Frenchy's Rant

Once again, Blogger. com has let me down.

I wrote a very long ‘Manchester Day Two’ blog, tried to post it, and got an ‘error 500’ message. Whatever that error is, it’s so serious that Blogger.com even notifies an engineer! Then I tried to go back so I could at least save the blog for later, and of course the post was nowhere to be found.

Until you get your shit together, I have to say – Go Fuck Yourself, Blogger.com

I will make one more attempt to rewrite and repost the blog today. Thanks for your patience.

After a much needed nap in what was possibly the most comfortable bed ever, I tried Abi’s room again. Finally, he answered, telling me that when I called, he was sound asleep. I told him about Shroder’s shower setting off the fire alarm. He said he’d heard the alarm, but rolled right over and went back to sleep. I asked if he wanted to go find some dinner, and he agreed.

The lobby of the Copthorne was full of the crew, all thinking about getting some dinner. Personally, I don’t like going out to a large ‘freelance crew dinner’ because it always takes forever to get served, then, when the bill comes, the people that conveniently ordered five bottles of expensive wine expect everyone to just split the cost. Plus, I work with these people every week, and have heard every one of their stories, lies and tall tales. No thanks, I’d rather sneak away.

The queue (see how British I have already become?) for cabs was forty-five minutes long. Faced with the choice of waiting with the crew or walking to the nearest restaurant in pouring rain, we opted for the latter. Getting away from the most septic of the Yanks is always a priority.

We walked to a Mexican restaurant, oddly enough staffed entirely by Russians. You always know you are in for a culinary treat when the Mexican restaurant has somehow run out of Margaritas. This was obviously a restaurant that aimed for the middle, and almost achieved mediocrity. But in their defense, I doubt most of the employees could even point out Mexico on a map.

The train platform was directly across from the restaurant, so after the most forgettable dinner in a while, we decided to take the tram to City Center, in search of a proper pub to get properly ….ed in. (The internet terminal I am at in the airport will not let me type the word p-i-s-s-e-d for some reason. Strange.) While we were trying to stuff a bill into the ticket machine, four dead ringers for the Spice Girls came up and watched us struggle, clearly we amused them greatly.

Our problem was the damn machine wouldn’t accept our money. Try as we might, the machine refused our various British bills. So we stood there, looking like idiots, while the Spice Girls laughed and laughed. Finally, we stepped away from the infernal machine.

Smartass Spice turned to us and said, “Well, you can’t just jam a bill in and hope for the best you know. You have to pick your destination first.”

Pointing to the left side of the machine, Lezbo Spice, the clearly frustrated one, added, “And just look at that! Why, there are DIRECTIONS, right HERE! But you’re men, and men don’t bother with directions, now do you?”

I guess that’s universal too. Coming to our rescue, the tiny Sugar and Spice sweetly added, “I always have trouble with these machnes too.” To which the fat one, Spice Rack said, “That’s because you’re always drunk.”

What a fun night these four birds were having! And completely at our expense. Once the Spice Girls grew tired of taunting us, they moved down the platform, and we purchased tickets to Piccadilly Gardens, for the low, low price of 1 pound each. And for all that trouble, nobody ever asked to see our ticket once in the entire trip. I have no idea why we even bothered buying the tickets at all.

Downtown was, in a word, disappointing. Pubs, at least the ones that were open, were so smoke filled that the Copthorne smoke detectors would have a field day. And the ones that looked like they might be some fun had those annoying bouncers in front that never, EVER let us in. From experience, these pricks can ALWAYS find a reason to not allow access to their exclusive bars. Rather than be rejected for not having the right shoes or something place after place, we called it an early night, taking a cab back to the Copthorne.

After my five and a half/seven hour flight to Manchester, it was a quick ten minute ride to the Copthorne hotel. My main objective for the day was to get my cell phone unlocked, allowing me to use a UK SIM card, which is cheaper than using Cingular. Coming across Guinness would just be a bonus.

I called Abi’s room, but mysteriously there was no answer. So, I made arrangements to meet another friend nicknamed Shroder in the Copthorne lobby. I quickly showered and headed down. Arriving a few minutes early, I grabbed a British newspaper and waited. Suddenly, my reading about Paris Hilton’s fabulous visit to Manchester was interrupted by the blaring WEEE–OOOOP!! WEE–OOOOOOP!! WEE–OOOOOOP!! of the hotel fire alarm. I chuckled as people started running for the door.

This was actually the second fire alarm ‘scare’ for me that week. Last Wednesday in the Providence airport as I was waiting for my luggage, suddenly I heard BEE-DOOOOO!! BEE-DOOOOO!! BEE-DOOOOO!! Exciting flashing lights lit the walls, and… nobody did anything. People stared blankly at the non-moving luggage rack, waiting. After a short while of this drama, airport personnel made the following announcement: “For those passengers on Delta Flight 44 waiting for their luggage, the luggage belt will not operate until the fire alarm is cleared. Thanks for your patience.”

I doubt it ever even occurred to anyone that there was a possibility the airport was on fire. The same idea failed to occur to me as I was waiting in the Copthorne lobby, casually reading the paper. The hotel manager came rushing over to me with a serious look and said, “Sir! That’s the FIRE ALARM!”

“I know, I hear it. Can you turn it off? It’s making it hard to read.”

Horrified, he practically screamed, “Sir! You MUST leave the premises AT ONCE!”

Ok, I could see that Mr. Bean was going to hover nervously until I left the premises, so, reluctantly I did. Soon two fire trucks screamed into the parking lot, firemen scrambled out of the truck in full fireman gear, readying axes and hoses and nozzles and other fun looking fire fighting tools, and rushed into the building. How exciting!

Unfortunately, three minutes later they came back out. Mr. Bean told the anxious crowd all was clear, we could come back in. False alarm!

I’d noticed that throughout all the excitement, Shroder was nowhere to be found. Ten minutes later he finally wandered into the lobby. I had to ask him if he’d even heard the fire alarm.

“Hear it? Yeah I heard it. I set the fucking thing off by showering with my bathroom door open! Who knew? Then I was standing there dripping when some lady starts pounding on the door screaming how she had to come in and check the room. I told her I was naked and to wait until I at least grabbed a towel. She came in and looked for a fire. This place is stupid.”

I have to agree, if shower steam can set off a fire alarm… that kind of thing must happen at the Copthorne every day. You’d think the hotel would fix that.

We took a cab to City Center in search of one of the little wizards that have mastered the dark illicit art of phone unlocking. I was amazed at how unique downtown Manchester is:

If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was in Cleveland. I did like this store though:

I asked a few people where I might be able to get my phone unlocked, and most reacted as if I had asked where I could score some crack. The same thing happened the last time I tried to get my phone unlocked. People literally gasp then say it can’t be done.

But the thing is, there are stores in every British city with huge “Phone Unlocking” signs out front. I knew if I wandered through this Cleveland-esque city long enough I would find one.

I passed a few street musicians that were quite good, especially this one man band. It’s a little hard to see, but he had a mallet attached to his hat, and would hit a cymbal by nodding his head in time with the beat.

Besides the obvious American influence, Manchester does have its fair share of old cathedrals and, of course, a Ferris wheel.

And finally, I saw this place that made me laugh. Would you really get a tattoo here?

Finally, I found a store that could unlock my phone for ten British pounds. Surprisingly, it was very easy after the ordeal of actually finding the place. Shroder and I decided to rehydrate in a local sports pub, where the gaily named Man City was playing Newcastle in a spirited soccer match.

As we were enjoying our refreshments, someone came up to Shroder and said, “Marrd ah leeng harrfh?” At least that is what it sounded like. We both stared at the guy blankly. He repeated, “Marrd ah leeng harrfh?” with a quizzical look on his face.

Shroder, trying to be helpful offered the score of the game. “Uh, it’s zero zero.” The guy gave me a look that said, ‘Are you possibly less retarded than this bloke?’ When I shrugged my shoulder, he went off to annoy someone else, who promptly answered his question.

After lunch, we retrieved my newly unlocked phone. I tried to call Abi’s UK number, but it wasn’t in service. Strange. The cab ride back to the Copthorne cost more than phone surgery did. The cab driver turned on a microphone up front and hacked and coughed at us through the speakers in the back the whole trip.

Safely back at the Copthorne, I took a well needed nap to rest up for the evening’s activities.

I’m off to Ireland now for a few days of Guinness therapy. Not sure what the internet access will be like, so it may be a few days until I can finish this boring saga.

It’s time once again for my semi-annual WWE sponsored vacation to the UK. This time Manchester will be the unfortunate recipient of the WWE TV crew, or, as we have been called in the past, ‘Invasion of the Septic Yanks.’

International travel is usually painful. The best thing to do is try to remain optimistic, because there’s really nothing you can do about it anyway. During the inane pre-flight announcements, Captain Tom O’Connell came on, with a voice that sounded like Smithers from the Simpsons – if he was full of Vicodin, and said, “Folks, I have some good news! Our flight time to Manchester will only be five and a half hours instead of the listed seven.”

Wow, that’s really some good news, isn’t it? An hour and a half saved! Perfect. We pushed back from the gate at JFK, and within five minutes, it all fell apart.

As our plane stopped moving, Captain Smithers came back on and said, “Folks, you ever try driving over the bridges and tunnels in Manhattan? Well, there’s usually traffic, and that’s what’s happening to us now. We’re kind of stuck right now. Hopefully, I’ll have some taxi information very soon.”

Hang on a second… we have to take this plane through a tunnel? What the hell is going on up in that cockpit anyway?

And then, still on the ground, the engines shut down. Then, they started the movie. That’s usually a good indication that you’re probably going to be sitting for a while.

And sit we did. For an hour and a half, occasionally interrupted by some optimistic comments from the captain, such as, ” Folks, this is actually pretty typical for leaving New York for Europe on a Friday. Everyone wants to come to New York after all!”

Uhh, yeah, except for the hundred fifty of us that want to get the fuck outta this place!

After twenty minutes, Captain Smithers came back on with more dribble. “Folks, don’t worry, we build long taxi times into every flight leaving JFK. This flight has an hour and a half scheduled for taxi time, so the good news is, as long as we take off within a half hour, we will land in Manchester on time!” He continued, “And more good news? We are at the front of the line to wait, with thirty eight aircrafts behind us. And hey, at least there’s no turbulence down here!”

Yeah, and it’s hard to crash too, but that doesn’t help, does it?

The final announcement before we took off: “Folks, we’ve been sitting here for an hour and forty minutes now, and… oh, hang on a second… well, good news! We are now fifth in line to take off. Sorry for the short delay.”

And with that, we finally took off for Manchester.

Congratulations Delta! For building hours of ground time into your schedule, including short delays of over an hour, you have officially been awarded the prestigious GFY award!

After riding my BMW F650 Dakar, essentially a glorified dirt bike, to Alaska, and riding in a tight crouch across the United States on the Hayabusa, I’ll admit it, I am tired of not being comfortable on long motorcycle rides. I’m tired of strapping a duffel bag on a bike and hoping it doesn’t get stolen during lunch. And as far as the Hayabusa goes, tired of the constant worry of getting a HUGE speeding ticket!

So, after much research, deliberation and thought, and with some sadness, I traded both the tight-crouch Hayabusa and the dirtbike-like F650 for a new 2006 Yamaha FJR 1300. This bike is my seventh motorcyle purchase thus far.

Yes, my ‘stable’ has downsized, but from my initial rides on this incredible machine, it was the right way to go. 145 HP, 6.6 gallons of gas, locking waterproof bags, anti lock brakes, and best of all – all day long comfort, so far it is EXACTLY what I’ve been looking for.

I hope this new bike doesn’t make Stormbringer angry!