I reached the airport in good time and I'm glad I never weakened and took a cab. Besides, these days I'm getting a little tired of taxi drivers because, in the UK at any rate, there's a growing number of drivers who want to get their racist beliefs out in the open and they always assume that everybody holds the same views and just need a little coaxing. I might have mentioned a British taxi driver who was so racist, his own colleagues called him Gupta.
The New York subway is just like it looks in the movies, but not as edgy. It's full of commuters and, on the E line, travellers like myself and holidaymakers heading for the Air Train. I forgot to check the terminal, but discovered, once on the Air Train, that all BA flights arrived and departed from Terminal 7. I checked my bags in, handing over my emergency passport, and then walking away unfettered by cumbersome luggage.
It's a six-hour flight and we're due to land in London half an hour earlier than scheduled. Food eaten, two hours have flown by and I'm listening to REM on the plane's sound system. It's a Jumbo jet and I'm sitting in seat 39K, a bulkhead seat with plenty of legroom, which is all I ask for on flights of over four hours. The jackpot is to get a window too, and that's what I've got, but being as it's a night flight, there's little point - until things brighten up, that is. I like to see what's going on outside, especially when there's turbulence.
In life, there's very little that upsets me more on a flight than a baby crying and I can't work out why. It makes me feel really, terribly sad. I find that flying can be emotional too, so putting the two things together is the most awful thing for me. There's always a baby crying somewhere on a plane.
I remember having trouble once on a flight to Chicago, although I hasten to add that babies were not involved. By 'having trouble' I mean being in danger of getting a little over emotional about things. Music is the trigger and certain compositions can bring a tear to my eye and I then have to spend time concealing myself from prying eyes, which is difficult if you're on a plane. On that occasion, I had a window seat, so I could turn my head to one side and try to calm myself down. Sometimes, listening to music can be my downfall.
There was an occasion in Manchester, in a boutique hotel, when I was caught unawares. I'd bought a Supertramp CD on Euston station and when I reached the room, on discovering there was a CD player, I played it and found that a certain track took me over the top again. I remember lying back on the bed, staring at the ceiling with tears in my eyes. Fortunately, I was alone. The problem (if that's what it was) can be traced back to the late 1980s. I was driving to work and had reached a multi-storey car park when a certain piece of music, by a band called Spirit, grabbed my attention and took me by surprise. It took me a while to recover. I simply sat in the car on the top storey of the car park staring at the tree tops until I felt sufficiently normal to head into the office. Such vulnerability lasted for almost 20 years, possibly longer, but it's not there anymore. It sometimes happened with other art forms. I remember reading Milton Kessler's Thanks Forever, a poem from the London Underground; and then there was Bruce Robinson's The Peculiar Memoirs of Thomas Penman, both tearjerkers in their own strange way. It still happens occasionally. There's a fine line between euphoria and grief.
During the flight, turbulence on a couple of occasions made it difficult to write long hand, but looking at my notes as I copy type them into the lap top, the handwriting wasn't too badly affected.
I keep replaying tracks from REM at the BBC, it's the only thing worth listening to in my opinion. REM has it sized in my opinion; tracks like Orange Crush, Radio Song and Man on the Moon pass the time and I listen to them over and over again.
I'm still finding it hard to believe that I was in New York and later I'll be finding it hard to believe that I was up here, at 38,000, looking down as the skies brighten around me. But New York! I was there: Madison, 42nd Street, Park Avenue, Lexington, it's as if it was a dream. While I was there I mooched endlessly around the city, I drank mint tea in a Starbucks on Second Avenue, I sat in the back of a Yellow Cab and I stared upwards to find the tops of skyscrapers. The last time I was in the Big Apple I was staying at the Parker Meridien hotel and on one occasion, while waiting for the lift to the ground floor, the lift doors open to reveal Brian May, Roger Taylor and John Deacon of Queen. It was one of those moments I dined out on for many years - and still do. It was when Radio Ga Ga was in the charts.
By my reckoning, there's around two hours left of this six-hour flight. There's nobody in the seat next to me, but there's a woman in the aisle seat who has spent the entire flight covered from head to toe with a blanket. Outside it is getting light and there's nothing but cloud and we're high up.
I am starting to tire of REM, but perhaps I'll listen to Orange Crush one more time and then call it day. "We are agents of the free," warbles Stipe. Perhaps I'll listen to Radio Song again too. I remember when Out of Time was released; good and bad times, mainly uncertainty caused by looming redundancy, or had I already lost my job? Yes, I had. I remember the blue Cavalier I was driving, E108 HPH was the licence plate. I can remember all my plates. You could say I'm a sad, sad man.
I've switched on the map and we've passed the Charlie-Gibbs Fracture Zone and have just one hour and 45 minutes left before we land. I've put on Orange Crush again, it's so good, and I simply had to act fast as the song starting up was Love is Around Me, you know, the theme to Four Weddings and a Funeral. Surely that wasn't REM. Tell me it wasn't REM. I always remember it being Wet Wet Wet. Truly awful. Either way, I don't want to be reminded of that terrible movie.
Outside, it's getting a little choppy again. I think I prefer my turbulence when it's dark. We're headed towards Ireland and there's 90 minutes to go. We touch down at 0812 hrs. The seat belt signs have come back on and now it's clearer outside; I can see cloud below now. We're heading towards Porcupine Bank on our left and Porcupine Plain on the right and again I'm intrigued as to what they both are. I remember trying to learn more about the Charlie-Gibbs Fracture Zone and getting nowhere. And what, pray, is the Maury Seachannel? Time for Orange Crush again. I'm getting boring (was I ever anything else?). I'd better sign off.
The New York subway is just like it looks in the movies, but not as edgy. It's full of commuters and, on the E line, travellers like myself and holidaymakers heading for the Air Train. I forgot to check the terminal, but discovered, once on the Air Train, that all BA flights arrived and departed from Terminal 7. I checked my bags in, handing over my emergency passport, and then walking away unfettered by cumbersome luggage.
It's a six-hour flight and we're due to land in London half an hour earlier than scheduled. Food eaten, two hours have flown by and I'm listening to REM on the plane's sound system. It's a Jumbo jet and I'm sitting in seat 39K, a bulkhead seat with plenty of legroom, which is all I ask for on flights of over four hours. The jackpot is to get a window too, and that's what I've got, but being as it's a night flight, there's little point - until things brighten up, that is. I like to see what's going on outside, especially when there's turbulence.
 |
| Daylight as we head towards Ireland |
I remember having trouble once on a flight to Chicago, although I hasten to add that babies were not involved. By 'having trouble' I mean being in danger of getting a little over emotional about things. Music is the trigger and certain compositions can bring a tear to my eye and I then have to spend time concealing myself from prying eyes, which is difficult if you're on a plane. On that occasion, I had a window seat, so I could turn my head to one side and try to calm myself down. Sometimes, listening to music can be my downfall.
There was an occasion in Manchester, in a boutique hotel, when I was caught unawares. I'd bought a Supertramp CD on Euston station and when I reached the room, on discovering there was a CD player, I played it and found that a certain track took me over the top again. I remember lying back on the bed, staring at the ceiling with tears in my eyes. Fortunately, I was alone. The problem (if that's what it was) can be traced back to the late 1980s. I was driving to work and had reached a multi-storey car park when a certain piece of music, by a band called Spirit, grabbed my attention and took me by surprise. It took me a while to recover. I simply sat in the car on the top storey of the car park staring at the tree tops until I felt sufficiently normal to head into the office. Such vulnerability lasted for almost 20 years, possibly longer, but it's not there anymore. It sometimes happened with other art forms. I remember reading Milton Kessler's Thanks Forever, a poem from the London Underground; and then there was Bruce Robinson's The Peculiar Memoirs of Thomas Penman, both tearjerkers in their own strange way. It still happens occasionally. There's a fine line between euphoria and grief.
During the flight, turbulence on a couple of occasions made it difficult to write long hand, but looking at my notes as I copy type them into the lap top, the handwriting wasn't too badly affected.
I keep replaying tracks from REM at the BBC, it's the only thing worth listening to in my opinion. REM has it sized in my opinion; tracks like Orange Crush, Radio Song and Man on the Moon pass the time and I listen to them over and over again.
I'm still finding it hard to believe that I was in New York and later I'll be finding it hard to believe that I was up here, at 38,000, looking down as the skies brighten around me. But New York! I was there: Madison, 42nd Street, Park Avenue, Lexington, it's as if it was a dream. While I was there I mooched endlessly around the city, I drank mint tea in a Starbucks on Second Avenue, I sat in the back of a Yellow Cab and I stared upwards to find the tops of skyscrapers. The last time I was in the Big Apple I was staying at the Parker Meridien hotel and on one occasion, while waiting for the lift to the ground floor, the lift doors open to reveal Brian May, Roger Taylor and John Deacon of Queen. It was one of those moments I dined out on for many years - and still do. It was when Radio Ga Ga was in the charts.
By my reckoning, there's around two hours left of this six-hour flight. There's nobody in the seat next to me, but there's a woman in the aisle seat who has spent the entire flight covered from head to toe with a blanket. Outside it is getting light and there's nothing but cloud and we're high up.
I am starting to tire of REM, but perhaps I'll listen to Orange Crush one more time and then call it day. "We are agents of the free," warbles Stipe. Perhaps I'll listen to Radio Song again too. I remember when Out of Time was released; good and bad times, mainly uncertainty caused by looming redundancy, or had I already lost my job? Yes, I had. I remember the blue Cavalier I was driving, E108 HPH was the licence plate. I can remember all my plates. You could say I'm a sad, sad man.
I've switched on the map and we've passed the Charlie-Gibbs Fracture Zone and have just one hour and 45 minutes left before we land. I've put on Orange Crush again, it's so good, and I simply had to act fast as the song starting up was Love is Around Me, you know, the theme to Four Weddings and a Funeral. Surely that wasn't REM. Tell me it wasn't REM. I always remember it being Wet Wet Wet. Truly awful. Either way, I don't want to be reminded of that terrible movie.
Outside, it's getting a little choppy again. I think I prefer my turbulence when it's dark. We're headed towards Ireland and there's 90 minutes to go. We touch down at 0812 hrs. The seat belt signs have come back on and now it's clearer outside; I can see cloud below now. We're heading towards Porcupine Bank on our left and Porcupine Plain on the right and again I'm intrigued as to what they both are. I remember trying to learn more about the Charlie-Gibbs Fracture Zone and getting nowhere. And what, pray, is the Maury Seachannel? Time for Orange Crush again. I'm getting boring (was I ever anything else?). I'd better sign off.
