Caffeine? Only in a traveller's dream.

I AM cursed. Doomed to wander this lonely planet of ours without the single thing which keeps me relatively sane; caffeine.

Alright technically it's not wandering on foot, it's by rail. But no matter what train I travel on, my sheer presence ensures the immediate disappearance of the drinks trolley or a functioning hot beverage machine.

The last journey I undertook, is a prime example. Despite assurances from the over-friendly driver ("Hey there! Call me Nick - just checking out your ticket sweetlips!") on the first of three trains that the snacks cart will board at the next station and will serve hot drinks and a selection of 'lite bites', it never materialises.

On the second train there is a buffet car. Grabbing a seat near-by in eager anticipation, my caffeine dreams are shattered as some nasal voice overhead announces the hot drinks machine is out of order. Damned straight it is.

The third train is as empty as my expectations by then, three quarters of the way into a six hour journey and so far not even as much as a used teabag or empty sugar sachet to prove the existence of a hot drink has made it onto a train. My cynical side questions whether it might just be the Fates' way of suggesting I'm not made to travel and perhaps a life of agoraphobia and collecting Persian cats would be preferable. Just live my days out watching through windows, clearing up furballs and shopping via the web.

It isn't just my quest for caffeine which raises these questions. I book my tickets in advance like the adverts cheerily suggest; Coach D, seat 50A. I board the train, wander through coaches A, B, C and... E. I ask staff for directions to my seat (just incase it's a bit like Harry Potter and I should be jumping into some gap between platforms or something); with a reassuring smile they inform me that coach D won't be running today so I can sit anywhere... Anywhere except - as they clock my appearance and distinct lack of laptop, Blackberry or terribly important briefcase - first class.

I take my rightful place between a family of pale-pink sportswear-clad chavs and a woman struggling with a cello.

The stations are once more a reminder that I'm not a born traveller as I get stuck at virtually every ticket gate. The machine rejects everything I offer it, from valid tickets to old ones, Boots Advantage cards and petrol receipts. As a crowd of frustrated commuters gather behind me, bouncing off in other directions, confused that their very regular and rigid flow of people - like a line of ants following each other - has been disrupted, I am made to stand to one side.

The line of commuting army ants recovers and continues onwards as I explain to a very official-looking man with a walkie talkie how exactly I had escaped my little town and made it this far into the big wide world without being stopped before now.

Eventually I am allowed to get on my train and as it pulls away I observe two characters called Teko and Zarx have been very busy bees. For at least a mile or two from the station their names are spray-painted in graffiti on every wall, electricity box and even a forgotten wheelbarrow.

For just a fleeting moment my caffeine-starved brain seriously believes that next time I dare to join the railway elite, I should offer a sacrifice of coffee beans to the Train Gods, Teko and Zarx. After all, they have perfected the celestial skill of omnipresence; well, for a mile or two anyway.

The lighter note in a heavier world

EUROVISION: Always an event to get people talking.

Whether you love it or hate it, there are always moments which will get you thinking about the state of the world and the questionable condition of the human thought process. 

This year Norway were the clear winners, gaining more than 300 points with catchy tune Fairytale.

Everything about it was sugary sweet, from the backdrop images of a quaint storybook village, to the enthusiastic fiddling of the main singer Alexander Rybak, who quite frankly looks like the main hero in a wholesome Disney film. 

The two blonde backing singers in pastel maxi-dresses provided harmonies which would make the most angry of people calmer and for those few minutes, the world was a perkier place.

Which is perhaps why it did so well. Are people looking for escapism in a moment when current affairs, whether it be the crumbling economy, war, or swine flu, aren't offering too many light notes?

The entry from the United Kingdom was created the way most celebrities seem to be born these days, through yet another reality show.

The whole process was led by Lord Andrew Lloyd Webber, who had decided that it was in need of a re-vamp in order to be successful and he was right, Jade Ewan came fifth overall with their offering. 

Marks for effort had to go to some countries who had tried to blend tradition into a modern pop song - I'm thinking Moldova here as their dancers had to move at lightening speeds to keep up with the music.

Denmark's song was written by Ronan Keating - and boy could you tell - as the singer Brinck imitated his singing style to a tee (and I suspect had also raided his wardrobe too). 

Germany tried to add raunch to their act with burlesque cutie Dita Von Teese - which I guess from their low scoring didn't really appeal too much to the family audience - although in my opinion not as shocking as the singer's awful silver skintight trousers.

As usual there were some performances in which you spend the entire time with furrowed brow trying to work out what was going on in their head when they decided to do that. 

Albania featured a nice normal female singer, accompanied by some dancer decked out in a sea green bodysuit complete with mask, looking like he's just arrived fresh from an audition for an toilet cleaner advert. Mad as a fish.

Runner-up has to go to Ukraine whose dancers were dressed as Gladiators. Again no reasoning.

Maybe that's another point as to why Norway's song was so popular; it summed up the whole ethos of the Eurovision Song Contest.

In love with a fairytale? You would have to be to sit through this collection of eccentricity and multi-cultural madness.

The day the pig flu over the world

AS with most things discussed in the press, the reported cases of Swine Flu are provoking two common trails of thought.

There are those who switch on their TV, radio, log on to the web or open a paper and read about the situation, believing it all; develop a fearful look in their eyes as they clear the fridge of sausages and bacon and stock up on tissues and anti-bac hand spray.  That little bottle of hand cleaner coupled with fitful gasps by the owner as they witness other people sneezing next to them on public transport has replaced those huge "The End is Nigh" sandwich boards normally worn by skinny, slightly feral looking men with beards who used to frequent busy city centres.  They accept that whether it is Swine Flu, Bird Flu, SARS, whatever, it is going to get them in the end and that nobody will escape. 

The second type are those who find it easier to believe that it isn't actually happening, and is just the result of a quiet news week.  Somewhere in a top secret location, without anyone knowing, all of the world's press got together and decided that this week was the right time to create mass hysteria about something which is after all, never going to be as deadly as the much maligned Man Flu.  After single-handedly being responsible for creating the credit crunch, the savage messenger boys have now turned their attentions to destroying your sanity by making you believe there is a new kind of deadly flu.  And in fact it all began because an old person situated in a quiet corner of Mexico died shortly after sneezing. Probably. 

My opinion?  Well I imagine there will be indentations on my behind due to the amount of sitting on the fence I do, but the media are just doing their jobs, and complying according to demand.  If you weren't interested, you wouldn't read about it, would you? Most of it may well be sheer sensationalism, but if nobody ever reported it and the flu continued to spread, the public would start whispering about cover-ups and question of why they were never told about it.  As a journalist, it's a case of damned if you do, damned if you don't. 

The days of intellectual types admitting they agree with the press have long passed and it is fashionable to belittle and criticise journalists regardless of what they report.  I imagine Swine Flu probably won't take over the world, and will soon be consigned to the list of forgotten world threats.

But not shooting the messenger? That'll be the days pigs fly.