An Idiot Abroad – My Adventures In London – Part 2

Those of a nervous disposition will be relieved to learn I landed safely in Belfast last night after my business trip to London. Thankfully there wasn’t a drone to be seen, although I suspect I will encounter several when I return to the office this morning. Boom Boom! Yesterday was slightly less eventful than the outward leg but there was still much to see and learn.

Having mastered the possessed lift at the hotel, we only had a short walk to where our meeting was taking place. Through Mayfair and Pall Mall, two of the posher parts of London. I almost got run over by a Rolls Royce, so busy was I gawking at it and then posed like a loon outside the Ritz Hotel, insisting my colleague photograph me. I’m the idiot in the bright orange coat by the way.

I came to the conclusion that nobody in this part of London eats anything but caviar. The remainder of their diet consists of Havana cigars and expensive wines that cost more per bottle than my monthly salary. These were the only types of shop we passed. There wasn’t a Tesco Express to be seen. Thankfully, tea and biscuits were on offer upon arrival at our meeting place.

We met in a very grand room, adorned with paintings of Waterloo and other legendary military encounters. I wandered around the room, like a star struck teenager, taking more photographs, while my slightly bemused colleague and our hosts politely made small talk until I had finished gushing over a bust of the Duke of Wellington. When it comes to 19th century military history I’m a complete and utter fanboy.

The meeting itself went well and we were treated to lunch in a members club by our hosts. Following that there was a further meeting, followed by handshakes all round and a quick dash back to Heathrow via tube and train. I am now an expert on such modes of transport, even remembering what side of the escalator to stand on in order to avoid being trampled over by my fellow commuters.

Security at Heathrow was slightly more glamorous than usual as a drag queen and her manager passed through. ‘I insist you frisk me dahhlliiings,’ she hollered, much to the amusement of fellow travellers and staff. It goes without saying that the sensors were activated. We retired to the lavish surroundings of the business lounge, where a fridge full of chilled Diet Coke almost reduced me to tears.

While the extensive buffet offered all kinds of hot dishes I was content to nibble on crackers and cheese, immersed in my Kindle. The flight home was uneventful and we landed in Belfast bang on schedule, where Fionnuala was waiting to whisk me home. I was in my own bed within 15 minutes, such was my exhaustion. I get the results of my latest blood tests later today, which will hopefully explain the fatigue I have been experiencing.

I enjoyed my trip to London, and it was successful with regards the purpose of our visit. But there really is no place like home. Who knows, the next time I visit it’s bright lights might be to sign a book contract. If so, I might treat myself to a plate of caviar. Hold the cigars. All washed down with a glass of Diet Coke, of course. A boy can dream. Until then, however, it’s back to the grind.

An Idiot Abroad – My Adventures In London – Part 1

I write this post from my hotel room in London. Despite the street outside sounding like a scene from ‘The Fast And The Furious’ last night, I managed to sleep quite well. We are staying in Mayfair, which is one of the most expensive properties on a Monopoly board. It’s apparently quite posh, swanky and other words to that effect. I will take their word for this as we arrived at the hotel at 9:00pm last night and I was in bed by 9:15.

The journey from Belfast to London passed without incident. Oh, apart from the drone sighting at Heathrow which meant we were kept on the plane for an extra 30 minutes upon landing. Tempers flared and mutinous mutterings abounded as the captain and his crew valiantly attempted to keep passengers in their rows with their seatbelts on. I buried my nose in my Kindle and pined for bed.

We eventually disembarked and, after a 17 mile hike, caught the Heathrow Express to Paddington. My colleague has little experience of public transport in the capital so it was left to yours truly to navigate the route to Mayfair. This involved Phase 3 of our arduous journey – the London Underground. This entailed catching the Circle Line to Baker Street before transferring to the Jubilee Line, and continuing on to Green Park.

I worked out the route, mastered the ticket purchase machine, and even managed to get us through the barriers without being knocked over by herds of Oyster card waving commuters. After another 5 mile trot we found our platform, to be informed by a disembodied voice from above that there were delays on other lines due to there ‘being a person on the line at Sloane Square.’

The tube journey itself was a mildly disappointing experience. There were no stabbings, mass brawls or tense hostage situations involving Tom Cruise or that other bloke, what’s his face, Jason Bourne. Our transfer passed without incident and we arrived at Green Park in good time. From there, our hotel was a two minute walk away. I was home and hosed, or so I thought.

I spent the next 20 minutes travelling up and down in a Victorian era lift which resolutely refused to deposit me on the 5th floor. Other residents came and went, while I smiled and nodded at them while frantically pressing buttons like a demented lift attendant. I contemplated using the stairs but a sign sternly informed me that they were for emergency use only. In the end I stormed to reception, where the bemused concierge looked at me as if I was an utter idiot.

‘Have you used your keycard sir?’ he politely enquired, before referring me to the large sign within the lift indicating that the lift would only function if you inserted your room keycard in the equally visible slot. I mumbled an embarrassed apology and sheepishly retreated to the now perfectly functioning lift. I had triumphed over drones and one of the most complex underground systems in the world, only to fall flat on my face at the final hurdle.

I need to get up now and do battle with the aforementioned lift shaft again. Who knows when I will reach the breakfast buffet, if ever. Stay tuned for a later update on my adventures in London. Our meeting this morning is in Pall Mall. It’s the pink section on a Monopoly board. Then, it’s back to Belfast this evening. That seems like an awfully long way away at present. And who knows what adventures lie in between.

What’s been your weirdest lift/elevator experience?

Have you ever been stuck on a plane or train?

That Time I Frightened A German Teenager On The London Underground

So there I was yesterday afternoon. Sitting on the tube as it hurtled beneath the streets of London towards our stop. It was packed which meant that my work colleague was sitting further down the carriage whilst I was surrounded by a gaggle of excited German teenagers who had embarked at the previous stop. I decided to give up my seat to one of them and move down the carriage nearer my colleague.

I did this for a number of reasons. Firstly I am a gentleman and an all round top guy. You should always give up your seat to a lady who is standing or at least offer to do so. The fact that 99 times out of 100 I ignore this etiquette on my daily commute in and out of Belfast is besides the point. A mere trifling detail. I’m a Christian and we are all a major disappointment to our God but he loves us anyway, flaws and all. Moving swiftly on.

The real reason I gave up my seat was that I was afraid I would become separated from my colleague at our stop. I can barely find my way around our village back home let alone one of the largest cities in the world. This meant standing for a few moments but I was alright with that. I caught my colleague’s eye and confirmed with her that we would be disembarking at the next stop. All was good and I was an anxiety free Stephen.

That lasted for a fleeting few seconds as I realised that the German teenage girl sitting next to my colleague was looking at me in a manner which meant only one thing. She was considering giving up her seat to me. She saw an opportunity to perform an act of kindness towards an elderly man laden down with luggage in a stuffy, crammed compartment. I saw only humiliation, despair and the end of my middle age.

I had been dreading this day for many years. It would effectively signal the end of my life and send me sailing down the slippery slope of free bus passes, ear hair and knitted cardigans. I fixed her with a desperate expression. ‘Do. Not. Do. It. I am in full possession of my faculties. I ran a sub four hour marathon the other week. I am not your grandfather. There is no need for this you incredibly kind, but hopelessly deluded German teenager. For the love of sweet Jesus. Don’t.’

Of course I said none of the above but my powers of telepathy must have somehow got through to her. Which was cool because (a) I didn’t know I was a telepath and (b) that I was a bi-lingual one at that. She looked away and the moment was gone. I had survived and thankfully disembarked a few moments later. I will never forget that kind German girl. Just as she will probably never forget the crazed, perspiring, staring Irishman who gave her the creeps on the tube.

As near misses go this was probably a Def Con 4 experience. I know that the day is coming when a young person will offer me their seat on public transport. Just as I know that I will respond with maturity and grace by undoubtedly glaring at them before storming off down the carriage in a strop. I increasingly feel as if I’m running out of time and yesterday was merely another example of that. The clock is ticking. Faster than I want it to.

It’s just life and I guess I will have to accept that. Live in the present and enjoy the many positives surrounding me today. Be thankful for what I have, not what I’ve lost or think I need. I am where I am for a reason. I cannot take my eye off that ball. So today this forty something is grateful for what he has – his family, his fractured faith, his fitness….and kind, German teenagers on the London Underground.

What’s been your most humiliating public transport experience?

Are you worried that life is passing you by too quickly?

Pray For The Bombers 

This has been a horrific and senseless week in the United Kingdom. Twenty two people were slaughtered by a lone suicide bomber in Manchester at an Ariana Grande concert. And at the time of writing, seven more have died at the hands of three men in central London last night. Dozens more wounded, many with life changing injuries. Not to mention the catastrophic emotional and psychological damage. 

Twenty nine dead the media will tell us right? Well no actually. Even my decidedly average mathematics tells me that thirty three people died. Of course I’m including the four men who committed the carnage. Evil, mindless terrorist scum many will argue. However, uncomfortable as this might be to stomach, they were still human beings. With parents, partners and friends and families whose lives have also been ripped apart by the attacks.

I have been trying to pray for ALL of the dead and their families. Because whose to say if I (or any of us) brought up in an identical social, political, cultural and religious environment would as them would not have turned out the same way. What was going through his head when Salman Abedi detonated the explosives. We will never know.

It was too late for him by then. And there are thousands of other young Muslim men out there who now see his martyrdom as inspirational. An act that will motivate them to take forward the jihad against the infidel West. 

Is it too late for them? No it’s not. You just need to look at my own country Northern Ireland where 3000 people died at the hands of terrorists between 1969-1998. A more bitter, hate fuelled, sectarian conflict you could not imagine. But now my work brings me into contact with men who have turned their back on that lifestyle. Men with blood on their hands who now use those same hands for peace and reconciliation.


That’s the great thing about having willpower. The capacity for change. Jesus chose an extremist, violent bigot, Simon the Zealot, to be one of his disciples. So if he and others can change what’s to say that a future generation of Islamic martyrs can’t?

So that’s why I choose to pray for the bombers, their families and the Salman Abedi’s of the future. Our shared future.

Please let me know your thoughts about this post.

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