Here come the hoodies...

When I was 15 years old and fancied a Barcardi Breezer, or the modern equivilant of a slug of cheap white spirit, I'd usually hide somewhere - I wouldn't stand at a bus stop with twenty of my closest Chav friends, urinating in public and throwing up over someone's front fence.

I probably wouldn't drink openly and threaten to bash my younger 9 year old brother if he didn't hand over another ciggie. Nor would I intimidate an innocent Australian ex-pat as he nervously crossed the road to avoid two young girls fighting in the middle of the footpath.

Just as I crossed the road a police car slowed down in front of the group....they gave the coppers a send off as the bus turned up. They threw away their empties and got on.....everyone else got off.

You can turn this one up to Eleven...

I initially thought I'd found a crack house instead of a restaurant.....the graffiti covered walls and rubble-strewn forecourt of the old postal building did not look like the entrance to one of Amsterdam's most fashionable eateries....it looked like I was lost.

I eventually found the service elevator (beneath the explicit picture of a woman, who looked like she had tripped over and had her skirt fling over her head - it must have been a particularly nasty fall, because she seemed to have also lost her panties in the accident). The double doors opened to a large loft with communal dining tables and a crowded bar.

'Elf' (Eleven in English) is mostly frequented by younger and far more fashionably aware patrons than me, but I wasn't the only middle-aged executive in the room. I spotted my colleagues from Amsterdam at the bar and joined them for a beer. The views over Amsterdam were sensational and so was the food.

The toilets in Elf were set up like a nightclub - there was mood lighting and loud music. I didn't hang around in there for too long - it's not the type of place you should strike up a friendly conversation with one of the other patrons.

We eventually left the restaurant the same way we came in (the woman in the large picture above the lift was still struggling to get up). Then it was a brisk walk back through the red light district to our hotel on the southern outskirts of the city.

Life in the fast lane...

If given the choice, I probably wouldn't volunteer to speak in front of 1,200 people. However, when the CEO delegates the task to you - you have little choice but to start rehearsing. I arrived early to stand on the stage and get a feel for the place - it was already a little intimidating - and the place was still empty.

I and my fellow presenters had that over-alert, far too confident look that you adopt when in actual fact you are shitting yourself. Fortunately, by the time I climbed the steps to the microphone, the stage was already littered with the grotesque, twisted bodies of badly prepared and poorly delivered speeches. It's amazing how you can thrive off the misfortune of others!

Things started off well. I was confidently striding into my 4th slide and the crowd seemed to be engaged in my topic matter, but then something went horribly wrong. It was like watching a car crash in slow motion.....

I watched aghast as one of my wheels began to wobble (the slide deck stalled), the steering shuddered (I lost track of where I was up to on my notes) and then the tyre just flew off (I skipped a slide and paused for a moment as I tried to regather my composure). If I didn't regain control immediately I was going to hit the wall - there were terrified faces staring up at me from the crowd as I wrestled the presentation back onto the road.

Skidding sideways and applying the handbrake I ejected my notes and took the gamble to ad lib - within a few minutes I crossed the finish line to the applause of the crowd. That was close....I was very nearly cut from the wreckage of my own notes.....

Snowed out...

No...it's not an Alpine mountain village - it's the view from our house in Surrey. At least once a year the residents of our village are snowed in and are forced to endure an 'unofficial' holiday.

Damn bad luck! - they are forced to spend their day off work building snowmen, sliding down slopes on make-shift sleds and having show fights.

I would have joined them, but I was snowed out (not in) and had to work.

Lounging about in Amsterdam...

I was still flicking flakes of snow off my overcoat as I entered the BA Lounge at Schipol Airport last night. There was a blizzard outside and the whiteout had resulted in most flights being cancelled - so you can imagine the turmoil on the concourse below.

I, and my fellow business-class travellers, were determined to grit our teeth and ride out the storm (in 5-star luxury). With grim determination I made the long journey from my leather bound chair to the free bar (3.5 meters) and poured myself a large glass of Bordeaux - best make it a double to keep the cold out.

I was encouraged to enjoy the hospitality of British Airways, but I fear I may have exploited their generosity. Four hours and twenty five minutes after entering the lounge I finally heard the call for flight BA8118 announced over the PA. With wobbly-boot well and truly double knotted, I fought through the crowd and occupied my reserved exit ailse seat.

'Would you like a complimentary drink sir?, asked the stewardess.

'Why not!', I responded. Afterall, it had been a long walk from the lounge.

Banging away on the Algarve...

I spent most of last week on the Algarve in Portugal for a Sales Conference and the highlight of my trip there was the clay pidgeon shoot. I'd never even shot a gun before, let alone fired in anger at a piece of flying pottery - so I was hoping that the session would include some tuition and a few hints on how to hit the target.

Our 'instructor' - chain smoking and bare-footed - handed me a big shotgun (we were apparantly sharing the weapon between 20 of us).

'There you go - blast away', he said - according to my translator. So much for the training...

I shrugged my shoulders theatrically to indicate that I had no idea what I was doing. He just encouraged me by shoving me onto the shooting platform to the cheers of my fellow work colleagues.

I started banging away at the crockery, but after nine misses I was starting to wonder if he had loaded the gun with blanks - he looked far to comfortable giving me the gun in the first place.

'Too fart to head', explained my instructor, while puffing on yet another fag. Surely he can't be qualified, I thought to myself. 'No, no, no...too fart to head', he repeated. 'Oh, too far ahead', I replied.

With my eye in and a little expert advice I shattered the next four clays into dust. The crowd yelped and to a huge roar of approval I knocked over the 'rabbit' - a small clay that rolls across the ground at high speed with my last shot.