“Beez are always at the front”, said Martine of the LNER EAST COAST AZUMA train staff. The customary pre-sedentary scrum was about to take place as despite making “reservations”, the train company likes to have fun by not naming the carriages. (Ah, Beez Seez and Deez…..I get it).

This dear Reader is an interim Betwixt bloggage before returning to major Stateside activities in 2020, thus we involve UK travels, with a snatch of Parisien Eurostar poured in (myself and colleague and buddy on A French Pont):

But back to Yorkshireford. There are some expressions in our English language that can still warm the cockles. One, of course, is: “Welcome to the Skipton Train”. This is spoken in a mid-Kensington BBC announcer kind of accent, so consequently totally incomprehensible to the Yorkshire passengers contained within said vehicle…. still we made it, and I was indeed relieved to be back...

Pepe wants to apologise. Pepe grabs my hand laughing. Pepe says it’s been “one of those Sundays”. Oh really? How so Pepe? “Well first we ran out of sweetener, then the WiFi on the card machine stopped working…..” (more laughter) “Yes? Yes?” “And then…now we have no more Cafe Nero cards to stamp for you. I’m soooooooo sorry.” More laughter and genuine sympathy as he lets go of my now rather clammy hand.

Well, dear Reader, that’s the long and the short of it. Travel Life, despite now being an infrequent flyer, still largely involves torrid interactions at Railway Stations with, albeit rather fit, young chuckling future hopefuls soon to be Brexited away across Boris Borders.

2018 saw my return to “Business Class” British Airways European flying, just as Cattle Class but with three socks more foot room and a guaranteed one übercamp BA trolley dolly intent on flogging you Issey Miyake...

“Underwear, soiled on one tray, iPads and adaptors, post 1947, another tray, Post Modernist Impressionist Art, that bin over there, everything else wrapped up in an old beach towel covered in 6 month old Factor 40, follow me please!”

So declared Claire at Terminal S, Gatwick Airport, en route to my second set of trial flights this year, to Barcelona, Spain in a far off land named Europe. The bubbles are distinctly superior to Iceland Prosecco, while the “Yorkshire Frittata” is clearly Italian for Bradford Pea Omelette.

Sara has just insisted “we have a clean one” for our next glass of Castelnau Champagne, from Reims pronounced “Reims” in France, pronounced, “France”.

Here again are we, Dear Reader, on the pre-Brexit Chrexit Sunseeking Trail via British Airways, a company which may be banned from landing on Los Runwayos Españoles after we’ve been taken to Tusk through the Barnier...

“A large Latte with one sweetener please” . Primrose of AMT Coffee replied “that WILL be £3.60, though it WILL take 10 minutes….the machine’s on the blink.”

With this, dear reader, I present my latest long overdue instalment of Betwixt The Interim, a heartwarming and searing study into the foibles of this world, particularly in ones travels around in same.

In readiness for some late summer journeys to La Belle Macron, to visit my friend and cabaret partner “there’s no running water”, followed by El Sandy Sitges, con Los Muchos Poofos, y Los Grandes Gintonicos, I find myself mid Heatwave on a rarity, namely a Southbound Train to Brighthelmstone, a seaside last resort, and location for duggery of skull, enness of drunk, and selldate departed of drag, not to mention supplier of sticks of sweetness with Birhgton written all through, as ones teeth give way during consumption.

Ones desire...

It’s terrific really. Did 6 months plus travelling last year outside of the UK and not once did I have anything like the hilarious (NOT) experience encountered yesterday in Wintry Sussex. All I wanted to do was get an hour southwards to visit some friends and get some , uh, “fresh” air. Well I left at noon, and got there in time for sunset (pic attached at Post Foot). Three hours forty five minutes of travel on, wait for it, the Gatwick Express. Three trains and two buses each way. A lady said to me “It’s not like this in Croatia”.

Well.

In OTHER NEWS, I reacquainted myself with some suitably and traditionally camp British Airways trolley dollies in my first flights for 18 years.

To Spain, incidentally.

Compared with Life on the Ocean Wave, this rapid form of transport was shockingly ordinary compared with my memories of Airplane movies, Air Crash Investigation and Snakes on a...

Isn’t Life Strange? Where HAVE all the flowers gone? Should I stay, or, should I go? What DO you get when you fall in love, a guy with a pin to burst your bubble??

Eh?

What kind of fool am I? What’s NEW pussycat? WHAT becomes of the broken hearted?

HOW DEEP IS YOUR LOVE?

Where DID our love go? Why DO fools fall in love? Is she REALLY going out with him? Do YOU know the way to San Jose, & HOW can I be sure????

Look.

Is you is or is you ain’t my baby?

Eh?

What IS this thing called love?

Mind you,

What’s Love got to do, got to do with it?

Are you lonesome tonight? Voulez-vous coucher avec-moi?

Probably not, but, If you leave me NOW, you take away the Biggest part of me.

So, whether or not you stuck with me along for the ride during The Travels of Chrexit, 2017, Stay, Stay with me, baby, in 2018, and before you do, have a beautiful, peaceful, happy and loving end of 2017...

4. Life CAN be so simple.

My dear old cabaret partner of many years purchased a simple and welcome birthday present for my recent 61st: a pound of sausages.

I’m now thinking of getting my diabetic friend Susan a couple of Twixes for her 60th next month.

Saint Ochwell is my official residential location, a leafy building site in South West London, England (formerly, Europe). Thuswards I so choose to leave it whenever possible. Four Sainsbury’s, Two Lidl’s, Two Tesco’s, a mini Waitrose, an M&S and a Bar under a Bridge, called The Bridge, simply do not suffice. Everywhere sells Christmas trees from October onwards.

So, Dear Reader, I’m currently indulging in a Rothmans Silver in the rain under a heater to dry off the drops of occasional Sarf London Misery that has haunted me since my Blighty return. Poor moi, eh? So I’m getting in a few Travels Without My Aunt. Around the United...

Let’s face it.

Life is just a bowl of all bran (other equally emetic breakfast cereals are available). You pass through it daily and it returns the sentiment in full. I’m talking laxatively here, and, as one who has been travelling through an almost entire global circumnavigation without the need of any digestive clearance materials, eight whole weeks back in Blighty has already led your penster, Dear Reader, to the urgent necessity for both bowel and spiritual evacuation, largely due to the mass adoption in this country of

1) uber cynicism (not a defensive distrust of independent taxi services, by the way)
2) much chilli sauce soaked compressed lamb (it’s been a bit of a Doner Summer I must admit), and
3) verbal diarrhoea beyond ones wildest nightmares “there’s literally not a dry eye in the house”, oh thank you Sky Football Commentator (not to mention “The Very Best Deal For...

2. Betwixt Goes Downstream, and Upmarket

Dear Reader, having indulged you all in a fair bit of my global glory, please allow your indulgence in some continued ramblings of quasi-humorous manner, if you would. Take The Thames, for instance. It’s yours.

One has recently headed Henley way (location of my dear friends’ Harrowing Hostelry and Eton Eaterie) which is clearly beautiful in a kind of “oh yaaah, we’re massively rich, hug my Cox (aquatic person, that is)” kind of way, where everyone awaits the Big Oars arrival: Rowland, Rowena and Rowlex, all ideal if you desire a little wealthy canoedle (see what I did there? No?).

Regatta time, the lads here all OD on Prosecco, later decorating the Locale with Pavement Pizzas, particularly in The Square in fact, where the local Cathedral dates back to 1204, though the local Starbucks is even older, stately styled in Mocha Tudor. Banks...