To Cork and back – captain’s log
Posted on Wednesday, February 20th, 2008 at 11:20pm. #
This is a long, rambly, post, really meant for inclusion in my ‘travel notes’ section.
Going to Cork in Ireland for a presentation, ostensibly on whether web 2.0 will kill traditional media. In reality, a presentation of a previous blog post. Seeng a few friends and relatives while out there. Plan to enjoy a little stout too. No, not Guinness. That’s Dublin.
Cram as much as I can into a little rucksack. Don’t know why I’m taking a rucksack, and not a proper little flight bag. Don’t know if I’m allowed to take a small razor-blade on the plane with me. Unsure whether my hair gel is too big for the security screening. Opt not to take it. Will buy some once airside. Throw big heavy laptop in rucksack. Curse myself for not writing my presentation last night. Heave it to work.
Spend ten minutes at work looking for harmless video to inject into presentation. Look for useful things from previous presentations. Find the old black and white photo of family listening to radio, which by law has to be in every presentation. Copy them to 4Gb memory stick which was a steal at £49 in Gibraltar last year, now simply a steal.
Print out starred items on Google Reader. Discover the blog posting that pointed to new figures showing newspaper circulation is the best ever, up 9% in two years or something else unbelievable at first glance. Might use that.
Walk to different BBC building where they have, get this, a machine that prints rail tickets. No, really. Grab my tickets. Bump into Chris Moyles. Greets me like long-lost friend. Nice man. Big beard. Wasn’t expecting the big beard. Make plans for beer next week.
Wait for Bakerloo line. Tourist wonders if he’s caught the right train. Asks me in broken English. Yes, you’ve caught the right train. How many stops is it? he asks. Think it might be a good idea if he counts them himself. Man very grateful.
Stand in Paddington in the cold, sucking email onto iPhone using The Cloud. Wonder why iPhone doesn’t poll for email every fifteen minutes like I’ve told it to. For a minute. Then stop wondering.
On train. Looking at timelapse of Honolulu beach on the TV screen in the carriage. Wonder where I left my scarf yesterday. Make plan to buy new scarf at the airport as well. Curse myself for leaving loyalty card at home. Look at expensively-clothed man next to me, talking acronyms into his phone. Train starts to move.
Realise I’m using the domestic terminal, where flights to Ireland leave. No scarf opportunity. No hair gel opportunity either. Entire rucksack emptied by super-zealous security staff. Flight delayed by twenty minutes. Buy sandwich and Guinness (closest thing to beer on sale at Wetherspoons Express) to relax for twenty minutes. Sit in front of depature board with full pint of Guinness, sandwich, relax. Look at departure board. Flight no longer delayed. Bugger. Resolve to wait till it turns red.
Sky News is on. George rentagob Galloway is captioned as “friend of Fidel Castro”. Could have been worse I suppose.
Gulp down Guinness. Get to gate. Wait for a bit. Passengers start coming off plane, not on. This means delay after all. Bugger. Wander down the hateful bit of terminal which has been especially built to look like an aeroplane even though you’re not actually on one. Good idea: after all, you’ll be on a plane for an hour or so, why not make that excruciating process appear to start earlier? Winning idea.
Go to buy a book from a vending machine. It doesn’t take Amex, so try the Mastercard. Wait for a bit. It doesn’t connect. “TX timed out Please Wait”, says the nice machine. Wait for a bit and take card out. Wander down to other end and back. Still says ‘please wait’. In bloody MS Comic Sans. I bet there’s a sad old lonely 286 behind that plastic facade, running something awful like Windows ME.
Sleep in plane, like I always do. Sitting next to man with crappy Dell laptop like I had once. Asset number stuck on it from a Dymo printer. Had Twix, for £1.10. Note that the inflight magazine is partly set in Verdana. Bloody idiots. Setting a print magazine in a font specifically designed for on-screen use? Fools.
Taxi from Cork airport driven by James O’Callaghan, man who lets everyone out. Jumps on brakes. Waves furiously at meek-minded little old ladies. Swears furiously (using the glorious Irish phrase ‘feck’) when they don’t trust him.
Arrive at hotel. Posh, brand new Jurys. Free (wired) broadband in the room. This is excellent. “Wash pack” (containing razor blade I didn’t think I could take) €3 in loos. Murphys, Beamish and Guinness in the bar.
Write a bit of presentation. Then meet man with unreal-sounding name of Dusty Rhodes. Brilliantly nice man. I had a Beamish. Then realised later that I should have a Murphy’s. So had one of those too. Meet lots of other people. Eat food. Retire to bar. Meet another man with unreal-sounding name of Rick O’Shea. Another brilliantly nice man. Both radio presenters (one ex) in case you’d not fathomed it out. I also know Sandy Beech who worked with them, and he’s a nice man too. Think of changing my name to Mike Fader. Think again.
Go up to room at 10.30-ish to continue writing presentation. Discover next morning I made the right decision: apparently the night turned to whiskey and a 2am finish. Not for me.
Walk to University College Cork (taxis had been laid on but we eschewed them once told about them – we’re young, we can walk). Conference in nice old building. Rick O’Shea was personable and warm on stage. Has the look of a 30-something in a loud shirt, and the voice of a 50-something. I’d like his voice. Not sure how much he smoked to get there. Doesn’t seem to smoke now though. Came with box of CDs and headphones. Broadcasting from Cork this afternoon.
Editor of the Irish Independent similarly good, though as I later remarked, thinks he’s running a printing press business rather than a news gathering business. Too attached to paper, not attached to news. Equates citizen journalism to a gobby taxi driver. Is of the opinion that good journalism needs careful training, and that the general public can’t possibly do a good job. King Canute. Very nice with it though – difficult to argue too much with him given his pleasant chatting style.
Break for coffee and photos. Then Rachel from Bebo, followed by Dusty, followed by me, followed by sports person. Talk went well. Question from the floor about DRM. Kept mouth shut. Lots of questions about radio. Good.
Lunch in student union bar. Inexplicable choice of chicken tikka, sausages and chips, or… bacon and cabbage. Sounded so ludicrous, I went for it. Turned out to be very nice tender gammon steak.
Excused myself from later bit of conference. Walked into town. Look around for two minutes. Call on mobile. Aer Lingus, telling me my flight had been cancelled and that I needed to get to the airport for 4pm if I wanted to be home tonight. Damn. Ring J, cancel meeting. Irritated.
Get lift to airport thanks to Richie O’Shea (apparently no relation). Good chat with him: doing some interesting stuff with interesting company.
Get to airport at 4pm. Discover my flight is now boarding at 6pm. Irritated: could have met J after all. Buy Grisham book. It’s the law in airports. Nearly go through security. Realise there’s nothing on other side. Have Murphy’s instead in The Red Bar. Wondering if I can still claim free meal from Aer Lingus (my flight I’ve been transferred on is now delayed over two hours). Think not.
Announcement at 5.25pm. Boarding of my plane is now delayed until 7pm. Bah. Might think about claiming free meal.
Not allowed free meal. Look at options. Don’t go for Starbucks. Do go for Subway. Genuine Irish choices: that’s Cork airport.
Wander through security. Correct in assumption nothing is behind security. To gate. Yay. Boarding.
Least favourite seat, in the middle. Fat bloke next to me who spends entire 50 minute flight very laboriously laying out Excel spreadsheet. Doubt he’s used it before. Listens to iPod loudly. Thin student type on the other side. Needs a shave and a wash. Writing down everything he’s done today into a book. Steal a glance. He apparently gave everyone on the bus his email address. Bizarre.
Reflect that I’ve written down everything I’ve done over the last two days. And regularly publish my email address for everyone to see. Bizarre.
Land in Heathrow. Walk onto Heathrow Express, since I got an open return. Reflect that this saves, at most, ten minutes on getting a tube straight from Heathrow. And more walking involved. Hmm.
Enjoy London Underground sign in Italian for Madrid fans at King’s Cross, telling them how to get to Arsenal. (Finsbury Park. Dieci minuti a piedi, or something similar).
Home at 10.20pm. Cat delighted to see me, and no unwelcome presents on carpet. All happy. Quickly upload pictures, tidy blog posting up. Next: sleep.
