We did win the quiz, so are all going to be heading home with new cameras. I don’t know why more people didn’t think of getting themselves a little Wikipedia assistance in a room swamped by wifi and filled with PDAs.

Breakfast was very difficult, but not nearly so difficult as getting out of bed. Staying at Hurricanes until well into Thursday morning was not such a good move. None of us could talk properly, and we took a constant stream of coffee into the morning sessions to keep us awake.

Fortunately the afternoon consisted of heading out in the sun to take photos, which we then came back to print, so we could all drift around the park by foot and so avoid drifting off entirely.

Even so, I think we were all glad when it came to an end and we could slouch in the NYC Bar, which has become our regular watering hole over the last week before heading off to Billy Bob’s, the wild-west themed bar where the compere wears a Union Jack waistcoat and the entertainment is a strange mix of can-can, gunslinging (Marc hit the floor at the sound of the first shot) and risky-looking whip cracking.

Rather predictably, it all turned very silly. David, the shortest of our group, posed with the tallest man we could fine, we all did terrible impressions of the mad hair waiter from the chateau, much to the amusement of the Fins who photographed the entire UK delegation in a series of unflattering random poses, and Simon told us the story of the weight-sensing Disney toilet he’d used somewhere in the park. It was set up to clean itself whenever it detected you’d lifted up off the seat. Good in theory, except the sensor was broken, so every time he shuffled it went into its cleaning cycle and sprayed jets up at him, which turned any sheets of loo roll you tried to use into a fragile wet mush.

James trumped it with the story of the time he was flying a dodgy local airline in China; both pilot and co-pilot walked down the cabin of the rickety old bag of nails, it lurched forwards and slightly down, the cockpit door slammed shut behind them and locked, and they were forced to hack it open with a fire axe.

Perhaps inevitably we ended up back in Hurricanes after Billy Bob’s closed and danced until about three, making a resolution to leave and then staying longer when they started to play A-ha. When we did eventually make it back to the hotel, Maryam gallantly sorted out a taxi.

Somehow we ended up in Hurricanes last night. It’s the on-site Disney nightclub, and is so bad it wraps right around and becomes good in a can’t believe we’re here sense. Or, more to the point, can’t believe we’re here at 03h30 when we have to be up in four hours.

We all had what we called Rollercoaster Shoulder – red raw and quite hurty patches from the over-the-shoulder harnesses on the ride.

We’d had dinner in a chateau not far from the park. A welcome break from the world of Disney, but still a bit false. There was a waiter – he must have been beyond retirement – with the most amazing hair construction that grew from the back of his neck and swept up like dense cobwebs in a stiff breeze over his head to be sprayed into place in a peak that shaded his face. Not sure who he was trying to fool.

It was fun, though, and was still hot even quite late, so we were able to walk around the grounds taking stupid pictures as we finished our drinks after dinner, and then rode home on the coach for the bar and, eventually, hurricanes.

This is shaping up to be an excellent trip. Loads of useful stuff, but also plenty of practical to break it up. We spent the afternoon stretching canvas over wooden frames to frame our own prints, risking our fingers to the snapping of a nail gun and a tray of liquid laminate. It was surprisingly easy.

I also have a sneaking suspicion that the UK team may have won tonight’s quiz.

If we’ve proved one thing, it’s the following equation:

wine + pina colada + gin and tonic + wine + cosmopolitan + wine + a little bit of food + seven rides on an upside-downy roller coaster + wine = bleurgh!

A very cool night. They closed the Studios half of the park so we could have the run of it to ourselves, which meant no queueing for the Rock ‘n’ Roller Coaster. A very fast, in-the-dark ride that seems to suck all the air out of your lungs with the force of the initial acceleration, and barely lets you gasp for breath until it dumps you back at the starting line a minute and a half later.

Why did we ride it so many times? Well, the lack of a queue was obviously a factor, but also the fact that you got a different ride wherever you sat. In the very front seat you never knew what was coming, as the flashing lights were always behind you. In the very back seat you got thrown around as the tail of the coaster lashed around. In the middle you seemed to experience the most lost gravity, being thrown up in the air more often than in any other spot. The seats in between were a mix of them all.

Feeling wobbly-legged, not only from the ride, we spent a lot of the night taking stupid pictures with the cameras they’ve lent us for the duration of our stay, in the dark of the studio where we were eating and drinking, or in the ice throne from Narnia, that made us look like school kids on stage at the end of a Christmas pantomime.

It’s very difficult to remember you’re in France here. It’s a strange nether-world; not quite America, not quite European. It’s only if you walk to the furthest edges of the park and glimpse a roadsign in that iconic narrow font of which French road builders are so keen that you remember where you are.

There’s a wall of famous hand-prints in the Disney Village, which serves as an interesting gauge of different celebrities’ celebrity status. Everyone who passes it seems to stop and put their own hands in someone else’s prints for comparison, so the most popular (George Clooney and Bruce Willis to name two) are now quite dirty while the ones that are far from being ‘down with the kids’ (Bob Hope and Lorri Peterson, whoever she is) are still as clean and white as the day they were pressed.

I was initially quite impressed that all these trans-Atlantic celebrities had taken the time to come here for a pressing, but go suspicious when I spotted a duplicate for Joe Pesci and looked for some other pairings. They’re obviously made from a reference set of hand negatives kept safe in a Hollywood Vault and reproduced when required.

I wonder if the people to which the hands are attached get paid a royalty for each one.

Overbranded. That’s the only way you can describe this place. After a heavy late night last night, I could have done without Goofy on the wake up call this morning.

‘Hey hey hey, sleep head. What are you still doing in bed? There’s a busy day ahead.’

Ugh.

Still, it got me out of bed.

There are little Mickey Mouse quotes on the bars of soap. The cocktail shakers in the bar have kids’ cartoon characters on them, which is probably inappropriate. Even the toilets are ‘being cleaned for your future enjoyment’ with pictures of mop-weilding Donald and Mickey propped up in front of them.

It’s an interesting place. Our hotel is probably the most corporate of them all. It’s a bit art deco, and smart but slightly dull. The others look a lot more fun. The Santa Fe zone is peppered with crashed UFOs and rusting, desert-crashed cars. The wild west looks fairly authentic – or at least looks like the wild west of films. There are huge beavers in one of the zones, the name of which I couldn’t find.

So, despite all the branding (storage cupboards are for ‘Cast Only’), I’m quite impressed by the general look of the place, and that’s before even venturing into the park proper. I’m not sure it’s the kind of place I’d come on holiday, though.

Rusting cars litter Santa Fe…

…as do crashed UFOs

There is Mickey Mouse foam in my bathroom. That has to be a first for a press trip.

I’m still not entirely sure why Disneyland was picked as the venue for this trip, but at least it was a quick and easy scoot across on the Eurostar. Unfortunately, being the Disney Eurostar, rather than the one that cuts straight into Paris proper, it was over-run by kids, and there were the occasional mild whiffs of nappy.

It’s a subtly different experience to the regular journey to Paris. For one thing, they more or less ignore the French altogether. Whereas announcements on the British side of the Channel are usually English first and French second, then switch the order on the other, on this train they were English, English, English through and through, apart from a brief French note about the fact the doors were closing.

Needless to say, it was a noisy journey, and one where an iPod is a necessity rather than a luxury.

There’s a surprising amount of suicide nets over the lines that pass through the Magic Kingdom, although having spent 34 minutes queueing the check in, during which time only four people ahead of me were served, I was starting to understand why it might be. It was only made less amusing when the concierge sent me off around the corner to find a separate reception area for this trip, which was devoid of hacks, but overstocked by six bored-looking staff desperate to serve someone.

Still, I’m here now. The room is comfy, the tiny room safe is broken and the sun is out. I’ve just written my editorial for the current issue. The next task is to head downstairs with my iBook to try and find an open wifi point through which to send it (and upload this post).

Packing of both kinds. It’s been an eat-eat-eat weekend, so between us I think we’ve all packed on the pounds, although the important packing has been my bag for tomorrow’s trip. I’m not entirely sure why I opted for an early Eurostar; I could have headed off at lunchtime and had a lay-in, but instead I need to be up at six, out by seven, in London by eight and steaming Paris-bound by nine.

The reason for all the eating was Andrew’s birthday, where all branches of the family converge on the garden, tear around the grass and sit in the sun eating a mountain of food that could rival Christmas. We’re always lucky with the weather, so if you ever want to do something outdoorsy, the motto is to time it to coincide with Andrew’s birthday.

The step-nephews, who last time I saw them were barely able to walk are now running, talking kids, the oldest one aged a rather terrifying five years. I think I’ve only seen him twice in his (and my) whole life, so wasn’t really expecting something that could not only think for himself, but also multi-task, running around everyone’s ankles with a fairly rigid and consequently dangerous plastic sword that eventually succeeded in plating Andrew bum-first into a flower bed, tearing open his hand and arm, followed by a swift episode of blood and plasters.

Have I got everything I need in my bag? I don’t know, but I always travel on the premise that if you forget to take something you can buy it there. Unless it’s a passport. Whether that’s true in the Magic Kingdom, though, only time will tell.

Very tame in the garden this morning.

It’s been a busy week. It always is before you go away. I think I got everything done, though, and even if I didn’t, next week is a work week, so I can do it while I’m away and email whatever errant job it was back to the office.

My July travel plans have changed, yet again, but at least I’ve now booked all the places I’m going to stay on my trip, so I just need to sort out how I’m going to get between them all and I’ll be done. Fortunately that part is in someone else’s hands.

I’ve also started the long process of getting my visa for this trip to America. If you’re a journalist you can’t travel on the visa waiver programme, so have to apply in advance, pay a fee and attend an interview at the embassy.

‘This will be your one and only shot,’ said the guy on the £1.20 a minute phone line you have to call to book your interview. ‘You must be at the embassy by 8am, and it will take four hours. If you have any cuts or blisters on your fingers you will not be allowed to attend.’

So, now I have an irrational paranoia of anything hot or sharp. I shall have to spend the next three weeks wearing rabbit-skin gloves turned inside out.

The Independent posted a story about Defra Minister David Miliband’s blog and how, despite the fact that he apparently posts all the entries himself, it costs the British taxpayer £40,000 a year to maintain it. Why? Because it currently takes up 40% of the working day of two grade-seven civil servants to put it together.

Unfortunately it costs £1 to buy the story on the Independent site, but the Guardian has blogged about it here.

I’m sure whoever came up with the idea of this blog had good intentions, hoping to make the Department for Food and Rural Affairs more cuddly and approachable, but how can they justify an annual spend of £40,000? It works out – so they say – at £1 a word. (Which makes the £1 read-it fee the Independent is charging seem suddenly quite reasonable).

That’s an extraordinary sum when freelance rates for magazine writing, in the technology press at least, are hovering around £200 per 1,000 words, or 20p a word. 50p a word would be a great rate, but I know of at least one magazine that has recently cut its rates to £80 a page. With most pages requiring around 800 words to fill, that’s just 10p a word. Admittedly it’s inexcusably stingy, but it’s just one tenth the cost of that governmental blog.

Surely (surely) it would be better to rethink the whole organisation of the thing, can the in-house staff and hire the poor freelancers who have just had their rates cut to 10p a word to write it for, say 35p a word. Suddenly the site would cost just £14,000 a year to run. Still not peanuts, but a far more palatable sum for something funded out of the public purse.

On another note, if it takes 40% of the time of two grade-seven civil servants to put this together, and that equates to £40,000, it clearly costs £20,000 per civil servant. Do the maths and they must each be on a £50,000 salary. Are they the world’s highest-paid bloggers?

Apple doesn’t generally do trips. It doesn’t need to. Its brand is so big and so powerful that we’d all write about it anyhow. So, it was quite a surprise – a very pleasant one – to receive a call from said company this afternoon asking me if I’d like to come away with them.

And it’s not just any old ‘away’, either. They want to take me to New York to look at their new store – the Cube – and then, a couple of days later, hop an internal flight to San Francisco. By anyone’s standards, that’s a great itinerary; you don’t often get to see both sides of the country within a few days of each other.

I had vowed never to go to America again, but – well – it’s a work thing, isn’t it. So, regardless of how sparkling those two cities are, I guess that means it’s OK to forego my principles. Just this once.

After a bit of a quiet time for trips, things seem to be picking up. Next week, for the whole week, I’m in Disneyland Paris. I suspect I’ll come home singing that M-I-C-K-E-Y M-O-U-S-E song with a slightly nasal twang and a convincing Gallic shrug.