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.
