Early Morning Run in… Berlin (Part 1)

23:30 9-Dec 1980

Nearly midnight, it was snowing hard in West Germany. I'm in an army prison cell in Berlin. After finding a warm spot, I'm hunched with my back pressed to the wall. The snow drifts through the bars. 

I've no shoelaces or belt, personal possessions and empty pockets - and there's an army bed and no mattress.

We're (1 DERR) here to play the Grenadier Guards in the Infantry Cup. The Regimental Sergeant Major (RSM) is also the football officer and a strict disciplinarian. I think you could safely say he was old school. His name was 'Sir'. 

'Sir' appeared at the cell door.

14:05 6-Dec 2023

In mid-afternoon, it was snowing steadily in Germany. The taxi driver from the airport was chatty and spoke excellent English. He asks me if I've been in Berlin before. I smile and say yes, 43 years ago as a young soldier. I'd been here to play football for 6 days. He tells me I'll see many changes. I told him I didn't leave the camp all those years ago - a long story. I had wanted to see the Berlin Wall, Checkpoint Charlie, the Reichstag, the Brandenburg Gate, the Olympic Stadium, and where David Bowie lived. I didn't mention being on 6 days of open arrest.

Herr Hans was a good fellow and said he was sorry I didn't have the Berlin experience those 43 years ago. He told me he was under 40; I felt old as I gazed out the window. "You're staying in the Pullman Hotel, ja?" I nod. "There are two things to see on the way. Interested?" 

01:00 10-Dec 1980

Sir has been dragged out of bed because 6 of his team are in the clink. To say he's upset would be an understatement. "I'll be back in the morning; the RSM of the Guards will handle this matter. I'll deal with it personally when we're back in Osnabruck." Silence…

I wanted to say this is frontier justice, with no due process, and we're innocent, by the way. I'd been in the army long enough to keep such thoughts to myself.

I also realise we're up the ol' shit creek without a paddle. 

14:20 6-Dec 2023

Herr Hans and I are sat looking up at a nondescript apartment. "This is where David Bowie lived and wrote 'Heroes.' Did you know the song was about the Berlin Wall and divided Germany?" I told him I did and loved Bowie and this song in particular. 

09:00 10-Dec 1980 

We've sobered up. No breakfast. We're marched in to have a chat with Garrison RSM. He's Scottish, the type who goes to bed angry and wakes up furious. His guard's No2 hat with the little slashed peak made him look even more frightening. 

14:35 6-Dec 2023

Hans says, "You see that building there? This is where President Kennedy stood on that balcony in front of, they say, a crowd of 100,000 and said Ich Bin Berliner." He drops me at my hotel, and we shake hands. It's a great ride into town. 

10:00 14-Dec 1980 

Osnabruck. Officer's Commanding Orders (think magistrate's court). Marched in at warp factor 3… STAND STILL… charges read out, remanded by the OC for CO's Orders (think crown court). Marched out at warp factor 3. 

11:00 18-Dec 1980 

Osnabruck. The Commanding Officer could dismiss this case, find us guilty & pass a sentence, or ask you if you'd prefer a court-martial, which is your right.

The Commanding Officer (GC) was a kindly man, more of a benevolent uncle figure. Marched in at warp factor 4 by the RSM…. STAND STILL. Charges read out. 

GC opened with how sad & disappointed he was. Bright young men, some of the most promising young soldiers in the battalion, stood here before him. We had let ourselves down, the regiment down, the army down and above all, let him down. I remember thinking this was promising; we could get away with it. As they say in France, it's only done when the carrots are cooked. Please let us off…

I remember an ominous sign on his desk. A bowl of oranges. Oranges always appeared in The Godfather when someone was about to get whacked. 

He asked in his soft-spoken manner, did we have anything to say for ourselves? A brave member of the 'Berlin 6' said, "Sir, we…" A loud voice boomed behind us, "SHUT UP." Sir had spoken.

The colonel said, " I've decided not to charge you and blight your promising careers. The case is dismissed (hurrah). The RSM will handle this matter in his indomitable fashion (schiesse, as they in Germany). 

The upshot was the RSM going radio rental; we'd each get 14 extra guard duties, day on, day off. Starting 20-Dec. I had one of the 5 seats booked in a Ford Escort Mk II to Hook of Holland for the Christmas ferry home. The ferry was paid for. Not this year… we were to stand guard, Christmas was cancelled, and we were to think about our behaviour in the early hours as we froze our nuts off. Frontier justice…

To continue the German theme, the RSM had some Nietzsche in him, in that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. You always learned lessons in the army...

Happy New Year to all and best wishes for 2024.

Zero dark thirty 9-Dec 2023 (Part 2)

To be continued... we'll run and take in the sights: the beautiful snow-covered Tiergarten Park, the Brandenburg Gate, and the stunning Reichstag. The post will also contain the epilogue from December 1980. Let's finish for now with the words of David Bowie...

I, I can remember (I remember)

Standing, by the wall (by the wall)

And the guns, shot above our heads (over our heads)

And we kissed, as though nothing could fall (nothing could fall)

And the shame, was on the other side

Oh we can beat them, for ever and ever

Then we could be Heroes, just for one day

'Early Morning Run in... Mozambique'

While I was sleeping, it quickly became the 12-Sept 2023. I stretch on my balcony at the Cordoso Hotel, overlooking the Indian Ocean. I love this hotel. More than 100 years old. It's been a rebel HQ in the war. I imagine a place for buccaneers and spies in WW2. This place is solid, old school, retro charm, iconic, incredible sunsets, the best vantage point in the city, and sundowner central. Thank you, Gonçalo, for your hospitality.

In a few minutes, it'll be 07:00. I gently tap on the blacked-out window of a battered yellow taxi. The window slowly lowers to halfway. A wonderful smiley face and a dark green bobble hat greet me.

"Bom dia", I offer. I'm armed with only 4 phrases in Portuguese. Obrigardo, frango and boa sorte are the other three.

We're on the eastern coast of Africa, in Maputo. This city was known as Lourenço Marques until 1976 when it became independent from Portugal. 

He can drive me downtown, he understands I have no local dib dobs, only Euros. He'll wait for me; he knows where the railway station, Independence Square, and the Iron House are. He pauses, and he tells me 5 Euros each way. I tell him I'll give him 10 each way and a bonus for a safe drive. 

I jump in the front seat of Caro's humble taxi; we shake hands and drive downtown. Caro speaks a little English only because he spent 5 years in neighbouring South Africa some years back. 

Caro tells me how his life changed 11 years ago when he was in a severe car accident. I note his gammy hand. The fall-out from the accident hasn't been resolved. He tells me it's complicated. I asked him not to have an accident today. We've nearly had 2, and we're only halfway to the railway station. Mind you, one was a frango running out from nowhere.

Taking photos in Moz is involved, especially of government buildings and infrastructure. I'll be discreet. I tell Caro I'll meet him at the 'Casa de Ferro' (the Iron House) near Independence Square in about 15 minutes. "Please wait for me, Caro."

This station was built in 1916 and remains operational. Its architecture is renowned. One of Gustave Eiffel's shipmates designed the famous dome. There are a few early-morning commuters. It's freezing, by the way. I should have thought this through. I stand out a little. Looking around, I quickly realise I'm the only one wearing blue shorts.

I leave the station and note Caro has moved on, hopefully to the next RV. I want to jog through this area towards Independence Square. This is the area where the movie Blood Diamond was filmed. Moz was chosen due to its similarities with Sierra Leone and its capital, Freetown.

The movies Ali and The Interpreter were also filmed here.

The Iron House was designed by Gustave Eiffel and built in Belgium in 1892. The Iron House was then shipped to Maputo. Eiffel knew a thing or two about iconic landmarks. It's still early, and I'm the only one here; a kind lady invites me inside to look around. I smile and decline. I take a few snaps and jog around Independence Square, and ta-dah, Caro is leaning on his car and beaming - good man. I am wondering about a giant metal house in a hot tropical city.

We're driving back along the Indian Ocean. Halfway back, I ask him to pull over; I'll jog back. I reckon it's only 2-3 clicks back to the Cordoso. Caro is reluctant to leave me; I tell him it's okay. I see a quick WhatsApp from an ex-Army friend. Sadly, another late mid-life crisis, another separation and marital strife. Des writes he's fighting fit again and has lost 110 lbs; he notes he couldn't be happier without her. 

I paid Caro 20 Euros and a 10 Euro bonus and wish him boa sorte. We shake hands, and I enjoy a steady run back, looking forward to breakfast. 

My first post in nearly 2 years. When this blog started in 2014, I was fond of calling myself a halfway to 100 type of guy. 10 years later, I am approaching 60, albeit from the wrong direction. This means entering 'sniper alley'; as my old and long-retired drill sergeant says, anything can get you at any time - get on with life. There's only so much sand left in the hourglass. In that spirit, a Christmas post coming from Berlin…

'Early Morning Run in... The Gambia'

'Early Morning Run in... The Gambia'

Summer 2021. SN Brussels is bringing him from Manchester. I haven't seen 'him' for more than 2 years.

My first overseas travel in 16 months. I'm staying in 'him's place (below is our local watering hole, 'Sailors'). We fine-tune the run here.

 

Back on the road? Covid in Africa? International travel? Well, on the one hand, you've experts, top scientists and epidemiologists saying Covid is real and potentially dangerous. On the other hand, there's a fellow down my local gym who says it's all a crock of sh*t. It's hard to know who to believe...

He's phoned, he's in the car, on his way from Banjul International Airport. 66 mins later… the bungalow door bursts open…

And lo: he's here. The thick, luxurious slicked-back mane of black hair, the Brillo pad stubble, the killer smile, the cologne, the bling, the Kirk Douglas dimple, the travel outfit… a cross between Ali G and Dame Edna. He's looking fantastic.

Usually, bro hugs are not me; it's different with Cameo. We hug, embrace and back slap for several minutes. 

"Yo bro... bro, you're looking great, bro." 

"You too, Cameo."

'Cameo' hits the large vodkas, gin for me. We sit on stools at his kitchen island and pick up where we left off over two years ago like it was yesterday. Cameo knocks em back like there's no today; as always, we agree tomorrow will take care of itself… 

After a few drinks, we talk about our ambitions post Covid. Cameo says he wants to run 5 miles in under an hour. I say I want to run from Cairo to Cape Town in under 4 weeks. He laughs and says, isn't that a tad over-ambitious. I reply, "well, you started it." We laugh and clink glasses; it's good to be back with this man.

'Cameo' was a former guest runner in Banjul in 2017; we discussed another run. It's on… read on…

Seeing Cameo again has warmed my heart, as did this exchange the day I landed back in The Gambia. One week ago. 

The Sennegambia Strip. A shout from the road towards my open cafe terrace. It sounds like "Mr Mark, Mr Mark." I'm surprised; my last time in Banjul was in 2017. The man, dressed like a Senegalese lottery winner, has my attention. I look up from my coffee and phone.

Before the interruption, I'm reading a sad email from a friend whose wife (who I also know) is leaving him. I went to their wedding. She's had enough, he writes. She wants out. Apparently, her main beef is that Dave had become totally obsessed with watching sport on TV during the lockdown. 

Separation is always a cruel thing, but Dave seems relatively sanguine. He writes it's a great pity because they'd been together for nearly 7 seasons.

"Mr Mark, Mr Mark, it is you. You're back."

"Er, yes, I'm back."

"I was your man. It's Suliman. I did your SIM card, your top-ups, you remember?"

Fantastic, my comms man from 4 years ago. Suliman pulls up a chair, and unprompted, begins unpacking phones from his oversized backpack. 

"Suliman, I don't want any phones." 

"Please, sir, business is so slow, the Covid. No business for more than a year. The landlord has kicked me out for no rent. My wife is having another baby. She's gone back to Guinea Bissau."

Suliman, meanwhile, isn't listening to me. He's unpacking tablets.

"Suliman, take a drink, a coke." The waitress brings a coke. 

Suliman pleads for me to buy something. He'll take his commission down to next to nothing for a sale. I tell him he'll have me crying soon. He smiles. 

We talk about the situation in Banjul, no tourists for 2 seasons. Life is hard for everyone, especially those on the margins.

Suliman is now unpacking some crap Nokia's with only one function, remarkably a phone. A throwaway burner phone is helpful in West Africa for local calls and for when bad boys come calling. Freetown, where I lived for 6 and a half years, was a tough neighbourhood, every time I closed a window, I'd hit someone's fingers. Five finger skullduggery in West Africa is an art form.

"Suliman, look, I have to pay for my coffee and go." I pay him more than he's asking for the phone. "Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?"

The waitress brings the plastic menu with the meals pictured. "How about chicken and chips, or steak and chips," I enquire. "Or, this spaghetti bolognese looks good."

Here comes the punchline and why I love Africa and these interactions. Suliman declares, "I don't like chicken." 

A good deed turns into a minor palaver. The waitress and manager are now involved in trying to temp his tastebuds. We eventually settled on fish and rice and another coke. I pay the bill and head off smiling. It's beautiful to be back.

The most recent blog post finished with 'yours truly' in self-isolation in West Africa.

At the time, what was the difference between Mark Knopfler and my situation? Probably somewhere between Dire Straits & sh*t creek. After nearly 2 months on the West African highway (at the time), I'm undone at the final hurdle. As my old Drill Sergeant used to say, 'sh*t happens, even when you have your sh*t shield on'.

Cameo and I are running in the morning. 

06:55. 'Cameo' looks good but tells me (privately) he's had recent problems with constipation. I ask him if he knows the German word for constipation. He doesn't; 'farfrompoopen', my years as a young soldier in Germany were not entirely wasted.

Right, let's go. We set off towards the nearby golf course nice and steady. A quick shout out to the second-best golfer in the Gambia. His name is 'Fast Eddie', he's a golf professional, plays off scratch and makes his living giving lessons, modest prize money and taxiing. He drives me sometimes. The caddies are ready early this morning.

We head down the first fairway through the 5 little piggies. 

We'll head down the inland footpaths to Solomon's and back along the beach to the compound. 

On this path, there tend to be animals. There's a large family of pigs, a good-sized family of cows and a lone horse. Cameo is scared of all of them, not to mention the odd stray dog. He always holds my hand with the pigs and the cows and is sh*t scared of the lone horse. I coax him through this jungle of wild beasts...

3 km complete. Solomon's ahead - fantastic fish & chips. A regular haunt. 

As we hit the beach, we reflect on 'Operation Cameo' and the heroes of Gambia 2017. We never talk about it! The elections here in Jan 2017, the fallout, Senegalese troops crossing the border, the FCO advising British nationals to leave, the airlift, the evacuation planning, over 25 clients in a safe house off the beach, the laughs that went along with it all. Great flashback memories last night into the early hours...

Beach running early in the morning, you can't beat it. 'Cameo' is a different man; he's in shape and sprightly this morning. He's running so well; he's turning the tables on me. We've run with more purpose today. Extremely enjoyable. 

Right, hard all the way to the finish, back to the bungalow, and then brekkie at The Butchers Shop in Fajara. 2 km to the bungalow...

Thanks 'Cameo' for your hospitality and friendship, and generosity over the past weeks. See you early in 2022. Is there someone missing? Alice, of course. Don't worry, Alice, you'll feature next time, standby...

In closing, may I wish everyone & anyone who reads this a safe, healthy and prosperous New Year. 

'Early Morning Run in... pre Covid Times'

I've been back in West Africa 7 weeks following a 14-month travel hiatus. An 'inconclusive' covid result today means the planned 7 weeks will inevitably extend. I'm now self-isolating in The Gambia, waiting to see what next weeks test brings. Hopefully, negative all the way. Then home...

The most recent post on the blog was in late March 2020 (Djerba, Tunisia). That trip climaxed in a repatriation flight to a locked-down Paris. 

All new material is coming soon following some fantastic experiences on this trip, including 'Another Early Morning Run in... Banjul', starring 'Cameo' - the same guest runner from 2017. 

Above, where the recent Banjul run was planned (CoCo Ocean Hotel).

Meanwhile, an outtake below from a European post before Covid. 

----   

It doesn’t take long before one of the old-school (sat next to me - damn) makes a perceived salty, off-colour remark. Someone from Google is offended and stands and states just how offended she is. Was her point to do with investor venture capital in deepest Africa and the associated risks. No, and while she’s up and everyone’s listening, there’s, of course, another bugbear. Opportunities for women in the higher echelons of risk management. Blah blah blah... old boys clubs, same military & police backgrounds. I challenge her; in my head, it’s a company right to hire who they want. The right mix of qualifications and experience. The best person for the job. That told her.

Times, they are a changing. These get-togethers are meant to exchange ideas, trends, networking, oiled by the frequent clinking of glasses, war stories, and laughing deep into the night. Old school.

There were always speakers and subjects you’d have to take a pass in the good old days. When I say take a pass, I mean ‘take a conference call’ with corporate HQ, a crisis in wherever. In reality, a spot of Egyptian PT (on your bed) to catch up from the night before. The afternoon pass to fit in a quick gym session ahead of another night of the night before. Old school.

This conference brought a new dynamic. Enter the quisling. The convert. The one who’s gone to the dark side. 20 plus years in the UK police. Now embarking on a 2nd career in big tech on the security side. He opens with a confessional about his first career and how much better and enlightened things are in the Google world. Maybe it’s the playing ping pong all day and going down kids slides in the afternoon that has addled his brain. I’m not hanging around to find out. Pick up the phone and hand signal gestures heading for the exit, whispering into the non-responsive phone halfway across the auditorium, outta here. Old school.

As the conference breaks up, I promise myself I’m done. No more of this BS. I need to get to the airport, congestion and rush hour, chaos trying to get a taxi. Might miss the plane.

A shout from a car in traffic, a guys head is out the window. It’s the Google convert, Ben. He shouts, jump in, you won’t make the airport (I’d rather jog the 15 miles to the airport on bare feet).

I jog over to the car; 2 Googlelites, the other is the woman (Jen) with the bugbear. Hey, jump in; you won’t get a taxi now, she says.

Being a man of principle, “Thanks very much, very kind of you.”

They reintroduce themselves. For some reason, I say my name is Ken. It sets me up for the icebreaker. Deepwater, here we go, “ah… Benny, Jenny & Kenny”. They look at me.

Ken, did you enjoy the conference? We both really enjoyed your presentation, says Jen. 

We fumble around for business cards. Hey, says Jenny... you’re Mark on your card. Oh yeah, Kenny’s a nickname, an army thing, everyone has a handle, yes I’m Mark...

Changing tack, “Ben, I loved every minute of your presentation; very informative. Very interesting. Google sounds wonderful.”

We arrive at the airport. “Thanks for paying for the taxi, Ben - most kind.” I’m on a roll with my new amigo’s, “Hey, listen, I appreciate the ride. I know a small bar in the airport; let me buy you both a drink before we say goodbye?” They look at each other...

Jen says, “We’d love to, but we have a crisis brewing and need to dial in.”

I smile, thinking maybe we’re not so different after all. OK, one more conference, and then I’m done. New school.

New post from Banjul coming later this week...

‘Early Morning Run in… Djerba’

Sunday 15-Mar 2020. I wake to the not unexpected news Tunisia is closing its borders and all airports, apart from Tunis. I have a flight off this island at 09:00 to Tunis. From there to Casablanca.

Time for us to hit the beach. A quick run. 

Plenty for us all to think about as we limber up. Remember you’re all here with me. This adventure is likely our last gig for a while as the world is quickly battening down.

Have I timed this right? Worst-case scenario stuck in Djerba, and this view - or, tomorrow in ‘they’re playing our Tunis’, or possibly marooned in Casablanca. Morocco might well be a decent option, maybe Marrakech.

06:10. I wave & acknowledge the beach security guards and jog into the rising sun. 

When your mind is racing with possibilities & outcomes, a quick 20 mins run is an excellent tonic. A sharp out and back this morning. Grab coffee and eggs, and we’re good to head to the airport?

My mind wanders back to Sierra Leone when Ebola ravaged West Africa. Many of you contributed towards an appeal for food baskets to be delivered (photo above) to devastated villages. More than 11,000 people died across Sierra Leone, Liberia & Guinee through 2014 & 2015. When the initial fear passed the new norm quickly became the norm. Being initially stuck in Freetown for 4 months brings it all back this morning. (Smiling, I can remember not being able to hug my mother-in-law on my return from Ebolastan, every cloud...).

My heart’s not wholly in this run. Let’s pick up the pace...

Air Tunisia Express, seat 2B on this small prop job. Oh oh, 2A speaks to me (didn’t see that coming), a fellow Brit. I put Lee Child down right in the middle of a major fight scene... (damn).

“I’m stuck,” says the fellow, “all flights cancelled.”

I reply. “We’re all probably in the same boat.”

He’s on a roll. “I don’t know what to do. My wife rang the Embassy yesterday and again today. Yesterday they were friendly, today they were so rude, said there was nothing they could do.”

He’s building up a head of steam. “I’m on my own with no help. Our government is useless. They told my Tracey I was in a country that hadn’t yet closed its borders.”

“Yep, we’re all in the same boat.”

He goes on. “I’m going to try through Turkey, perhaps the Middle East.”

Turns out he’s a fellow of principle. “I won't travel through Dubai or the Emirates, I can’t abide or respect their regimes.”

“Well, good luck, whatever happens.” (I want to ask if he knows the difference between Dubai & Abu Dhabi. Easy, they don’t like the Flintstones in Dubai but in Abu Dhabi do.).

Picking up my book. “Where are you from?” “Basingstoke,” he replies. (Knew it. A definite Code Red, if I ever met one). Right, who was Reacher bashing up...

Tunis - arrived no problem.

Boarding Air Croc for the Casablanca leg. I must ring Rick’s when I arrive at Casa, a table for one.

Morocco is closing its borders. I wonder about border checks, about the possibility of isolation or quarantine.

Border - through no problem.

My regular hotel on the corniche in Anfa is deserted. I have a table confirmed with Rick’s. Dinner, exquisite wine and maybe a spin or two of the roulette wheel upstairs. My lucky number, 22. Then I know everything will work out well.

Mohammed drops me at Rick’s Cafe and wants to wait the 2.5 hours to take me back to Anfa. “Sure, Mohammed.”

Turns out he’ll only have to wait 2.5 mins. There are 3 policemen outside. “C’est ferme, Monsieur.”

“Pas possible, je telephone 2 heures avant, j’ai une reservation.”

“C’est ferme, Monsieur. Tout est ferme a partir de 18:30, 16-Mar sur ordre du ministre. Bon nuit, Monsieur.”

Merde. This is now getting serious. Rick’s shut. 15-Mar has been a long day. Hit the bar back at the hotel and work some options. Cold beer. Things are moving so quickly now; Mark, you've 2 hours to turn this around. Or, it's the Morgan Freeman voice. "He did not turn it around that day..."

16-Mar. I check out telling them I might be back, and we might need to discuss long term rates. I meet my driver, Jalal. Nice car and worth my 137 Euros. He’s driving me to Marrakech, over 200 km to the south. I’ve found an Air Chance (Air France) flight tomorrow to Paris. Back-up plan, back to Casa for an Air Croc (Royal Air Maroc) to Gatwick in a few days. Air Croc should wear stripy jumpers & masks for the price of a single ticket. 

 

Marrakech. Radisson Blu, empty. Everyone must stay in their rooms and make no use of public areas. Food and drinks, including breakfast, must be ordered via phone & room service. What do you do at a time like this...

That’s right, a comfort meal of spagbol and a minibar party.

17-Mar. Check out. I’m told the hotel is closing tomorrow. Taxi. Marrakech Airport is packed with European tourists, French mostly. Long queues. Most of these folk are going nowhere. The Gov’t here has allowed a 3-day grace period for repatriation flights. That’s flights which arrive empty and leave full. There are 2 days left for this airlift. Come on Air Chance, don’t let me down. Success, boarding card in hand.

Paris. A hearty round of applause from the passengers. I can get a flight to Newcastle tomorrow afternoon. I find a hotel on Hotels.com. A Novotel 7 km from CDG. Paris is in full lockdown already. The hotel is surprised to see me, I’m one of only 3 guests. The receptionist, a huge fellow who looks like he gargles shingle in the morning, tells me he can see I’ve booked breakfast. Then says the restaurant is closed and there’s no brekkie, oh, and the gym is closed. This giant is a real Charlie Chuckles. Also, the hotel is closing tomorrow and being handed over to the police. At that point, my phone buzzes, Hotels.com asking me to rate the check-in experience. I ask Charlie what should I say, he shrugs and says in perfect English. “How about… original.”  

Charlie has pointed me in the direction of a Carrefour, he says I need a permit. But, to take this letter from the hotel if I'm stopped. The supermarket closes at 21:00. I walk a mile. Damn, Carrefour has closed. 2 women and a jolly elderly man with a beret (honest) are sat on a bench smoking with a bulging shopping trolley.

I go over, and we chat, I tell them about N. Africa, and they tell me about life in Paris in lockdown. They also tell me the supermarket closed an hour early tonight. I said I had hoped to buy some food somewhere. They said everything was closed. I started walking my mile back to Monsieur Chuckles. Now, any story needs heart…

One of the ladies came running after me with a bag of buns and a bottle of beer. I looked at the 6 iced buns and wondered if the beer was cold. Of course, I said I was OK and not hungry (I was) and thanked her for her kindness. We laughed, I felt touched and reflected on how good most people are.

Back to the hotel, the police were already unloading panel vans full of gear. An early night… why didn’t I take the buns…

I place one of my boots in the room safe and lay on my bed, thinking about the past couple of days and what lies ahead. Goodnight… 

'Early Morning Run in... Budapest'

22:30. "Did you catch my presentation this morning?" 

Wow, a cardinal sin right there. I've only just met Tommy. This is a rare beast, an Australian with a smidgeon of self-doubt. The golden rule at any conference, never ever seek feedback.

Earlier we were 120 delegates on a party boat for a dinner cruise. You know the drill; goulash, decent beer & Hungarian vino, with entertainment straight out of the Wheeltappers & Shunters Club. In other words; OK tourist food, dodgy wine and local folk dressed as Morris dancers skipping about playing the spoons, backed by a fellow on a fiddle. In a conference atmosphere, it just works. It just does. 

00:30. Now we're in a bar in Budapest. "It was fine." Tommy looks at me, "fine?" Rule number 2 at any conference, never seek reassurance.

"Tommy, here's the thing, it was fine." Tommy orders us more beers, "only fine?"

"I'm just saying it wasn't a keynote, that's all. Last year we had Frank Gardener from the BBC. He came on stage in his wheelchair (I'm miming the action with my hands), lifted himself on to the red sofa and shuffled to the middle. There you go; a name, an entrance, a story, an impact. Keynote. Yours was fine, just not really keynote. It was fine."

02:30. Four amigos walking & laughing through the historic streets of beautiful Budapest talking about the BBC security correspondent; impact, wheelchairs and keynote speakers while searching for our hotel. Good times. Stories become funnier with repetition aided by a few too many beers. Tommy asks, "Mark, you speaking tomorrow?"

"Yes, I am, looking forward to it."

"Maaaaate (he's gone all Oz), so am I, big time. I'll be in the front row, maaaaate."

Talking of repetition & humour. It's an army thing. Many years ago I was stood swaying in a basket beneath a hot air balloon, tethered to the ground at 800 feet by a steel cable. There's 4 of us taking our first parachute jump. The fifth person is a comedian, he's also the PJI. He numbers us. I'm number 3. The commands start, the way the army works. No 1 in the door (of the basket). No 1 prepare to jump. It's not like an aircraft, there's no slipstream, a straight drop. One thousand, two thousand, three thousand… pray, check canopy. No 1… jump. He disappears, the PJI leans over the side and shouts 'come back'. Hilarious. No 2 prepare to jump. No 2… jump, "come back…". The PJI loved it, you can't help but smile. Repetition.

03:00. The Kempinski Hotel, nice digs. One could make love to a hippo on this bed - it's enormous.

I lay on the bed. Forget hippos. I was in full flow tonight/this morning. I haven't spoken at a conference in 8 years. Come to think of it, the last time didn't go particularly well. 2011 in Ottawa. My presentation on pipeline security followed 3 fully uniformed Mexican firefighters who spoke limited English. They were funny, quirky, but challenging to understand. All the delegates rated the dozen or so speakers on forms handed out by the organisers. I ranked 7th, one place behind Hose A, Hose B... I still clearly remember leaving the stage to the sound of my own footsteps.

06:30. Reveille. Why, oh why. The candle at both ends. I'm speaking later. I'm ill-prepared and strangely nervous. Conference living is taking its toll. Only one post on the blog this year (Saudi), come on, get your arse out of the door…

06:55 and minus 6C, flipping cold. Simples this morning, jog through the heart of Pest (Buda is the other side of the river). Run downtown, the historic buildings, see parliament, hit the Danube, we must witness the holocaust memorial, the bridges over the Danube, and find the statue of Colombo.

Unlikely people are sometimes famous in strange places. Actors & comedians mostly. Norman Wisdom (comedian) was huge in Albania. Shirley Temple (actor) in Ghana. Tony Blair (comedian & actor) in Sierra Leone. In Budapest, it's Columbo, the actor Peter Falk.

I haven't had a guest runner for a while. What a coincidence, a previous guest runner is here as a delegate ('Another Early Morning Run in... Juba'). Where's Olly? A no-show, that's where Olly is. Just you guy's this morning. Come on it's cold, let's go…

After parliament and the grand architecture, let's drop down to the eastern side of the Danube. The Holocaust memorial. The memorial consists of 60 pairs of iron-made shoes set into the concrete of the embankment. 

It symbolises the tragic fate of Jews in the winter of 1944-1945. They were tied together, shot on the banks of the river, and thrown into the river. The Arrow Cross party publicly murdered thousands of Jews all over Budapest, usually forcing the victims to remove their shoes before shooting them. The Danube was called "the Jewish Cemetery."

There are three iron signs in Hungarian, English, and Hebrew: "To the memory of victims shot into the Danube by Arrow Cross militiamen in 1944-45. Erected 16 April 2005."

The memorial is quiet at this time of the morning, you can see the flowers and wreaths and candles. 

On that note, we've been jogging for 40 minutes, let's head back to the hotel for breakfast and thaw out. Oh, Peter Falk/Colombo? I check Google Maps - too far. Next time, I'd like to return here one day. 

14:30. How'd the presentation go? Well, I had plenty to say for myself in the early hours. I see Tommy sat in the front row. I open with the Mugabe story (from a previous blog), timing all out. I want to go with, 'how do you know there's a security expert in the room' (don't worry, they'll tell you), but think better of it. Nerves have set in, like never before. Stuttering, sweating, I stumble through it. 

Terrible... I was back in that hot air balloon. Tommy shoots me that telling Aussie sardonic smile... 

Don't drink and dial they say. Don't drink and present I say. Never again...

P.S. I feel bad rating myself 5 (out of 5) on the conference questionnaire, and giving Tommy only 3.

Happy Christmas to you, and yours - as our old Milkman used to say.