A TANGLED WEB

"The rest is silence." Hamlet.

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Travel to the ancient Kingdom of Tibet. View the ancient buildings, see the quaint ways in which these simple, primitive people lived. Take photographs of all you encounter! Travel on the world’s highest railway, onward into China, the lands of the ancient Middle Kingdom. View for yourself the ‘Terra-Cotta Warriors’ where thousands laboured to provide this supreme spectacle of industry, harmony and homage! Sail through the spectacular Three Gorges of the Yangtse river, before passing through the locks of the huge Three Gorges Dam, said to be the eighth wonder of the world. Spend days passing by as the largest economy in the developing world flexes it’s financial muscles, before leaving from Hong Kong’s magnificent airport for your return trip to Britain at the end of your stay in the most marvellous place you have ever visited!

Oh, and just ignore those strange, flattened areas which you encounter as you travel through Tibet. It is patently untrue that they were the sites of over six thousand monasteries; they are actually preparations for playing fields! You can also ignore the strange and excitable calls for a ‘Free Tibet’ which you may encounter; they are just propaganda! It is also totally untrue that democracy-loving China invaded Tibet in 1951! Tibet has always been part of China. As you may know, the Three Gorges project will produce a huge inland lake, but everything has been done to alleviate stress, and no-one has lost out, or been forced to move! The Chinese Government welcomes tourists, and is always open to constructive criticism at all times!

Oh, and don’t forget to buy one of these before you leave on your trip of a life-time, as it will serve to wipe the bloodstains off your shoes as you enter your home once more!

Get weaving!

It's hardly a secret that roadworks on British motorways are little more than speedtraps with cones (have you ever seen anyone working?) nor that cameras have brought money flooding into the exchequer, without making a jot of difference to the accident statistics, nor that huge numbers of these fines are based on erroneous readings which the “guilty until proven innocent” system prevents the average punter from challenging, unless they are ready to remortgage their home to cover the legal bills.

Therefore British motorists will be interested to learn the new high-tech speed cameras designed to measure the average speed over a distance have something of a flaw, in that if you change lanes during the distance covered, they may not work. So, remembering of course SAFETY FIRST, check your mirrors, indicate, glance over your shoulder and switch. It may just save you three points on your licence.

Postcard from Italia - Part 2

Viva Las Vegas!

Not the city in Nevada, but the Las Vegas Internet cafe on the Salita Alexander Humboldt, Taormina, Sicily, from where my second and final postcard comes to you from.  I arrived in Taormina yesterday after crossing the Strait of Messina for the final time.  Before arriving in Taormina, however, I ventured across to the Aeolian Islands - volcanic outcrops 20 miles off the north coast of Sicily.  I took the opportunity to climb 300 (very steep) metres up to the crater of Volcano (the name of one of the islands), from where I was treated to a spectacle of sulphur emissions still pouring from a crater that has been redundant for over 100 years.  The sight is fantastic; the smell downright awful.  A soothing mudbath soon put my aching joints to right.

Taormina is the principal resort on Sicily.  A quaint resort of some very expensive shops.  There are few Brits here (not enough cheap pubs and quick sex to cater for the intelligence of my average compatriot).  Most of the resort is populated by Germans, Japanese and Americans.  I have met more people from the Greater New York area on this holiday than any other nationality.  Half of New York seems to be here to discover its Sicilian roots.  As is the case with every American I have ever met, the people who have stopped to chat with me have been friendly, courteous and charming.  In Reggio on Thursday night, five American guys from New Jersey, upon discovering that I hailed from the UK, bought me drinks all night.  They wouldn't let me pay for a single round.  My thanks also go to Adam and Laura Johnson, from Friern Barnet in north London, who made my time in Lipari very enjoyable.

I doubt I'll stay in Taormina for the rest of the week.  My plan is to drive onwards to Agrigento and Selinunte on the far south west of Sicily before flying back to the UK on Saturday afternoon.  I also intend to re-visit Palermo, Catania and the Greek temple at Syracuse during my remaining time.  Palermo's catacombs are still filled with the skeletons of its aristocratic dead from three centuries ago.  They tell me venturing down there is like having a walk-on part in your own horror movie.  Can't wait!!

Meanwhile, events in Northern Ireland are seldom from my mind: especially as a morally-bankrupt government and an extremely compliant media conspire to make Provo scum supposedly fitter for government.  The media frenzy surrounding this latest wheeze struggles to be more surreal than anything seen hitherto - but succeeds by a whisker.  It is amazing how an organisation as 'professional' as the IMC cannot ascertain who killed Denis Donaldson.  Methinks the members were visited by government advisors who proceeded to beg on bended knee in the middle of the night.  As far as I am concerned, the fact that the IMC cannot attribute culpability proves conclusively of infiltration by the government - something relatively unknown in previous intelligence submissions.  I still believe the DUP will not deal.  I hope my analysis is correct.

As for the Irish, you've got to laugh at their pretensions of confidence in their independent status.  I read that a number of school atlases in the Republic are to have the title 'British Isles' removed from their publications, lest it offend a proportion of people who reside in a country so allegedly confident in its sense of self, it convulses with hysteria at the very mention of titular association with its closest neighbour.  The term British Isles ceased to have any constitutional implications way back in 1979.  It remains, nonetheless, the correct term for the geographical archipelago to which the island of Ireland belongs.  We have seen how Irish nationalism treats those who profess pride in Britishness.  The marchers of Dublin's aborted Love Ulster parade can testify to that.

Sadly, there is an Irish pub in Taormina.  It's called the Time Out bar.  The sign on an adjacent street says: 'Where Sicily meets Ireland (as if Sicily would want to).  Come inside for a traditional Irish welcome'.  I wonder what the 'traditional Irish welcome' amounts to?  Banning people with Reebok trainers because the shoes have a small Union Flag stitched into the lining, perhaps?  And, as we are into titular correctitude based on emotion, I believe the sign should read: 'Where Sicily meets the Republic of Ireland'.  As you might expect, I won't be venturing there.  Why would I, when you consider that country's interference in the United Kingdom?  Not only that, I am currently half-way through travelling in what I consider to be the best country in the world.  Why on earth would I want to patronise an establishment owned by a person from, and furnished with the cultural accoutrements of, a vastly inferior one!?

Ciao!

 

Postcard from Italia

Hi folks!

I'm sitting in a tiny Internet cafe in the town of Reggio de Calabria.  I started my journey in Taranto and made it steadily down to Reggio (one of the poorest towns in Italy).  The temperature here is currently 31°C and I haven't seen one cloud since my arrival.  Across the Strait of Messina, Etna is billowing smoke.  Last night I stood on the Lungamare Matteotti and looked across as lava began to erupt from the top of this 10,000 ft monster.  Although I don't cross into Sicily to stay until Friday, I have already been across the Strait (just two miles wide and 15 minutes by hydrofoil) to Messina and Milazzo.

Once you cross into Sicily you realise that the difference between the island and mainland is much more pronounced than any differences that remain between England and Scotland.  However, unlike the petty and pathetic attempts to tear asunder the UK, there is no comparable movement for independence from the Italian State; a state to which Sicily is far more reliant on money than the Edinburgh gravy-train could ever be.  Here the Mafia feature on the news with some regularity.  However, unlike the UK, politicians in Rome do not spend time lecturing the local Sicilian representatives on forming an accommodation with criminal elements.  I see Auntie and a smorgasbord of expected propagandists are today launching a pressure-cooker attempt to force the representatives of Ulster's pro-Union majority to do exactly that as they profess a metamorphosed Provisional IRA completely devoid of three and a half generations of unadulterated evil (or so they would have us believe).  My message to the DUP from 1,400 miles away is the same: do not sell your democratic soul for a mess of Provo Paddy pottage.

Over the years Italy has suffered from the effects of mass migration in much the same way as we have back home.  A walk around many towns in this, by far the poorest and most underdeveloped part of the country, sees one coming into regular contact with African migrants, Indo-Chinese and Asians.  In Taranto I came across a market which was operated by nothing other than Africans and Asians.  Why do countries allow themselves to be bastardised in this way?  You cannot pee in a glass of champagne and still expect it to taste like champagne!  Sections of inner city districts in places like Bari, Taranto and Catania are little different from what one would expect to find in Saharan Africa.  It's a crying shame!!

Anyway, time to fly.  I have some time to shower and change before my evening meal.  I maybe, if I have the time, be back in touch before my depressing return to Blighty a week on Saturday.  Be good now, d'you hear!!

Worst Seaside Resorts

Auntie is conducting a survey on various seaside resorts around Britain and seeking comments from people who have been there.  Exclusively to ATW, I have listed my ten seaside hates below, which I think is an appropriate topic on this Bank Holiday when thousands are rushing to the coast.  What are yours (UK or otherwise)?

1. Rhyl, North Wales: The scumhole of the seaside world.  A down-at-heel resort with tackiness, horrible food, a windfarm 300 yard offshore and thousands of unemployed Scousers.
2. Leysdown-on-Sea, Kent: An abandoned wilderness at the end of a 10-mile long cul-de-sac.  A grotty caravan site and a beach strewn with sewage-covered rocks provide the coastal experience never to be forgotten.
3. Southend-on-Sea, Essex: Quintessential Essex Girl and Chav territory.  Spectacular views of the Isle of Grain power station and oil refinery.  A pier so long it straddles three time zones and cast extras from Albert Square who hunt in packs.
4. Skegness, Lincolnshire: The UK equivalent of Devil's Island.
5. Easington, County Durham:  Very few shops, a railway line that runs between rows of red-brick terraces and the beach.  The village where they filmed Billy Elliott - say no more!
6. Workington, Cumbria: An ex-mining town that still languishes in the 1970s.  The sort of place where you'd expect buses to be started with crank handles.
7. Blackpool, Lancashire: Europe's largest land-fill site masquerading as a holiday resort.  The chief tourist trap is an outsized coat-hanger.
8. New Brighton, Cheshire: The Beatles once played there.  The second-biggest mistake Paul McCartney ever made (marrying Heather Mills was the first).  A promenade made up on nothing but wide open spaces.
9. Margate, Kent:  The place Albert Square extras go to when Southend is full up.
10. Morecambe, Lancashire: A ten-mile hike from the prom to the water's edge, and a town whose biggest tourist attraction is the statue of Eric Morecambe (which gives you some indication that there is bugger all to do there).

Councils Vandalise Our Cars

If I were to go around with a bucket of stones, hurling them at council-owned premises up and down the land, I would rightly be accused of vandalism and be compelled to atone for my transgression.  So why are councils permitted to vandalise our cars?  'In what way?' I hear you ask.  Simple: it's called shale.

Most road resurfacing takes place in the summer.  Some councils choose to spend the huge sums they make in Council Tax on decent road surfaces.  Others adopt the 'we don't give a s**t about the people who pay for services.  They'll get what they're given' attitude and repair damaged roads with a thin layer of shale held together with a strong resin.  Large piles of the stuff remain loose on the road surface for days, causing damage to car paintwork.  There is no avenue of compensatory redress.  Although signs are posted advising people to travel at incredibly low speeds, the practicalities of doing so are rarely appropriate.  Even at, say, 20mph, the stuff ricochets against your car, causing paint to flake off and exposing the primer underneath.

Does anyone here think it too great a request to be able to travel on roads without a plethora of minute missiles bouncing off our pride and joy thanks to councils who are ever-ready to take greater quantities of our money to swell their coffers?  No, me neither.  Councils don't like members of the public vandalising their property.  We don't like councils vandalising our motor vehicles.  Simple as.

Teutonic Twit!

A bit of history and fact for you.  Approximately one quarter of the countries of the world drive right-hand vehicles on the left-hand side of the road.  In the whole of Europe only 4 countries do so: the United Kingdom, Republic of Ireland, Malta and Cyprus (Turkish North Cyprus also drives on the left despite Turkey's opposite practice).  The overwhelming majority of countries which drive on the left are former British colonies (with the notable exception of Japan).  The explanation is simple.  As the website 2Pass states:

'This strange quirk perplexes the rest of the world; however, there is a perfectly good reason.

Up to the late 1700's, everybody travelled on the left side of the road because it's the sensible option for feudal, violent societies of mostly right-handed people.  Jousting knights with their lances under their right arm naturally passed on each other's right, and if you passed a stranger on the road you walked on the left to ensure that your protective sword arm was between yourself and him.

Revolutionary France, however, overturned this practice as part of its sweeping social rethink. A change was carried out all over continental Europe by Napoleon.The reason it changed under Napoleon was because he was left handed his armies had to march on the right so he could keep his sword arm between him and any opponent. From then on, any part of the world which was at some time part of the British Empire was thus left hand and any part colonised by the French was right hand.

In America, the French colonised the southern states (Louisiana for instance) and the Canadian east coast (Quebec). The Dutch colonised New York (or New Amsterdam). The Spanish and Portuguese colonised the southern Americas. So The British were a minority in shaping the 'traffic'.  The drive-on-the-right policy was adopted by the USA, which was anxious to cast off all remaining links with its British colonial past.'

I don't like left-hand drive cars and I don't like driving on the right-hand side of the road.  Nonetheless, I have driven enough in areas of continental Europe to know the difference.  The rule in Europe is relatively simple: island nations drive on the left; mainland Europe on the right.  Signs at various ports warn drivers to keep to the left-hand carriageway when driving in the UK.  Similar signs also exist in Cyprus.

To this end, I think it is preposterous that a German tourist can escape with virtually nothing other than a meaningless judicial slap on the wrist for causing extensive injuries to a passing motorcyclist in Scotland after the tourist in questions - a German policeman - 'forgot!?' he was on holiday.  Due to his stupidity the victim, Joseph Monks, has been left with severe injuries to his leg, which could cause complications in later life.  The judge stated that four points would be added to any UK licence Matthias Meer ever holds.  What chance is there of that?

Meer did not commit his crass mistake at a location where he could argue he was only just entering the UK with the concomitant lack of knowledge of our roads..  He was in the wilds of Scotland, hundreds of miles away from any ferry port to the Continent.  If a man who has, by the very location of the accident, in a position to have had a good experience of driving in Britain, cannot remember a simple rule, what chance has he got at doing his job properly?  Would you like Meer to investigate a crime against a member of your family?

One Our Photo

Discard the cobblers about speed cameras reducing the number of deaths on our roads.  Everyone with a brain in healthier shape than Ray Liotta's in Hannibal knows why speed cameras were introduced in omnipresent numbers on our roads: to raise extra revenue from the hard-pressed motorist.  It had Molly's oggins to do with improving road safety.

I am increasingly convinced that a small number of ministers and top-ranking civil servants sit in a darkened room somewhere in Whitehall and devise ways to extort more of our cash.  The introduction of speed cameras was one of their more plausible (if you happen to be dumb or naive) gambits.  Road atlases showing the location of speed cameras are now plentiful in the shops.  I have a camera detection device in my car so I can drive quickly yet safely in the knowledge that this greedy, malignant infestation of a Left-wing government will not get one extra penny out of me other than what they raise courtesy of the Inland Revenue.  What you may not be aware of is the availability of French road atlases, also with speed camera locations.  Have you made a comparison?  There is none!!  Whereas the British version is littered with more black specs (denoting fixed camera positions) than you would find at the bottom of a hamster's cage, France - with a similar population and 2.5 times the land area - has, I would say, about a fifth as many.

Driving standards in the UK have always been the highest in Europe.  Have you ever witnessed how the French, the Greeks, the Italians, etc, drive?  Why aren't those countries awash with money-grabbing yellow cameras?  Of course, they don't have governments determined to make the lives of motorists incomparably miserable.  Maybe that's why their road tax (if it is mandatory) is so much less than ours; maybe that's why their respective finance ministers don't put the tax burden on petroleum to the point where a litre is nearly the equivalent of £1.  We were told cameras would be introduced in accident blackspots.  I espied one the other day on a clear, straight stretch of the A1.  Do many parties of schoolchildren make a habit out of crossing the A1 en masse in rural areas?  Just curious.

What has the fashion of fleecing motorists on film done to road death statistics?  Nothing!!  Police statistics (never the most reliable) have shown a decrease in traffic accidents.  Hospital admissions tell a very different tale.  In some cases the number of admissions actually increased (I wonder if those were made up of people so paranoid about spotting speed cameras, they weren't looking at the road ahead.  Mmm).  As the link points out, scrapping the cameras would cost the government a fortune in revenue.  How else could they raise the money to keep asylum seekers, criminals and benefit scroungers in the manner to which they have become accustomed?

I have seen vandalised cameras.  What would I do if I was strolling down a road at night and saw someone with a Molotov cocktail kneeling at the base of one of these monstrosities?  A song title by the lovely Dionne Warwick will provide you with all the clues you need.

I Saw Naples and Died

What can I say?  Another holiday in Italy has come to an end.  I've been there so many times I can hardly count them all.  Each experience brings new experiences and new treasures.  My favourite country never fails to impress or to entertain.  As for Naples itself, I regard Italy's third largest city as a gem.  Those who go and describe it as a 'shithole' are missing an awful lot - both visual and atmospheric.

My holiday began on a sad note.  Only a few hours before departure my friend, Richard, rang me from the local hospital.  He had been admitted with a collapsed lung.  I hurried over to see how he was doing.  Obviously he was unable to fly.   However, we both agreed that, after losing Michael in such tragic circumstances, I was very much in need of a holiday.  In any event, knowing Italy so well, travelling around the country on my own would present no worrying issues.  Richard is STILL in hospital.  His pneumothorax did not heal of its own accord and he is due to go into theatre later on this week. 

Determined to enjoy myself (which I did), I resolved to see as many places as possible.  My destinations included Naples, Sorrento, Rome, Cumae, Paestum, Foggia, Cosenza, Bari, Biano, Montecassino, Anzio and the Cilento peninsula.  Public transport in Italy is very cheap.  A day return on the Intercity from Naples to Consenza was €21.  An equivalent journey on our laughable excuse for a rail system would be around £80.  The Italian people were wonderful as always.  It's like a country full of Teletubbies: Teletubbies who transform into complete psychos once they get behind the wheel of a car.

Rome was amazing!!  You don't have to be a Catholic to appreciate the wonderment of the place.  It is literally an historian's paradise.  Officially there is more to see in Rome than any other city in the world. The only thing that really annoyed me about Rome since my last visit there three years ago was the new influx/swarm of Asians around Vatican Square selling plastic Popes, miniature models of St Peter's and icons of Jesus that could cry false tears and wink at you, etc.  It was clear from their dress that most of these guys weren't even Christians.  Never mind cartoons of Prophet Mohammed, this was stooping into the moral gutter from Profit Mohammed.  There is clearly no level of entrepreneurial tackiness to which Asians will not stoop in order to make a quick buck.  As I walked away from the Vatican on the Via Della Conciliazione I remember thinking to myself: 'That lot would sell their mother's afterbirth if they thought there was money to be made.'  A disgusting spectacle!

Though I spent most of the time on my own I did team-up with other travellers on occasions.  Particular thanks go to John and June Stokes from Wollongong, New South Wales.  I met them on the Corso Mazzini in Consenza.  As a newly-retired couple, they were backpacking around Greece and Italy together.  John was a ex-coal miner with 31 years experience under his belt; June used to work with the disabled.  They were great company with oodles of that inimitable Aussie wit.  I travelled with them from Consenza to Salerno.  John in particular was very politically-minded - with opinions on most issues that certainly would not look out of place on ATW.  On the train from Naples to Rome I met up with two twenty-something Americans - Mike and Brian from Bayonne, New Jersey.  Mike was a mature student and Brian worked for the New York City Transit Authority as a Purchasing Manager.  Both committed Anglophiles, Brian in particular told me how clean and friendly London was.  A statement which compelled me to reply: 'Are we talking about the same London, here?'

British news was never far from my mind.  Apart from Tracey Temple bouncing up and down on a human trampoline we also saw the fiasco over 1,000 foreign criminals let loose by the vagaries of our judicial system.  On Friday, whilst walking around the chaos that is Naples, I suddenly remembered that back in Northern Ireland the moral degenerates would be worshipping at the MOPE shrine of Bobby Sands on the 25th anniversary of his joyous demise.  I had visions of freshly-painted murals of this thuggish, sectarian, terroristic pustule with an effeminate hair-do adorning the avenues and alleyways (littered with fragments of knee-cap) of every Shinner Ambrosia in Ulster.   As a fitting tribute to his memory I ventured to one of my favourite Neapolitan restaurants - Da Peppino Avellinese (highly recommended).  There I had a sumptuous feast of tomato and mozzarella salad; penne pasta with ham, aubergines, peppers, mushrooms and spicy tomato sauce; and a dessert of crushed pineapple with pistachio ice cream.  With each gargantuan mouthful I kept thinking of Sands; hoping and praying the fires of hell weren't too cold.

Suddenly I had this urge to visit an Internet cafe across the street.  For only the second time in my life I wanted to see what treacly sentiments Chris Gaskin had written about Sands on his inestimable obscenity that is Balrog.  I was amazed as the tales of how half the world's population seemingly marched in goose-step at news of his passing.  Most interesting was Mr Gaskin's quote on Italian reaction: 'Five thousand protestors burned the Union Jack (sic) in Milan.'  Never wanting to miss an opportunity to expose the lies of republicans for what they are, I went along to the Biblioteca Nazionale di Napoli on the Piazza del Plebiscito.  There I enlisted the help of a young guy, Valerio, with an excellent grasp of English and I asked him to help me look through the Italian newspaper archives of that time (microfiche is still popular in Italy).  Do you know how much space was given to this supposed throng of 5,000?  None!!  There were small pieces about a few hundred anarchists who had marched in support of Sands to the British Consulate in Milan.  A few hundred nutcases in a city of almost three million people.  Speaks volumes.  The lies of Irish nationalism meet reality head-on.

It was then I eventually realised just how hollow the whole propaganda exercise of worldwide solidarity with the aims of the Provos really is.  They like to con and kid us about how oppressed people across the globe rally to the clarion calls of the IRA 'struggle'.  The truth is that the cause of Irish republicanism remains the choice of a minuscule number of extremists in certain countries.  There were no Irish tricolours fluttering around Naples to commemorate the 25th anniversary.  In fact, the only Irish flag I saw during the entire holiday fluttered limply - a metaphor for the importance of the Irish State on the world stage - from a pole outside the Continental Hotel in Sorrento.  In spite of what the likes of Balrog like to pretend, the childish protestations of republican victimhood are unknown to the great majority that actually matters.  In other words, the rest of the world couldn't give a toss!!

Why I Love My Car

I don't travel by public transport very often.  I have my car to take me wherever I want to go.  Yesterday I broke the mould and journeyed by train for the first time in over 2 years.  If my journey represents the sum total of the pleasures of travelling by public transport, I'll stick to my car and face the consequences of fiscal persecution being waged by the Treasury.  Read on.

I had the task of taking a young Asian lad out for the day as part of my agency secondment.  I was told the lad (who is micro-cephalic and severely brain damaged) likes travelling on any mode of transport.  Alas I don't have business insurance on my vehicle so was unable to allow him to enjoy the benefits of riding around in my one-year old Fiat.  I decided to take him to Sheffield to see the new Winter Gardens complex recently opened by John Prescott.

My client (who must remain nameless for confidentiality reasons) lives in Leeds.  The distance between the two cities is around 38 miles and takes about 40 minutes in a car down the M1 motorway.  I collected him at 9:45 and was due to return him to his family at 3:45.  Please bear in mind that, had I been able to take him in my car, we would have arrived in Sheffield at approximately 10:30.  We waited over half an hour for a bus to take us to the railway station in Leeds city centre (10:20).  A lack of staff at the ticket bureau meant we had to queue for nearly 15 minutes (10:35).  After purchasing a return journey I then asked what time the trains to Sheffield were.  Having been informed that I had just missed a service the ticket master told me a express train would leave at 10:48.  However, because the route is more direct and therefore more expensive than the one I had purchased, I had to wait until the first available train suitable for my ticket price was available - at 11:34.

When we eventually boarded the train,  asked the guard what time we would be arriving at Midland Station (Sheffield's principal rail terminus).  He said we would arrive at 12:55.  12:55!!!  1 hour and twenty minutes to cover 38 miles.  The train stopped at two billion stations; was overcrowded and dirty; and had a toilet out of bounds due to vandalism.  So instead of taking 40 or so minutes by car, the journey took me 3 hours and ten minutes by public transport.  We had a little over half an hour to see the Winter Gardens before returning.

I am sure my experience is not untypical of the sort of inconvenience the British travelling public experiences every day.  And the government wonders why we love our cars so much!!!  Mind you, by supervising a shoddy public transport system our rulers have the best of both worlds.  If people are forced to use their cars due to a lack of a viable alternative, just think how much of a cash cow they collectively become!