Filed under: twitchhiker project | Tags: absolute radio, al jezeera, masta travel clinics, national express
I wrote this post while travelling to London yesterday evening. Upon my arrival, I tried several times to save it to the blog. Here I am at midnight, still attempting to do so. I can’t access GMail or WordPress in any fashion that could be considered reliable. If was attempting to connect to the internet using string, or a device made of egg cartons, then I could understand the failure. Yet I have a Three broadband dongle which has never worked in London since the day I bought it, the little blue blinking shit. Hopefully you can read this tonight. If not, it’s going to be very out of date and make no sense by the time you do. P
7.30am. Brilliant. P
You don’t need to own a stethoscope to deduce I’m one of the bigger folk on the planet. A furtive squint will tell you I’m about 6′ 4″, I weigh over 220 pounds and am not quite fighting fit. So if you’re of a similar build and height, what you don’t do is pass over all the other empty seats in a train carriage to sit next to me.
Unless you happen to be the surly student sat to my right as I type this. He’s bloody massive. It’s like sitting next to a hungry wall. He is entirely unaware of the concept of personal space. And person hygiene. I’m pinned against the window and breathing through my mouth.
I’m travelling to London for a day of press interviews tomorrow. Feeling decidedly light for the £100 required for a return ticket to London, a former radio-colleague-turned-press-officer for National Express stepped in to support the Twitchhiker cause. Thank you John!
So far, tomorrow involves a handful of press interviews, a meeting with the agency for the New Zealand Tourist Board, filming with Al Jezeera television, and an appearance on Absolute Radio with Geoff Lloyd around 6.10pm. Crikey. All very exciting, and nerve-shredding at the same time.
Tomorrow morning is no less adventurous, however. Thanks to follower @Lisa_McGauley, my arm will be punctured to bits and pumped full of toxins and disease. Or whatever stuff goes in them, I’ll have to ask. Yes, it’s jabs time! Woop! Lisa works at the marketing agency that represents MASTA travel clinics, and they’ve kindly agreed to repeatedly stab me until I cry.
It’s all my own fault – I should have got myself organised, and I probably shouldn’t have decided to bugger off around the world at less than a month’s notice – so whatever pain I suffer and blood I spill, I’ll no doubt deserve it. I’m certain MASTA will remain entirely professional in their conduct throughout, and not take any delight in watching the stupid, ill-prepared idiot squeal like a piggie in a hot saucepan.
The train is now slowly moseying through the North of London, and I can say with reasonable confidence that my arse has gone to sleep on me. Waking it up will involve walking like a duck down the platform at Kings Cross. The night is young, and there is beers to be drank. Not too much, obviously – nobody wants to interview a hungover giant shot up with smallpox.
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