Concrete Jungle In Which Dreams Are Made - Part 1

It all began as a bet.

"Look, Burnhill, with the latest advancements in automobiles and the development of vulcanised tyres it must surely be possible to traverse this wretched globe in less than 40 days", spluttered Lord Samwise Hancock III, now on his third glass of whisky. "And I will wager you 10 shillings and 9 pence that I make it to Manhattan before you can even say 'floccinorsihilpilification'"

Projected shadows from the open fire danced upon the mahogany walls of the Kensington Gentleman's Club in which my esteemed colleague, the erstwile Director of HD Decisions, and I had ensconced ourselves for the evening. The intoxicating smoke that thickened the air, a combination of firewood and expensive cigars, produced a woozy feeling within me that dulled my otherwise keen sense of distrust when considering betting against Sam, such was his luck in all matters of life.

"An interesting proposition...", I opined, "but there is the matter of the dying chi-"

"Pish posh old boy, " he retorted, a twinkle of childish mischief flashing in his bespectacled eyes, "those rotten children can bloody well intubate themselves for a week. It'll be fun, and besides, when did you last go on holiday..."

And so it was with that that we struck up a plan to travel to the Windy City. Or is it the Big Apple. Somewhere beyond the sea at least.

Day 1 

I awoke, as is often the case, cripplingly alone. Beyond the door to my room I could hear the hushed mumblings of post-coital discussion. I rolled over and pulled the blankets over my head.

The rule of the house, as laid down after the night where I had to sleep in my own car to avoid the banging noises, is that laisez-faire sexual encounters are to be allowed only on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and only when it has been less than a month since I got any action. It having been, well, twenty something years since I'd so much as encountered a vagina (and, even then, it was in 4th year O&G and that shit was grosssss) I'd hoped that the trail of hastily removed girly boots, bag, scarf, bra, hoisery, knickers, condom packets, additional condom packets and rhinohorn leading in the direction of the housemate's room might be indicative of something altogether more wholesome, like an accidental spill of concentrated sulphuric acid, or sevofluroane induced malignant hyperthermia. Alas, my ever optimistic outlook had got it wrong again.

"No matter", I thought to myself "I'll get plenty of action in NYC. They'll love the accent. And Americans don't care at all about how tall a man is [except Julie] or how curly his hair is [except Julie]"

Stupid Julie

I fell back asleep, muttering.

Some minutes later there was a knock at the door. "Oi! Burn'ill, Taxi's here, I've left the bird to clean herself up so let's gerrat of 'ere", Sam was, apparently, from Mansfield today.

The decision to take a taxi to the airport, though seemingly frivolous, was not made lightly and should not be mocked. Certainly, there are cheaper ways of getting to the airport - a private jet, or helicopter perhaps - but none has the endearing charm of the taxi. Who can resist the traditional London cabbie "Strike-a-light guvna, apples and pears, chim chim cherroo" gayly whisking you through the fine autumnal british countryside, interjecting from time to time with interesting tidbits of local knowledge "See that chimney over there, boss? That's where me grandfather first invented the supperplate. Until then we only 'ad sideplates, you see, and so no-one was able to bladdy eat a propa eel pie, nods as good as a wink to a blind 'orse".

The actual journey, sadly, did not entirely live up to this rosy expectation. Upon entering the taxi (recently, and I mean RECENTLY, vacated by drunken medical students vomiting, urinating and otherwise contaminating with bodily fluids in general) we were greeted by the calming and always appreciated melodic tones of Islamic Worship Music which was undoubtedly improved by the subtle use of piping it directly into our ears at maximum volume.

"Where did you FIND this Taxi?", Sam tried to ask but was largely overriden by instructions to - right at this moment, please definitely, no we're not joking now - praise Allah.
"جوجل", I replied solemnly, realising immediately my mistake.

Fortunately, at some extremely late stage in the journey, Sam discovered the Master On/Off switch for the wonderful musical treat and we were able to talk once more. We discussed many pressing issues, such as how to get your trousers in the right way to avoid creases, as the car thudded and rattled through foggy landscapes akin to that described a Dickensian Halloween Novel (I suggest you go read one of those now to get the idea.) before eventually, and miraculously, finally arriving at Heathrow without mishap.

Fast-forward umpteen hours and we find ourselves seated on the plane; excitement or, possibly, nitrogen permeating the air. To my left was sitting Icena McQueen, an 8ft tall American with librarian glasses and a penchant for cool offishness. Having introduced herself by leaving all of her aeroplane accessories (pillow, blanket thing, cheap headphones, in-flight magazine, jet fuel) on what was to eventually (and I mean EVENTUALLY) become my seat she continued to impress me with her nonchalance towards moving any of her shit and then - when I finally found myself seated but suffocating under a pile of low-quality airline bedding - refusing to allow any of it to go on the floor. Or in her seat. Or anywhere but my lungs.

My brewing hatred for this person was rapidly but on rain-check, however, when the plane began to take off and, shortly afterwards, appeared to start dramatically falling apart. Nary has an ascent been so reminiscent of an American disaster movie, particularly given the screaming women and oxygen tubing and when the wings fell off, well, I was truly worried... Fortunately things settled down, and later the First Officer (Captain was, presumably, dead) apologised to us for not having spoken since the beginning of the journey because things were quote unquote "hectic" at the start of the flight. Hashtag Reassuring Hashtag Could have died a virgin (passenger).

To add some excitement mid-flight (the films were a poor selection and the quality of the screen was such that you couldn't see them anyway) I decided to pour scolding tea into my crotch. Which was nice. I mean, who doesn't enjoy the tea-stained jeans look and the burned, ulcered, genitals. At this point Ice Queen O'Leary actually took action and gained me some paper napkins to dry my crotch. How very pleasant. Like something out of a romance with Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan. Unfortunately further investment in conversation revealed that she was somehow immune to my hilarious charms and, somewhat more concerningly, didn't care for Sam's hair much either. Worst of all she used a Microsoft Surface tablet and Windows Phone so, to all intents and purposes, is a moron.

Enough about her anyway.

On arrival at JFK we queued for literally an hour to get through customs, or immigration, or whatever it is that they have relabelled 'likely anal-fisting' as these days. Sam was growing increasingly agitated as his sick Nash Equilibrium based queue selection skills were overruled by the security officer and we were placed in the slowest imaginable queue. As a result we (he) decided to move to the next booth along which was totally devoid of queuers.

Big mistake.

The guy in that booth had clearly just found out that a plane, piloted by his new wife and carrying his entire family just crashed into his uninsured house and he has inoperable cancer. That or his life just sucked major ass. For this reason he decided to make everyone's life different.

"Hello Sir", he stated loudly "How long are you staying for?"
"Errr. We're staying in the Archer Hotel", guessed Sam, entirely unaware of the actual question
"No. " the man replied, growing angry "I SAID How long are you staying for?"
"Errr... In a right triangle, the square of the hypotenuse is equal to the the sum of the squre of the two remaining sides?"
"I'm gon' ask you one more time, nancy boi. How long you stayin'?"
"Oh I see, sorry just 4 days"
"Where are you staying?"

And so it went on, until Sam had run off somewhere (presumably Guantanemo) crying.

I was next, and given the grilling Sam got about locations, I got my phone out to get the address of the hotel. The man did not like this at all and made me put my phone away or he'd have me arrested (can he... do that?). Then he decided to quiz my about my travels to West Africa (Zanzibar, the only place I've been in Africa is SO East that it's not even on the fricking mainland). In the end I survived with my rectum intact, but it was a close affair.

Eventually, after a very hairy taxi ride with some very loud manchunians we got to out hotel, which was blissfully posh and welcoming. We headed straight out for a steak the size of my face ($60) and drank some very delicious red wine ($60). The waiter was impressively American and knew more about steak than I know about... er... melancholy and won my heart forever by suggesting Sam and I are the "kinda guys who wanna go out and pull hot chicks or night", with some air that we might even be successful.

Instead we headed on a brief sight seeing tour and then went to bed.

Separately.

In a totally non gay way.

Day 2 to appear one day... maybe.