Let’s talk business. The voiceover business, to be specific.

It’s taken a lot of work, but I’m now able to offer my voiceover services: voiceoverartist.co.uk. But this isn’t all about self-promotion. What’s in it for you?

Money, that’s what. And easy money at that.

Voiceover Artist

As an introductory offer, until next Friday – that’s July 29^th – here’s the deal:

• Do you need a voiceover recorded? If not, scroll down. If yes, I’m offering to record it for you – almost regardless of project size – for £100. That’s an unbelievable deal. It saves cash for that summer holiday. Kids aren’t cheap, I notice.

OR

• Do you know somebody who needs a voiceover? Examples of voiceovers could include audio guides, explainer videos, or company voicemails, to name but a few. If you refer somebody and he/she gets in touch before midnight on July 29^th, I’ll split the £100 fee with you.

That’s right. As a way of saying thank you for the referral, I will split the fee with you – 50/50. Ensure your friend/colleague/acquaintance mentions your name when contacting me, and when I get paid, you get paid. That’s £50 in your pocket for a simple referral.

And let me be clear. This is an even better deal than it seems. The project doesn’t have to be actually voiced by July 29^th; I simply have to be contacted by that date. And if you’re outside the UK, we can work in your currency. info@voiceoverartist.co.uk is the email to use.

Voiceover Work

While that percolates, let me give you some backstory.

A while back, I was asked to record a voiceover for Oracle PeopleSoft. Easy, right? A fleeting acquaintance with English, a microphone off Ebay, and anybody can be a voiceover artist?

No. Working on voiceovers is a profession. It requires time and effort; you don’t just ‘break in’. For example, how many different ways could you say the sentence, ‘I didn’t say you spilt wine on my new carpet.’ A few weeks ago, I watched talented voice coach David Bourgeois say it ten different ways, changing the word emphasis each time.

If you’re interested in becoming a voiceover artist, there is plenty of information out there on the net, from hardware to tuition to vocal hygiene. Right now, I’m just saving you some money or putting some in your pocket.

Friday 29th is the deadline to be in touch. Have a great weekend..

‘France would be lovely if it weren’t for the French.’ How many times have you heard that?

Much as it’s every Englishman’s duty to urinate on a Belgian at some point, it is equally ingrained that annoying the French is part and parcel of being English.

To wit, let’s take an example from a day I was approaching French Customs on tour.

My accompanying chum said, without hedging or vacillation, ‘Good God, don’t actually open your passport, Barnaby. Just tap Johnny Frog on the head with it and say, “British passport, Jean Pierre, that’s all you need to know.”’ Borderline arrogance? A healthy soupcon of patriotism? Or simply annoying the French?

Battle of Hastings

Ah, but then there is this trifling invasion of 1066 from the Norman settlers in France – a skirmish in which, arguably, the English didn’t fare marvellously. Did this whitewash knock us into humility? Not at all. As I often like to quote, there is a happy ending. We absorbed the Gallic je ne sais quoi; added our own inimitable stamp; and now, incontestably, the English are the best lovers in the world. N’est pas?

But let’s unfold events and dissect the details. Norman means North Man, referring to men from the north – i.e. Vikings. And why did they settle in northern France?

Because the English king Alfred the Great, fruitier than a Bantu warrior, gave them a stern walloping in the ninth century. With well-smacked tails between their goblets, the north men had to look elsewhere for rich pickings.

Thus, they sailed south, to the obvious choice for pilfering, looting and rampaging: northern France. Still is, actually. Notice the busloads toddling across the Channel in search of cheaper alcohol, garlic strings and hosiery?

And while we’re about it, notice the name of the stretch of water separating the countries? The French call it La Manche, which translates as “sleeve”. We all know, though, that it is indeed the English Channel.

Infuriating the French

Anyway, let’s get back to annoying the French. To conclude, it is incumbent upon me to point out that, because of Alfred’s deflection of invaders, the area of Normandy in France owes its whole existence to the English. So pop that in your Gauloise and smoke it.

God Save the Queen.

Only joking, of course. I mean, what would we do without champagne? Oh, but what’s this? Six years before Dom Perignon was even born, the English had already invented champagne? My dear Jean-Luc, it seems it’s not your day. Bisous…

#24hours7cities? At 12.25pm tomorrow (UK time), I’ll attempt to smash the current Guinness World Record for Visiting Most Number of Capital Cities. The record stands at six; tomorrow I’m attempting seven. Oh, and the small print is that it has to be done in 24hours. Erm, hence #24hours7cities on Twitter.

Why bother? Put simply, in the words of Sir George Mallory when asked why he was attempting Everest’s summit, ‘because it’s there’. A challenge is a challenge; If we didn’t strive to break new ground and push ourselves, we’d still be cleaning our teeth with sticks.

Human Trafficking

But once I’d decided to challenge this Guinness World Record – set last autumn by journalist Sarah Warwick – I realised it was an opportunity. A high profile opportunity to bring an unconscionable issue into the limelight: human trafficking. It’s an issue that has resonated with me ever since I learnt of its worldwide prevalence. For more details of the World Record, and my donation page to ECPAT (End Child Prostitution and Trafficking), click here.

So, tomorrow, let’s pray that the gods of happenstance decide trains run on time. The – ahem – track record has been promising lately.

A big thank you to Amy Laker at the Eurostar press office for agreeing to start the stopwatch at London’s St Pancras International Terminal tomorrow. And another huge thank you to the team at ITMI. Without their unbounded support, none of this would have been possible. (Google ‘Barnaby Davies human trafficking’ and you’ll see just how instrumental ITMI has been in reaching news broadcasters around the world.)

European Travel

Easy challenge? Good old wholesome fun? A little jaunt round Europe’s cultural capitals, same as usual? In a word, no, although the travel itself is not the really taxing part; the teaser is satisfying Guinness World Record stringent guidelines.

The big cheeses are not to be fobbed off with a few travel receipts and one’s code of honour. They require incontrovertible evidence: log book, high quality photographs, and 24 hour video footage – pretty tricky when on the move with no guaranteed power sources. Neither can one just hop in a taxi – owing to a delayed train, perhaps – and say, ‘Buckingham Palace, James, and don’t spare the horses.’ Scheduled transport only, is what this record is about.

#24hours7cities

Wish me luck, folks. And please donate to ECPAT if you can. If you’re unable to, that’s OK; #24hours7cities is about boosting public awareness of human trafficking as well as raising funds. If you’re reading this – and hopefully sharing via social media – we’re half way there.

Here we go, then! Let’s hope there aren’t ‘the wrong kind leaves on the track’ tomorrow…

STOP PRESS –  a Guinness World Record attempt is imminent. Will I be scoffing 17 doughnuts non-stop? Standing flamingo-like on one leg for 96 hours?

No, on April 15th, I’m attempting to smash a 24 hour travel record. And to really go the extra mile, this particular Guinness World Record must be attempted without a thermos flask. Gulp! That accursed airline liquid rule..

Excuse the shameless piggybacking onto Beyonce’s infamy. Without her ineffable oomph, however, I’d probably have about as much chance of securing media coverage as finding a cornish pasty in Somalia.

So, with the barest of ancillary detail, see below. (The following press release is available as a PDF should you require it.) Anything you could do to boost awareness would be greatly appreciated. Post this URL on twitter; stick it on your Facebook Wall; organise a send-off in London. Can you help? I’m aiming to highlight the issue of human trafficking by achieving this record.

Time is ticking; this Guinness World Record is only two weeks away. Thank you in advance for any support.

PRESS RELEASE

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Date: 30/03/2014

Contact: Barnaby Davies 

Road Adventures Ltd.

Tel: +447986 109688

Email: barnaby@roadadventures.co.uk

 

GUINNESS WORLD RECORD

Beyonce roadie attempts 24hr travel challenge

The amps from Mrs Carter’s World Tour Lisbon show are still buzzing. Yet Barnaby Davies, roadie to rock royalty, is not content to rest on his laurels. On April 15th, swapping backstage glamour for the kudos of smashing a Guinness World Record, he will attempt to visit seven capital cities in just 24 hours, using only scheduled transport. 

“Records are there to be broken,” says 38-year old Davies, globetrotter of 61 countries at the last count. “That could be as crew on U2’s highest grossing tour in the world, or it could be dashing around Europe on public transport. I’m aiming to highlight the issue of human trafficking with this record attempt.”

To take his place in the record book, he must beat the current record of six cities established by journalist Sarah Warwick last September. In order to satisfy Guinness officials, he will have to alight in each of the cities themselves, not just a nearby airport, making this a tough logistical nut to crack, as well as a test of endurance. 

Details of Davies’s itinerary:

Leaving London St. Pancras rail station at 12.25pm and arriving Paris Nord at 15.53; leaving Paris Nord at 16.52, arriving Brussels Midi at 18.17; leaving Brussels Midi at 18.48, arriving Brussels airport 19.09; Brussels flight to Ljubljana 20.45-22.25, by public bus to Ljubljana train station and leaving Ljubljana for Vienna on overnight train at 23.55; leaving Vienna main station (hautbahnhof) at 08.21 on April 16th, arriving Bratislava HL.S station at 09.27; leaving Bratislava HL.S at 0953, arriving at Budapest Keleti P station at 12.35 (11.35 UK time, so 23 hours, 10 minutes).

Given the trip ties in nicely with a spot of lunch in Budapest – naturally – do you reckon I could eat a kilo of goulash in under 60 seconds? Or a hundredweight of calzone, perhaps? Please get in touch at barnaby@roadadventures.co.uk. We need at least one national newspaper onboard for this Guinness World Record..

 

Women are complex. Or are they?

‘A few laughs and a stiff prick – that’s all a girl wants. I read it in a magazine,’ said Rupert Everett in the film Hysteria. Well, let’s look into that for a minute.

Can you believe that, until 1952, “female hysteria” was a common medical diagnosis? The prominent Greek physician, Galen, claimed this chronic disease – a disorder of the uterus, making women “difficult” – stemmed from sexual inactivity. Rather lends credence to Everett’s lines, no?

Eight hundred years later a Persian doctor suggested a rubbing treatment, to bring peace to “sick” women. And then in the nineteenth century, at the height of Victorian prudishness, a “cure” was offered. Let me set the scene for you, Ladies.

Sexually Frustrated

There you are in the drawing room, wearing a sexy crinoline and hoop skirt. Yeah, sure, by all means don an uncorseted tea gown if you’re a raunchier maiden.

The point is that the afternoon entails crocheting a bedspread while scones burn in the oven. And I daresay a Chopin sonata is playing in the background. Got the picture?

With no prospect of a good seeing-to later in the evening, are you feeling unfulfilled and hysterical? Well, lie on your back behind a curtain; the unrelenting scientific rollercoaster is coming to the rescue.

Diligent doctors forsook their wrists, selflessly daubed their fingers in musk oil and got to work. The treatment: apply gentle index finger pressure and circular rotation to the vulva. Reapply oil as needed.

Ah, yes, the symptoms are abating; your breathing is gaspier, your cheeks are reddening. Good steady pressure, that’s the key. My dear Watson, she seems to be “better”.

Wiggly-Jiggly Squealer

Wrists aching, Gents? Luckily, Joseph Mortimer Granville enters the fray. An experiment with a spinning feather duster and, voila, the portable electric massager – or the Jolly Molly – was born.

Also known colloquially as Granville’s hammer – dreadful, I know – the vibrator was regarded solely as a medical tool. More doctor-delivered hysterical paroxysm than orgasm.

Well, a tweak here, a groove there, add batteries, and we have the modern day electric vibrator. Now a billion dollar industry, with names such as the Trojan Vibrating Twister, it remains the single most popular sex toy in the world today.

So why are women still so “difficult”? Maybe ask a woman living in Alabama or India, where vibrator sales are illegal. Coo, the doctors must be working overtime down there..

For those who don’t know Namibian, I’ve included a picture. Here he is, twerking in Glasgow, as we begin the second European leg of the Beyonce Tour. Notice anything different about him?

‘I’ve lost nine kilos and can see my dick now,’ he brags. But that’s not what I meant. No, this frothy soul – cerebral, yet light-hearted and loving – seems to have a blemish upon his upper lip. (Click here to see why a moustache was no longer in vogue at least as far back as 2010.)

Moustache?

A soup strainer? Worn by a man with congenital sex appeal? I’m not sure I like the bungling cut of his jib. Ah, but he has an excuse. ‘It’s to keep the women away,’ he explains slowly, as though giving dictation to a five-year-old stenographer. Eh?

‘Yeah, well I’m not getting married again,’ he sighs. Wow, the lengths he has to descend to to avoid wife number four, eh? In contrast to the rest of us, this unprepossessing bedroom ninja has to make an effort to look less attractive. Agile – and comprising a mind with no horizon – he snaps his fingers and girls appear, much like kittens relish catnip. Move over George Clooney.

Or no moustache?

Anyway, you’ll be glad to know that I’ve talked him out of this foolishness. The electric razor whirs; the stain is deleted. Phew! As Andrew Davidson once wrote, ‘Abstinence is a bridle that gives the spirit a chance in the eternal quarrel with the body.’

Well, tsk to the spirit. Crudely paraphrased, the 1940s are over and moustaches oughtn’t to be worn unless it’s Movember. Welcome back, Namibian. Here’s to a great 2014 tour.

In other news, the Beyonce show is still fantastic. We’ve now reached Birmingham – thank you, your sympathy is appreciated – and the rest of the tour dates can be found here. Don’t hesitate not to drop in for tea if you’re passing. More soon..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As sure as day follows night, mistakes are made. But to some – namely Slovenians, when they’re being lumped in with Slovakians – this can be a matter of intense vexation. Slovenia, believe it or not, is an actual country. And given that she’s winning medals at Sochi’s Winter Olympics, let’s put her, together with her peculiar-sounding capital, Ljubljana, firmly on the map.

‘Where do you reckon Ljubljana is?’ I asked a well-read fellow the other day. Now I say well-read because he owns a bookshop. But I have a sneaking suspicion that he spends most of the day drinking wine, never in fact dusting a tome, let alone opening one.

Slovenia has a Capital!

‘Ooh, don’t tell me,’ he agonised, face creased in concentration. He swept a silver strand from his furrowed forehead, narrowed his eyes and gave what is a fairly standard answer in the UK. ‘Poland. No, Ukraine? Agh! Lithuania, maybe?’ Now if you were from a capital city, would you be a little put out by this? The Slovenian girl standing next to me, however, “took it on the chin”, as we say in proper countries.

The ensuing question often arises: ‘Is Slovenia different to Slovakia then?’  Well, yes, these two countries don’t even share a border. But you may be interested to know that staff of Slovak and Slovenian embassies meet once a month to exchange wrongly addressed mail. Rest assured that plenty of others are getting it wrong, too.

Slovenia or Slovakia?

What does it matter? Good point. Actually, there’s a super line addressed to a Slovenian model in the film Wolf of Wall Street. The guy says, ‘Slovenian. Slovakian. You’re blonde.’ Classy, if bordering on sexist. But here are three reasons to visit Yugoslavia. Whoops, I mean Slovenia.

1. Women. They’re pretty, but about the same as in Slovakia.
2. Food. Sausage and sauerkraut is also served in Slovakia, though.
3. Castles. Slovenia, Slovakia – they’ve both got them.

OK, three serious reasons to visit Slovenia.

1. Lake Bled is one of the most beautiful fairytale lakes in the world.
2. Postonja Caves, 2 million years old and stretching 21km, is the only cave in the world with a double track railway.
3. Predjama Castle, a 700-year-old fortress, perches precariously in the middle of a 123-metre cliff.

Anyway, let’s have a round of applause for Slovenia’s Ice Hockey team, beating Czechoslovakia in Sochi only this morning. Hooray! Oh, I do wish they’d stop inventing countries during our tea breaks..

‘Moving sidewalk ends. Prepare to step off,’ read the sign in Nashville airport the other day. Well, I wondered who that sign would benefit.

Somebody forgetting that he was on a travellator? Possibly. A blind woman? Certainly not. A cretin? Ah, we’re approaching the nub. Surely this is another example of global malaise.

I went to the toilet to escape the lunacy. Oops, I mean the restroom. But was I going in there for a rest? Or to use the toilet? Perhaps a bit of both. Mouthwash and complimentary mints were on offer; a fellow said “Good morning, sir”; and my wee wee was billed, according to the wall sign, as a “superior customer experience”. Superior to what? Maybe it was safer out of the lavatory stalls after all.

Airport Security

Nope. The next stop was TSA: Transportation Security Administration. (To those of us outside the USA, that’s the pre-flight luggage x-ray and metal detector.)

Twenty yards before two short queues a lady stood, her chestnut hair drawn back from a high forehead,  with her finger poised over a button. ‘It’s a Randomizer,’ she intoned without the slightest trace of irony. ‘It’ll tell you whether to go left or right.’

‘Let’s go crazy,’ I teased, with a faintly heady sense of adventure. ‘Press it twice and see where the arrows point.’ (I don’t get out much, you see.) Surprisingly, unaware that I was taking the piss, she complied. And do you know what? It randomly pointed left twice in a row. Ooh!

My point, however, is that anybody able to see twenty yards ahead of his own feet could pick which queue to join. But, no, the airport employs somebody to stand there and press a Randomizer. And I daresay this lady had to go on a full-day training course to learn how to safely operate the machine.

100ml Fluids

But let’s put the shoe on the other foot for a second and make fun of the English. Here’s an airport story you won’t believe – it’s just about as daft as putting speed bumps on the runway. But it’s true. Remember the time when you could still take liquids on planes?

Well, my dad once took a pint of milk from London to San Francisco in his hand luggage. What for? ‘So I could have a nice cup of tea when I got there,’ he says, deadpan. ‘I wasn’t sure whether the hotel would have any.’ Erm, they do have cows in the US, Dad.

The sniffer dogs were his undoing, though. And attached to one of the dogs’ leads was a stormtrooper, who enforced the ‘surrendering’ of the milk. Poor old dad was astonished. ‘Bastard wouldn’t even let me drink it,’ he recalls bitterly. Ha ha. Airport travel, eh? What a crazy world..

‘Sherry?’ asked my mother at Christmas. ‘Just an eighth of an inch,’ replied my grandmother, wrestling with this blatant abuse of alcohol. An eighth of an inch? I thought we’d gone metric in the UK. Maybe this is a generational thing.

So in a bar the other evening, I asked a woman in her mid-twenties how tall she is. ‘Five foot six,’ she answered. ‘What’s that in centimetres?’ I continued. ‘No idea,’ she said curtly, cottoning on that there wasn’t a pint of gin and tonic to be had out of me, that it was indeed a genuine question rather than a prelude to a one-night stand.

Metric vs Imperial

Let’s get this straight, then. We teach metric in schools, but the second a pupil is released into the real world, he or she has to learn the imperial system of units and measures. Yes, carpenters are now starting to talk in centimetres, rather than saying two inches by one, but how far away is the job? Let’s say eighteen miles each way. Miles? Ah, that conveniently simple measurement of 1760 yards..

Well, let’s price the job; diesel, as you probably know, isn’t cheap. We’ll say, for argument’s sake, that the van does thirty-eight miles to the gallon. So how much is a gallon of fuel? Ah, therein lies the difficulty: both petrol and diesel are sold in litres. Stop grimacing, it’s perfectly simple. Go and get a scrap of paper and a pencil.

Now, eighteen miles return is thirty-six miles. Times that by five for the working week. Now bear in mind that a UK gallon constitutes 4.5461 litres…and, yes, you may just as well factor in that the van driver’s name is Dave. Need a drink yet? You’ve got a choice of a Queen Anne gallon of wine (231 cubic inches), or one eighth of a Winchester bushel of beer.

Units of alcohol

As you can see, we do like to make things as awkward as possible in the UK, selling fuel in litres, but beer in pints. Wine comes in millilitres, I’m told – it comes from one of those foreign places called France – but we prefer to ask simply how many bottles you’ll be needing. And then when you want to weigh yourself? Yes, we use that widely accepted measurement of sixteen ounces equalling a pound. Times that by fourteen and you’ve got a stone. I mean, how much simpler could it be?

To wit, ‘Working in base 10 hasn’t made children any cleverer,’ avers my father, that insightful font to which I am occasionally drawn for inspiration. ‘The only noticeable shift is faster thumbs from texting.’ Well, there, in  0.7 of a fluid ounce, I think you have it.

Rather extraordinary that London is still in charge of the world clock, I think..