The Management Mythbuster

Measuring madness -- so you think travel is glamorous?

Welcome to the flght 666 on Absurd Air—sit back and enjoy the ride but first of all make sure your seat belt is securely fastened and your tray table is in an upright and locked position.

I am writing this while sitting on a 747 en route from Los Angeles to Melbourne, Australia.  I left home just outside Cleveland, Ohio at 2.45pm on Thursday and will land in Melbourne at around 9.30am on Saturday – hopefully. Not sure where my Friday went, still I will make it all up again on Thursday when I leave Melbourne at 11.30am and land in LA at 10.40am, 50 minutes before I took off, en route back to Cleveland. Such is the glamor of traveling across the International Date Line.

In my 26 years as a management  consultant I have taken 2,742 plane flights (yes I keep a record because that's what I do) through 188 different airports in 56 countries.  The reason for the current trip is to deliver a couple of speeches at a performance management conference. While pondering the world of scorecards, dashboards and KPIs, I got to thinking about the key performance indicators of travel. 

Our travel vendors love to boast about their rankings in surveys and always seem to focus on the one metric that shows them in the best light.  Over the years this has led to some creative measurement. Apparently the 19-minute flight from Cleveland to Detroit flight now needs to be scheduled for 1 hour and 40 minutes in order to have a chance of achieving respectable on-time stats.

 

Of course, for those of us who are on the road all the time the sole metric for our travel is to maximize the accumulation of frequent flyer miles or other such rewards.  Our choice of airline, rental car, hotel, restaurant and payment mechanism all seek to apply the maximum multiplier to each mile covered or dollar spent.  I will freely admit that in my younger days I engaged in some less than optimal logistics for December travel to secure the next level of elite status—Cleveland to Newark via Houston anyone?

Back in the late-1980s during my days working in London we maintained a league table that documented another metric reflective of the consultant’s itinerant life.  The metric was simple: Average Speed for the Week. The calculation took the total miles covered in a week and divided it by 168 to give a “mph.”  Suffice to say that on at least a couple of occasions I managed to top the 100mph for the week without getting so much as a speeding ticket.

However, over time the pursuit of insane travel statistics loses its luster. If in doubt then watch the movie Up In The Air, I am sure you will notice the uncanny resemblance between George Clooney and yours truly! Today my priorities have changed.  Travel planning involves maximum use of non-stops at off peak times; and avoiding tight connections in Chicago, Atlanta or Newark at all costs while maximizing the chance of upgrades over mileage accumulation and choosing hotels based on the comfort of the beds, efficiency of the shower and proximity to client site/airport rather than their coolness quotient.  Of course, when all is said and done there is only one metric that actually matters when it comes to air travel and that is to make sure that Landings Equal Takeoffs, everything else is secondary.

 

Assuming that this metric holds for this flight, I am looking forward to a few days in Melbourne, it's a great city and in less than 24 hours I will have swapped fall in Ohio for springtime in Oz, will have access to decent beer (after all American beer is an oxymoron), and will be able to enjoy extended coverage of the Rugby World Cup.

 

Till the next time, have one for the road.

 

PS. I did it! My weeklong trip to Australia covered 19,946 miles for an average speed of 118.73 mph.

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Ten years on - I wrote this on 9/15/01 - the day I turned 40

September 7th, 2001 - New York City

   I hate being in New York on a Friday afternoon.  The traffic is horrendous. By three in the afternoon the streets are gridlocked as people head home early; the masses throng the subway stations, limo’s heading for the airport make their way across Manhattan at a snails pace and the affluent seek to escape to their mansions in the Hamptons.  The ride to La Guardia is a lottery, taking anywhere from one to three hours and almost always screwing up my journey home after a long week on the road.  To cap it all I am sitting in a draughty booth in the monolithic and soul less Jacob Javitz Convention Center waiting to give a speech at a computer conference.  Judging by the sparse crowd in the exhibition hall most of the delegates have already made tracks for home or the nearest bar. 

   Well I was right. An hour later I face an attentive audience of four people gathered to hear my pearls of wisdom—why did I ever agree to do this speech? It remains a mystery to me; never agree to be the final speaker at any event, particularly on a Friday afternoon.  Still, as they say, the show must go on and I try to do the best job I can over the next ninety minutes.  At the end all four people clap enthusiastically and stay behind to talk further—they probably felt sorry for me. I quickly make my excuses with stories of planes to catch and jump in a taxi to the airport.  Ninety minutes later the taxi pulls up in front of the terminal at LaGuardia and I am in good time for my flight—which is about the first piece of good luck I have had this week. We take off only fifty minutes late, which counts as an on-time departure for New York on a Friday evening.  Our route takes us initially to the east before the plane makes a 180 degree turn to the south and west and we head west over the southern end of Manhattan passing almost over the top of the twin towers of the World Trade Center below. 

    The benefits of frequent flyer elite status manifest themselves in my first class seat and the couple of gin and tonics I sip on the ride back to Cleveland.  We land around 7.30pm and I make it home just after eight. I’m still in a pretty foul mood at the wasted day as I walk through the door.  Donna senses my grumpiness but thoughtfully provides another cocktail and suggests we sit on the patio, as it is a beautiful late summer evening.  I acquiesce. No sooner have I sat down and taken my first slurp when four people jump out from behind the wall in front of me.  Stunned surprise washes over me as my best friend (and best man) from England, his wife and two children emerge grinning, to join us on the patio.  The reason for their surprise appearance is that next Saturday the 15^th I turn 40. I think they are here to celebrate or though it could be gloat at my aged state. My mood brightens considerably and many more drinks are consumed for which a price is paid the next morning.

September 10^th, 2001—California

    After a relaxing weekend, Monday dawns and I head off the airport and board the morning flight to San Francisco; an afternoon meeting beckons and then a short flight to Los Angeles followed by another meeting Tuesday morning and a return to Cleveland that afternoon—leaving plenty of time to celebrate my four score years in style.  All goes smoothly and I make to the Torrance Marriott just south of LAX for dinner on Monday night. Sleep comes easily. 

 September 11th, 2001 - Los Angeles

     The next morning dawns bright and clear and my 6am alarm call shatters my slumber; as is my habit I pick up the television remote and switch on what I think is CNN.  In my semi-conscious state I only half notice the pictures showing smoke emerging from a skyscraper.  I reach for the remote certain that I have tuned into the wrong channel and am watching a rerun of the Towering Inferno.  At that moment my mobile rings. It’s Donna and she’s shouting at me: “Have you seen what’s happening in New York?” I mumble an incoherent response and she goes on: “a plane has crashed into the World Trade Center.”  I slowly begin to comprehend and put down the remote as my eyes start to focus on the pictures on the screen.  At that moment I hear the reporter shout that another plane has just hit the South Tower.  It’s 9.02am on the east coast and it’s September 11^th 2001. 

    For the next hour I stare transfixed at the events unravelling just a few blocks from where I was just four days earlier.  At 9.58am the South Tower collapses; this can’t be real—but tragically it is.  Just a minute later I head downstairs for a breakfast meeting at which little business is discussed. Our conversation consists of a series of incredulous comments and speculation as to what is happening—terrorism is near the top of our list.  After breakfast I return to my room to hear that the North Tower has just collapsed.  What the hell is happening? 

    I regroup with my colleagues and we debate as to whether our meeting will actually happen.  Having no means of contacting the client we head over to the offices.  The meeting does take place after a fashion; however no one is really paying much attention.  After about half an hour we all jump as a loud bang is heard from outside; given our proximity to LAX we decide to call it a day.   I make my way back to the airport still thinking about catching my flight back to Cleveland.  The radio quickly disabuses me of this notion as it reports that the FAA has grounded all planes and reports that another plane has crashed into the Pentagon possibly en route to a different target—The White House, and another one has apparently crashed in Pennsylvania.  Donna calls again and pleads with me not to go near the airport as it maybe a target – again more in disbelief than anything else I head in the opposite direction and try and call some colleagues who I know are in meetings somewhere in Manhattan; however the circuits are all busy.

   The rest of the day unfolds like a Tom Clancy novel. Later in the afternoon I check into the LAX Marriott rationalising that with no planes still in the air I should be pretty safe.  The area around LAX is like a ghost town. Very few cars are on the roads and of course no planes are moving at the airport. In the early evening I drive down to one of my favourite Irish bars in Hermosa Beach. Hermosa Beach is a classic California beach town, pretty girls, sun, sand and the usual accoutrements of California life. As I sat nursing the first of quite a few beers, President Bush is addressing the nation. Unlike most Presidential broadcasts the bar went completely quiet as everyone listened intently. As the President finished a subdued round of applause broke out and whispered murmerings of American resolve filled the bar as the magnitude of what had happened began to set in. Estimates of the death toll range as high as ten thousand and as a mixture of news, rumour and ill-informed speculation poured out of New York, heart rending stories of people calling their loved ones on their mobile phones from the airplanes or the Twin Towers began to emerge. I couldn’t help but be moved by the stories, in fact there were misty eyes all around the bar. Most chilling was the apparent calmness with which so many of these people seemed to be facing the certainty of their imminent death.  It was not an easy night’s sleep.

September 12^th-14^th 2001—Los Angeles/Las Vegas

    The next two days were spent glued to the television screen as further information emerged.  Perhaps the only good news was that the death toll estimates were falling as the missing people were being steadily accounted for.  Scenes of what was now being called Ground Zero looked unreal as smoke and charred, twisted metal littered lower Manhattan. There was little to do but sit and wait for the planes to start flying again. Selfishly I began to bemoan the fact that my 40^th birthday would more than likely be spent alone in a hotel room. By the morning of September 13^th there were rumours that some flights might start flying again the next day though it was unlikely that any would leave from Los Angeles. I spent a few hours online researching options and formulated a game plan. I booked seats on two flights out of Las Vegas and then another two out of Denver.  I would keep driving east until a plane left or I made it back until Ohio.  Thankfully I had not returned my rental car so I packed up and headed east across the Mojave Desert.  It was about ninety degrees but the air-conditioned made it bearable as I listened to more heart-rending stories as I drove. On entering Las Vegas, I found a ghost town—there was even a tumbleweed blowing down the Strip.  Very few cars were on the road. Most of the people who had been stranded in town were either at the airport or had started driving.  I checked into the nearly empty Mandalay Bay Hotel not far from the airport. Walking through the casino that evening I could have picked my own table to play at never mind my own chair. I have never seen Vegas so quiet, even the few people who were around were understandably subdued.

    One of my possible flights was a 6am nonstop flight to Cleveland on September 14^th, so I made sure to be at the airport by 4am.  I made someone’s day when I returned my rental car.  I drove into the lot and there was not a car in sight. Outside the office was a line of over forty people all waiting patiently for the means to start the journey home.  My car was gassed up and gone before I boarded the shuttle bus. The concourse was teeming with people trying to get home. There was not much activity at the check-in counters so I suspected flights were not going to be leaving anytime soon but on looking at the departure board, one flight, mine had the two words “On Time” next to it amid a sea of cancellations. I went to the counter and the agent informed me that if the FAA released the plane in time they expected the flight to leave on time.  I tried not to get too excited as I happily passed through security.  At the gate boarding was already starting and I claimed my seat, hoping but not really expecting to leave.  The pilot came on the PA system and advised us of a twenty-minute hold; surely not an air traffic delay, there were no planes in the sky after all.  Remarkably we pushed back from the gate, taxied to the end of the runway and took off for Cleveland, one of the very first planes to return to the skies after 9/11.  I made it home with just a few hours to spare before the start of my birthday. 

September 15^th, 2001—Bath, Ohio

    Turning forty is one of those birthdays, like your 21^st, that is vested with some extra significance.  Due to world events, mine was tinged with relief that I had made it this far, and sadness for those who just last weekend were enjoying life to the full.  I feel guilty admitting it but I had a great day surrounded by family and friends.  My feelings on passing this milestone can perhaps best be summed up by a quote from Winston Churchill when describing the victory at El Alamein: “Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.”

Ten years on - my 50th approaches - I just wish those 2,997 could have enjoyed another 10 years...

Blog Back!

After a five month hiatus - I'm back blogging.  Why the gap?  The excuses are easy:

- lost interest - call it the blogging blues!

- started a new job with bosses, timesheets, conference calls, compulsory training programs, indecipherable benefits packages and thankfully a nice pay check every two weeks to make it all worthwhile!

- amazing two week trip to Berlin, Copenhagen, Oslo and Stockholm with my 16 year old son - Segways past the Reichstag, golf on the fjords, cycling through the streets of Copenhagen and lots of quality time on the road during our 1,200 mile drive

- high school graduation and college initiation for my 18-year old daughter - so proud of her but also regretting that my little girl is leaving Daddy's orbit at least some of the time

But here I am refreshed and recharged to share more pointless, aimless and probably humourless musings on life, the universe and anything else I come across.

Watch out the American Idiot rides again!

Seve and me

I cried on Saturday when I heard that Severiano Ballesteros had died.  Why? After all he was only a sportsman (or as some would say, only a golfer and we all know they aren't really sportsmen). 

The story starts on a Wednesday afternoon in 1976 at Royal Birkdale site of that year's Open Championship. Seve is 19, I am 14.  Dad and I have driven the 60 miles from our home and I am attending my first Open Championship.  Just days before, I broke 80 for the first time and my handicap is now 9! I can be confidently described as a golf addict, so this is a big deal.  

The summer of '76 in England was a scorcher - most unusual in those pre-global warming days.  In fact, a small fire broke out in the rough on the course during the first round as bone dry grass was ignited; but the real fire was on the course.  Seve arrived on the scene, all swirling follow-through's, fierce grimaces and mega-watt smiles all wrapped up in a short game to die for.  He is joint leader after the end of that first round and goes onto finish second. Johnny Miller, America's bleached blond surfer, won that week but it was the coming out parade for Seve and little did I know it--European golf.  

My next encounter was in 1979 at Royal Lytham when Seve captured his first Open. As he putted out on the 18th green I was half way up the ladder to one of the famous yellow scoreboards that flank the 18th green at every Open peering over the top of the grandstand to witness his triumph.  By now he was the best in Europe on his way to challenging Jack Nicklaus and Tom Watson as the best in the world. 

By 1984 he was a superstar about to realize every golfers dream - win the Open at St. Andrews.  Newly graduated from university, I am in my first year of real work for a bank in London and engaged to be married.  I take my two weeks off work and take my fiancee on a trip to Scotland. Being the romantic guy that I am we will spend the first week working on the scoreboards at the Open (remarkably the relationship survived this trauma, and in July we will celebrate 26 years of marriage). 

Our digs for the week are a B&B in the village of Strathkinness about 3 miles outside St. Andrews.  On Tuesday night we amble over to The Tavern, the only pub in the village.  Its a beatiful evening and we sit with beers outside.  A few minutes later another young engaged couple join us outside.  I do a double take, surely not?  But yes it is. Seve and his fiancee, Carmen are also enjoying an evening drink at the pub!  I am shy but not that shy.  I comment on the beautiful evening and Seve nods acknowledgement. I wish him luck and ask him if he's playing well.  He responds with that fierce stare, "I play great!"  No doubt about that - those eyes can't lie.  

Next morning, I hit the bookmakers on the High Street in St. Andrews and place 20 pounds on Seve to win, the odds are about 10-1.  Five days later I stand beside the Royal and Ancient clubhouse and pump my fists in mirror to Seve's famous celebration.  Donna and I had a great week touring Scotland - all paid for by the Spanish Conquistador!

Fast forward, 22 years and its 2006 and the Open is at Royal Liverpool.  Thirty years on from my first encounter with Seve I will have my last.  Seve plays that year, not very well - time and a dodgy back have stolen his long game but the short game remains magical. Regardless of his play, he is adored every step of the way, he clearly enjoys it, no doubt helped by having one of his sons on the bag.  Even better my son is with me, attending his first Open - there must be some symmetry in that.  The week is all about Tiger for him - for me its seeing the close of my era in golf. Seve led the way and made golf very, very exciting for a 14 year old that Wednesday afternoon in 1976.

That's why I cried on Saturday morning.

 

18 Years Ago Today - Happy Birthday Eleanor

At 1.47pm Eastern Standard Time on 26^th March 1993, Eleanor Louise arrived in the world at Akron City Hospital. She was American by birth, but English by parentage. How would that combination shape her future? Would it be gas or petrol, Elvis or The Beatles, Big Macs or fish and chips? Time would tell—though I suspected the Yanks may have the edge.

    The sight of my first born arriving in the world was, as any parent knows, amazing. Unlike my father, who was playing golf when I appeared, I was there throughout and all I can say is that he missed out on a great experience. He begged to differ and didn’t regret it at all―apparently he played well that day. I can’t say his absence scarred my life although I do know that I wouldn’t have missed Eleanor’s arrival for anything.

    This generational debate very nearly did not take place. While I was not on the golf course, much to my regret, I did nearly miss the event. The night before Eleanor made her appearance I flew back from New York to Cleveland. Being a Thursday with the prospect of a relatively peaceful day in the office ahead, I relaxed with a couple of gin and tonics on the flight; those free upgrades to first class do have their occasional compensations.

    Eleanor was not due for another two weeks. We had been calling her Eleanor for sometime, as the choice of name had been made some weeks earlier in a very democratic manner. Donna and I had long ago agreed that I would choose names for any daughters we may be blessed with and she would have the same role for boys. The only caveat was that each of us had a right of veto over the other’s choices.

    For quite a long time after the ultrasound indicated our first born was to be a girl she was tentatively named Emily with a choice of either Louise or Leah as a second name, however over the previous two months I had been listening to a lot of my old records and a song by the English folk rock group, Lindisfarne, called Lady Eleanor stuck in my mind, so Emily became Eleanor and Louise was confirmed as her second Christian name. Most of my American friends seem to think that another song, The Beatles, Eleanor Rigby, was the real inspiration and while I love the song the lyrics are a little depressing: “Eleanor Rigby, died in the church and was buried along with her name. Nobody came…” Not quite the sentiments I wanted associated with my little girl.

    Anyway, I was feeling quite relaxed on the plane ride and not just because of the G&Ts. A run of thirteen weekly trips to Los Angeles and San Francisco had ended the previous week allowing me to be relatively close to home in the event that things started to happen early. I arrived home around 10.30pm and after a brief state of the pregnancy discussion, we retired to bed. Around one in the morning, I was woken by my wife’s delicate elbow being forcibly applied to my ribcage. She informed me that she had wet the bed. I confirmed this fact as my arm arced over in an attempt at a hug and landed in a wet patch between us. My initial reaction was that this was just one of the many pleasures of having a heavily pregnant wife. My senses were a little dulled for some reason so I was a little slow on the uptake. My darling wife, ever tolerant with my weaknesses, explained in short, simple words that she had not in fact peed in the bed but that the warm moist sensation my right hand was experiencing was in fact the initial indication that I was shortly to become a father, albeit an irresponsible one. 

    Her waters had broken but given my slightly numb state, my initial panicked reaction was acted out in slow motion. Anyone who has ever tried to put on a pair of trousers in a hurry at one o’clock in the morning while still asleep, can imagine the scene as I attempted to dress myself.  Fortunately, Donna was well prepared and a model of coolness. Eventually I managed to clothe myself, find the previously prepared suitcase and guide my darling wife to the door. By this time I was fully awake and any semblance of impairment had disappeared. The realisation that my wife was on the verge of giving birth was akin to a massive injection of pure caffeine.

    All the actions required to load the car, exit the garage and set a course for the hospital were preformed with speed and precision. However, all was not as smooth as it at first seemed. As we turned out of the driveway I noticed that the fuel gauge was awfully low, in fact the warning light came on the moment I started the engine. I vaguely remembered thinking to myself on the way home from the airport that I should stop and get some petrol but of course I didn’t.

    The hospital was fifteen miles away and in my mind Eleanor was about to arrive at any moment―could I risk running out of petrol? Rapid mental calculations produced an alternate route to the hospital which passed a petrol station. I changed course and started praying that it would still be open at this time of night. At this point I was grateful for being in America. If this had been Britain our daughter may well have been born on the hard shoulder of the M1 as few petrol stations deign to serve their customers after midnight. As we neared the petrol station, at close to the speed limit, well maybe a few miles over, we had to negotiate a railway crossing that on numerous previous journeys had given every impression of being disused. Not on this night; as we approached, the crossing lights began flashing and the barriers started to descend. Here I was about to run out of petrol, with my still serene wife about to give birth to my child and the barriers are descending―what to do?

    Without a moment’s hesitation the accelerator hit the floor and under the descending barrier we went mimicking Steve McQueen in Bullitt. I wonder what would have happened if the engine had started to sputter for want of petrol, as we made our crossing. Anyway we made it safely across the tracks and rounded the corner to see the welcoming light of the all-night BP service station. Yes it was a BP station owned by British Petroleum, thereby strengthening the Anglo-Saxon influence on this Yankee’s imminent birth. Now fully fuelled and clear of all railway crossings we cruised on to the hospital arriving at around 2am with just under twelve hours to spare. 

    Unlike Donna, my morning was punctuated by breakfast at McDonald’s, numerous cups of coffee and much sitting around twiddling my thumbs while trying to be supportive. Around lunchtime Eleanor finally decided it was nearly time to make her entrance. After putting Donna through all the appropriate motions, Eleanor Louise arrived in the world at 1.49pm. After a suitable period of spousal comfort, I made my excuses and celebrated becoming a father by walking down the road and having the biggest burger and fries I could find. Well this is America.

Extracted from Half The World Away by David A.J. Axson.  Buy a signed copy today at Amazon.

Customer service - why is it usually form over substance?

Customer service has become an all consuming mantra.  Any self respecting organization must emphasize its focus (often using adjectives like insane, passionate and dedicated) on customers, yet the reality is that most customer service is superficial. It consists of mechanical actions that lack genuine commitment and which are rarely backed by any authority to actually do something meaningful. Consider the following examples:       

1 "Can I help you sir?"  This is not bad in of itself but all too often I am asked this questions five times within three minutes of entering a store.  First, I am quite capable of asking for help if I need it so please just leave me alone. And second, if I do ask for your help, don't tell me that "Everything we have is on display" or "I'm sorry that's not my department."  Even worse is when the answer is "I don't know."  I received a call this morning from Bank of America who are theoretically handling my mortgage refinancing.  I have got this call every week for the past eleven weeks and every week it goes like this: a very polite person inquires if they can help me in anyway; I ask, "Can you tell me when the process will be complete?" they say, "I don't know sir, but I am sure it won't be long." Well thanks a bloody lot!

2. "Did you find everything you need?"  This is a retail favorite and most of the time I robotically answer with a dismissive "Yes." However once in a while I answer, "No." Typically this produces a reaction ranging from shock to bewilderment accompanied by absolutely no idea as to what to say next. If you can't do anything about it - don't ask.

3. "Excuse me sir"  This is usually uttered by the check-in clerk at a hotel.  I am standing in front of them trying to get my room key when the phone rings.  Suddenly I become invisible and the "answer every call on or before the second ring" mantra kicks in.  I then stand patiently as some idiot on the 8th floor asks for detailed reviews of fifteen local steak houses.

4. "How was your meal?" I don't mind getting this question once, but four times in eight minutes is bit much, particularly when it interrupts a conversation.  Why can't restaurant managers get it in their thick heads that when I am talking to my wife, children or a business associate it is not alright to interrupt?

If you want to serve me - just deliver what is promised and get the hell out of my way -  so there!

What the critics say...Half the World Away!

Rather like The Beatles, my new book Half the World Away was rejected by many before true talent was spotted (thank you Countinghouse press!). Like all aspiring authors I have assembled a sizable collection of rejection letters. 

Unlike my fellow Brits who wallow in failure and glory in disappointment, I have adopted my American persona of viewing all setbacks as mere learning experiences or teachable moments and have turned rejection into marketing capital.  So here are selected comments, reproduced verbatim from my considerable stack of rejection letters. Hopefully will lead to one or more of these publishers to be compared to Dick Rowe of Decca Records who was the most famous rejecter of the Fab Four.

“I truly had a fantastic time reading this - David’s wit and humor are second to none.”

“brims with energy …good hearted humor”

“a funny intelligent writer”

“Witty and fun to read”

“a highly entertaining read”

“Fun and fresh”

You can buy your personally signed copies at sonaxbooks.com and also help kiva.org a great charity doing outstanding work around the world.

Half The World Away - what the critics will be saying!

“What do a twelve step program for sex addicts, getting naked at a Schvitz, a convention of plastic surgeons, using a minivan as a bobsled, and George III have in common? Yup – They’re all Half the World Away.”

“Half the World Away is exposes of all that is normal in America.”

“Forget Harry Potter and The DaVinci Code, Half the World Away, sets a new benchmark for modern literature.”

“Bill Bryson with attitude and a bald patch”

“Half the World Away does for Anglo-American relations what Bill Gates did to the typewriter.”

“The British Are Coming – can we please stop them?” 

“Axson wrote Half the World Away? Pity he didn’t stay there!”

Chaptography part 4...Axson has left the building

Both Sides Now is a superb song and I admit Joni Mitchell has grown on me over the years. There is also a lovely version by Clannad and Paul Young.

Cold Hard Bitch is by a band called Jet, the best group to emerge from Australia since AC/DC.

Eleanor Put Your Boots On is a track from the album You Could Have It So Much Better by Franz Ferdinand and is one of three songs containing my daughter’s name that I love. The other two are, Lady Eleanor by Lindisfarne and Eleanor Rigby by The Beatles.

Money for Nothing by Dire Straits, with vocal contributions from Sting, seemed to define MTV in the 1980’s―British of course.

Wild Thing by The Troggs is a great rock anthem from 1966. Sung by the “other Presley” Troggs front man, Reg!

Jailbreak by Thin Lizzy. I prefer The Boys Are Back in Town but this song still rocks.

London Calling. Forget the Sex Pistols, The Clash were the best British punk rock band, bar none.

White Wedding. Billy Idol, former lead singer with the punk group Generation X, made it big in America as a solo artist.

You Can’t Always Get What You Want was the perfectly ironic title for a chapter about Las Vegas. I love the Stones and this is my favourite Mick and Keith composition.

Texas by Chris Rea has a great driving beat, perfect to accompany a long cruise across the Lone Star state.

Merry Christmas Everybody is the best Christmas song ever. Images of Noddy Holder and Dave Hill still make me smile at the memory.

Wake Me Up When September Ends is from Green Day’s album, American Idiot, which was the original title of this book. It’s the most melodic song on an excellent album.

I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For comes from the U2 album The Joshua Tree that elevated the group to superstar status. Listening to this track it’s easy to hear why.

Chaptography part 2...turning up the volume

Half The World Away or HTWA to those in the know was written over sixteen years and rejected by more than 30 publishers! I think The Beatles were rejected by about the same number of record labels so that must be a good omen. Here are some more classic chapter titles - try and guess the subject matter - its not that hard!

Calling America by ELO is a guilty pleasure -- you're not supposed to admit to liking ELO. Their 1976 song Livin’ Thing topped a UK magazine poll in 2006 as the number 1 “guilty pleasure” as in the un-cool record it’s okay to love. Well no one has ever accused me of being cool.    

Main Street is classic American rock and no one personifies that genre better than Bob Seger. His lyrics accurately describe the typical Midwest town–my home for last nineteen years.    

Davy’s on the Road Again by Manfred Mann is all about my working life.    

Sweet Child of Mine is the definitive Guns n’ Roses song; it should really be Sweet Children of Mine since I have two of them.    

Eight Days a Week by The Beatles. Written by Paul McCartney based on one of Ringo’s absurd comments, think also of A Hard Days Night. The Fab Four were my first musical love as I apparently used to sing She Loves You while sitting in my high chair, as a three year-old back in ’64.    

I’m Going Home is 11 minutes 40 seconds of over the top R’n’B by Ten Years After and their lead guitarist, Alvin Lee—Brits who rocked at Woodstock.    

You’re so Vain could be the theme song for modern America. Whether Carly Simon wrote this about Warren Beatty remains unknown, but it accurately describes the cult of personality that pervades America.

I Can’t Stand the Rain is Tina at her best. Surely the sexiest 40, 50 and 60 year-old ever? Those legs set atop the towering stilettos…