Category: Travels

Divided By A Common Language

Mocking Furriners, Travels

That’s because the average town in Britishland has clearly-defined boundaries, where Town Planning forbids any kind of development outside those limits.

Here in the Land Of Da Free, our towns sprawl all over the fucking place, and (e.g. in Plano) you can drive around all day, not see a business of any kind, and still technically be “in town”.

The Germans, of course, have it down pat.  If you take the Ausfahrt  off the Autobahn  to, say, Stuttgart, you just follow the signs which say Zentrum  and you’ll end up in the main business center of town.

Which, by the way, the Brits with their love of inscrutable acronyms refer to as the “CBD” (central business district), only they don’t always use street signs to direct you there.  You get downtown by guesswork and luck.  Don’t ever stop and ask for directions, because the local yokels think it’s great fun to send you into a series of one-way streets and cul-de-sacs  (which is what signs do say, and not “dead ends”) until you wish Hitler had got the job done and flattened the place, back during the Slight Disturbances Of The Early Forties.

Not that I’m bitter about it, or anything.  When you finally get there, it’s all worth it.

…right up until you try to find parking.

Bird Time

Behind Enemy Lines, Friends and Family, Hunting

Because Mr. Free Market is a Foul Evil BastardTM, he decided to send me a few scenic pics from his current sooper-seekrit location in Scottishland.  Here’s the general milieu (note the complete absence of freezing rain, for the first time ever in this event I’m told):

(Note that Mr. FM is not wearing a face condom, despite Scottish law.)

Then it’s off to the “boxes”:

 

Note the careful arranging of reloads in pairs, ready for the old Load & Slaughter routine in his Beretta O/U (gawd help us, but the man has such terrible taste in shotguns).

The group shot down several hundred grouse and partridge, but here’s a pic of one brace, taken by Mr. FM with a single barrel.

When I say “taken”, I mean “shot”, of course, not clubbed out of the sky with his shotgun (which would be poor form, of course).

I am so jealous I could spit.

Stupid Ranking

Grooming, The Gun Thing, Travels

When I see articles like this, I just shake my head.  Go ahead, read it and see the glaring omission.

A well-built jacket will keep you dry in the field whatever the weather, protecting you from rain, wind and keeping you warm during the winter months as well.
It shouldn’t just keep the elements out though. The best waterproof shooting jacket will be made from a silent material too – keeping any noises that might disturb or spook your target to a minimum.
Other features to factor in are the number of pockets, which are useful for carrying cartridges in; a colour that blends into your environment; and good breathability.
Not all waterproof shooting jackets are equal though. Read on to find out our pick of the best you can currently buy.

Well, any such list which doesn’t include the peerless Barbour jacket isn’t a list at all:  it’s a fraud no doubt perpetrated by Commies*.  Here’s a pic which encapsulates all that is good about the thing:

I’ve owned a Barbour jacket now for about 12 years, and it’s still in excellent shape.  (I left it at The Englishman’s Castle after my last trip Over There because a) I didn’t have room in the suitcase and b)  I hardly ever wear the damn thing in Cuidad Tejas  because it only rains here about twice a year vs. twice a day in Britishland.  I left my wellies there for the same reason.)

Here’s the thing:  when I have worn the Barbour Over Here, I have had people comment favorably on it every single time  I put it on — whether at gun shows, shooting events or just visits to the supermarket.  They’re not only wonderfully durable, they’re also good-looking — and they never go out of style.

Mine is the shorter “Cowen Commando” style (almost like a bomber jacket):

…but I hanker after the longer “Bransdale” style as in the first pic.

Sadly, we don’t get the range of Barbour jackets Over Here that they offer Over There, but you could probably order the one you want (Bransdale or Beaufort would be my recommendation) through Orvis or Nordstrom.  They are not cheap (around $300), but you’re buying it for life, so it’s a bargain.  My Younger Readers could expect at least 30 years out of a Barbour — for the Olde Pharttes, it’s truly a lifetime purchase.

For the ladies, there’s the cold-weather Dartford:

The men’s equivalent is the Oakum:

Don’t thank me;  it’s all part of the service.

*That’s only mild hyperbole.  In class-obsessed societies like Britishland, Barbour is the absolute uniform of the upper classes — add a customized Land Rover / Range Rover and a matched pair of Holland shotguns, and the Labour Party will hate you on sight.

Makes you want to own one, doesn’t it?

Oh, Really?

Marketing / Advertising, Travels

At first, I thought this was good news:

Given the uncertainties of COVID-19, major airlines stopped charging penalties to change your ticket through the end of 2020. Now, United Airlines says it’s locking in the policy — it’ll be free to change in 2021 as well…

That sounds great, until you finish the sentence:

…as long as you didn’t book the low-price basic economy seats fare.

Which accounts for the vast majority of airline tickets sold.  But wait!  There’s more:

Apparently this wallet-gouging feature will not apply to international travel — which is the type of ticket most likely to be affected by borders closed off by the Chinkvirus for the foreseeable future.

Here’s the best part:

Since 2010, Chicago-based United has scooped up nearly $6.5 billion in change fees. Last year, it took in $625 million, third behind Delta and American, according to Transportation Department figures.

I already have a built-in animus against United Airlines, for reasons too many and varied to tell;  so it will be a cold day in Hell when they drag me kicking and screaming onto one of their foul airliners.

Update:  And right on cue, from American Airlines in my inbox today:

Drooling

Travels

From her lair deep in the wilds of Berkshire in Britishland, Mrs. Sorenson (a.k.a. “The Catholic” on these pages) sends me the following Bad Things:

Sweeney Todd Pies

…and The Royal Berkshire Shooting School:

I’d sell my first-born to go Over There to partake of both but the Son&Heir, no doubt sensing my plans for his future, has been making himself scarce of late so I’m thwarted at every turn.

What makes it worse is that I was a guest of the Sorensons at RBSS many years ago, and it was spectacular fun.  Here I am, shooting the leaves off the tops of the trees:

…and here’s Mrs. Sor, firing a shotgun for the first time in her life:

Note the close personal attention, a reassuring hand placed on her shoulder by young Jason, her instructor.  (We had to drag her out of there, unsurprisingly.)

I am not exaggerating when I say that if I had the moolah, I would repeat that exercise at least once a year for the rest of my life — as well as going to the Barbury School in Wiltshire in the company of Mr. Free Market (as per my last visit Over There):

And to return to the very first pic:  I’ve never tasted Sweeney Todd’s pies.

Maybe next year, when the Chinkvirus bullshit has disappeared… [sigh]

Overvalued

Business, Travels

Back in the fall of 1982, I and Wife #1 came to the U.S. for the first time in my life — in fact, the first time I’d ever left the African sub-continent at all — and because I didn’t know diddly about New York City (our first stop), I booked us a room at the Hotel Edison just off 47st and Broadway because it was cheap.  I didn’t know, at the time, that the area was known as Hell’s Kitchen for a very good reason, but in those days I was tough and didn’t really give a damn — I was coming from fucking Johannesburg, how bad could New York be?  (Not bad at all by comparison, actually.)

Anyway, from memory, the room cost about $47+tax a night, and while it was awful, I’d stayed in much worse (errr South Africa, remember) and while we we assailed by Volkswagen-sized cockroaches a couple times, the hotel was close to most of what we wanted to see around Times Square, and was easy walking distance to Greenwich Village to the south and Central Park to the north.  Also, the delis on 8th Ave were fantastic — my first experience with a gut-busting NY-style pastrami sandwich was an eye-opener — and so we spent our days walking around the place, seeing the sights, eating deli food and holding our noses to block out the smells (garbage strike).

Anyway, years later (after the Great Wetback Episode of 1985) I had occasion to go from Chicago back to New York, this time on business, and as the Manhattan branch office was quite nearby, I booked into the Edison again, for nostalgia’s sake.

It was the same crappy hotel, same foul rooms, only this time the room cost $285+tax.  When I first saw the rate when I was booking the trip, I thought the hotel had to have undergone a huge refurbishment to justify that kind of price increase;  but of course it hadn’t:  it was just New York Fucking City.

Still later, I checked out the hotel again, just out of curiosity, and the rate was $385.  And from what I could gather, still no refurb of the place.

I should remind everyone that I have never shrunk from paying top dollar for a quality product, whether it was The Mayfair Hotel in London, the Madison in Paris, Imperial in Tokyo or wherever.  Five-star is five-star, and there ya go.  Paying five-star prices for total shit, however… nu-uh.  And from my experience, most Manhattan hotels were shit.  Even the “highbrow” ones like the Waldorf-Astoria or the Algonquin were overpriced flophouses, and their astronomical prices were justified either by the “cachet” attached to being in New York, NY [eyecross]  or else the high (overpriced) cost of the real estate.

So you can imagine my response when I saw this article via Insty:

During the second quarter ended June 30, average asking rents along 16 major retail corridors in Manhattan declined for the eleventh consecutive quarter, falling to $688 per square foot, according to a report from the commercial real estate services firm CBRE. The drop marked the first time since 2011 that prices dropped below $700, the firm said, representing an 11.3% decline from a year ago.
…
A number of retailers have outright stopped paying rent to their landlords during the pandemic, which in some instances is resulting in litigation.

Boo fucking hoo.  Couldn’t happen to a nicer bunch of supercilious chiselers and snooty price gougers.  And then there’s this, at the end of the article:

“I think there is a short-term and a long-term look at this,” NKF’s Roseman said. “Short-term, we are in survival mode right now. But when things do sort of turn back around, it will still be the same. There is only one Fifth Avenue in the world.”

If you look up “Wishful Thinking” in your dictionary, this sentiment will be under the heading.  (It probably links to “Dinosaur Perspectives” too, speaking as it does about L.A.’s Rodeo Drive and Chicago’s Michigan Avenue as being Places To See And Be Seen.  Dream on, Bubba:  we’re facing a new world.)

Anyway, I see that the Edison is “temporarily” closed because of the Chinkvirus — and from the looks of it, has had a refurb since I last checked — but one of the “business-class” hotels on Broadway, where I paid over $500 a night in 2007, is now asking $121.

No wonder they’re not paying the rent.