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!