To continue the change in writing material from the plight of the downtrodden, the fights for justice and the fact that those bastards at Waitrose are overcharging for washing powder, we present the first part of today’s Lonely Lord travel guides, designed to entertain and ill-inform only in the way Michael Palin can only hope to achieve:

New York, New York.

It was named twice, not because of the song, but just because people didn’t pay attention. In my mind New York had been something to aspire to see, due to the massive coverage it has received throughout History. Various things we see today all stem from New York, from showing people kicking ass in 234,567 different cop shows to the heart attack inducing pizza/cheesecake combinations.

It is home to the New York Yankees which apparently are universally hated judging from people I spoke to but whom do produce nice caps to wear, various buildings of different heights at which you will break your neck trying to look up at them all the time, Various bankers who can buy people to be killed for sport on a moment’s notice and finally Sex and the Cityesque women who want to talk about buying crap then proceeding to f**k Mr. Big men while worrying about how much soya they have in their lattes.

Sort of like London really.

You see, with all the exports that have come from the US, London has pretty much become the American Dream in a British setting. There are key differences however and for the first time, perhaps we’ll have a better idea of what it’s like as opposed to those lonely planet guides which say go here, do that, shoot him, rape that etc.

The first major difference is the level of suspicion you are treated to at London Heathrow. The level of paranoia only seems to depend on whether or not you are British or American. Americans of course get the easier treatment, followed by the Brits, but the people from Malta and those of Indian decent, were questioned a lot further than I was.
Of course they never suspect the fat one.

After going through security, you then get treated to the wonderful experiences again of departure lounges, which surely at some point has to be brought up in the Hague for crimes of mass boredom. This is one area where the Eurostar wins hands down as you only have to turn up half an hour beforehand, and for US flights it’s normally three.

Also, the “duty free” is laughable. Why do they think that taking off VAT off overly inflated prices in the first place mean you’re getting a bargain? While they’re at it, how about £5 for a sandwich? Luckly they have started putting BBC News on scattered televisions so at least you can be horrified at the world’s events and bored at the same time.

The flights were with Delta Airlines, a sort of well known ish airline from the US, and considering most people are used to the pound shop level of flights given by EasyJunk and RyanArse, where you pay for a cola with your first born. (Lifejackets sold separately), due to the fact that it was a transatlantic flight, everything was free in cattle class, and we returned to the joys on flight entertainment.

Remember those days when we flew as a special experience, where we had a meal that tasted of cardboard that was capable of a level of terrorism far beyond what Al-Qaida could muster and all watching the same bad film starring Adam Sandler so the kids would shut the hell up?

Well, we returned to those days on Delta, but far better.

They gave you your own little TV with buttons to push, and you had your choice of what to watch from quite a good list, from many different films, to episodes from TV that hadn’t aired in the UK yet, to playing simple little games. Add to that, a lovely little meal that actually resembled chicken and a snack. I was in heaven and bollocks to the cheap airlines, these guys know how to operate.

All of which made me forget I was in the air, as frankly from the minute the plane takes off to the minute it lands, it’s brown trousers time. Note: for the Flight back however, the plane was suffering from Parkinson’s disease. Like the pope, I kissed the ground when the plane landed and we were allowed to escape.

So after vomiting, more US immigration paperwork filled in, we arrive at JFK. And we were directed to three lines for foreigners where the line snaked back quite a bit, and then 13 lanes open for US citizens, where pretty much the staff were watching TV, doing puzzles or sleeping. This lasted half an hour, until they had a bit of a think and then just directed me to the US lane.

Literally 30 seconds, taking various fingerprints and explaining I was in the country for fun and off I went. The Indians I presume were taken for full cavity searches as I never saw them again.

At the third set of checks, a plane of Mexicans were blocked and searched, while I turned up, spoke and was then waved through without a further thought. Jesus Christ, you just have to wonder what exactly the current policy is when it comes to looking for “those types.”

I’d decided to take the JFK AirTrain route into NYC, as taxis would get caught up in rush hour traffic, and it would only take about 30 minutes to get into Penn Station. However getting to the correct station and ticket proved a challenge, and not like a challenge like speaking to French people like the ignorant flump I am.

Upon reaching Jamaica Station, (yes Jamaica. Far less exotic than it sounds, and no weed in sight.) I was dealing with the ticket machines, where it was more complex to get a correct ticket than researching Nuclear fission using goldfish. The big buy who waddled over, sighed like I was dribbling all over his 5 bellies and then pushed things at which point the correct ticket displayed. He then waddled back over to the ticket barrier, not one word really uttered.

I made it onto the train heading into Midtown (the town in the middle, see how cunning that naming strategy is?), which proved to be an entertaining experience, with my first experience of the New York Post, which is the equivalent of the tabloid crap back in the UK, which had such wonderful stories as the IPad 2 launch and Keith Richard’s daughter smearing shit on a wall then getting arrested for drugs. I’m not kidding about that.

The staff on the train were livening up the day with way over the top announcements, telling us to brace ourselves for impact as we pulled into one station and then telling us about a lovely shop round the corner from another station. We arrived very slowly into Penn station where I had my first taste of rush hour in New York.

Looking out the window also gave an impression that I was in a country of god lovers. A church every few streets. Dun dun duh! Also the level of space seemed to be bigger than the suburbs of London seem to have.

If you’ve ever been in Waterloo station in London at rush hour, that is nothing compared to Penn Station, wall to wall suits all running round for some reason, and if you’re in the way with a suitcase, that spells trouble. Navigating your way out of the station takes a little bit of doing and once I reached the streets, I had my first look of a proper NYC street.
So much was going on, I’d again strain my eyes and neck with all there was to see, the yellow cabs with drivers that have no idea where they are going and can’t speak English, legions of people on blackberries and Iphones seemingly shouting OMG at practically everything and those little tiny stalls selling chilli dogs, which are basically hot dogs with chilli poured on them.

Yeah, I know.

I made my way in quite short order to Times Square, where the hotel was located, and that was something else too, the streets were far smaller than I thought. The avenues are ridiculously long but the blocks are tiny. Bloody misleading maps, I stab at thee!

Seeing Times Square in the flesh was something else. Makes anything we do here look like a six-year’s old school project where they switch a light on and off, stating what a marvel electricity is. Though, on the other hand, they don’t do subtle and any global warming gimp will then cry out that’s why the world is supposedly burning up.

Just past the square was the hotel, the Hotel Edison. Basically the Travelodge level of lodgings, I had a small room on the 17th floor, on which when I entered and noticed the piss stain on the carpet, had wandered if I was stepping back into the French metro system, but after that, all was well.

The thing is, I’m not there for business, I’m therefore wandering round and all you need a hotel for is sleeping, masturbating over cheap hotel porn, and cleaning up after yourself. Therefore it was perfect and the location for it was again perfect, given that you could walk out the front door and then walk 100 feet to then be back at Times Square.
When you’ve not got anything arranged for the rest of the evening, after looking at some of the sights in the dark, getting drunk at one of the local bars seems like an excellent option, and then you see if it’s still like what it is in Law and Order, just without the dead guy.

Almost every bar that I saw there had wall to wall plasma screens showing every type of sport going that people could shout out and lose thousands of dollars on with dodgy bookies. Basketball, Ice Hockey, Baseball and English Premiership Football. Yep.

It seems with Rupert Murdoch’s evil empire, the English football scene is on the rise and is becoming just as popular to show next to big African-American men running round a court which has nothing to do with law breaking for once (Yes, got my first proper indirect racist stereotype in!). The ladies are quite friendly, and somewhat far easier to talk to, even without the aid of Bud Light and it was time for me to fail to interact the opposite sex on another continent, bringing the total to 3.

Consider it the bucket list to fail to interact with women in every continent in the world. Except Antarctica. My nipples wouldn’t appreciate it.

The overall theme was they were all career focused, with the hopes of marrying someone when they reach an average of 33 years old, and surprised that I was over on holiday as opposed to work. Seems we brits only turn up over there when we’re working. After drinking various beers at 8 dollars a pop, which only raises questions about how people can be alcoholics in the US if that’s how much a pint costs, I wandered round to my first all night pizza place and had a slice of pizza for 4 bucks which was the size of my head.

You’ve seen the photo of me in Paris, you know how big that is.

Join us next time for part two of the Lonely Lord’s guide to New York, and just to disappoint you all now, Jack Bauer didn’t show up.