-ways-security-has-changed-since-911/

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2017/jun/29/my-short-life-as-an-airport-security-guard

https://www.cntraveler.com/story/how-airport-security-has-changed-since-september-11

https://www.cheatsheet.com/culture/things-you-could-do-at-an-airport-before-9-11.html/

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Sensation White – Amsterdam.

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2010, 2011, 2012 – I call those melted days the ‘Holy Trinity’. In your twenties you have carte blanche to do whatever the fuck you want; my modus vivendi was getting absolutely melted at trance events on the continent. Sadly, those days are over, but I do enjoy a wee throwback video from time to time, drinking Peach Schnapps in my living room, swinging a glow stick around like a demented spacker.

As for Amsterdam, it’s a bit of a hovel (too many ruffians, too many bikes) but the Ajax strip is lovely and their stadium permits all manner of chav behaviour in the summer.

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The Airbus A380 superjumbo is done.

5c535331d7ab670292531998-2732-13662021 and that’s the end for the Gulliver of the skies. Airbus – Boeing’s apparent nemesis – announced this month that their double-deck four-engine behemoth with its looney range of 8,500 nautical miles (with plush onboard bars), will no longer be made once its last deliveries are finished in 2021. Emirates were Airbus’ biggest customer, but once they cut their orders it was game over.

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It’s another example of the economics simply not working despite the superior aesthetics on display, airlines opting for smaller twin-engine planes, i.e., more efficient, cost-friendly orders.

It’s not exactly a Greek tragedy but a bit of a shame. As James Cameron (perhaps apocryphally) once said, “Bigger is better.” However, we will still see the existing colossal beasts rampaging through the clouds in the decades to come and then, presumably, dwindle away like the Dreadnought battleship of the early 20th century, sold for scrap metal or converted into a niche hotel for plane spotters who habitually wear Concorde pyjamas.

Sad.

Further reading:

https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/business-47225789

https://newatlas.com/airbus-a380-cease-deliveries/58486/

https://www.theguardian.com/business/2019/feb/14/passengers-love-airbus-a380-but-it-never-fully-took-off-with-buyers

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Princes Street wasn’t always a toilet.

I fucking hate Princes Street. It’s dire, chock-full of stores that appear designed exclusively for desperate housewives. There are also mobile phone shops and a budget book place – this curious number sells no novels, the only items on display autobiographies of pointless celebrities and road maps of Denmark published in 2004. All very bizarre. Added to this is the plethora of American tourists crawling about with their bumbags on, elephants in the In Bruges (2008) sense.

Princes Street looked decent in 1858, though. No spackers to be seen here.

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Flughafen Berlin Brandenburg Willy Brandt – the Neverending Story.

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This airport – with carriers Easyjet, Germanwings, and Lufthansa set to dominate the runways – is now apparently meant to be operating in 2022, though this deadline changes every month. German so-called efficiency is down the pan with this mishap; construction started in 2006 when I had just emerged from Blue WKDs. It’s almost as if the nostalgia-afflicted aficionados for Schönefeld Airport and its GDR connotations have sabotaged the project, and Willy Brandt isn’t exactly a cool name (much unlike the rather dapper statesman).

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Trying to understand the myriad fuck-ups that can afflict a bunch of runways (this place was meant to have opened in 2011) is more difficult, I imagine, than Forrest Gump attempting a Will Hunting equation on a Fisher-Price calculator. Berlin is a beastly, glorious experience, however, so I can’t wait to wander around this airport in an attempt to pap a midget clutching a miniature bottle of Jägermeister.

Further reading:

https://edition.cnn.com/travel/article/new-airports-and-terminals/index.html

https://onemileatatime.com/berlin-brandenburg-airport/

https://edition.cnn.com/travel/article/berlin-brandenburg-airport-debacle/index.html

https://centreforaviation.com/analysis/reports/berlins-brandenburg-airport-opportunity-in-a-long-haul-vacuum-443298

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Rambling around Sofia.

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It’s always the same at a hostel. Why they insist on giving you a 20-minute monologue about the city I will never know. Pointless chat. Just hand me the keys to the room. Minging.

I don’t see a single person in the hostel building (for private rooms). I christen it the ‘Overlook Hotel’ and bash the bathroom door in with my e-cig. The hovel was dangerous, the Vertigo (1958) staircase a neck-breaking scenario waiting to happen. Thankfully I didn’t die, but I was terrified every time I went up or down the fucker.

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Like all post-communist countries, it’s backward. Street urchins are everywhere, Bugsy Malone (1976) rejects wandering the alleyways in search of shrapnel and fags. Bar staff are just awful. They scowl and grimace – pure hatred in their eyes. And they do this to all tavern visitors. Taxi drivers are scam artists. It’s the usual let’s-drive-around-in-circles nonsense. Scum.

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There were some highlights: I like the trams because they appear to be sent via DeLorean from the GDR in the ’70s. Also, the supermarket selection is eclectic. The Lidl was once again the crème de la crème. It was located slap-bang in the middle of a social realist nightmare of a housing estate, dirty-as-fuck matchbox apartments out of the age of Stalin.

The booze is cheap. The city is ugly. It’s cold. And that’s Sofia.

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Weston-super-Mare is a ghost town with tracksuits.

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You could be a trainee astronaut – if there is such a vocation – or have a Gary Kasparov-level IQ, but if you’re blessed with a thick West Country accent you just sound … profoundly thick to me. The dialect is essentially someone throwing up all over their vowels. Horror show.

Home of John Cleese, a.k.a. the lankiest goose-stepping mustachioed Python in history, Jeffrey Archer (cunt), and … Jill Dando, the highlight is the pier, scene of quite the transcendental moment in The Remains of the Day (1993) when Anthony Hopkins’ loyal butler realises his life was a waste of oxygen. He could have married Emma Thompson but nah, he instead opted to polish ornaments for James Fox. A truly tragic movie in the most understated way. The pier aside, the town is a shithole that makes Edinburgh look like Athens in the age of Aristotle.

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I am reminded of that Rust Cohl quote in True Detective when he rocks up to a hick village: “This place is like somebody’s memory of a town, and the memory is fading.”

But it was still better than Blackpool.

 

 

 

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Concorde Mark II – the Boom Overture.

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The Overture, the commercial airline of company Boom Supersonic, is on the cards. Edinburgh to Vancouver in four hours – the beasts flying at twice the speed of sound –  is just one of the many transocean routes being drafted.

The luxury vehicle – going nuts at 1,451 mph/Mach 2.2 and with the same fuel consumption as subsonic aircraft – will house a mere 55 seats, half the capacity of Concorde, but will be 30 times quieter. The XB-1, a half-scaled prototype, starts test flights this year. One imagines the fuckers with pitchforks in Nevada (where else?) will still be whingeing about the supersonic bantz outclassing cropdusters even when they can’t see or hear the former.

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Just look at that snap. It’s a wee bit missing from perfection, though. No one minds their own business on planes unless it’s a Gordon Gekko number; I’ve seen air stewards peek through artfully discreet holes in bog doors because the temporary inhabitant has taken more than three minutes to turd, wipe, and wash. My dream is this snap but with a metal curtain obscuring the view of me straddling a blow-up velociraptor (selfie craic) and regurgitating the Ross Geller voice.

Anyway, the 1973 FAA ban on supersonic air travel over the United States baffles many of us. Airlines, however, have ordered 30 of these Overtures and a review of outdated legislation is approaching. I’ll see you on one of these bad boys paid for with my swag from robbing the local Post Office.

Further reading:

https://www.independent.co.uk/travel/news-and-advice/son-of-concorde-supersonic-aircraft-plane-jet-speed-virgin-steve-jobs-widow-travel-subsonic-a8718911.html

https://www.geekwire.com/2019/boom-supersonic-closes-100m-funding-round-overture-faster-sound-jet/

https://reason.com/archives/2016/07/26/how-the-faa-killed-supersonic-flight

 

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Trompe-l’œil in Reykjavík.

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This was the pinnacle of Iceland for me. No, not the Blue Lagoon or expedition around the Golden Circle, but a striking visage transplanted on the side of a derelict warehouse by the port of Reykjavík. I don’t know where it’s from but it has something of the Persona (1966) about it. The capital had a lot of this going on – graffiti artists spraying walls seemingly willy-nilly, and in broad daylight. Avant-garde ghetto.

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Turquoise anomaly.

IMG_20181130_102853162_HDRAbbeyhill/Meadowbank is a veritable toilet, by all accounts a shithole. George Best once drank here at the Artisan Bar when he played for Hibs. That’s the legacy of this ghetto. These days it’s a junkie paradise. However, this building is nuts, totally #peacocking. Scenes.

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