Her Majesty’s Snipers

Her Majesty’s Passport Office, London Victoria. It loomed over the posh square it abutted like a moody butler over a rich kid’s tea party. I say loomed; I walked the entire circumference of the square searching for it first before I found it right back where I’d started. That’s only when I noticed it was…

Selfie: Giving The Bird, Not The Woman

I’ve always struggled with ‘the selfie’. The word itself, for starters, is pretty nauseating. From the earliest days of people with webcams lurching their way onto Myspace looking like grainy sex offenders, I have had a problem with it. Sometimes because of the ‘sex offendery-ness’ of it (perfectly nice innocent people looking like they raped…

The Lost Passport

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a gadabout traveller in want of an adventure must be in possession of a passport. It’s a quaint old system. Most countries dig it as a means of controlling the movement of the population, entrenching cultural identities, shackling free-spirits to a culture of bureaucracy, keeping tabs on the…

Doing It

About twenty one months ago or thereabouts, I blurted out something in bed that’s gone on to change my life. I was talking to my best friend (texting, on the phone – she hadn’t just swung by and hopped in to keep her feet warm) – and having a moan about some idiot we worked…

Three Days In Bed With A Bloody Big Pork Pie

It’s not an exact science, but sometimes you can tell how much fun you’re going to have by the size of the rustic pork pie you’ve just bought from an artisan bakers. If it’s big enough to break a window from five meters, you can strap in for some serious good times. As I say,…