Even Fawlty Would be Jealous

It is probably important for me to establish one simple fact from the off: the InterContinental Hotel in Lusaka is unquestionably, stunningly, terrible. As I sift through the hastily-retreating memories of my three long nights in Zambia’s “preferred destination for businesspeople” I am finding it hard to recall anything remotely positive about the experience, aside from leaving – alive, at that. I will, however, make one glowing remark: this overpriced, oddly-staffed, brothel-cum-diplomatic meeting point excels at consistency. In fact, across all services offered by this “leisurely escape”, I can confidently say that the InterCon may be the most consistent hotel I have ever visited.

To start with, I know revolving restaurants that rotate faster than the InterCon’s swivelling front door, and from the very moment I shuffled through it with two unfortunate colleagues who had pleaded with me to consider staying elsewhere, I knew we were in for an interesting time. Our bags, naturally, were snatched from our grasp as we emerged from the taxi by an unsmiling doorman who gave nothing more than the obvious impression that this was his role and that, if he had to, he would beat a tip out of us once his duties were fulfilled.

We bundled into the hotel reception at 10pm each longing for three things: a cold beer, followed by two even colder ones. What we got instead was a display of such splendour and brilliance that, halfway through, I was tempted to spoon my eyes out with my corporate credit card and pour the stub-filled sand from the nearby cigarette ashtray-pillars into the sockets, just so I no longer had to witness it. Including floor staff, door staff and receptionists there must have been five or six hotel representatives present at the time we checked in. Between them, they managed to drag out our check-in to almost an hour. We endured this process without so much as an apology, a smile, a drink, a chair, or even complimentary access to one of the numerous bar-dwelling hookers. Not only had the reservation team failed to record our agreed rate in their system – we later discovered that the lady I agreed this rate with while booking over email was destined for big trouble for even suggesting that this five-star shebeen would discount its rates to USD185 – but they also had failed to take note of two key words in the reservation paperwork, copies of which I was brandishing like my own personal constitution: DOUBLE and DELUXE. Indeed, double turned out to actually mean single, in the military camp bed sense. “Double” also failed to be clearly understood in the bar later that night, but that is altogether another equally distressing issue. “Deluxe” usually means a normal room in Africa but, at least for two of us, translated into smoke-filled dungeons with tornados for toilets and built-in audio links to all adjacent plumbing. The third of our party was upgraded to a room on The Club Floor, also known simply as floor number seven, for it was nothing more than a replica of the lower floors with the words Club Floor stencilled on the wall facing the rickety lift.

We asked for the manager several times during check-in, and we may just as well have been asking for the Pope to present himself to us donning budgie-smugglers, whilst grasping a tall and frosty Singapore Sling in one hand and Isabella Rossellini in the other. “The Manager” is not a term that the reception staff at Lusaka’s InterCon are entirely familiar with, and this begs the question: are they managed at all? As a result of their zombie-like display of total ignorance and unconcern, one can only assume that The Protea and Taj Pamodzi Hotels (Lusaka’s other, vastly superior business hotels) have jointly embarked on the world’s greatest guerrilla marketing initiative, whereby they have paid imbeciles to apply for jobs at the InterCon in the knowledge that said imbeciles would drive travellers and businesspeople to insanity, leaving them no option other than to desert a household brand in favour of hotels less known. Genius!

Speaking of genius, whose idea was it to publish an extensive and exotic dinner menu for the InterCon’s restaurant, only to remove 99 percent of the items listed citing exhaustion of supplies? It would be like McDonald’s presenting a chicken jalfrezi option with garlic naan and side order of aloo gobi, but going on to inform the customer twenty minutes after ordering that the cook isn’t entirely sure what a chicken jalfrezi is and that, if he did know, there wouldn’t be any available anyway. We ordered two “succulent” lamb kebabs and, if memory serves me correctly, an Italian dish of the pizza variety. The waiter scuttled off with enthusiasm. We sat. We drank. We were visited a lifetime later by the same waiter who informed us that the lamb was out of stock, but that he would unquestionably recommend the amazing burgers. At this juncture, the three of us had precisely the same thought; we slugged down the rest of our lukewarm Mosis and marched off, amid mutters and grumbles of offensive complaint directed at anyone listening, towards the house bar. I can tell you that over three nights at this hell-away-from-home we did not eat a single thing produced by the InterCon kitchen. Actually, I lie. I did rise every morning to indulge, along with the sparrows and various other local birdlife, in the reasonably adequate breakfast buffet. Were it not for the teapots that had a habit of dispersing tea liberally across the stain-dappled tablecloths like a garden sprinkler, I would list the breakfast buffet as a very lonely plus point for the InterCon.

I could go on, but am exhausted. Simply recalling the memories of my three nights in this despicable establishment saps the very life from my bones. For the record, the Mosis (Mosi being the local brew) were the wrong temperature, expensive, and stale. In other words, they were perfectly matched to the nearby prostitutes like bad cheese to cheap wine. Strangely, both the Mosis and ladies were very much favoured by an eternally drunk and vocal Australian we bumped into in the bar, who latched onto us the moment he saw our branded shirts. Shaking him was as enduring a process as staying three nights at Lusaka’s InterContinental Hotel. There are no highlights of these three nights. There is no happy ending. Our respective bills could very well have been lobbed at us like rolled up newspapers from the back of a passing bicycle. In fact, if he had an iota of nouse, the doorman could very well have taken these rolled up bills and bashed us senseless in search of a tip, as we ran the gauntlet from reception to awaiting, and hugely welcome airport taxi.

Putting The 'On' in London

As I met a distant relative today, whom I have not seen for 20 years, I was reminded of two things: how old I am, and how great it is to be able to refer to London as home. Unlike my age, which I never really enjoy referring to in any context unless I am conversing with people over the age of 40, the ability to refer to London as home is one that always evokes a certain feeling of pride. Yes, I left London over a year ago for sunnier climes, but I still remember that feeling you get when someone asks you where you live. Most cities or towns would be mumbled quietly in response, perhaps as you thrust your hands defensively into your pockets and look down at the ground; “Um, Oswaldtwhistle, you know, just outside Blackburn … up north?” You might even throw in a general geographic reference to minimise the damage. But when you reside in one of the world’s truly great cities the response is completely different. You still might put your hands in your pockets but this time with your head held high, and perhaps with an accompanying pivot on the toes and gentle pelvic thrust, depending on the company: “LONDON.” You spit it out at the interrogator like you’ve just slapped down an unbeatable hand in poker. You challenge them to better it. Few can, except perhaps Parisians and New Yorkers. But it is days like today when London gives you a glimpse into the heart of what truly makes it great. Forget the multicultural faces of Oxford Street, or Somers Town alleys full of pubs and chippies. Forget the black cabs and red buses. Today, tonight, it is all about White Hart Lane.

With the English Premier League season drawing to a breathless close all eyes are focussed on Manchester United and Chelsea. United are doing their best to hold on to their chances like a slippery bar of Cussons Imperial Leather; Chelsea are positioning themselves perfectly to take advantage when the soap is dropped. But there is another entity lurking in this misty, steamy shower scene, dagger in hand, waiting for that Hitchcock moment to yank back the shower curtain: Arsenal. Do not be fooled by the studious Wenger and his perceived lack of killer instinct. Arsenal have not been in this position for almost ten years and believe you me, they are not about to waste it. The French have a habit of conjuring up some real magic when it matters most – please resist the urge at this point to think of that famous volleyball player Thierry Henry, or that martial arts expert Eric Cantona – and I suspect the “prestige”, as magicians say when referring to their big finale, is very close to being revealed by Wenger and his charges. With respect to some amazing clashes at both ends of the table this season, tonight may very well be an all-time classic. Arsenal are up against their greatest rivals Tottenham Hotspur, and it’s this sort of clash that brings life to the streets of North London. Occasionally a bit of death too. Spurs are smarting from their recent FA Cup exit. Arsenal are potentially timing their run for the league title to perfection. The resulting clash could prove astonishing.

The distant relative I was speaking to earlier told me she now lives in Hackney, and it immediately brought back those fond memories of just what life in London meant to me: kebabs, ale (not usually in that order), shops, good food, great music, movies, shows, traffic, tube delays, rain, crime, Gordon Brown. I think I just remembered why I left. I digress … I only ever watched two Premier League games in my eight years in the capital of England – neither of them London derbies – and few sporting occasions, barring perhaps Wimbledon, the FA Cup and the Olympics, can bring such a buzz and vibrant atmosphere to the city. Tonight will be a massive show, but such is the sheer size of London it will probably go largely unnoticed by the majority of Londoners. And that’s part of the brilliance of the place. There is always something going on that satisfies every interest. So as I sit here on the other side of the world preparing myself for yet another early morning in order to watch a recording of the match, I cannot help but feel a pang of jealousy. An old colleague who sat across from me in London is equipped with as much wit in his sense of humour as he is with passion for his beloved Arsenal. He attends every game, which I guess makes him very witty. He is one of those lucky few who, tonight, are part of something special; part of the great beating heart of London. It reminds me of the day when managed to catch the opening stage of the Tour de France shooting by outside Buckingham Palace, followed by a quick beer in a Kensington pub, and the final few sets of the mixed doubles semi-finals at Wimbledon on my way home. Those were the days. I guess I will have to settle for the Red Bull Air Race this weekend in Perth. For the record Arsenal will win 2-1. They will also go on and win the title. I hope the pigs that fly don’t hit any planes at the Air Race.

Masters of their Domain

Will he or won’t he? Everyone wants to know, but not everyone is asking the same question. Will he win? Will he make the cut? Will he be the golfer he once was? Will he be as dominant? Will he return to his old ways? Will he overhaul Nicklaus’s 18 major titles? Every person walking the emerald fairways this week at Augusta National has one such question on their lips, perhaps even Tiger Woods himself, but frustratingly few people are even bothering to consider the most important question of all – who will win this year’s green jacket. It seems like a banal, facile question to ask, but here’s why it isn’t:

Such is the impact Tiger Woods has had on the game that sadly only one thing is more noticeable than his presence on the course, and that is his absence. When a player’s absence in any sport detracts from the actual playing of that sport, questions have to be asked; even more so when that player’s return to the sport overshadows the grand event in which they are due to make their return. No golfer is bigger than the game itself. But Tiger Woods, in his admission that he felt “entitled” to the various indiscretions in which he became involved, has all but admitted he felt above the very spirit and tradition the game is supposed to instil in its fans and players. The spirit and tradition of golf arguably both apply as much on the course as off it, and Tiger has as much impressed as failed to in both departments.

There is no debating what Tiger Woods has done for the game through ratings, charities, raising of the bar, and challenging history, but surely it would ultimately come down in the end to how a player has conducted themselves as a competitor, a role model, a winner, and as a loser? Tiger can take golf to as many grassroots as he likes, but if the children at those levels are aspiring to be him, then we should feel very sorry for them. His recent activities off the course are abominable enough, but what is almost worse is the willingness of the fans and the media in the last few weeks to simply roll over and take him back. Elin Woods is not the only one who has been lied to and left broken-hearted – so has everyone who loves golf. Why do we so easily forget Tiger’s antipathy towards Ryder Cup golf, perhaps the greatest event in the game? Why has nothing more been made of the driver he released in anger in Melbourne in 2009, which bounced about four rows back into a tightly-packed crowd and cracked someone on the head? Why do we look the other way when he swears, spits, and roars in frustration on every other hole? When he slings a club at his bag in disgust? Why do we shrug and simply nod our heads at him when he arrogantly stares down a crowd of journalists at a press conference and answers questions in the most aloof fashion imaginable? Are we that much in awe of the man? He is not the man we once thought he was. Shouldn’t we now start treating him as a golfer, not a god?

Tiger, in his new efforts to be “less hot” on the course, has admitted that his negative and positive outbursts will be kept in check. He has admitted that he has done a lot of soul searching and inward analysis, and that he didn’t like what he saw. But what he was before, which was evidently an arrogant, detached, self-important, over confident and at times obnoxious brat, is precisely what made him into the barely beatable mega-golfer he was. Put yourself in his shoes; if you had found a lethal recipe that enabled you to concoct the most audacious performances on and off the course, would you really, truly, try to throw all that away just because you got caught out? I’d bet my dust-covered golf clubs that you wouldn’t. What you would do, and what I will go out on a limb and suggest Tiger is about to conjure up, is figure out a different way to apply that recipe and return to those heady days you remember so well. How else does he intend to return to the top of the game, and arguably be the best sportsman, let alone golfer, in the world? If he genuinely is changing his ways and is approaching life as a different person, then I am afraid he is saying goodbye to the killer instinct. Nice guys finish last, after all.

So, I’ll ask again; who will win this year’s green jacket? Simple. The person, come Sunday afternoon, who deserves to. And it ain’t Tiger Woods. He knows it, we know it. There are many stories out there this weekend in Georgia; Steve Stricker, the comeback kid. Ernie Els, the resurgent Big Easy. Phil Mickelson, the humble, talented southpaw. Padraig Harrington, the hard working Irishman with the voice of a jockey. What about the Molinari brothers? Kenny Perry? Camilo Villegas? The 16-year-old Matteo Manassero? McIlroy, Poulter, Ishikawa? We need to move on from Tiger. I suspect he has some wins left in him, but his day has come and gone. We are entering the very early stages of the post-Tiger era. However, he has proved me wrong time and time again, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he does again. After all, Jack Nicklaus donned his last green jacket at the ripe old age of 46 in the mid-eighties. He was then, and still is, happily married.