Monday 5 April 2010

Dawdlin in Nawlins

Dawdlins in Nawlins

Our Calvinistic work ethic and sense of duty meant it was impossible for us to refuse the most generous invitation from the CMAA to attend the World Conference. Assuring our friends and colleagues that we were embarking on a gruelling, week-long, energy sapping education event perhaps lost some credibility when it was explained that this was to take place in one of the great party cities of the world. Rather unfairly, in our opinion, it was assumed that such a trip was being treated as an excuse to carouse and behave like the hedonists we clearly are not cut out to be.

We trooped towards our journey therefore, rather aggrieved and determined to prove the world wrong. Ah, but our resolve was to be sorely tested!

The window seat that I occupied provided an uninterrupted view of the snow clad fields of Lincolnshire as we made our way towards the USA from Amsterdam. This was of mixed benefit, bringing some interest to the journey, whilst at the same time enabling us to note that after travelling for four hours, we flew over Largs, from whence we came.




The cabin crew were perfunctory in their treatment of us but after three bottles of wine, why should we care? Detroit loomed quickly and we trailed through US immigration with the standard interrogation of our motives.
“A golf conference huh! Does that make you a golfer?”
Despite my urge to reply “DOH!” I refrained and we scooted through as best I could.

Detroit Airport was an unexpected boost to two already weary travellers. The two terminals are separated by a runway and therefore require to be connected, being so by a substantial tunnel. Some visionary had seen the sense in bringing some fun to this situation by lining the walls of this tunnel with glass panels displaying an ever changing light show accompanied by chill-out music.


Appearing from the tunnel wide-eyed and smiling, we stepped forward lighter than before. The fact that both Jim and I wanted to stand in the middle and gasp “Wow!” did not seem to be shared by our fellow travellers and we had to content ourselves with a few photos instead. The hour long wait for our flight was, in our opinion, best spent at the bar and it was here that we encountered our first Louisianan. Perched next to us was a diminutive southern man with the unlikely name of Keith Hebert (Eh-bear)

Keith was a pleasure to talk to and through him we learned a little of what New Orleans had in store. Urbane, polite and well travelled, Mr Hebert was the first of many people we met who were super-keen for us to enjoy their favourite city. He explained that as a native of New Orleans, an obvious career was to work for the oil industry as many of the major corporations had large offices there. Following the hurricane, many jobs including his, have been relocated to Houston, which he described as soulless. Eschewing our offer of a pint, he left with advice that we must eat proper Cajun food and take in the music on Bourbon Street. Bidding Mr Hebert farewell, we supplemented our own company with another two beers before slipping down the corridor to our flight.


New Orleans
Calloused travelling Scots as we are, we were quick to establish who else at the taxi rank at New Orleans Airport was heading for the hotel and the unfortunate individual was press ganged into sharing our fare. Given that this was the first American delegate that we had encountered, our enthusiasm for his company spilled beyond the basic need to save money. “Where are you from, how many conferences have you attended, how is your club doing?” The answers issued by our friend in the back of the cab made Marcel Marceau seem loquacious, so we contained our enthusiasm for the future, assuming that our friend was just travel weary.


Happily, Jim and I share much the same habits and we were able to check-in, refresh ourselves and head downtown in a matter of minutes. Finding a decent eating place in New Orleans is not difficult but I was pleased that we stumbled across somewhere authentic and charming. Thankfully, our Gumbo and shrimp did not disappoint and it was fairly priced at $15. We chatted amiably with the spinster (and far too slim) cook from the Midwest who was holidaying in Louisiana for culinary inspiration.



In addition to our first meal providing a hint of the good food that we were to enjoy, we discovered that the good people of the Southern States enjoy their dark beer and we tucked into their local brew with the effort required to set up a decent long sleep. Crashing at 9.00 pm, we were delighted that the beer had done the trick and we woke at 6.00 am, fresh as lemon juice.

Walking to the conference centre was a joy. Blue sky, warm air and the forbidding Mississippi providing a relaxing backdrop for our journey. Sadly we were too early to enjoy breakfast in The Riverside Mall and we were therefore forced to sample the dubious pleasures of the conference centre cafe. Surveying the scene carefully we decided that the ‘Classic Southern Breakfast’ would set us up nicely and ordered the same for two.

The sausages were good and the fact that the entire meal was tepid was no surprise for a conference centre. What was more of a surprise was the five star surliness of the staff:

‘Whaddaya want?’
‘A Classic Southern Breakfast please’
‘We’ve no eggs’
‘What in that case, could you tempt me with as a replacement?’
‘Huh?’
‘Could we have some bacon?’
‘Not with the Classic Southern!’
‘Could we have some scones?’
‘Huh?’
‘Those things’
‘You mean biscuits?’
‘If that is what they are called, yes’

‘Not with the Classic Southern!’

Having run out of options, we asked for more hash browns instead, which duly arrived on our paper plates with all the finesse of a brick layer trowelling cement.

The vastness of the shopping centre meant that by walking around the several hundred stands, we expended just as many calories as we could stuff down our throats in free samples. Many delightful people were met and a variety of fascinating goods and services associated with the club industry were investigated on route between free cookies and vintage rum.

A little footsore from our fossicking, we opted to take the shuttle bus back to the conference hotel, allowing ourselves a few carefully considered minutes at the bar before heading to the President’s reception. Every minute spent at the Marriott bar must be carefully considered, given the amount of money that it costs to do so. Arriving at the 37th floor, we entered the reception when ‘Old Tom Morris’ was in full flow and the canapés were being liberally dispensed. This is always a good time to join a party as allows the opportunity to scan the room and slot yourself in beside already established good company. This we duly did with Max Mason and Terry Conroy, who represented the Australian Club Managers involved at the conference.

Max and Terry are of the same generation, of similar backgrounds and a shared profession but display quite different personalities. I would be unsurprised to learn that Max had run a bar in a tough mining town in the new territories maintaining discipline with his rigid will and excoriating wit. His leaden features belie a core as sensitive as molten rock but he is good fun nonetheless. Terry on the other hand has a sparkle and a cheeky smile that I imagine maintains his popularity within the global club industry despite being Australian.

Time spent with our Ozzie cousins contains a number of laughs and no embarrassment at the amount we drink.

With the party breaking up, our next social engagement beckoned and we slipped off to meet Tom Robshaw and to share a meal with him. Tom is an amiable and surprisingly forgiving benefactor to Jim and me. His acceptance of the gentle ribbing sent his way all evening does not seem to dampen his enthusiasm for our company and it is very easy to share his hospitality. Our fellow guests for the meal were Albert and Reine, both of whom were happy to engage in our sense of humour without blood being spilt. Albert Donlou is Tom’s European agent whose Dutch upbringing has provided him with the predictable confidence and directness that I associate with this nationality. Reine Dahl on the other hand was a soft spoken American living in Montana and was the owner of a successful country club. We all agreed that the chosen restaurant was a little disappointing on first inspection; being large, noisy and a touch impersonal. I found this to be most noticeable after the quiet and distinctive ambience of the first eating house we had visited the previous night. However, the food did not let us down, with the seafood dishes we all ordered being of the highest quality.




The crack was such that Jim and I happily scurried past the predictably lurid night clubs of Bourbon Street to enjoy a contemplative dram with our new friends at the hotel bar. We were, as Greg Paterson often reminds us, on an adventure and thankfully the chosen company was content to follow our chosen route.

The second day at the show will always be a disappointment and although this is partly due to the ever dwindling free goods, the familiarity of the goods and services lead to a shorter time spent in the great halls. Leaving the show at lunchtime for something more substantial to eat than free cookies, we settled down in the warm sunshine next to the Mississippi for some shrimp Gumbo. All of a sudden, an Australian brogue cut the air ‘its David isn’t it?’ Instantly recognisable was Rex, the Terralift man. Doing great business in Europe with his fertiliser made from chicken manure, he remains grateful for my willingness to spread his product, smells and all, around Linlithgow golf course. Catching up for an hour with Rex in the Louisianan warmth added another subtle pleasure to my already very palatable lunch overlooking the bustling river and it helped us decide that we had seen all that had to be seen at the show.



What certainly did not disappoint was the networking party organised by the good people of New Orleans. The charmless and impersonal Marriott was transformed for one night into a Bourbon Street nightclub with the most impressive cabaret act that I have ever had the joy of experiencing. The preamble to this was an array of southern food, sampled in the company of new friends and casual acquaintances. My resolution was to make an effort to meet new people; foisting my ebullience on unfortunate victims of my inquisitive nature. Like any lucky dip, you are more likely to retrieve a Gonk than a star prize and so it proved with my initial efforts.

My first encounter was with a husband and wife duo who were of the uber-achieving (if you could believe them) social-climbing, nasty new money type. They gushed at hearing my accent and were interested for a nano second that I was at ‘such an old club’ but they quickly moved on to more familiar territory and droned on for an age about how brilliant they were. Relief arrived in the form of genial Jim Singerling, who as the consummate host was moving through the crowd and making contact with as many members as was reasonable. ‘Hey David’ came the salutation, ‘how are you? Is the room ok? Are the treating you well?’ A brief but warm repartee ensued before my now erstwhile new-money friends thrust their eager personalities in front of the big man. Taking my leave and my now restored good humour to the other side of the room, I continued to blindly mingle.

Encountering more Gonks of a variety of sizes, shapes and humours, I ended up on the dance floor and boogied away with a selection of unsuspecting ladies, including the lovely Marisa Reilly. The James Brown tribute act was, as already mentioned, sublime and it was a great sadness for this to come to an end, especially as I had the great fortune to dance with the shapely and beguiling New Orleans party organiser, whose looks and company would command respect in any environment.

Still tapping my feet to the now drifting music and smiling inanely as stupid men are apt to do, I bobbed along to the pudding table for a final piece of cake. It was here that I eventually drew the winning lottery ticket when encountering Rick and Marcia Beymer. My so far dour and often misguided attempts at social engagement had been met with blank looks and it was therefore a pleasure and a surprise to find two people who smiled at my intrusion into their evening.





Forming an instant bond, we resolved to visit the famed Preservation Hall together. The Beymers proved to be the most charming company imaginable and despite having little in common outside our job, we chatted easily through the music all evening.

Saturday saw the commencement of the Education Conference, which never fails to match expectations with great speakers delivering meaningful content to interested audiences. As always, Jim and I retired to the bar to digest the day’s learning’s and the expensive beer in equal measure. Sharing our own company, we ended the evening in a fine eatery in the French quarter and managed an early night.




Sunday brought the International Symposium with its polyglot audience teaching each other that club members are as grumpy and demanding in Columbia as they are in Cowdenbeath. Our choice of decompression after our learning journey was to share an evening with the indomitable Greg Paterson and a small crowd that he had picked up along the way. Meeting in the hotel lobby, we were informed that one of the party knew an excellent French restaurant a short walk from the hotel.

Assembled in a gang, we marched off behind our elected leader to enjoy a well prepared meal beautifully served in charismatic surroundings. As we passed each block, our anticipation as well as our anticipation grew exponentially. Corners were turned, streets traversed and further into New Orleans we explored. ‘It’s just around the corner’ implored our leader for the fourth time until at last, under scaffolding, a darkened, forlorn and obviously closed cafe was espied.

‘Don’t worry’, cried our leader, ‘I know of somewhere else’. Sweating visibly and breathing heavily from his anxiety as much as the exercise, the pathfinder scurried quickly trying to source our elusive grand meal.

‘Aha! I knew it was here’. Sitting proudly in the middle of the block was an unkempt, low-grade diner proclaiming that it was ‘Mother’s Restaurant – World’s Best Home Baked Ham’.
It was somehow far more fitting to the occasion than a plush velveteen Gallic affair and we merrily made our way in. It was a unique offering. The walls were adorned with celebrities who had made a different kind of pilgrimage to ours but could not have had a better time. The ordering system, well known to anyone who has used a ‘sit-in’ service at a British Chippy, was to choose your meal at a stainless steel counter and pay at the till on the end. A notice strictly instructed that tipping would not be tolerated and that there will be no cussing, spitting or fighting. I am quite sure that the notice was all that was required to keep order in such an establishment.




Using a large round table that comfortably accommodated all eight of us, we were effectively, if perfunctorily, served our meals. Pallid beer washed down fresh and well prepared food that as garnished with enlivening company. The plastic tables, chairs, plates and glasses fitted the mood perfectly and proved the point that decent food with good company can be enjoyed in any environment.




Our final day at the Conference provided some moral guidance from the wisdom of Brian Dodge, whose high energy presentation lifted those in the room to an almost spiritual plane. Although not quite in that zone, I found the benefit of his philosophy for many months to come.

The final evening in New Orleans started with a final rendezvous in the hotel bar and a beer with Rick Beymer. Rick had enjoyed his limited time with the Scots to the extent that he had bid an extravagance to win the golf trip to the Home of Golf provided by my friends back home. Such largesse on the part of Mr. Beymer was entitled to be rewarded by a beer, which allowed us time to reflect on our short time spent together and conclude that we should definitely meet again.

Jim and I then made our way to spend the rest of the evening with Pat and Stefan Sheistl, plus assorted others in an establishment of Teutonic proportions, being as it was, a German restaurant. The wine flowed, the crack was sublime and the food was good. Alan Threadgold displayed a uniquely Irish charm, telling anecdotes with an understated wit and cheeky grin. Poor old ? was suffering greatly from the cold but manfully kept up with the pace. It was a grand way to finish off the conference in a social sense and we retired weary but happy.





Jim was convinced that we should spend one last day with Greg and I was persuaded to hang on for one more morning. It was worth it but perhaps not the most uplifting of experiences, being as it was, an hour of Greg’s sweat and angst that went by in a blur of stinging emotion.

With his sermon ringing in our ears, we sloped off to the airport quietly.

The now customary road trip had been arranged with our usual last minute haste and as normal, it turned out to be a cracker.

Looking simply for advice, I had emailed a Crail Golfing Society member who resides 300 miles north of New Orleans and asked if Memphis was worth visiting. Denis Tosh answered by saying that if we were going that far, we were instructed to stay at his house. His guarantee as a Crail member that we would enjoy Oxford, Tennessee was worth saying yes to and we paid far too much for a rental car and sailed north. Dennis had instructed us to find a filling station on Jackson Avenue in his home town and call him from there. A slightly circuitous route through town led us to an appropriately open gas station where we attempted to work a pump whilst waiting for Dennis.

Inserting cards, pulling triggers and pressing buttons had no effect on the machine and I was forced inside to ask for assistance. Standing before me was what could be politely referred to as movie standard redneck material. Stooping slightly, bending his head to one side, he spat some tobacco into a plastic tub and proudly stated ‘You can’t do it, can ya?’ My reply was greeted with another question:
‘where y’all from? Scotland eh? Where it all bega-yan’
As I was wearing a golf sweater I asked if he was referring to my chosen sport of golf:
‘Nope, the Presbytery church’.
He then jabbed at a till and declared that I could fill up. ‘But I thought I had to pay first?’ His chilling response concentrated my mind:
‘You ain’t going nowhere, I got you covered!’

Relieved as we were to get the car filled up, we were more relieved to see Dennis swoosh into the gas station and lead us to sanity.

Dennis and Beth proved to be the perfect hosts to show us around the picture postcard southern town of Oxford. Famed recently for being the home town of John Grisham, Oxford was previously best known for its University, known universally as ‘Ole Miss’. The architecture, the confederate war memorials and the people were as directly lifted from a Grisham movie. Unsurprisingly. Our tour started with a trip for a proper southern breakfast. In complete contrast to our so-called ‘Southern Classic’ at the Convention centre, this was the real deal. Country Ham, biscuit, gravy and grits. It is not a combination that many people would welcome on the same plate but sitting in the cosy cafe, watching the rain batter down, it felt good. We were joined at breakfast by Dennis’s great friend and fellow Crail member, Ron Hipp. Both men display a pride in their town that is highly infectious and a joy to witness.

A short trip was taken to Oxford Country Club and we had the somewhat surreal experience of playing on dormant Bermuda grass. To Jim and me, it was akin to playing on dead grass but the colour was deceptive and the course played beautifully. Jim, as usual, played his brand of immaculate golf and we were joined by Alan, who complimented our little group perfectly as we thrashed about on brown grass. After the game, it was agreed that we would meet Alan and Ron at a gathering arranged at Ron’s house for that evening and so we parted with Dennis taking us to the town square for a souvenir.

Wandering around the small town centre, I felt as if Atticus Finch must have treaded the same pavements or that James Stewart ran the local Savings and Loan Bank. The book shop was as charismatic as you would expect of a university town with the added attraction of plenty of Grisham memorabilia. The souvenir of unique value was duly purchased, being a signed copy of Grisham’s latest offering.




Satisfied with our day so far, we adjourned to a bar to enjoy a dark beer on the balcony. No sooner had we settled when Dennis spotted my friendly gas station attendant ‘Hey Zirk’ (for that was his commonly used moniker) ‘You’re new Scottish friends are up here’.
‘Yeah’ replied the one-toothed character, ‘the ones who can’t work the gas!’




A quick change enabled us to head to Ron’s house for a wee dram with the Oxford golfers who have played Crail and we were astonished to find that this numbered 16!! Their enthusiasm for Scotland was highly touching and it was a treat to spend an hour in their company. Our evening finished with a splendid meal in the University Club with Dennis, Ron, Alan and their wives. It was a great sadness to say goodbye to such good people.




The uneventful trip home was punctuated by the odd moment of interest but ultimately, we were by this stage keen to return as quick as possible. As always, our American adventure provided us with unforgettable experiences and lasting friendships but the bonds that were forged seem stronger than usual. The intoxicating mix of great food, memorable architecture and music was made all the more heady by the pride the southerners show in their land.

Perhaps it was also our willingness to embrace the company and hospitality shown to us by all who we met and spent time with. Whatever was the case, I would not be surprised if we were unable to recreate the magic on the journey but it won’t be for the want of trying!

Saturday 6 March 2010

Din in in Disney

Din in in Disney

It’s Fargo as far as the eye can see. How long must some of these straights be on those roads? It’s a strange sadness and happy reminiscence that comes over me as I look out of the aeroplane – all I can see is my father-in-law Tom sitting here, clicking away with his camera. It seems wrong, irreverent even, not to be doing likewise. Only now, after flying for four hours is the snow disappearing. According to the map, we appear to have passed the Missouri and it seems to act like a moat, holding back the snow. Bismarck is on the other side of the plane and I haven’t seen any other habitation since the Isle of Man.

The Shiny Plane at LAX


The vehicle that I travelled in is was a Boeing 777 and the ‘Flight Attendants’ were priceless. It appears that Long Haul American Stewardess’s almost revel in living down to their reputation as surly. We had four lovelies on board and they gracelessly served us for nine hours without a smile. However it is perhaps a measure of their Prison Warder demeanour that every passenger behaved like lambs (although this is not a good description as we didn’t bleat or bounce around looking to be suckled, at least not many).

My short term/long haul travelling companion was a pleasant Chinese student who called herself Kate but I suspect is really named Fan (as she wrote on her customs card). She was educated in Lancaster and LA before studying an MBA in Paris. How this all came about is and will remain shrouded in mystery.

Refreshments were provided and Golf World consumed, book finished and anodyne Robin Williams film watched. Consistent with Oberfluglutenant’s disposition, my request for wine to go with my meal was met with predictable disdain. I was charged £3 ($5) and no please or thank you was proffered. I needed to sleep but was too excited to do so.



Day One
What a start. I rashly assumed that just because the plane that I boarded left before the BA flight from Heathrow, I would arrive sooner than my fellow Brits. How wrong could I be! One and a half hours of wandering aimlessly led me to believe that I was on my own, so I resolved to take some action. Being my father’s son, I immediately sniffed out the cheapest way of travelling the distance that mistakenly thought was only 35 miles. The gleaming and ludicrously well liveried coach glided to a halt in the appropriate place, with Marvin the wiry, diminutive black driver assuaging all my anxieties with his well practised “Hop on board for the Anaheim Marriott”.
Marvin’s Mean Machine

What an education.
It turns out that although my Internet sources were correct in assessing the distance as 35 miles, it became apparent that one mile on an LA Freeway is the equivalent of one week of terror on the M25. Marvin displayed all of the courage, wisdom and bravado that had been trained into him as a young cadet in the ‘Mili-tar-ee’. He explained that his training in America’s finest prepared him better for life in his ‘Six-tee-een Wheel-er’ than it did for his stints in Vietnam.

Expressing my surprise that there were only two passengers in his lovely bus, Marvin explained that in his three trips to LAX that day, it had never been busier. Oh how I wish that I’d paid more attention to his driving technique, for little was I to know how I needed Army driver training for future freeway forays.

Safely dropped of at the hotel, I was checked in by the brightest young Samuel that I have ever had the pleasure to be checked in by. Bags dumped, I made straight for a recuperative libation and to my surprise (or otherwise) my erstwhile travelling companions were already well ensconced. Not only were Fish, Flanagan and Callaghan presented to their American public with drink in hand but they had already cornered a rich and influential blonde, Terin (Surname never to be determined). Beer, beer and wine inside me made me feel much less like myself and with tongue loosened many new friends were made, probably never to be seen again.

Chez Maison de la Conference

The next stage in the mini adventure was to find a restaurant that would seat three drunken Scotsmen, two merry Englishmen and a very sober Irishman. How appropriate therefore that we were warmly welcomed at a Mexican eatery masquerading as an Indian curry house. Pradip Singh Surjavi was a most excellent host with one of the least excellent red wines ever to be experienced. My chicken Korma was a safe choice to be accompanied by a unique Peshwari Naan cross Taco.

Stotting back to the hotel, my 30-hour day was clearly starting to catch up with me and going straight to bed was a good idea.

After waking at 4.00, 5.00 and 6.00 a.m. I eventually gave in to the body clock and prepared for the day ahead at 7.00 a.m. A hearty breakfast of coffee (damn fine coffee) and a muffin set me up for a strenuous day trudging around the biggest golf industry show in the world.

The four amigos shambled without direction around the show showing interest in Mrs Spunkmeyers Muffins, some vintage Jamaican Rum and some good old Scots Whisky cream liqueur. Thus fortified as only that concoction could fortify, we assessed that the rest of the show could be experienced in the morning and that we should visit Hollywood while we had the chance. Our next adventure…..
The concierge was an amiable young Californian who extolled the virtues of everything we asked to be extolled about. At this point, a less local guide, or at least someone who had travelled further than the end of the street would have been most useful to us. Conchitta, as was her name in a comic Californian/Mexican way, supplied us with enough information to know that there were two ways to get to Hollywood, neither of which she thought very much of. Deciding on the cheaper, slightly faster option of train we quickly strove towards the first Taxi in the rank.

Taxi No. 1
The driver was happy to take us to the station but even happier to persuade us to let him take us all the way to Hollywood Boulevard. For my own part, this was the second cheery chauffeur that I had experienced and Aarif was every bit as entertaining as Marvin. It turns out that our man was from Eritrea and although we considered his command of English rudimentary, he chuckled quietly all the way to LA at our rudimentary command of English. Grinding up route 5 to LA, our spirits sank lower with each mile until such time as we passed close by the City ‘Penitentiary’ that almost straddled the road. Knowing that we were scudding by at a snail’s pace beside many sad souls who could only dream of our level of luxury made us thank our lucky stars. Disgorged at a suitable part of our stated destination, we settled our fare and universally acclaimed the epicentre of the world’s movie HQ as a total DUMP! The only other street I could compare it with is Edgware Road on a bad day and even then the London street is still preferred to it’s seedy, grubby, uninteresting counterpart.

First stop was the Kodak cinema to see the set-up for the Oscars. We all agreed that despite the weather being so poor that we couldn’t even see the Hollywood sign on the hill above us, the glamour of the Oscar preparations would make up for it. So we dodged the cold stinging rain towards the delightfully grim gentlemen standing guard on the red carpet, who impolitely refused our request for a photo on the red carpet. No amount of entreaties would move them and we resorted to striking a pose outside the barriers after being informed that the area inside the cheap railings was an ‘ARREST ZONE’. As Groucho would have said “We’ve been refused entry to better places than this!”.

Some tacky tourist shops were trawled in vain to find a tasteful souvenir and so we decided that we had to imbibe spirits to lift our own. Upon discovering that the previously witnessed ‘Pig and Whistle’ was not a pub but a dreaded ‘theme’ restaurant we enquired of the amiable and well dressed, middle-aged, well healed poof where we could find a good bar. His recommendation could not be faulted. An original 1930’s Art Deco bar with black melamine table tops, black carpet and low level lighting, we exclaimed that this was exactly the sort of place that Starsky would meet Huggy Bear and would do nicely. The convivial Barmaid, Hope, was most keen for us to gain a better impression of her home town and so directed us to the fabled Sunset Strip. She kindly called a cab and also scribed the names of her favourite bars on a napkin.

Taxi No. 2
Mosha, the Israeli, was another good-natured chauffeur, who gladly took our hard earned dollars for the short ride from the grubby part of town to the slightly less grubby part of town.

First port of call, ‘The Standard Hotel’, all retro chic with brushed aluminium, neon and lava lamps. Lovely, expensive and deserted. We left quicker than we entered and found Mosha still trying to negotiate his entry to the street who took pity on us and took us the ½ mile back down the road to the ‘Chateau Marmont’. Ta Mosha. Up the drive we stepped to what was clearly an establishment well out of our blagging capabilities. Entering through the wrong door, we were star-struck by Jeff Goldblum and stated this loudly enough in our foreign accents to amuse the scruffy individual who we mistook for the kitchen porter. It was only later that we realised that said scruff was none other than young Leo di Caprio. Refused entry quicker than you could say ‘Titanic’, we gaily traipsed down the road to what was now our third attempt at finding a second drink. This time we hit our niche with a very run of the mill Sports bar with an eminently forgettable name along the lines of ‘Billy’s Bar’. Happy hour was what we thought to be good fortune until we tasted the beer. The barman was not the least bit surprised that we thought the product of his bar-taps little more preferred to bilge water and so was happy to serve up a bottled variety instead. Bottles drained, we searched the scruffy street for the next bar. This time, a faux Mexican Taverna took our eye and in we popped for more watery beer and bubblegum American culture. Bubblegum is a fairly accurate analogy in a Kevin Fish way, because what we experienced: the bars were inoffensive, palatable but only enjoyable for the first few minutes. You can keep chewing on this long after the initial flavour has gone (as we did by ordering tasteless tacos and watching shit sports TV) but it leaves you with an unrewarding experience. Our treasurer for the evening, Mr Fish, ran out of readies at this moment and much to the chagrin of our charming and very beautiful waitress, we could not stretch to a tip. Never was a ‘thank you’ delivered with more sarcasm.

Feeling at this point that we had all experienced better nightlife at our local bowling club, we stepped forward with the motto “next one better be good other wise we’re away hame”. The bucking bronco machine at the ‘Saddle Ranch’ did just enough for us to stay for one more drink.

Addled in the Saddle Ranch

This establishment was lavishly decked out in a very Hollywood Wild West fashion and sported a massive robotic steer in the middle of the bar. A series of gullible punters paid $10 for the privilege of (a) showing off in a macho way (b) showing off in an erotic way or (c) making an arse of themselves. We quickly figured out that the man controlling the robot ensured that the customers weren’t inconvenienced for long by blokes displaying (a) and (c), turning the speed up quickly to throw such numpties off. In contrast, the long legged females were left to writhe in a Kylie fashion for periods far too long for anyone’s good, however entertaining it happened to be.

Taxi No. 3

Mikhailo, our Georgian driver was the first sullen bastard we had encountered on our trip, which at this point started to take on different significance for the various passengers. From a personal perspective, not only had I experienced a distinctly average day out at some expense but my former friend Kevin insisted on turning up the volume on the CD that the mute driver had in his stereo. The fact that this CD was ‘The Greatest Hits of Richard Clayderman’ was more than my already depleted spirits could take. However, short of widowing Carol and depriving four pleasant kids of their father, Mr Fish was not for turning off the modestly talented pianist with the immodest fortune. The relief I felt when the journey ended could be measured in megatons.

Another trip around the show.
Rob Morton, Disney man was brilliant holding the attention of several hundred people and then getting them to work together in groups. Quite an achievement. Several more talks followed including a sparkling effort by Niall and his assistant, Kevin, before we again retired from learning and looked instead towards some more social networking.
The President’s reception was free and you get what you pay for in life. I felt honour-bound to go along but got the distinct impression that Herr Fhurer didn’t know or care if I was in the room. However, the nosh was nice and the drink was delicious. Jim and I then scarpered along to the Toro reception that we imagined would be a tad more interesting but imagined wrong. The entire evening was very convivial, with some charming people to speak to but as everyone was on their very best behaviour, it was all a little reserved for our tastes.

Education, Education, Education
The late start of 9.00 a.m. was most welcome, as was the splendid breakfast buffet laid on for the International guests. What could have been a long series of dull thank you speeches to the CMAA by the International Official representatives was instead a long series of dull thank you speeches interspersed with a cracker from the chap from Malaysia. Credit must also go to the Australian official who was a total Pro and entertaining in a ‘We stuffed the Poms at the Ashes’ sort of way but Mr Kuala Lumpur was different class. Generally, his delivery was a Ricky Gervais style, leaving the audience unsure if his command of English was so good that he could make very subtle jokes or if he was genuinely mis-translating. His Piece-de-la-resistance was when he invited the Americans to visit KL where the Malaysian twin towers are still standing. Oops but also oops! Once all the thank-yous were delivered, I trooped obediently to the ‘International Symposium’ where the Ritz Carlton speaker was very impressive. Making my excuses, I then made my way to a talk supplied by a firm of architects about clubhouse refurbishments. Interesting but not interesting enough to write about. Another lunch of coffee and cake and then a couple of more excellent speakers. Altogether a jolly satisfying day’s learning that was to be complemented perfectly by being invited to the New England Chapter’s conference reception. Kev, Jim and I gratefully accepted what was an amiable soiree, supplied by much drink and food in the form of hot pork rolls served by Manuel, one of the hotels’ more camp chefs. Manuel, as the name suggests was indeed from Mexico and was happy to supplement our meagre diet with as many rolls as we could politely stuff into ourselves. The company was convivial without being sparkling but the early evening slowly warmed into some deep belly laughs once the grown-ups had left. Some staged photographs had to be taken and once the party was over we agreed to congregate in the bar little knowing that the fun had only just begun.
Assembling in less than our usual haste for a beer, we quickly descended on the single pretty blond girl, who acquiesced to speak to us. We discovered that Caroline was on vacation and had left the kids in the room whilst she had some quiet time to herself, little knowing that we were going to appear. She was saved from an interminable grilling by the appearance of a petite brunette ordering a cup of tea. After uber-quick introductions, we learned that her name was Stephanie and that she had ordered a taxi to go downtown to a karaoke bar. Did we want to join her? Definitely. Stephanie then disappeared and as blokes the world over would attest, we were left with the feeling that we had just been spun a great line to get rid of us. We had no complaints, however, as we had Caroline for company and the prospect of a bar full of colleagues who we could irritate for hours. How wrong we were! Within a few minutes, Stephanie reappeared announcing that the taxi had arrived. Leaving Caroline to the platonic affections of Paul Jordan, we skipped towards adventures unknown. Some further brief introductions were made before we bounced into the minibus and headed downtown. The Karaoke bar was everything you would expect but a little less cheesy. Decent beer, decent staff and a decent gantry made us feel very welcome. Throwing ourselves into the spirit of the evening, Kevin, Jim and I spent the next half hour trawling the books of songs for anything that we could safely attempt. Finding a few titles that were feasible, we handed the napkins that were to be used as request forms, to the slightly eccentric MC. Thus supplied, we assumed that Mr. Californian Karaoke King would call upon us to perform, however he obviously felt that we hadn’t earned the right to sing until we had endured him assassinating at least six of his favourites tunes of all time ever. Not content with this aural torture, he then asked his two fellow eccentrics to be the first punters to ‘entertain’.

Eccentric Singer No.1 was what could be cruelly but accurately described as the archetypal trailer trash. Her implausibly high heels were complemented by an equally questionable leather corset that struggled to contain her capacious midriff. The mini-skirt that completed her outfit was far from a triumph. Eccentric No. 2 was more conservatively dressed in jeans and a tee-shirt and at this stage showed no signs of being anything other than a normal person.

Eventually, Jim and I were delighted to be the first victims of the night and we duly belted out ‘500 miles’ in a style befitting of Andy Pipkin and Brian Potter. Kevin, obviously far more used to this sort of thing, carried off his Elvis number with ease. Several more drinks and several more classic tunes slaughtered, we felt about ready to return to the hotel. It was at this stage that we noticed Miss Leather-corset’s friend had completely passed out sitting on a bar stool, which is quite an accomplishment in itself. Once revived as much as she could be, the now incoherent and totally useless woman was helped outside into a taxi. The professionalism of the bar staff was evident, as they seemed at total ease with entire situation pouring the wobbly legged individual into the back of the car. We were left wondering what was going to be our more vivid memory of these two young women: their ungraceful if dramatic exit or their duet of ‘Feel Like a Woman’ during which a variety of interesting poses were struck, much to our amusement. Jim suggested that Miss Leather-Corset was being whisked back to her kids currently looking after themselves in one of the many trailer parks around LA. A rather bemused mini-bus driver then allowed us to board his vehicle and head for the hotel. He nervously allowed Matt to change channels on his radio and before long the bus was rockin’ to the beat of American hip-hop which was either quite ridiculous or quite pretentious given the white middle-class audience. Parting our ways in the wee small hours, we knew that Shania would never seem the same to us again.

Let’s Go To Disney
A 7.30 start following the carousing of Sunday night may have sounded like a tall order but everyone managed, sporting surprisingly bushy tails. The first speaker was an inspirational psychologist, who was matter-of-fact at the same time as being matter-of-comedy. The 90 minutes from 7.30 until 9.00 passed in a flash and all the attendees exited a great deal more awake than any amount of coffee could achieve. Splitting up after our now obligatory coffee and bun from Starbucks, we had varying degrees of success with the choice of the next speaker. Most typically, Kevin found some life-changing, life-affirming motivator, who related his talk to the ‘Wizard of Oz’. With his usual gallon bucket of enthusiasm, Kev thrust the shiny A4 handout and told us that Martin Getz was ‘THE MAN’. Perhaps the previous night(s) were catching up on us as we nodded but didn’t hear a word.

At this stage in the day, we had now gone 18 hours since any significant nourishment and so I was keen on taking up the offer of a free three-course lunch. Kev, obviously inspired by ‘Mr Oz’ found easy ways to persuade me that I really didn’t want to eat: “I need to go to Tustin and you’re going to drive me”. These may not have been his exact words but in a ‘Look into my eyes, not around the eyes’ sort of way, he managed to exact the same result. Off we go to see Carletta at the Hertz rental desk to arrange suitable transportation. We were in luck and not for the first time on this trip. Owing to the conference and the surprisingly small pool of cars at the Hertz Anaheim Marriot, there were no economy cars left. This resulted in a triple upgrade for the cost of the cheapest auto that could be found. Carletta was at the same time utterly charming and charmed by the three guys from Scotland who were genuinely appreciative of all the efforts on their behalf, which resulted in two free car park passes worth a whopping $20 each. After some trouble finding the shiny and rather large SUV (more well hidden than such a large motor deserved to be) we found that it accommodated the three plump Scots rather well.

Our Sherman Tank

Dropping Jim at his hotel, Kevin and his slave for the day set off boldly to find a suburb of LA called Tustin. I would consider myself a confident driver, having experienced some of the busiest roads in Europe and was convinced that no road could hold any fear for me. Two minutes on a Californian freeway quickly disabused me of this notion. The encounter with twelve lanes of concrete road and many thousands of vehicles thundering along at varying speeds, varying abilities of driver and varying degrees of separation was quite a culture shock. The singular most disconcerting thing about the Freeway is the reluctance of users to either indicate or acknowledge indication. Changing lane is something everyone does all the time, so why bother telling your fellow road user of your intention. Several rather terrifying incidents later, we had found our turn-off and we were on more familiar territory (albeit in a tank on the wrong side of the road, still full of adrenalin). We are often told that Britain is the most mapped country in the world and that our road signage is very sophisticated but this doesn’t really come home to you until you try to navigate around the USA. The supposed leaders of the free world seem to have developed the attitude of “if you don’t know where you are going, then we’re not going to tell you”, which leaves the driver or navigator highly likely to either (a) quickly get lost or (b) make sudden turns resulting in sweaty palm near-misses. Amazingly, given the complete absence of sensible directions from either the US government or Mr Fish along with the lack of sign above a door, we found Avalon Enterprises relatively easily. The very nice but very bemused people at the seemingly secretive Avalon seemed only too delighted to part with their exclusive merchandise for a guitar teacher in North Berwick, all at no cost, perhaps just to get rid of us ASAP. Their “What are you here for??” expressions said it all. Rather than drive directly back to safety, we decided at this point to further test our metal by trying to find somewhere to have a coffee on the Pacific Highway. Once more, we avoided too many wrong turns and near-collisions to arrive at Huntingdon Beach, gazing over the Pacific. Whether it is the quality of the light or merely the quality of the pretensions, this is obviously THE place for an art gallery on the LA coast. With the amount of conspicuous consumption around us, we hopped back into the Sherman and headed for a more downmarket and more ‘us’ location. Before too long (and after discounting the many drive-through Pizza joints) we settled on a pleasant looking sandwich place. The tall slender red-head seemed completely unfazed by the questions we fired at her in unfamiliar accents such as “What’s a Burrito? Do you do latte? Where are the cakes?”. It struck us that this seemed no more unusual as a Polish waiter coping with the polyglot nature of his clientele in a London restaurant. The only difference is that I can’t imaging that a sandwich shop in the middle of nowhere on the Pacific Highway gets many British tourists and her coolness therefore came over as a simple detachment from her surroundings. It was obvious to us that although all the staff we had encountered on our trip were quite brilliant at their job, they had no interest whatsoever in where any of their clients came from. This was enforced only minutes later when, after a young Iranian family left the coffee shop, an elderly white Nazi proclaimed how dreadful it was that ‘THESE ARABS’ were coming to the USA in their millions to take the welfare and give nothing in return. Hardly taking pause for breath, Hitler’s disciple continued by telling us that she regularly travelled to Tijuana to get her dental work done at a fraction of the cost of what it would it would be in California. It was clear that she could find no correlation between the need for her own government had for the low cost wages of exploited immigrants and the fact that she travelled a 300 mile round-trip to save money on her health care. She was convinced that it was OK to deprive the ‘Untermenchen’ of free health care, so long as people like her could exploit low paid Mexicans. A valuable lesson had been learned and after a further small adventure trying to find the restroom, which took us on a journey outside and through the kitchen, we were on our way. One further pitstop at ‘Cal’s Cameras’ and before too long and after too many scares on the road, we were back at the hotel. A most welcome beer was sunk and we were off again on another adventure.

Disney’s Californication

The grand mass of Club Managers and hangers-on were gently ushered out of the hotels on the stroke of 7.00 p.m. towards Disney’s Californian Adventure for the end of show bash. To be given exclusive access to one of the world’s recognised entertainment Mecca’s was thrilling. For free food and drink thrown in as well was almost superlative. You could not wipe the smiles from our faces whilst dancing, riding in carousels, big wheels and thrill rides, which meant that very little alcohol was required to maintain the excitement and enthusiasm for the evening. Admittedly, this may have been a soulless experience for anyone attending on their own but with a nice crowd around us and Stephen acting as a willing and capable guide, we had a whale of a time. For reasons that cannot yet be fathomed, although we were all most capable of walking the short distance from the hotel to Disney, the CMAA saw fit to bus us back. Not people to demur, we boarded the coach promptly and struck up the community singing. All the old favourites were trooped out and we tried to encourage our American counterparts to join in. Almost back at the hotel, a Yank at last stood up: Great, we thought, he’s going to join in. “For crying out loud, would you guys shut up, you’re supposed to be club managers!” That was us firmly put in our place, or so he thought. With schoolboy enthusiasm, we quickly thought of a use for the glow sticks that we had been handed on our way to Disney. ‘Let’s join them together and make a skipping rope’, which was a silly idea and was even sillier to execute but was a great laugh. Having the security guards tell us to quit was OK because by then we had exhausted the potential for fun from glow sticks, even with the waitresses joining in. Adrenalin spent, we settled in with a bottle of red wine until we got kicked out of the bar. The perfect end to a perfect evening!

Damn Fine Coffee

Tijuana Day
Having not got to bed until 3.00 in the morning, the 7.30 start was tough. However, with loins girded and a strong brew of coffee inside me, I headed for the suspiciously empty lobby. Knowing that we had to drive for five minutes and get Jim and knowing also that this could take a lot longer should we get lost, I headed for Kevin’s room. “God, is that the time already?” came the ominous reply, “I’ll be two minutes”, which he was and we were on our way. The weather was miserably cold and wet, with all the signs that it was going to get worse rather than better. Jim was ready and waiting to be collected having had as good a three hour’s of sleep as the rest of us. Jings, if the Californians aren’t scary enough on the Freeway in dry weather, what were we about to experience on a 100 mile journey in the torrential rain alongside these loonies! Our mood, try as we could to lighten it, was not good.

Our view of the Pacific Highway

The much-fabled Pacific Highway was very far from being romantic with 16 wheeler trucks rattling past and whipping up spray of Fire Hose proportions. We couldn’t even see as far as the ocean owing to the gloom. Despite all of this, we made good time and decided to stop at Oceanside (a town name that really stretched the Eastern settlers) for some breakfast. Sliding past the omnipresent ‘Denny’s’, Kev stated with absolute determination that we hadn’t come all this way to eat at a crappy version of ‘Little Chef’. On we ploughed to the nattily titled ‘Jolly Rodger’ that was jolly well shut. Denny’s it was then, which somehow seemed right for the day. Deciding that we had better fill the tank, we pulled into the smart Chevron Gas Station to do the necessary. Hmmm, how difficult could it be to pour petrol into a car tank? Pretty damn hard when there is nothing to suggest how you carry out this seemingly simple chore. Nozzle in the tank, nozzle in its holder, button pressed and all to no avail. At this point a speaker barked out inaudible instructions but it was in American, which is a language that I found I was struggling with at times. It has to be pointed out that my travelling companions stayed put in the cosy car and instead of offering assistance, saw fit to ignore my predicament completely. Off I traipse to speak to the typically shaped black girl, who I was relieved to discover was more like our own gruff petrol attendants than I could ever have imagined. When I walked into the shop I was greeted with YOU HAVE TO PAY BEFORE THE PUMP WILL WORK!, to which she could have added ‘IDIOT’ but didn’t need to because her body language said it for her. I explained that this was the first time that I ever attempted to pay for Gas in the USA but that seemed merely to increase her contempt for my stupidity. I poured the requested $30 of Gas into the tank and parked at Denny’s less cheered than previously. At least the amiable Sherilyn was pleased to see us and was willing to feed us the best fare that Denny’s could muster for a modest fee. The sky was black; the rain was as heavy as the menu, which was designed to appeal to the culinary palette of a man who wants all of his food to taste the same. If the descriptions of the food were bad (Double Egg Breakfast Sandwich: White bread fried in oil with double egg, thin ham, potato chunks and American Cheese) then the pictures confirmed what we were about to eat. All 67 items could be labelled as cardiac shock food for the uninhibited. Making our choice with all the enthusiasm of condemned men, we at least enjoyed the coffee and Kev excused himself to find the restroom. Within seconds, he was back “You’ll have to come and look at this and I’m not going to tell you what it is, just bring the camera.”. Of all the artwork the management of Denny’s could have chosen to adorn the corridor to their admittedly well appointed lavies, we would not have expected a 4’ x 2’ version of an 1930’s LNER poster featuring North Berwick! The magical thing was that from that point on, the day improved immeasurably. Despite Ignacio being rather bemused to be asked to stand outside the bathroom for a photo he obliged and a cheesy grin was proffered by Kev to compliment the waiter’s befuddled expression. Returning to our seats after the excitement, the food arrived and although it was as dangerous to our health as we imagined, the cholesterol fairly cheered us up. The rain stopped, the clouds parted and when we stepped out of the much-maligned Diner, we were much transformed in disposition. Let’s go golfing!

America’s Finest

Amazingly, not even the ten-mile tail back dented our collective glee as we wended our way to Santaluz. Even if he was demoted to the rear seat, Jim proved to be a most adept map-reader and safely negotiated us to our destination despite Kevin’s protestations. It was also at this point in the journey that we realised we were further away from Santaluz than we had hoped. Owing to the fact that we were in a foreign country and driving on the wrong side of the road, we were all independently converting the road signs from kilometres into miles. Hold on, the Yanks don’t do metric! The 20 on the road sign really were 20 miles as suggested. Turning off at Entrada we realised that this was an affluent part of the world and no surprise that an exclusive gated community cum golf course was situated here. Driving past the entrance twice, we eventually found the knack of driving through the large stone pillars and up to the Hispanic guard. “Ah yes, Mr Roy, carry on along this road until you see the pond and from here you will be taking the right fork and drive for a further mile until you see the clubhouse. Here is a map to help you.” Having spent our collective lives in and around golf courses, we were not in the least worried that this would prove a challenge. We sallied on and on and on. There were no signs anywhere and nothing that resembled the standard but pretentious clubhouse we were expecting, not even a glimpse, so when we arrived at a smallish car park, we asked ourselves, “is this it or someone’s house?”. And then, as the narrator would say in Mr Ben, as if from nowhere a man appeared welcoming us. “Mr Roy? Please follow me and I’ll show you to the Pro Shop”. Through the archway and across what still looked like someone’s patio, we descended to the tastefully kitted out Pro Shop (and still no signage). From here, after brief introductions, a different person then escorted us to the locker room, where the attendant had thoughtfully placed name badges on three lockers for us. A swift change of shoes and then out to meet our playing companion, Ben Hogan. Poor Ben, his father was either (a) a non-golfer of substantial ignorance (b) someone with an almost perpendicularly lofted ambition of their newborn or (c) a numpty. The truth, it seems is a bit of all three according to the still alive and now a police officer Ben Hogan. Santaluz is so exclusive that visitors are not permitted to play unaccompanied and so the Pro had arranged for Ben, an ex-Pro and part-time employee, to play with us. Ben is a very powerfully built individual, with a broad torso and potent arm strength. Looking every inch the golfer and with him knowing that we were all golf managers, we were keen to make a good impression with a golf club in our hands. Consistent with the quality of the venue, the clubs that we had been lent were expensive, the practise balls were not of the range variety and we did not have to hit from mats. The previous evening’s exertions, the hangover, the Denny’s meal and the fact that we had played 4 rounds between us since October (and that those were all played by Jim) did not auger well. Steadying ourselves, we started tentatively and found that both Jim and I could make good enough impersonations of competent golfers. Kevin on the other hand, with his stiff-backed, wristy, hippy and upright action could not get the ball airborne with any club. Try as he might, the shiny Titleists were determined to scuttle along the ground with whatever implement was employed to hit them. At least they were manufactured with the latest polyethylene skins because if Kev had been playing like that in the 80’s each ball would have a lovely great ‘smile’ and be utterly unusable for evermore. 50 balls later and with still no joy with stick in hand, he decided to give up and hope that salvation lay on the real golf course. Deluded fool.

The real Ben Hogan

With the obvious luxury that surrounded us, the blue sky and sunshine along with the completely empty golf course, our spirits were a million miles from the lows of earlier and we stood on the tee happy men. The next 18 pages could be filled with a blow-by-blow account of our adventures at Santaluz but instead it is enough to say that Kev left all his bad shots on the range and we enjoyed Ben’s company as much as we admired his golf. In truth, the course would not rate in my top ten for layout or scenery but it rivalled Loch Lomond for standard of presentation. The fact that Kevin and I comfortably shot in the 80’s having never seen the course before is more a testament to the American style of receptive greens and very forgiving bunkers than it is to our abilities as golfers. First time visitors to Royal County Down or Royal Dornoch would never find such a forgiving layout but then we did enjoy ourselves, so that’s maybe the point. My own petty rivalry with Kevin was continued and on reaching 2 up, I felt secure enough to remind him that he had yet to beat me. So far we had played 4 and I had won 4, even though one round was nine holes on the Balgove (it counts!). “Dave, for a start I didn’t know you were so competitive to keep count and I never knew I couldn’t beat a half-wit like you. Now you’re in for it” stated a re-focused Mr Fish. Unfortunately, the focus was all on trying to connect the ball with a club in a Tiger Woods-style fashion which meant that this distracted Mr Rules Official himself from bothering to check whether he was connecting with the correct ball. Wrong ball hit, me 3-up. One more ball launched into the water and that was it, game over. Jim showed enough class not to get involved and shot a decent score in the low 70’s.

The 2nd at Santaluz, my favourite

I may resolve never to play him again simply to maintain the satisfaction and bragging rights. Back to the clubhouse to thank the Pro, we parted company with our most affable host and asked if we could fortify ourselves with a cup of tea. In a clubhouse with more staff than customers, we expected that a pot of tea for four would have been an easy request to satisfy. But how we challenged them, which we discovered when the tea was served not with milk but with cream. At least they learned something from us that day. We were cordially invited to stay for the evening carvery and although we were tempted, we declined and explained that we had a previous engagement with a Fajita and a Tequila in Tijuana. Off we went again and now that we were deep in the Escondida countryside without a map, we were lost. Eventually finding ourselves on Manchester Avenue, which is a road we had been on already, we stopped to take stock of the situation. Upon looking around, we saw that we had discovered a wee haven of people that in London would have Scottish accents and be drinking Carlsberg Special Brew at 7:30 in the morning. These faces may have been Mexican but we could have been on Peckham Rye, so we shifted on pretty quickly. Getting directions from a rather frightened woman, we found the Freeway and within half an hour we were on our next adventure. After a couple of wrong turns, we found a safe enough car park and went looking for a bus to take us over the border having previously been advised not to drive to Tijuana. The man at the bus stop wearing the badge from the San Diego Transport Department therefore looked like the best person to ask how best to go about this. “YOU DON’T NEED A BUS, JUST WALK DOWN THERE!”OK, we then asked how do to get to Revolution Street? “IT’S ONLY TEN MINUTES FROM THE BORDER”. How we were expected to know all this about a town with no known map was a mystery but he obviously expected less stupid questions. Right enough, just as suggested, the border crossing was within cap throwing distance and easily negotiated on foot. However, we were taking a well trodden path of many millions of Gringos and there was an armada of taxis waiting to relieve us of $5 to take us to Revolution Street. A combination of blind faith that Mr helpful at the Bus Stop was correct in his directions along with our fear of where these touts would take us kept us walking. Once down a dimly lit street we quickly determined that $5 was a small price to pay for personal safety and we stopped at the next taxi rank. The 5-minute journey didn’t seem so bad and justified our decision not to walk as it was pretty far from the border.

Where’s the Brass Band?

Dropped off at Revolution Street, we were immediately aware that if this was the Bond Street of a city with a population of one million the life must be pretty hard given the state of the place. Dimly lit and dusty, the open shop fronts were as appealing as a wet Bank Holiday in Derby and so on we traipsed to find our Fajita. Having discounted the seedy street full of go-go bars, we stopped at ‘El Toro’ just next to Revolution Arch. The place was clean and bright and after shouting our holiday Spanish at the waitress she relented and turned down the Mariachi music from ear splitting to just bloody loud. The Fajitas were freshly cooked, light and easy to eat. The beer was cold and in a Corona bottle and the whole experience was at the same time only $5 per person and priceless. A brief sojourn back through the shops did at least provide for a chance to haggle the shopkeeper down from a ludicrous $16 for a naively decorated earthenware mug to a much more reasonable $10. Emboldened with his sale, the merchant enquired of Kevin, “Hey Amigo, do you not want a present for your wife?” and upon hearing the negative reaction he persisted with “DO you not even want a present for your neighbours wife?”. It may have been a well-used phrase for him but it made us laugh. Back at the crossroads where we had been dropped off, Jim hailed the dirtiest taxi in Tijuana (Quite a feat) and we sped back across to the border. Once we established that we were walking the wrong way, a rather kindly if rather odd American showed us the correct way back. Grunting and heaving as he walked ahead, Mr Yankee proudly proclaimed that having retired from the Navy he was wealthy enough to fund a full time girlfriend to meet his conjugal needs in Tijuana, who would feed him as well. Amidst the heavy breathing, this was not a mental image that we were happy with and we bid him farewell upon reaching the border guards. A mild panic then ensued for Kevin, as he had omitted to bring his green card with him to Mexico and was frankly lucky to be let back into the States without a serious amount of hassle for all of us. Back to the car, complete with mug, postcard and wallets, we decided that the Tijuana experience had been an education more than an enjoyment. Michael Douglas’s movie, ‘Traffic’ will now be watched with a great deal more interest than before.

Hame Time
After almost a week, I am now used to the time difference and would normally have enjoyed an uninterrupted eight-hour sleep if it weren’t for the stupid way I filled in the departure form that I duly faxed to the CMAA. Having stated quite clearly on the form that my flight was scheduled for 7:00, they quite properly assumed that I meant in the morning. This information was efficiently passed to the taxi firm who had previously failed to show up to take me from the airport to the hotel, who promptly turned up at 4.00 a.m. at the Marriott. The receptionist politely enquired if I was aware that it was 4.00 a.m. and that there was a driver waiting to whisk me to the airport. Not only did I have to assimilate this information within seconds of being woken up but I also had to persuade myself that my flight was when I thought it was and not when I said it was. A panicky rummage around my papers reassured me that the least of my problems were that I had caused a ‘Yellow Cab’ driver from Zaire to run a fools errand and that the fool was me. How easy it was for me to return to a deep slumber with adrenalin pumping is easy to imagine. A fitful four hours later, I therefore gave up and got up. With only one suitcase to pack and myself to organise, I amazed myself that I could easily fill the next hour with the process of getting ready to leave. However, safe in the knowledge that I had everything in order, I enjoyed a most leisurely shower, filter coffee and relaxed packing that led to a most chilled state in which to check out. A slightly nervous although short drive took me in my now familiar SUV to Jim’s hotel, where he was at once evident as the lone club secretary amidst the sea of twelve-year-olds with Mickey Mouse ears. I realise at that at this point I should clarify this statement by stating that the kids were wearing the ever-present little black skull caps adorned with the famous black ears and were not just a family of jug eared runts about to visit their spiritual ancestor.

The Curiously named shop

The sky was devoid of clouds and the temperature benign, so we cruised back to the Marriott to let Jim check in online. Stepping into FedEx Kinko, Mr Fish was already two coffee’s up on us, bashing away like a simpleton to some unknown on the other side of the ether. “Ah Dave”, his furrowed brows lifting above the 17” screen “Could you, seeing as how you have a car and all, give me a lift to Downtown Disney?”. Having already walked there on Monday night, it was clear that Kev had absorbed the LA lifestyle as completely as his wife has absorbed his accent. He had now ditched the idea of walking as an exercise. “I’ll just finish my 32 emails, grab some breakfast, phone Ronnie, finish packing and check out. I’ll be with you in two minutes”. But I’m parked next to a sign that says ‘FIRE ZONE, PARK HERE AND YOUR VEHICLE WILL BE DESTROYED’ or something like that. “It’ll be fine, it’s a rented car.” As if this produced some magic cloaking device not found on non-rented cars. Give him credit, the faffing around normal in many people is not present in Kevin and within 30 minutes I was waiting for him at the reception desk for him. The pretty young Californian girl behind the counter was then swiftly informed by our man from North Berwick that if she could arrange the paperwork, he would be down in two minutes with his bags as there’s nothing to pay. Once the lift doors had shut, I casually mentioned that it would be great if Mr Fish could be told that he had $100 to pay on a ‘pay per view’ bill. Sure, says Loretta, while I thought that there was no way she would do it. Kevin returns and bounces towards Loretta in a fashion that men of our age do given the chance to talk to someone like Loretta. “Right Mr Fish” our Raven-haired beauty begins, “we hope you enjoyed your stay at Anaheim Marriott and found everything to your satisfaction. If you could just settle your bill for $100 you can be on your way”. WHAT!, says Kevin, quietly but with a certain degree of worry. Informed that he had watched the Pay-per-View channel, he hesitated before saying that this must be some mistake. At this point, not only could I not contain my laughter any further but some self preservation instinct kicked in as I thought that if this was left to go on, the retribution would be long and painfully embarrassing. Oh, we had him though; young Loretta and I had performed a beautiful sting especially as a technophobe like Kev could have switched on the movie channel and left it running for a week without knowing. As if, but likely in his own wee world of worry at the time. This seemed like less of a joke when he was then charged $15 for a breakfast that he had never eaten but then Loretta, charmed by the gag, removed the offending item and we were off to the SUV, still miraculously not destroyed. 56 seconds of driving saw us drop Kevin off at Disney and head for Huntingdon Beach and the Pacific. Consistent with the weather, Jim found “Chill FM” on the car radio; we slipped on the shades and drifted down the Freeway. The road from Huntingdon Beach to LA is more interesting than beautiful with the interest coming form the fact that the culture is familiar but different. It was, for example, surprising to see a Bentley and Ferrari dealership next to downtown ‘Shitsville’, with no real clue as to why the most exclusive cars on the world should be sold in a nondescript part of a nondescript suburb of LA. The odometer slowly tallied the distance as we navigated through almost all of the ‘Beaches’, Huntingdon, Long, Venice and Santa Monica.

Sunny Santa Monica

Of them all, Long Beach appeared to be the nicest and Santa Monica the most interesting to walk about. After a quick photo stop opposite the Queen Mary, we parked up in Santa Monica in search of lunch. Before too long, we spotted a ‘Hooters’ and felt that it would be inappropriate to leave the US without sampling this seemingly unique form of restaurant (although I do appreciate they have a branch in Nottingham). The leggy, busty and lovely Honey seated us and told us that Leigh would be taking our orders. Jim, clearly quite swept away by the whole experience decided to milk it for all it was worth and asked for the photo to accompany the tiny tee-shirt he bought for his wife. Leigh looked more interested in whether she looked ‘hot’ in the photos rather than the fact that Sandra Callaghan would excite her husband by donning a size six Hooters tee-shirt. I suspect that at this point, Jim didn’t realise exactly how small the tee-shirt was and that it has now been bequeathed to his niece. The image of a Callaghan tweeny strutting around Greenock in a Hooters uniform does not rest easy with someone who has lunched in one of their establishments. Excitement over for the day, the trip was effectively over as we exited the bar. All that remained was the dreary business of dumping the Hertz car, boarding the shuttle bus (welcome to Hertz shuttle bus, my name is Carl and I’m your driver for today, blah, blah, blah) and checking in for our flights. Saying cheerio to Jim, I didn’t realise that I was waving goodbye to my sanity for the next twelve hours. It was my misfortune to meet the second Nazi of the trip aboard the plane. Maria Juanista and her daughter Monica had been seated on separate rows, much to the disgust of mother, whose insistent berating of the Stewardesses should have been enough of an indication that I should have moved in the opposite direction to the daughter once the move had been effected. However, as I had an isle seat with plenty of leg room, I was reluctant to shift and determined that I could always go to sleep if I tired of Mrs Nazi. How wrong could I be. As more and more Bloody Mary’s were consumed, less and less reason was evident from Mrs very right wing. How she hated the French for hating the Americans and after ‘our boys saved their asses from Hitler’. How she hate the Iraqis and the Afghans for similarly being ungrateful to Uncle Sam and how she hated the Iranians and the Africans and the communists and the Jews. And even the Mexicans, which was a bit rich coming from a Mexican immigrant who had made good in California. You would think that such a depth of disdain for humanity would stop there. Oh No! How she hated Hilary Clinton and all those wishy-washy Democrats and don’t even get her started on Obama and Gore, with all his scare-mongering about global warming. At 2.00 am, the ranting died down and she fell asleep no doubt dreaming of the Armageddon that would cleanse the world of all the Heretics, leaving only God’s chosen people. However, I am at least secure in the knowledge that Maria Nazi-Jaunista had raised one daughter to be a NASA rocket scientist and another to be a ballet dancer and mother of two. Also, in fairness, it makes perfect sense that Monica was a rocket scientist, given the contribution of the Wermacht to the US space programme after the war. For the sake of world peace, I graciously escorted the two intrepid Americans through Heathrow and bid them goodbye, wishing the Dubliners the very best of luck in coping with them.

Thankfully, the BA shuttle to Edinburgh was half empty, full of Scots. Lovely. Great views of Edinburgh, Jenny and dog there to take me home. Magic!

Saturday 2 January 2010

Travelling travails

Footering in Florida

Inauspicious is too small a word for the ignominy of appearing at an airport without the one and only item that is required; a passport. In mitigation, if there could ever be such a thing in such circumstances, I had only been at home for two days following a trip to South Africa and my lift to the airport appeared 15 minutes earlier than I expected. The damned document simply fell out of my bag when I was closing it up and I never thought to check.




Having witnessed the carnage on the Forth Road Bridge as a result of a lorry overturning, even before phoning my wife, I knew that the situation was fairly hopeless and that there was little chance of me seeing the inside of an aeroplane that day. Being the man he is, Paul Miller exuded the calm demeanour and compassion you would hope for in such a situation. Then, just as I was at my lowest ebb, Kevin appeared and ashen faced and round shouldered with emotion I explained to him what had happened. Displaying all the love and support that is commonplace amongst people of a shared vocation, Kevin’s first words were obviously carefully thought out (which for those that know him, should come as no surprise).

YOU IDIOT! Forgetting your passport is something that only IDIOTS do! As far as pick-me-ups go, this was about as welcome as being bitten by a rabid dog.

Sadly, when the fragile artery that is the Forth Road Bridge is closed, the lower half of east Scotland becomes paralysed and Jenny’s best efforts to deliver my passport were in vain. I was therefore left to make alternative arrangements and thankfully the Continental Airline clerk, Emma Schrader from windy Wellington was the epitome of niceness. She eased my anxiety not only by her calm disposition but by printing a ticket for the following day at no cost to myself. The fact that she organised this, seating me at a prime location on the plane and remaining charming throughout was remarkable enough at 8.00 am (having already dealt with several fraught passengers) but to do so in the face of Mr Fish and his inane commentary was nothing short of heroic.

My chagrin at missing the flight was now embellished with guilt as my poor wife turned up, having endured a fruitless two hour drive. After a swift cup of tea, we were off on what proved to be an epic journey home. With the Forth virtually impassable, we travelled through parts of Scotland that will forever remain hidden from guidebooks. Driving through Dunnipace can rarely be described as fun, but to do so is such miserable circumstances in increasingly heavy snow simply capped an already depressing day.

A maxim that is ridiculous and universal is encapsulated in the Scots phrase “What’s for you will no go by you” and this proved to be the case on that day as a most recuperative time was spent at home, allowing for a far better preparation for my now slightly shorter trip.

The following day was immeasurably easier, partly owing to a decent rest and partly because I had the good sense to take my passport to the airport. My seat was of the kind that allowed for endless leg-room, my neighbour was of the easy to get along with type and the cabin crew delightful.

Regardless of how easy a journey has been, the very act of travelling for 18½ hours is fairly tiring and I was glad to arrive at the conference hotel and get the chance to stop. That was until I discovered that every person I met in Florida had been told of my misfortune. It appeared that the rather uncharitable Mr Fish had broadcast the news to anyone who cared to listen and many who didn’t. At least we were about to attend a party that would take my mind from the mockery and cruel jibes.

In truth, the ‘Networking Event’ was perhaps a bit of a let-down. Held in three adjoining massive ballrooms, which had been built to house the Space Shuttle, music was provided by three bands pumping out decent music at an indecent volume. The food was themed and well prepared but the circus act entertainments that had been laid on merely added an air of the medieval to the evening. Stilt walkers, jugglers, snake charmers and mermaids all vied for attention amongst my fellow unreasonably stiff club managers. Upon reflection, we agreed that after our visit to Disneyland last year, we expected too much from the event and made the mistake of sticking to those people we knew. However, we did accomplish a modicum of networking when we pounced on Morris from mid USA. “Was your father called Morris by any chance?” asked Paul Miller. “Yes why?” Well that would make you Morris Minor!”




The following morning was the start of the education proper. The keynote speaker was Chris Gardner, subject of the movie “The Pursuit of Happyness”, whose story was fascinating, if a little alien to me. Why anyone would want to jeopardise their marriage and family in order to pursue a career is beyond me but perhaps this just helps to highlight the difference between the two cultures. In Britain, the safety net is broad and deep; regardless of how tough life is, we all benefit from free health care and local authority housing. The fact that this situation is not guaranteed in the USA maybe explains some of Chris Gardner’s motivation.



Having arrived late (a fact that I was being constantly reminded of), I took the opportunity to spend the morning at the show. This substantial exhibition contained every facet of life that a club manager could think of and a great many that only non-club managers would.



It is worthwhile mentioning at this what sort of place the Marriott World Centre Drive is. The architecture of this leviathan of accommodation makes a bold statement along the lines of ‘Marriott, where size matters, especially when it comes to your wallet’. It could also say ‘Marriott Orlando, your Gulag in the sun’. Don’t mistake what I say, the staff are great and the entire business operates at a level of efficiency that is beyond me but it is totally soulless. The entire edifice is a triumph of function over form: at over 27 floors, it is high enough to dominate the entire area and presents such an imposing facade that I have no doubt astronauts use it for navigation. There has been an atrium created around the reception lobby big enough to fly a plane in but instead of conveying the message that our bold and deluded Marriott architect wanted to, it basically says ‘we’ve built it this size because we can. Aren’t we clever!’. Convening in this vast steel and concrete cavern provided as much style, elegance and sophistication as you would find in a new shopping mall in Grismby.

Thus enchanted, we convened with our good friend Paul Jordan. Paul is a rarity in many definitions, being an American with an acutely tuned sense of irony as well as being a true gourmand. Sharing his love of food, I was delighted to be asked to join him for dinner along with Kevin and Paul Miller at a restaurant that he had helped open. Following the obligatory cab ride, we arrived at a typical Orlando hotel, where words such as discreet and subtle would find no place. The waiting staff were as always, proficient in the overly familiar American fashion. Our hostess showed us to the table before our waiter appeared stating that he was named Brad and that he would be our ‘Server’ for the evening. Brad was tall, youthfull and knew the menu well, describing each of the specials with aplomb, even if he was entirely disconnected from us whilst doing so.




The restaurant was called ‘Blue Zoo’ and was imaginatively decorated to represent life below the waves. The menu was beautifully crafted and easy to choose from if you like fish, which not all of us did. The irony of the fact that Kevin confessed not to like fish cannot be overstated. being told by Paul that we were to be eating in the best fish restaurant in Orlando should have been enough of a clue that there was going to be a heavy reliance on sea creatures as menu ingredients for the one person in the room whose name best qualified him to be there. His deliberate, cautious, yet intrepid nature led Kev to ask Paul J to order for him while the other Paul and I salivated over our selections. A memorable meal was washed down with a couple of nice white wines and replete with food and bawdy humour we ended the evening with a swift drink in the Marriottgrad’s people’s refreshment centre.

With my room having been paid for by the CMAA, I felt obliged to attend the ‘International Breakfast’ followed by the ‘International Symposium’. The breakfast is the opportunity provided to all the Associations that are invited to World Conference to say thanks to CMAA for their incredible generosity. The thank you speeches are of variable entertainment value with the star of the show being the Malaysian representative. After a gracious thank you speech, he provided a demonstration of how adaptable a traditional batik Sarong is. His commentary was instructional not only in how to use the garment but also in how far removed this clever and witty Malay is from many of his fellow guests on the dais. When nearing the end of his demonstration, he described how the sarong can be used as protection from the elements when pishing. Surely I misheard? But no, he followed this by stating that it also provides privacy when you are having a motion. I nearly had one myself as I laughed. The following symposium was more interesting than instructional , seated as I was with the charming Jim Hope, President of the Canadian CMA. Also at our table was Max Mason, for whom the phrase ‘typical Australian’ was invented. The Australian delegation had taken a detour through London and New York to get to Orlando and had accepted a non club-manager as a ‘hanger-on’, as she was a friend of the sole female manager travelling to the conference. Max explained that the hapless Michelle was struggling with two large suitcases when they first arrived at the airport and had asked for his help, to which he asked “Who packed these things?” and upon hearing that it was Michelle that had prepared her own luggage, he stated “Well you can f***ing carry them”.The South Africans, Americans and Quebecois completed our polyglot table and we passed a pleasant day in each other’s company.

Collectively, the European contingent was to enjoy Sunday evening at the CMAA’s Florida Chapter Superbowl party. This being the first exposure most of us had of this American cultural experience, we were all suitably excited. The sedate atmosphere on the bus could have been anticipated given the fact that we were all on our best behaviour as Club Managers; the surprise came with the continuance of this somnolence once we entered the strangely named ‘Ginn Resort’. Having been reared in Britain with a carnival approach to the Cup Final, we were disappointed to note the total lack of sillyness and what we regard as fun that prevailed around the massive TV screen. The buffet provided was edible and the beer predictable pallid, which we scoffed as we chatted amongst ourselves. Paying little attention to the game, we whittled away the hour sitting by the pool and engaging in some laddish banter before re-boarding the bus at half time.




Our early departure was due to the divided loyalties created when Stephen Downes invited us to the New England Chapter Superbowl party after we had arranged tickets to the aforementioned Florida affair. Stephen’s committee had hired a modest conference room in the Marriott and laid on some food but despite the smaller scale of event compared to that which we had just departed, the difference was palpable. We entered a room full of laughter as well as intense interest in the game and were warmly greeted by both Stephen and Paul Jordan, who made us feel instantly at home. The quiet and reverential atmosphere of the Ginn Resort was replaced with much more familiar cheers and catcalls directed towards the screen and as result the game became much more interesting. Sadly, the Patriots missed out on the grand prize by the slimmest of margins and the party ended abruptly as disappointed fans stomped to their rooms. We lingered on in the bar in the way you would expect but as the tables were rolled away and the room cleaned about us we took the hint and headed for bed.

Conference Sessions
Surprisingly bright and breezy the following day, I attended a variety of well presented lectures that continued to reinforce what a near impossible job it is that we do and how far away from perfection we will always remain. The speakers were all high energy, uber-enthustiastic and evangelised about all aspects club management that will forever be a mystery to every club member that we are destined to work for. This quixotic state of affairs leaves me with the same level of hope that all these new ideas can be implemented and appreciated as it does with the despair of the knowledge that this is not the case. Despite the very vivid perspiration exuded by our tutors, the very spark of inspiration ignited within us would soon be doused by the prophets of doom amongst our own members back home. Greg Paterson, was as usual quite brilliant; lively to the point of hyper-activity and frothing with delirium. His audience was enlivened by his presentation to the point that his put-downs of our slack-jawed feebleness were actually applauded. Such power!

One presentation that merits a mention was as disquieting as it was instructional. An irrepressible German was launched at our ears with missile like speed and frequency, intended I am sure, to inspire but instead producing a performance worthy of his forbears of a bygone age. For some bizarre reason, he decided to introduce his session with a parody of the starter at the Old Course, with the performance mildly amusing the attendees whilst very much amusing the performers. Without ever explaining the need for such wanton showboating of their supreme lack of talent for acting, said German then excitably screeched as us all for what seemed like hours. We were hectored in the need to provide Five-star service by our Teutonic lecturer in a voice so high pitched that it made my teeth rattle.

Overall, the education was brilliant as usual and following such cerebral excess, we were all delighted to give our brains a rest by helping Donald MacDonald from Loch Lomond celebrate his birthday. The party of seven included the lone female in the Scottish contingent, Yvonne Forgan. Part of the admin team at Nairn, Yvonne was also a member at Crail and I had leaned upon this association to persuade her to attend World Conference and I was apprehensive as to how much she would enjoy the experience being as she was, surrounded by men. I remain impressed therefore, that Yvonne not only appreciated the value in the lectures but also endured the laddish behaviour and at well chosen times added to it. However, her forbearance for typical male behaviour was surely going to be tested to the limit by Donald’s request that we accompany him to the local ‘Hooters’ establishment for his birthday meal. I use the word establishment as no other description is adequate; firstly, it is not a bar, although many men use it as such; secondly, it is not a restaurant, for the food is of such a low standard that even the term cafe would imply cuisine that had been prepared with a little thought; finally, it is not a strip joint because despite the overtly sexist nature of the business, the attractive and scantily clad waitresses are not the sole form of entertainment.




There is no doubting the fact that the appeal of Hooters is the waiting staff but the waitresses success in making it obvious to customers that they regard table service as secondary to being able to look great in a tight t-shirt, somewhat detracts from the dining experience. The male cooks who were both visible and audible, slouched in their ill-fitting and badly washed uniforms. From behind the stainless steel counter, pans and trays would clash and Spanish rhetoric would rent the air, followed by wild flailing arm gestures.

The lack of sophistication of Hooters cannot be exaggerated and yet despite all of what we witnessed, our bravado was now at such heights that we could not permit ourselves to leave and find something edible. Instead, we poured over the menu, aiding our thought process by several pitchers of insipid beer and the singular lack of attention by our inattentive waitress. Eventually food was brought to the table that had cleverly had all traces of taste removed and replaced by the raw properties of cellulose and cholesterol. Clearly, the fighting cooks had talent after all, recognised not only by visiting Scots but by millions of Americans who flock to this national institution every year. Testament to this was the family who sat near us and appeared to consist of Grandma, son and Grandson, happily engorging themselves oblivious to the lack of taste both on their plates and in the room. Despite or because of the tacky situation, we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves and finished the evening by playing pool in the Marriott ‘Sports Bar’.

Following a couple of sessions on Tuesday morning, we had collectively decided that the afternoon would be spent doing something outside the conference. Jim, Derek and Yvonne had determined that they should most enjoy spending some time at Disneyworld, whilst Kevin accepted my invitation to travel to Tampa.




Despite only having to carry two averagely sized British people, we were persuaded by Imran that we would require a small truck to transport us the 70 miles west. Whilst providing our documentation and payment we were treated to a masterclass in how not to get a reduction in a bill for hiring a car. We were made quickly aware by Mrs Angry next to us that she had failed in every aspect to read or listen to the conditions of hiring a car from Avis. Firstly, she was being penalised for smoking in the car, which brought bronchial gasps of astonishment from her. Secondly, she was to be charged for filling up the tank, a cost that made her stagger with fury and finally, she was asked for $50 for the car to be retrieved from the airport should she wish to leave it there. By now, our fellow customer was displaying the same grown-up behaviour associated with a Premiership footballer cautioned for swearing as she wheezed and spluttered every paltry reason she could think of to avoid shelling out the $150 her stupidity had cost her. Removing her nicotine addled brain from the building, she left us with the thought that her husband was not going to be pleased, at which Kevin wondered aloud if this couple had met at a charm school.

Thankfully the road to Tampa from Orlando is very easy to find and follow, for if there was any complexity involved, Kevin’s map-reading skills would have ensured our journey was described as meandering. The flat, straight and featureless road passed beneath us without incident and we arrived at the outskirts of Tampa looking for Ybor city. I had been reliably informed by the uniquely named Dove Jones that Ybor was worthy of investigation and all that remained was for Kevin and I to find it. With fewer than usual u-turns, we found ourselves in one of the oldest towns in Florida and were moderately impressed by its charm. The town seemed very quiet and not particularly large, yet the city officials still succeeded in hiding their tourist information office by failing to provide any form of useful signage. On our aimless wanderings through quiet streets, we happened across the small town museum. Humouring me, Kevin allowed himself to be dragged through the interpretation of the displacement of the indigenous population by European settlers, the introduction of slaves, the tobacco trade, the persecution of minorities and the Cuban revolution. Given that Tampa is on the west coast of Florida, I was as surprised at the strong Cuban connection as I was unsurprised at the matter-of-fact telling of 200 years of persecution of minorities, for which no remorse was indicated.

Being sufficiently enriched with the social history of Florida, we perused the museum gift shop for souvenirs. It was here that we met Charlotte, a smartly dressed late middle-aged crank who seemed to spend her life either making period costume for historic enactments or visiting Scottish castles, stating that there were few she did not know of. She asked if we could tell her about the castles near where we lived and whilst I did my best, Kevin absented himself this duty by embellishing his Geordie accent and proudly boasting his ignorance on the subject. When we eventually freed ourselves from this conversational headlock, we had at least discovered that in the building opposite we would find the best Cuban coffee and toasted sandwiches in Tampa.




True enough, ‘La Tropicana’ turned out to be a genuine Tampa institution, run by three generations of the same family since the 1950’s. Perching at the counter, we were served by the owner who explained that the success of this business was due to his great uncle, who had started the cafe and was very friendly with the mayor of the time. Pointing out a large black and white photo hanging in the corner, the owner told us that this mayor was so influential that he became known by the title ‘Numero Uno’ and that by meeting fellow politicians in the cafe, the stature of La Tropicana grew immeasurably.
The Cuban coffee we sipped was pleasant if unremarkable, as was the cheese on toast that was somehow considered a delicacy in these parts. The true magic of the place was the lack of pretention and was very un-American in its total lack of hubris. No posters, signs or adornments proclaimed that we were sitting in Tampa’s number one cafe and this modesty was typified by the low key presentation of a photograph of George W Bush. It was explained that early in 2007, a woman walked into the cafe explaining that in 20 minutes the President would arrive. When asked what company this not yet arrived customer was the President of, the woman presented her card, embossed with the US Presidential seal and bearing the address of the White House. Our gentle host gave no clue as to whether he was a republican or not, yet was impressed by George W’s behaviour and was obviously proud that his family’s life work had been recognised by a man of global importance. Our subsequent wander around Ybor was relatively mundane, taking in a cigar shop and crappy craft market along the way.

For no good reason, we elected to go to St. Petersburg and explore the extreme western edge of this part of the Floridian peninsula. One drive through the town and a quick beer at the marina was enough to teach us that we had seen everything worth seeing and we sped back to Orlando.

Eschewing the end of Conference ceremony, Jim, Derek, Yvonne, Kevin and I decided instead to drive 200 miles to play golf at Old Collier Park. Agreeing to arrange the transport, Kevin and I dropped in to see our friends at Avis and we were relieved to find that instead of Mrs Angry, we had two normal people as fellow customers. As we four were collectively processing our transactions, the Avis staff were pressing us to ease our furrowed brows by taking all the available extras including the extra insurance. At this point, the two young American women began to debate the need for additional insurance, at which Kevin was able to point out “Ladies, you are about to start driving in a car you’ve never seen, followed by a Scot driving on the wrong side of the road, navigated by an idiot who can’t read a map. Perhaps the extra cover would be useful”.

We will never know whether the lack of any form of laughter was politely stifled mirth or genuine worry. However, the two women paid their extra $50 and left in a hurry, presumably to get a head start on the numpties next to them.

Unbeknownst to us, we had not hired a car but instead appeared to have taken temporary ownership of a small bus. The vehicle we had rented was 18’ long, 8’ wide and could safely transport a substantial African family across the Sahara. The most remarkable aspect of this automobile was not its size but the name Chevrolet had chosen: ‘The Suburban’. It seems that the car maker had produced this gargantuan truck simply to collect groceries and do the school run. It was obvious, therefore, that as a method of moving five golfers sans clubs from one side of Florida to the other, our Chevy was grossly over specified. Gliding to a stop at the hotel of our companions, it was obvious that we had chosen the transportation well, as the dropped jaws suggested that we had been a bit flash.

After two hours of driving, and agreeable chit-chat, Jim asked the obvious question,, “What is our tee time?” and it was at this point that we knew we had to come clean. We explained that although we had been promised a game by Jack Sullivan, Manager of Old Collier, nothing had actually been arranged and that we had set forth on the assumption that if we turned up, he would be unlikely to send us away without a game. Slightly shocked at this state of affairs, our prisoners had no real option but to go along with the hare-brained scheme and hope that we were somehow more clever than we sounded.

One small success we had achieved that day was to rent a Satellite Navigation system, which proved to be worth its weight in valium as we were enabled to find our completely anonymous golf destination. Drawing to a halt at 12’gates, I pressed the button to speak to the Pro-shop and the gates magically opened. Met by Ian Mossman, an articulate and friendly Scot, we were provided with no clue as to whether Jack had forewarned his staff of our arrival. Ian ushered us into the plantation style clubhouse and explained that the super-exclusive club aimed to supply the highest standards of service in the world and that money would not be spared to achieve this. Certainly, the rooms of the clubhouse felt more like a National Trust property than a golf club, furnished as they were by antiques. After 40 minutes of conversation, we were told that everything had been prepared and that we were to make our way to the starters hut.

The fact that we were to get a game of golf was not only a huge privelage but a great weight off the shoulders of two blaggers, as I am sure that anything other than this result would have met with disappointment from the others. Adding to the heady mix of relief and excitement was surprise as we discovered that Dennis Mills and Gary ? were to be our caddies. Both Dennis and Gary are members at Crail and have caddied at Old Collier for several years in the winter. That we had perfect blue skies, a benign temperature and we were to play in a five-ball meant that the golf could not be improved.

The course did not enjoy a dramatic setting and was overlooked at times by a five storey block of flats but the architect had made the most of the land and each hole was imaginatively crafted. Teh round slipped by with Derek playing well enough to merit the occasion and the rest of us enjoying the odd good hole. The peak of excitement came at the 16th hole when I managed my first and only hole-in-one. 124 yards over water with the ball disappearing without touching the sides. In front of so many friends on such a day made this unique event all the more special.



Returning to the clubhouse, we were guided around the facilities by Jack Sullivan and we left with an indelible impression of an organisation with the highest standards throughout every department. The same cannot be said of the Italian restaurant we visited next.

A short distance from the golf course, we found a retail park with the usual accompaniment of food outlets. Choosing the Italian over Burger King and KFC was not difficult and despite its location, our hopes remained high that we would be looked after. We were shown to our table by a very pretty waitress called Tia who was politely disinterested in the ancient skill of hospitality. Taking our order, she gleefully admitted to knowing nothing about the menu, simply adding her own guesswork to ours when asked about certain dshes. The order was rapidly prepared and our smiling numbskull disbursed the meals with the attention to detail you would expect of a school dinner lady. “Could I have some black pepper?” asked Kevin and as the giant mill was blindly operated over his food, he felt compeled to remark that nothing was issuing forth. Continuing inanely for another minute, Tia agreed that such effort was futile and left the table. We could only surmise that her failure to return was because she had never been taught how to refill a pepper mill. Breezing past our table some time later, Jim asked if he could have a napkin, “sure” was the reply and reaching into a drawer, she grabbed a handful of paper napkins and slapped them on the table, “there you go!”.

We were in high spirits anyway but as the behaviour of the staff became more ridiculous, our laughter became to grow. Finally, Kevin was compelled to ask what country was represented on the map behind us. “Gee, I dunno. Let me go find out”. The manager, who had hitherto displayed an endless capacity for inactivity, slouched towards us stating that he was pretty sure the map was of Italy. “Hmmm” replied Kevin, “I suppose that would make sense”, which was spoken in a deadpan manner with no hint of sarcasm producing howls of laughter from the rest of us that must have rung in the ears of the manager long after we left.

It was the usual mixture of sadness and relief that our little group was broken up at the airport the next day. We had all gained from the trip: Derek was pleased to have played on an archetypal American golf course and experience what so many golf tourists have now become used to; Yvonne discovered how easy and rewarding it is to engage with anyone into whose presence we are thrust; Jim had the knowledge reinforced that he wanted to remain in the golf club industry; I discovered how important it is to take a passport to the airport; Kevin may yet have to find out the true value of his trip but at least he has 400 pages of notes to help him in this task.

I had been nagged some time before by Kevin into breaking the trip by staying over in New York before flying home even though the timing was far from ideal for me. We checked into the Rochester, which was a four iron from Grand Central Station and provided every amenity we required for one night. Dumping our bags, we quickly headed for a slice of pizza from one of the thousand ‘hole-in-the-wall’ joints that provide such treats and we were not disappointed. A brief tour through the station was followed by a walk to the edge of Central Park and then a taxi ride to China Town. The seediness of this lower end of Manhattan held no appeal and we walked north to find a pub in Greenwich village, which is an area with an entirely different atmosphere. Discovering a homely and well run pub, we partook of a few beers and chatted to the locals.




The young New York women certainly had money and apparently had received a good education but were also as vacuous as any chav from Essex. “Yeah, I’ve been to Europe” remarked one smiling idiot, “Italy, Paris, London and Iceland, I think”. I enquired if anything in particular stood out for her, to which she replied “not really, other than the language and the hot spas in Reykjavik”. I agreed that several thousand years of history can go by in a blur when you visit so many countries in one vacation. Unsurprisingly, the irony was lost on Mrs Einstein.

We trudged the distance of Broadway, passing by the Flat Iron building and Times Square before retiring at the Rochester. In the morning, we completed our whistle-stop tour by visiting the Liberty and Ellis Islands and stopping at the UN building. Despite having spent less than 24 hours in the city, I can report that on this occasion at least, I was pleased to have such a naggy friend and I will probably return with someone less likely to get lost in a city marked out in a grid, covered in iconic landmarks.

In summary, the trip was about as good as it could have been. If repeated I will not make the same mistakes again but will probably screw up in a different way and the best part is the one thing that cannot be repeated, which is the magic of the road trip.

And to use a Kevin style analogy: travelling with Kev is a bit like going to the gym. Nobody forces you to do it, you don’t always look forward to going, you enjoy it when you’re doing it but the whole experience leaves you a bit knackered.