Welcome to New York. You remembered your wallet, right?

Despite my dartboard memory, I have a high capacity for certain things. Favourite lines or passages of dialogue for example. I also never forget being stung. So my Skinflint Spidey-sense was tingling as I stepped off the tourbus into the Long Island sunshine. Walking into the venue, I remembered last year, when a friendly man conned me into installing not one but two telephone lines into the office, then charged us $550 for the privilege.

''Well, won't get fooled again" said I, and spiralled off into a 9-minute drum solo. Next thing I know there's a guy in my office.

"Hey buddy. I'm puttin 'ya phone line in, lemme show ya where.."

"Oh, that's ok, we never use the phone." I attempt humour; "We're from Europe- we don't have any friends here." This worked two days ago. No dice.

"Well, Im gonna put one in. Ya know, just in case." Right, in case my watch stops and I need to call the Speaking Clock? In case I just gotta call my BFF Jill?

"Seriously, man, I don't need a line. I don't want one."

"Well, you never know."

He left and I went to find something beautiful to destroy. If he can't get in, he can't install it. When I came back, the sneaky fuck had got in with a master key and installed a 'phone. A white one.

Welcome to Union Country. Where if you don't ask, you get it anyway, and they charge you for it. He'd switched the line on, so now we had to pay the prick. All day. Nice switch-flicking there, no-mark.

I had been warned that if the Teamsters didn't get breakfast, they could make the load-in and load-out very difficult, insisting only they could handle anything, but of course sticking strictly to their break schedule, so that basically 33% of the 'workforce' is always on donut-time. They have a minimum load-in time of 8 hours; it takes 4, maximum. They have a minimum load-out of 6 hours; it takes 2 if the local hands are really slow. Which, of course, they will be.

That's 14 hours' pay for a maximum 6-hours' work, and 2 free meals. From the outside looking in, the US Union is a lot like the British dole, only a little less honest. Rather than pretend to look for work, they pretend to do work. You can't blame them- they get paid more this way.

"You wanna standin' contest? I think I got time..."

This beautiful hunk of clay is a forklift driver. We pay him for 17 hours. He can face many directions, oh, yes. Not just South-West with his nose towards catering, sniffing the air like a starving polar bear.

So, my wondrously expensive phone installed, I wander over to the Teamster office. That's the semi-circle of chairs around a TV you see in every Union building. I ask the surly cigar-chugging scholar and gentleman how many staff he had working that day, so I can issue them with carte blanche to our catering hall.
"Well, you asked for none, I gave you my minimum." He had to slip that in. I die a little inside. "So that'd be eight."

God bless the Union.

Freedom exists. Now get back to work.

Douchey personal plate aside, this seems to be the state motto for New Hampshire.
Considering virtually every number plate in the USA is made in prison, is this subconscious suggestion aimed at reducing overcrowding, or just plain cruel?

And why hasn't someone keyed this choadwank's car yet?

Back then, everything was simpler and more confused

I haven’t blogged in a while. Well, months. I seem to have less free-time when I’m being paid to work. Cheeky bastards. I much preferred being paid to share my moans with my reader.
But I got sick of moaning after a year or so. The only thing left to moan about was, well, moaning all the time. So I’ve opted to whinge about moaning about moaning constantly. It’s going well so far, I reckon.

I managed to convince the powers that be that I was basically sitting on my hands in Maastricht, and they’ve let me work from home and claim back my flight expenses. Considering I was flying back or paying for the bulk of Victoria’s flights at least once month, I should be saving some shiny pennies. My bank balance hasn’t looked healthier since that period when I was living on a tourbus with standby power and eating a schnitzel every other day.

So I took the plunge and got a place with the object of my affection. We trawled all over Whitley Bay, Tynemouth and North Shields and finally settled on a swanky fifth floor place overlooking (kind of, if you open the window and crick your neck) the Tyne. It was the only one we saw that met our (ha, Victoria's) requirements without being TOO far over our budget and is by far the nicest place I’ve ever lived. No offence, Davey, but Victoria looks way better in the nip.
Having a solid base for the first time in 4 years or so is a blessing and a curse. I go to sleep curled up with a beautiful woman every night. I get up at my leisure, but always by 9. I make a simple breakfast, usually poached eggs or the occasional crumpet combo. I revisit an album which has sat on the shelf in my parent’s house for the best part of 7 years and check my work e-mails, which usually takes all of 5 minutes. I study a recipe book, take a walk down to the river and buy some fish from the market, then up into town to the grocers for the day’s supplies. All this is done by midday. Sounds great, right? It is. But then comes the curse part…
By this stage I’ve walked past at least 8 pubs. There are probably some I’ve forgotten or not dared to look at. My tongue is flicking across my lips. My throat like a drying well. I’m anticipating that first mouthful of Deuchar’s, or some guest ale from a micro-brewery. It’s like revisiting old friends, or making a new one. But this is a nagging, persistent friend who demands attention.

Our first weekend in the flat, Victoria broached the subject of my drinking too much. I had to take it humbly. Being mildly drunk helped. Inside, I was a bit peeved about it; in the past she’d positively encouraged a tipple, and would always make sure there was enough booze of varying description for my visits back to this sceptered isle. I kind of felt she’d moved the goalposts.

But I can’t blame her. I do drink too much, and too often. I never get angry or violent, or end up pissing in the wardrobe (except that once). I don’t drink to get drunk, as such. It’s just a convenient side-effect. After that Saturday night bombshell, there was a new taste at the back of my throat. Not resentment. Just guilt. It spoiled the taste of the beer somewhat. Even the whiskey and ginger didn't have the same satisfying kick. But that was maybe the toothpaste.

But enough hunting for poetic ways to describe my problem. It’s time for the science bit. I've tried wallowing. I've tried bringing you interesting facts about the area surrounding the four walls within a basement beneath a dome structure in which Im usually cocooned 17 hours a day. So now I'm just going to list stuff. You brought it on yourselves by not heaping praise on me. Or at least humouring me.

I'm not going to subject you to what I ate or my bowel movements, just the amount of devil's water I throw down each day. I'll start with the off-days before this tour.
Montreal, day 1- 7-hour flight, 6hour time-fall. 2 cans on the plane, 10 pints in various boozers
Montreal day 2 – 2 restaurants, 3 bars. 2 beers, 6 pints
Montreal – 1 beer
Ottawa – 3 beers

I'll keep updating this. I know you just can't wait. Im sure I've documented my antics during the strip-club haze, the Dr Giggles debacle, the transient period. I've even touched on the jizz-wizard days. Factor out weed and the occasional foray into class-A-schizoid-house-breaking hell and it's really not that bad. Is it?

Help me out here, Midge...