You can always spot an Aussie labourer in London because they're the ones wearing boardies and wifebeaters with their fluero vest in 1-degree temperature.
One of the more interesting things about London when it gets cold so far: walking through carparks in the morning and seeing cars carrying a nice, chunky 30cm-thick frosting of ice on top, making them look like giant cupcakes with tyres. Yes, you get it other places in the world quite regularly, but it surprises even Londoners when it happens here.
The matched-pair pub names here continue to impress. The Slug and Lettuce, The Horse and Gentleman, the Hound and Hares, The Barrowboy and Banker etc. Am on the lookout for The Knee and Groin, The Chav and Shiv, The Priest and Altarboy and The Banker and Bonus.
Loud Eaters on public transport - you have ABSOLUTELY got to be kidding me, right?!? Every single day I get some too-self-absorbed-to-care w*nker sitting next to me on the train who's trying desperately to get as much oxygen into their mastication as possible. If I can hear you, I damn well know you can hear yourself. Seriously, shut your goddam mouth when you're chewing 30cm from my ear, Gobsworth, before you choke.
On the complete opposite end of the spectrum, I saw a wild fox not 10 metres from me lazing on a patch of lawn in a housing complex tucked behind a shop and between industrial sheds in the midst of the busiest, most built-up part of Croydon last Wednesday (aptly called Fox Hill). Ol' Basil Brush got up after awhile and trotted to his burrow under the hedge that formed the lawn's front boundary. Amazingly cool unexpected experience.
Off to Dublin on Friday morning for Halloween and the weekend. Dress-ups should be interesting in the cold snap hitting Ireland and the UK right now.........
Wednesday 29 October 2008
ST ALBANS
Tudor houses - drunken
St Albans Cathedral
Oldest Pub in the UK (apparently) - Ye Old Fighting CocksST.ALBANS - THE TRIP WHERE NOTHING WORKED
Had one of those trips this weekend. Decided to check out St Albans, a small city/large town approximately 25 minutes north of London and a place with a wonderfully varied history. The Romans joined in the farming-and-brewing fun with the locals in AD43 and transformed the existing village into England’s third biggest city (called Verulamium), then Queen Boudiccea and her All-Singin', All-Plunderin' Iceni from just up the road gave the Romans the big thumbs-down and included St Albans in their "Hadrian Sucks" Tour of England, kicking three shades of living tripe out of the place before heading on to give Londinium an even bigger Hows-Your-Father.
Being the Soviet Empire of world affairs that they were at the time, the Romans quickly regrouped and put a stop to all that silliness with some swift sword-work and quickly rebuilt everything Boddy had destroyed, but better. Before they took off from Verulamium in Ad 410 to attend to a few worrying matters in their own backyard, they gave England their first-ever Christian Martyr, a Roman soldier named Alban (hence the current name) who sheltered a Christian priest and converted on the sly, then got the chop when his buddies got suss. Must've been his reluctance to come along to the orgies. Anyhoo, he got the ol' 8-Inches-Too-Low Haircut and once Emperor Constantine told the Romans they were all Christians a bit later, hey presto, cue shrine-building, massive numbers of pilgrims and lots of inn-building as well (one of which, Ye Olde Fighting Cocks, apparently started serving up the ol' Loudmouth Soup to the thirsty travellers in AD912, making it the oldest pub in England).
After the Romans exited stage left, the Saxons came through, then the Normans . A wacking great abbey, the biggest in Europe at the time, was built at St Alban's shrine to attract even more money........sorry pilgrims. The first draft of the Magna Carta was even drawn up there. More interesting stuff came after that; the town played host to two Red-versus-White matches, otherwise known as the War of the Roses. A king of France hid in one of the pubs for all of about 5 minutes before being hauled out and given a jolly good seeing-to. A local got dragged off to London and toasted for not worshipping God the right way (Queeny was Catholic, y'know), which put all sorts of noses out of joint. Oliver Cromwell even sampled the delights of Ye Olde Fighting Cocks at some stage there too. The people you see at your local nuclear sub sometimes, ey?!
The place kept growing due to its location on the north road from London, but had its population swiss-cheesed by WW1 (of the first 100 locals who joined up, not a single one survived, and apparently every officer from St Albans was killed in the first 15 minutes of the Somme offensive. Yep, the first 15 minutes. Nasty stuff). In WW2 St Albans gave shelter to lots of the London kiddies who were getting sent away from the nightly Herman Goerring London Redevelopment Extravaganza, and the local factories built the famous wooden-framed Mosquito fighters. St Albans was even a hub of intelligence work - so much so that they fed the Nazis false information that persuaded them to bomb the bejeesus out of areas south of London instead of north. Talk about looking after your own backside.
After Dubya-Dubya Two the joint grew even more rapidly, as every other place did. Lots of Oh-My-God ugly buildings and suburbs went up very fast before anyone could stop and think about what they looked like, and the town got its first highway as well, further fuelling growth. They’ve hung onto most of their valuable old buildings though, unlike Brisbane (thanks again, Sir Joh, you miserable rat-b*stard - Expo 88 doesn't make up for the State Government building on George Street , in my book). Today, St Albans is a nice enough place, with a fab Roman museum, nice countryside, a bit expensive but it does the trick if you're after a simple weekend out of London without wanting to go too far.
Anyway, onto the reason behind this week’s blog title. The weekend seemed pretty straightforward - unplug and jettison from London for an entire weekend, without going too far or spending too much money, get to see some countryside and nifty architecture to boot. Little did I know. Saturday morning The Fates descended on me with their ethereal jackboots and decided to give me a kickin'. It went something like this:
(1) Forgot umbrella (in my defence, it WAS 6am and pitch black and I WAS still half-snoozing as I hit the streets to London Bridge Station). Tone was set.
(2) Kings Cross station staff couldn't tell where train to St Albans left from. Passing Dutch backpacker thankfully provided necessary information. Sweet Lord preserve the Dutch for their fine cheeses, liberal attitudes and extensive travel experience.
(3) Hotel wasn't at address provided and no-one in entire town of St Albans had ever heard of it. This included shopkeepers, cab drivers, posties and local constabulary. Made smiley-sheepish-friends with 41 locals (kept count after first 5) trying to find someone who'd heard of Hotel St Albans. No dice. Felt like the guy in The Twilight Zone episode who wakes up one day and everyone's started speaking another language.
(4) After hour-and-a-half of trudging arctic, frost-laden dawn streets and approaching people sporting Lost-Tourist-Apologetic-Smile (painfully aware that if in Albania or Hungary doing same I would've been bundled into a van by large men with no necks and lots of heavy jewellery and sold into slavery to a magnesium magnate far earlier in the piece) admitted defeat and checked into Comfort Inn for 60 pounds. Debit card wouldn't work. Could see expression on clerk's face changing from compassion at tale of woe to that unsettling blankness that suss service staff slip on while their brains calculate how long it would take the Bill to arrive, so quickly brandished remaining fistful of cash and was efficiently ushered into warm, sterile, blandly-pleasant McRoom to dump backpack and hit the streets.
(5) Got to first sightseeing destination, whipped out camera….... deader than John McCain's election prospects. Despite being on battery charger all Friday night. Fists were shaken skywards at the Fates. Unwise choice.
(6) Attempted to get to bottom of banking problems at ATM - no luck. Went to branch to have thrombo at them and possibly lay smackdown, where an emotionless android dressed in bank's uniform droned that three transactions made in first week of October had just been put through yesterday and that account was overdrawn. Emotional soundtrack in head went from punk to Slayer, before remembering that it was possible for bank staff to transfer some of savings over. Visions of Rent-a-Tourist schemes and street-corner begging receded. Hit sights once more.
(7) Rest of the day went well until deciding to do solo pub-crawl of sorts. Note: St Albans has copious amount of pubs for a place that size, all claiming to be even older than my jokes. Romans had malting crews in St Albans back in the day, and its been prolificly serving up pints ever since, apparently. Decided to hit them all in one afternoon, just for something new, having half-pint at each and striking up conversation with friendly sorts at each stop - just like earlier on but with less mutual confusion and head-scratching. Until that point Fates must've been off having bite to eat or torturing kittens or whatever they do when they're not messing with yours truly. Final score was:
Historic Pubs Visited: 6
Total Units of Alcohol Consumed: 6
Total Conversations Attempted: 9
Total Conversations Achieved: 0
Must've been my incredibly intimidating appearance.........uh huh. Stopped at Pub #6.
(8) Sunday - after a shufty at the surprisingly-good St Albans museum and some countryside, went to Tourist office to join guided walking tour, but it started raining and office..... was shut. Despite the lovely old dears spoken with day before saying to come along and pay at start of tour in morning. Started laughing maniacally on Tourist office steps. Hit Pub #7.
I shouldn't make out like the whole weekend was bad the way Michael Bay movies are bad, though. St Albans has some stunning Georgian and Tudor streets (the black'n'white buildings that lean like a drunk at closing time, for those not familiar), and those pubs I mentioned, plus a massive market that's been jumping since the 9th century and a back-story that a history geek like me couldn't resist. Just make sure you've got cash and a booking at a hotel that actually exists in this dimension.
Being the Soviet Empire of world affairs that they were at the time, the Romans quickly regrouped and put a stop to all that silliness with some swift sword-work and quickly rebuilt everything Boddy had destroyed, but better. Before they took off from Verulamium in Ad 410 to attend to a few worrying matters in their own backyard, they gave England their first-ever Christian Martyr, a Roman soldier named Alban (hence the current name) who sheltered a Christian priest and converted on the sly, then got the chop when his buddies got suss. Must've been his reluctance to come along to the orgies. Anyhoo, he got the ol' 8-Inches-Too-Low Haircut and once Emperor Constantine told the Romans they were all Christians a bit later, hey presto, cue shrine-building, massive numbers of pilgrims and lots of inn-building as well (one of which, Ye Olde Fighting Cocks, apparently started serving up the ol' Loudmouth Soup to the thirsty travellers in AD912, making it the oldest pub in England).
After the Romans exited stage left, the Saxons came through, then the Normans . A wacking great abbey, the biggest in Europe at the time, was built at St Alban's shrine to attract even more money........sorry pilgrims. The first draft of the Magna Carta was even drawn up there. More interesting stuff came after that; the town played host to two Red-versus-White matches, otherwise known as the War of the Roses. A king of France hid in one of the pubs for all of about 5 minutes before being hauled out and given a jolly good seeing-to. A local got dragged off to London and toasted for not worshipping God the right way (Queeny was Catholic, y'know), which put all sorts of noses out of joint. Oliver Cromwell even sampled the delights of Ye Olde Fighting Cocks at some stage there too. The people you see at your local nuclear sub sometimes, ey?!
The place kept growing due to its location on the north road from London, but had its population swiss-cheesed by WW1 (of the first 100 locals who joined up, not a single one survived, and apparently every officer from St Albans was killed in the first 15 minutes of the Somme offensive. Yep, the first 15 minutes. Nasty stuff). In WW2 St Albans gave shelter to lots of the London kiddies who were getting sent away from the nightly Herman Goerring London Redevelopment Extravaganza, and the local factories built the famous wooden-framed Mosquito fighters. St Albans was even a hub of intelligence work - so much so that they fed the Nazis false information that persuaded them to bomb the bejeesus out of areas south of London instead of north. Talk about looking after your own backside.
After Dubya-Dubya Two the joint grew even more rapidly, as every other place did. Lots of Oh-My-God ugly buildings and suburbs went up very fast before anyone could stop and think about what they looked like, and the town got its first highway as well, further fuelling growth. They’ve hung onto most of their valuable old buildings though, unlike Brisbane (thanks again, Sir Joh, you miserable rat-b*stard - Expo 88 doesn't make up for the State Government building on George Street , in my book). Today, St Albans is a nice enough place, with a fab Roman museum, nice countryside, a bit expensive but it does the trick if you're after a simple weekend out of London without wanting to go too far.
Anyway, onto the reason behind this week’s blog title. The weekend seemed pretty straightforward - unplug and jettison from London for an entire weekend, without going too far or spending too much money, get to see some countryside and nifty architecture to boot. Little did I know. Saturday morning The Fates descended on me with their ethereal jackboots and decided to give me a kickin'. It went something like this:
(1) Forgot umbrella (in my defence, it WAS 6am and pitch black and I WAS still half-snoozing as I hit the streets to London Bridge Station). Tone was set.
(2) Kings Cross station staff couldn't tell where train to St Albans left from. Passing Dutch backpacker thankfully provided necessary information. Sweet Lord preserve the Dutch for their fine cheeses, liberal attitudes and extensive travel experience.
(3) Hotel wasn't at address provided and no-one in entire town of St Albans had ever heard of it. This included shopkeepers, cab drivers, posties and local constabulary. Made smiley-sheepish-friends with 41 locals (kept count after first 5) trying to find someone who'd heard of Hotel St Albans. No dice. Felt like the guy in The Twilight Zone episode who wakes up one day and everyone's started speaking another language.
(4) After hour-and-a-half of trudging arctic, frost-laden dawn streets and approaching people sporting Lost-Tourist-Apologetic-Smile (painfully aware that if in Albania or Hungary doing same I would've been bundled into a van by large men with no necks and lots of heavy jewellery and sold into slavery to a magnesium magnate far earlier in the piece) admitted defeat and checked into Comfort Inn for 60 pounds. Debit card wouldn't work. Could see expression on clerk's face changing from compassion at tale of woe to that unsettling blankness that suss service staff slip on while their brains calculate how long it would take the Bill to arrive, so quickly brandished remaining fistful of cash and was efficiently ushered into warm, sterile, blandly-pleasant McRoom to dump backpack and hit the streets.
(5) Got to first sightseeing destination, whipped out camera….... deader than John McCain's election prospects. Despite being on battery charger all Friday night. Fists were shaken skywards at the Fates. Unwise choice.
(6) Attempted to get to bottom of banking problems at ATM - no luck. Went to branch to have thrombo at them and possibly lay smackdown, where an emotionless android dressed in bank's uniform droned that three transactions made in first week of October had just been put through yesterday and that account was overdrawn. Emotional soundtrack in head went from punk to Slayer, before remembering that it was possible for bank staff to transfer some of savings over. Visions of Rent-a-Tourist schemes and street-corner begging receded. Hit sights once more.
(7) Rest of the day went well until deciding to do solo pub-crawl of sorts. Note: St Albans has copious amount of pubs for a place that size, all claiming to be even older than my jokes. Romans had malting crews in St Albans back in the day, and its been prolificly serving up pints ever since, apparently. Decided to hit them all in one afternoon, just for something new, having half-pint at each and striking up conversation with friendly sorts at each stop - just like earlier on but with less mutual confusion and head-scratching. Until that point Fates must've been off having bite to eat or torturing kittens or whatever they do when they're not messing with yours truly. Final score was:
Historic Pubs Visited: 6
Total Units of Alcohol Consumed: 6
Total Conversations Attempted: 9
Total Conversations Achieved: 0
Must've been my incredibly intimidating appearance.........uh huh. Stopped at Pub #6.
(8) Sunday - after a shufty at the surprisingly-good St Albans museum and some countryside, went to Tourist office to join guided walking tour, but it started raining and office..... was shut. Despite the lovely old dears spoken with day before saying to come along and pay at start of tour in morning. Started laughing maniacally on Tourist office steps. Hit Pub #7.
I shouldn't make out like the whole weekend was bad the way Michael Bay movies are bad, though. St Albans has some stunning Georgian and Tudor streets (the black'n'white buildings that lean like a drunk at closing time, for those not familiar), and those pubs I mentioned, plus a massive market that's been jumping since the 9th century and a back-story that a history geek like me couldn't resist. Just make sure you've got cash and a booking at a hotel that actually exists in this dimension.
Tuesday 21 October 2008
AUTUMN ANTICS
Yass, it's Autumn here in London and don't all those piles of leaves look sensational as a big thumb-on-the-nose to the glass'n'steel-loving architects' broad concrete plazas and suddenly-cluttered clean lines. Get a bit'a nature in ya, Jones Lang LaSalle.
Ahem. Anyway, quick updates. This past week I:
(1) Went on a Jack The Ripper Walking Tour through Whitechapel (last Thursday night) to catch up with my uni friend Lucy. Good stuff, even if chatting about holidays and work comparisons didn't quite gel with disembowelment and entrails-over-the-shoulder talk sometimes. Was appropriately cold and dark, lots of gruesome photos from the actual crime scenes (the last victim was seriously Done Over - yeesh) and the guide was entertainingly self-deprecating. Even better - I didn't have to do the tour with the two hard-core, fully-sick-bro Melbourne wogboys still stinking from their first Contiki tour of Europe and talking like everyone gave a sh*t about their single-brain-cell opinions - they were waiting for the other tour. Bet that was fun for everyone else in their group. Mine was great, sans Aussie d*ckheads. Next time: The Vampire Walking tour.
(2) Sampled my first match of "footers", Crystal Palace - v - Barnsley, courtesy of cheap ticket through work (Crystal Palace is in Croydon Borough so they're our local team). Interesting. Got to go to a rough-as-guts local pub in the dingy part of town and have a pint with the full-on diehard Palace fans before the game - funny and disturbing at the same time.
They loved me when they found out I was an Aussie because one of Palace's midfielders is from Oz (and from that second on I was praying to the Ghost of George Best that the Aussie didn't score an own-goal).
On a night when the Chelsea dreadnaught was up 5-0 at halftime and Milwall's finest went the knuckle on the visiting Leeds fans (just to give their foreheads a rest, perhaps), Palace trounced the wallowing Yorkshiremen 3-zip. Still not a soccer fan, but it was fun to be there at the match to see everything that went on around the game.
Weirdest bit: Meeting one of the lads from the pub after the game, big 40+-year-old guy, who showed me his palms, both split down the middle and bleeding from all the clapping he was doing. No, that's not an exaggeration. Mr. Into-It had burst open his own palms. See what I mean about hoping the Aussie didn't own-goal?
Best bits: walking up the tunnel into the lower stands just as the teams walked on and the crowd burst into the team song as one. That, and watching the substitutes warm up with agility drills on the sidelines. Those lads are quicker than a Yank to a buffet. Mind-boggling footwork. Pics in the post below this one.
(3) Went for a stroll out my front door and up the road to the Tate Modern art gallery (yep, pics below as well). Great walk it is too, past Hays Galleria, HMAS Belfast, London Bridge ("Still Getting You There Since Hadrian!"), The Clink Museum, The Golden Hinde and easily the best percussion busker in the entire universe (embodied, in this instance, by a young skatepunk dude sitting under an archway playing a wicked array of plastic buckets, cans and a cymbal laid flat on the ground - I'm going back with my video camera next time, he was off-the-dial-good). Have already talked about the Tate in my previous post, so shan't waffle. 'Tis good. You should go. Or look at its website. And did I mention it's 10 minutes' walk from me? Ja. I bask in your envy.
BOOKED:
This weekend in Hertfordshire, staying in St Albans. Roman ruins, England's oldest pub (one of the contenders, anyway), country markets, no traffic. I feel relaxed just writing about it.
Next weekend in Dublin for Halloween. As you do. No idea what to expect. Pumpkin pints, perhaps.
Weekend after that I can't say yet as it's a surprise for a friend organised by their partner and they may read this, but it's goooooood.
Shall report more on those as I go. Piccies are possibly an option too. I'll leave you with the best bus ad campaign to hit London since I got there. No pics, just these words on the sides of double-deckers:
"There's probably no god. Now stop worrying and enjoy your life."
Off you go, then.
Ahem. Anyway, quick updates. This past week I:
(1) Went on a Jack The Ripper Walking Tour through Whitechapel (last Thursday night) to catch up with my uni friend Lucy. Good stuff, even if chatting about holidays and work comparisons didn't quite gel with disembowelment and entrails-over-the-shoulder talk sometimes. Was appropriately cold and dark, lots of gruesome photos from the actual crime scenes (the last victim was seriously Done Over - yeesh) and the guide was entertainingly self-deprecating. Even better - I didn't have to do the tour with the two hard-core, fully-sick-bro Melbourne wogboys still stinking from their first Contiki tour of Europe and talking like everyone gave a sh*t about their single-brain-cell opinions - they were waiting for the other tour. Bet that was fun for everyone else in their group. Mine was great, sans Aussie d*ckheads. Next time: The Vampire Walking tour.
(2) Sampled my first match of "footers", Crystal Palace - v - Barnsley, courtesy of cheap ticket through work (Crystal Palace is in Croydon Borough so they're our local team). Interesting. Got to go to a rough-as-guts local pub in the dingy part of town and have a pint with the full-on diehard Palace fans before the game - funny and disturbing at the same time.
They loved me when they found out I was an Aussie because one of Palace's midfielders is from Oz (and from that second on I was praying to the Ghost of George Best that the Aussie didn't score an own-goal).
On a night when the Chelsea dreadnaught was up 5-0 at halftime and Milwall's finest went the knuckle on the visiting Leeds fans (just to give their foreheads a rest, perhaps), Palace trounced the wallowing Yorkshiremen 3-zip. Still not a soccer fan, but it was fun to be there at the match to see everything that went on around the game.
Weirdest bit: Meeting one of the lads from the pub after the game, big 40+-year-old guy, who showed me his palms, both split down the middle and bleeding from all the clapping he was doing. No, that's not an exaggeration. Mr. Into-It had burst open his own palms. See what I mean about hoping the Aussie didn't own-goal?
Best bits: walking up the tunnel into the lower stands just as the teams walked on and the crowd burst into the team song as one. That, and watching the substitutes warm up with agility drills on the sidelines. Those lads are quicker than a Yank to a buffet. Mind-boggling footwork. Pics in the post below this one.
(3) Went for a stroll out my front door and up the road to the Tate Modern art gallery (yep, pics below as well). Great walk it is too, past Hays Galleria, HMAS Belfast, London Bridge ("Still Getting You There Since Hadrian!"), The Clink Museum, The Golden Hinde and easily the best percussion busker in the entire universe (embodied, in this instance, by a young skatepunk dude sitting under an archway playing a wicked array of plastic buckets, cans and a cymbal laid flat on the ground - I'm going back with my video camera next time, he was off-the-dial-good). Have already talked about the Tate in my previous post, so shan't waffle. 'Tis good. You should go. Or look at its website. And did I mention it's 10 minutes' walk from me? Ja. I bask in your envy.
BOOKED:
This weekend in Hertfordshire, staying in St Albans. Roman ruins, England's oldest pub (one of the contenders, anyway), country markets, no traffic. I feel relaxed just writing about it.
Next weekend in Dublin for Halloween. As you do. No idea what to expect. Pumpkin pints, perhaps.
Weekend after that I can't say yet as it's a surprise for a friend organised by their partner and they may read this, but it's goooooood.
Shall report more on those as I go. Piccies are possibly an option too. I'll leave you with the best bus ad campaign to hit London since I got there. No pics, just these words on the sides of double-deckers:
"There's probably no god. Now stop worrying and enjoy your life."
Off you go, then.
Monday 20 October 2008
THINGS I DIG ABOUT LONDON
Well, as i sit here in my loungeroom surrounded by the delicate aroma of yet another culinary bonfire (Guy Fawke's Night IS just round the corner, y'know), London groans and buckles under the relentless weight of the Credit Crunch (Its been upgraded to capital letters now - thank you, mass media, for telling us simpletons when something's really important).
On a night when the Exchequer's just announced through gritted teeth that the country's racked up a tidy 36 billion+ in debt in the first 6 months of this financial year already, the city's property market is looking about as stable as a pop starlet's mental health (soon even Zimbabweans will be able to buy a flat in Shoreditch), the news is bleating about yet another glamour riverfront residential apartment being de-populated by foreclosures, and a severe weather warning for London keeps flashing on screen courtesy of a dirty great big low sitting north of the UK like a hyena waiting for its turn at the carcasse, I think it's as good a time as any to set down what I love about this place. So, even though I may not have the verbal cutlery to dissect the great juicy multi-flavoured mass that is London's charms, and god knows more talented folks than yours truly have written enough about the place, here's my faves so far:
(1) The way even Londoners born-and-bred can still feel like tourists because of the gargantuan, ever-swirling list of things you can do and see and take part in here. Even if I never have the time to sample it all I still love the fact that anytime I want to plug in, there’s going to be something amazing to do in this city.
(2) The buzz. Yep, I've mentioned it before. Even though most things shut by 10 or 11am each weeknight (just like Brisbane ) it still feels like one of the centres of all human civilization. If you're attuned to it you can get the sense that you're connected to the rest of the world by everything that's going on around you and in front of you. Even when London sleeps there’s still a magic about the place that’s somehow accentuated by the fact that all these monuments and ancient streets are silent. KEY LEARNING FOR OTHER CITIES: forget the "24-hour city" bullsh*t and concentrate on other aspects if you want to make a city vibrant. What normal person wants to work a 10pm-6am graveyard shift, honestly?? More to the point, how do you convince a quarter of your population to work it and not expect problems? And how do you generate enough electricity to feed all those late-night businesses staying open round the clock?? Australia’s urban planners, I’m talking to you here.
(3) The fact that someone who looks like Boris Johnson can get voted in as Mayor. With all the secret UFO files being released by the Ministry of Defense here at the moment, I'm expecting Bozo to be outed any day now.
(4) The fact that the only surviving participant in World War 1 lives here. Yes, the only one, out of all those millions. For a history buff like me, just knowing that there’s still someone left who actually knows what the air felt like on the day the Somme offensive kicked off, or how the mud smelt in the trenches after the gas had cleared, and that he’s only a Tube journey away from where I live, is like knowing there’s a time machine available nearby. Gloriously surreal.
(5) The way they look after their sport here. They're not franchises, they're not business enterprises, they're not entertainment, they're cornerstones. Some of the people at work explained that basketball and ice hockey started off strong here but quickly disappeared off the radar because there was too much movement of teams and changes to uniforms and names etc etc, just like in American sport - compared to some of the "old firm" teams in the Premier League or Champions League, and the roots they've got in communities which rally around them in a modern day form of tribalism, I can see how that wouldn't have washed with the locals. Yeah, some of these Poms take their support above and beyond, and anyone who values a good headbutt-fest over their marriage or a warm pint is two steps further back in the evolutionary scale than the rest of us (oo oo oo oo EE EE EE oo oo oo Chelsea!!), but on the flip side I wish I saw half as much passion and colour and humour at any Aussie sporting event as I saw Saturday night at a three-quarters-full Crystal Palace match.
(6) The full moon’s reflection on the Thames as you walk over the river on Tower Bridge on a cold, clear, sharp night. And, if you look up, seeing the long, pencil-thin contrails of all the passenger jets that have passed overhead recently, lit by the moonlight so that the dark night sky appears to be filled by the glowing pen-strokes of some giant child. Magical.
(7) The palpable sense of history that surrounds every every single corner you turn, which you tend to not notice sometimes when life’s swamping you and stealing your time, but which seeps into your consciousness anytime you slow down. It’s not like the sense of history you in Rome or Athens , where a few eras dominate. There’s recognizable layers upon layers here, all interwoven with daily life, some decaying, some treasured and fiercely protected. Romans, Saxons, Normans. Tudors, Victorians, Edwardians, Elizabethans. The Industrial Revolution, the Swinging ‘60’s, the grim Thatcher era. Markets that were operating this Saturday in 2008, with traders on mobile phones and sleek Mercedes S Classes nosing through the crowds that were hustling and bustling almost the same way back in the 1200’s, when no-one had heard of electricity or plastic or cardboard or polyster or Australia and everything was carted or made by grubby hands and ingenuity. Every street seems to have a unique story. If you stop and look at any given streetscape and half-close your eyes you can almost see how it would’ve looked 100 years ago, 200 years ago, and you can almost see the people, like period-costume ghosts, going about their daily business the same as everyone here now.
(8) The resilience. It’s legendary, everyone in the world knows about it, but I’m seeing it in action for the first time lately. Nazi bombers thumping the place night and day? Winston and Queeny will see us through. IRA nasties leaving unexpected car-sized surprise packages throughout the city? Up yours, mick, have some taters, it’s business as usual tomorrer’. Suicide bombings by islamic extremists? Bring us sumfink we haven’t seen before, Ahmed. Worldwide financial meltdown hammering the world’s banking capital? Who’s up for a pint then? Harsh times and bad news seem to be a Londoner’s preferred element, as if it gives them an excuse, nay, a reason for them to wear their world-renowned bad tempers and stoicism with bullish pride. Strangely admirable and inspiring sometimes.
(9) The parks. Most of you probably know that London's got the most parkland of any capital city on the planet, and for a place as massive and dense and throbbing as London , that’s jolly impressive, old chap. And they're PROUD of them here. Don't know too many Aussies who are proud of their local green patch, but then again none of ours used to be Henry VIII's hunting ground, for example.
(10) Bollards. Yes, bollards. Those metal poles that Councils stick in the ground to stop d*ckhead drivers trying to shoehorn their Chelsea tractors up narrow streets or simply to decorate some space they think is lacking in panache. Often used by drunks for oh-so-hilarious vaulting exercises (what amazing originality, Bazza! I never would've thought of leap-frogging one of those! Wait while I go fetch my appreciative laugh). In London the variety of shapes, the meaning and historical significance of the different styles and shapes is pure manna for someone into both history and the urban aesthetic. Embarrassingly interesting.
(11) Hanging flower pots. (Yes, once again the man-credentials are taking a pummelling with every point). Honestly though, the most god-awful, chav-filled, festering excuse for a street is instantly changed from “which part of Chechnya are we in today?” to “Where’s my camera?” with the simple act of hanging pots of flowers and greenery from any elevated streetlight or sign along its length. Simple, easy, cheap measures can make a massive change to the appearance and feeling of the urban landscape after all. Can-Do, ARE YOU PAYING ATTENTION?
(12) The way it's similarities to home makes you love home even more. It's the comparisons between the little things. Hmm - now there's an idea for my next post.
(13) The Tate Modern. Could've been a vast, glowering blight on the southern side of the river, but they took a huge brick power station that was almost Orwellian in its brutalism, embraced its ugliness and turned into something funky. The ultimate architectural ugly duckling story.
(14) St Paul's Cathedral. Doesn't need any explanation. Just wander inside and look up at the dome, that's all you need to understand why it's on the list. And Londoners think the same. If Londoners all agree on something you know it's good.
(15) The fact that you can spot an Aussie labourer working in London from a mile away by their boardies and thongs when everyone else is wearing overcoats and scarves.
(16) The way they make use of every archway underneath rail lines. Bick old brick caverns, they've been converted into everything from car dealerships and landscaping supply centres to nightclubs and hydroponic nurseries. The one at the end of my street is a French art and furniture gallery, and another one's been converted to a skate park.
Could go on but every travel guide's got the goods on the rest of London. Those are the things I'm into at the moment. For a grumpy, wet, flat, crowded city, it's got it's fair share of things going for it.
On a night when the Exchequer's just announced through gritted teeth that the country's racked up a tidy 36 billion+ in debt in the first 6 months of this financial year already, the city's property market is looking about as stable as a pop starlet's mental health (soon even Zimbabweans will be able to buy a flat in Shoreditch), the news is bleating about yet another glamour riverfront residential apartment being de-populated by foreclosures, and a severe weather warning for London keeps flashing on screen courtesy of a dirty great big low sitting north of the UK like a hyena waiting for its turn at the carcasse, I think it's as good a time as any to set down what I love about this place. So, even though I may not have the verbal cutlery to dissect the great juicy multi-flavoured mass that is London's charms, and god knows more talented folks than yours truly have written enough about the place, here's my faves so far:
(1) The way even Londoners born-and-bred can still feel like tourists because of the gargantuan, ever-swirling list of things you can do and see and take part in here. Even if I never have the time to sample it all I still love the fact that anytime I want to plug in, there’s going to be something amazing to do in this city.
(2) The buzz. Yep, I've mentioned it before. Even though most things shut by 10 or 11am each weeknight (just like Brisbane ) it still feels like one of the centres of all human civilization. If you're attuned to it you can get the sense that you're connected to the rest of the world by everything that's going on around you and in front of you. Even when London sleeps there’s still a magic about the place that’s somehow accentuated by the fact that all these monuments and ancient streets are silent. KEY LEARNING FOR OTHER CITIES: forget the "24-hour city" bullsh*t and concentrate on other aspects if you want to make a city vibrant. What normal person wants to work a 10pm-6am graveyard shift, honestly?? More to the point, how do you convince a quarter of your population to work it and not expect problems? And how do you generate enough electricity to feed all those late-night businesses staying open round the clock?? Australia’s urban planners, I’m talking to you here.
(3) The fact that someone who looks like Boris Johnson can get voted in as Mayor. With all the secret UFO files being released by the Ministry of Defense here at the moment, I'm expecting Bozo to be outed any day now.
(4) The fact that the only surviving participant in World War 1 lives here. Yes, the only one, out of all those millions. For a history buff like me, just knowing that there’s still someone left who actually knows what the air felt like on the day the Somme offensive kicked off, or how the mud smelt in the trenches after the gas had cleared, and that he’s only a Tube journey away from where I live, is like knowing there’s a time machine available nearby. Gloriously surreal.
(5) The way they look after their sport here. They're not franchises, they're not business enterprises, they're not entertainment, they're cornerstones. Some of the people at work explained that basketball and ice hockey started off strong here but quickly disappeared off the radar because there was too much movement of teams and changes to uniforms and names etc etc, just like in American sport - compared to some of the "old firm" teams in the Premier League or Champions League, and the roots they've got in communities which rally around them in a modern day form of tribalism, I can see how that wouldn't have washed with the locals. Yeah, some of these Poms take their support above and beyond, and anyone who values a good headbutt-fest over their marriage or a warm pint is two steps further back in the evolutionary scale than the rest of us (oo oo oo oo EE EE EE oo oo oo Chelsea!!), but on the flip side I wish I saw half as much passion and colour and humour at any Aussie sporting event as I saw Saturday night at a three-quarters-full Crystal Palace match.
(6) The full moon’s reflection on the Thames as you walk over the river on Tower Bridge on a cold, clear, sharp night. And, if you look up, seeing the long, pencil-thin contrails of all the passenger jets that have passed overhead recently, lit by the moonlight so that the dark night sky appears to be filled by the glowing pen-strokes of some giant child. Magical.
(7) The palpable sense of history that surrounds every every single corner you turn, which you tend to not notice sometimes when life’s swamping you and stealing your time, but which seeps into your consciousness anytime you slow down. It’s not like the sense of history you in Rome or Athens , where a few eras dominate. There’s recognizable layers upon layers here, all interwoven with daily life, some decaying, some treasured and fiercely protected. Romans, Saxons, Normans. Tudors, Victorians, Edwardians, Elizabethans. The Industrial Revolution, the Swinging ‘60’s, the grim Thatcher era. Markets that were operating this Saturday in 2008, with traders on mobile phones and sleek Mercedes S Classes nosing through the crowds that were hustling and bustling almost the same way back in the 1200’s, when no-one had heard of electricity or plastic or cardboard or polyster or Australia and everything was carted or made by grubby hands and ingenuity. Every street seems to have a unique story. If you stop and look at any given streetscape and half-close your eyes you can almost see how it would’ve looked 100 years ago, 200 years ago, and you can almost see the people, like period-costume ghosts, going about their daily business the same as everyone here now.
(8) The resilience. It’s legendary, everyone in the world knows about it, but I’m seeing it in action for the first time lately. Nazi bombers thumping the place night and day? Winston and Queeny will see us through. IRA nasties leaving unexpected car-sized surprise packages throughout the city? Up yours, mick, have some taters, it’s business as usual tomorrer’. Suicide bombings by islamic extremists? Bring us sumfink we haven’t seen before, Ahmed. Worldwide financial meltdown hammering the world’s banking capital? Who’s up for a pint then? Harsh times and bad news seem to be a Londoner’s preferred element, as if it gives them an excuse, nay, a reason for them to wear their world-renowned bad tempers and stoicism with bullish pride. Strangely admirable and inspiring sometimes.
(9) The parks. Most of you probably know that London's got the most parkland of any capital city on the planet, and for a place as massive and dense and throbbing as London , that’s jolly impressive, old chap. And they're PROUD of them here. Don't know too many Aussies who are proud of their local green patch, but then again none of ours used to be Henry VIII's hunting ground, for example.
(10) Bollards. Yes, bollards. Those metal poles that Councils stick in the ground to stop d*ckhead drivers trying to shoehorn their Chelsea tractors up narrow streets or simply to decorate some space they think is lacking in panache. Often used by drunks for oh-so-hilarious vaulting exercises (what amazing originality, Bazza! I never would've thought of leap-frogging one of those! Wait while I go fetch my appreciative laugh). In London the variety of shapes, the meaning and historical significance of the different styles and shapes is pure manna for someone into both history and the urban aesthetic. Embarrassingly interesting.
(11) Hanging flower pots. (Yes, once again the man-credentials are taking a pummelling with every point). Honestly though, the most god-awful, chav-filled, festering excuse for a street is instantly changed from “which part of Chechnya are we in today?” to “Where’s my camera?” with the simple act of hanging pots of flowers and greenery from any elevated streetlight or sign along its length. Simple, easy, cheap measures can make a massive change to the appearance and feeling of the urban landscape after all. Can-Do, ARE YOU PAYING ATTENTION?
(12) The way it's similarities to home makes you love home even more. It's the comparisons between the little things. Hmm - now there's an idea for my next post.
(13) The Tate Modern. Could've been a vast, glowering blight on the southern side of the river, but they took a huge brick power station that was almost Orwellian in its brutalism, embraced its ugliness and turned into something funky. The ultimate architectural ugly duckling story.
(14) St Paul's Cathedral. Doesn't need any explanation. Just wander inside and look up at the dome, that's all you need to understand why it's on the list. And Londoners think the same. If Londoners all agree on something you know it's good.
(15) The fact that you can spot an Aussie labourer working in London from a mile away by their boardies and thongs when everyone else is wearing overcoats and scarves.
(16) The way they make use of every archway underneath rail lines. Bick old brick caverns, they've been converted into everything from car dealerships and landscaping supply centres to nightclubs and hydroponic nurseries. The one at the end of my street is a French art and furniture gallery, and another one's been converted to a skate park.
Could go on but every travel guide's got the goods on the rest of London. Those are the things I'm into at the moment. For a grumpy, wet, flat, crowded city, it's got it's fair share of things going for it.
Wednesday 15 October 2008
Well, due to work-related time-paucity, yours truly's not had a worthwhile jot to report in Ye Olde London Blogge since last week. Aye, I attended a stonking End of Summer Party (see pics below) on Saturday night and drank too much cider, and spent Saturday morning wallowing in the sensory overload that is the Borough Markets again, but that hardly qualifies as an acceptable substitute. So here's the next round of plans to tide ye over:
- Tomorrow night: appears I'll be going to Whitechapel to meet a uni friend and catch up over a Jack The Ripper Walking Tour in the cold, bleak depths of an English winter's eve. As you do. Honestly, am starting to think list of friends over here was imaginary, judging by how often they're around. The rumours about the hectic London lifestyle are definitely true. For some. Ahem.
- Saturday night: venturing into the howling wilds of the English Coca Cola Football Championship and going to watch Crystal Palace play Barnsley at Crystal Palace. By myself. Did I mention the friends I have over here seem to be busy to the point of being nonexistent? Maybe there's a reason none could come to this match. Hmmm. Better look up what colours not to wear....
- Halloween: have been invited to a costume party here by the Roccos boys or... a costume party in Dublin. Remains to be seen if work will allow a flex day this soon to go to the Emerald Isle wearing devil's horns and furry johdpurs.
- After that: Am currently investigating train journeys to various parts of Scewtland and Wales, and pricing flights to New York. There will be no shopping for shoes if I get to New York. None whatsoever.
STOP ME IF YOU"VE HEARD THIS ONE:
The latest credit crunch jokes doing the rounds at work:
Q. What's the difference between an investment banker and a pizza?
A. A pizza can feed a family of four.
A mate borrowed 10 pounds off me and the BBC called me up to ask what it's like being England's third biggest lender.
LONDON NEWS:
- Madonna's divorcing Guy Ritchie for making one strangely-similar-to-the-last-three movie too many. Or something. Look at how much I care. Ritchie looks set to make more than the ex Mrs McCartney in his settlement. Rumoured to be negotiating purchase of Wales.
- NBA Commish David Stern blasted the London Olympic Committee for planning to move most of the 2012 Olympic basketball matches to a small-ish stadium with none of the panache and glitz of the O2 Arena. Majority of the English population asked "David who?"
- Another black youth got gunned down outside a nightclub the Saturday before last (at the end of my street, no less), and the story was promptly forgotten by this weekend. Imagine if that happened in Brisneyland. Gun laws would've come under even further scrutiny, front page news for at least 3 days, Lord Mayor Can-Do would've been bouncing and jiggling around even more than usual on our tv screens lambasting security, nightclub owners, the binge-drinking culture, Fourex.... and doing as much about it as he does for anything not associated with building tunnels or pretending to care about heritage buildings being knocked down for concrete-and-glass boxes.
- Westfield's gargantuan new Temple of M'ehh at Shepherd's Bush announced that when it opens there will be no hoodies allowed inside for security reasons. Immediate public outrage at lack of crackdown on accompanying exposed cracks.
- Lots of talk about "baby pub louts" (very young kids allowed to run riot in pubs) at the moment. I mean, it's hard enough carrying 5 pints back to your table when you're trousered without having to deal with what appears to your beery eyes to be a midget on speed jinking between your ankles screaming "Catch me!!!!!". Innit?? Here's a wild, anarchic idea - don't allow minors in booze barns. *Gasp* Wha' yew mean, "drinking culture"?? Where'd tha' all start??
- Colin Powell (yes, Prez Dubya's stern former Secretary of State), got up on stage at Albert Hall the other night and broke 'em all off a li'l sum'n sum'n when invited by the Nigerian hip hop crew performing at the time. Big fella even holla'd to all the peeps in da' hood and got shakin' that thang, fo' REAL. And then sat down again. Word.
- Apparently the credit crunch has all London's upper crust trying to outdo each other in the divesting-of-one's-assets stakes and competive cut-lunch making. The papers are rife with stories of former bling-sporting City types descending on unsuspecting thrift shops en masse like a plague of Botoxed locusts and photo shoots celebrating the pre-loved nature of the nonebrities' latest frocks at red carpet events. Trust these vacuous b*stards to turn the whole situation into a "look at me" merry-go-round. Bollocks to the lo' of 'em.
That'll have to do ye all until I have something worthwhile reporting myself. Fingers crossed that it's not too long a wait.
- Tomorrow night: appears I'll be going to Whitechapel to meet a uni friend and catch up over a Jack The Ripper Walking Tour in the cold, bleak depths of an English winter's eve. As you do. Honestly, am starting to think list of friends over here was imaginary, judging by how often they're around. The rumours about the hectic London lifestyle are definitely true. For some. Ahem.
- Saturday night: venturing into the howling wilds of the English Coca Cola Football Championship and going to watch Crystal Palace play Barnsley at Crystal Palace. By myself. Did I mention the friends I have over here seem to be busy to the point of being nonexistent? Maybe there's a reason none could come to this match. Hmmm. Better look up what colours not to wear....
- Halloween: have been invited to a costume party here by the Roccos boys or... a costume party in Dublin. Remains to be seen if work will allow a flex day this soon to go to the Emerald Isle wearing devil's horns and furry johdpurs.
- After that: Am currently investigating train journeys to various parts of Scewtland and Wales, and pricing flights to New York. There will be no shopping for shoes if I get to New York. None whatsoever.
STOP ME IF YOU"VE HEARD THIS ONE:
The latest credit crunch jokes doing the rounds at work:
Q. What's the difference between an investment banker and a pizza?
A. A pizza can feed a family of four.
A mate borrowed 10 pounds off me and the BBC called me up to ask what it's like being England's third biggest lender.
LONDON NEWS:
- Madonna's divorcing Guy Ritchie for making one strangely-similar-to-the-last-three movie too many. Or something. Look at how much I care. Ritchie looks set to make more than the ex Mrs McCartney in his settlement. Rumoured to be negotiating purchase of Wales.
- NBA Commish David Stern blasted the London Olympic Committee for planning to move most of the 2012 Olympic basketball matches to a small-ish stadium with none of the panache and glitz of the O2 Arena. Majority of the English population asked "David who?"
- Another black youth got gunned down outside a nightclub the Saturday before last (at the end of my street, no less), and the story was promptly forgotten by this weekend. Imagine if that happened in Brisneyland. Gun laws would've come under even further scrutiny, front page news for at least 3 days, Lord Mayor Can-Do would've been bouncing and jiggling around even more than usual on our tv screens lambasting security, nightclub owners, the binge-drinking culture, Fourex.... and doing as much about it as he does for anything not associated with building tunnels or pretending to care about heritage buildings being knocked down for concrete-and-glass boxes.
- Westfield's gargantuan new Temple of M'ehh at Shepherd's Bush announced that when it opens there will be no hoodies allowed inside for security reasons. Immediate public outrage at lack of crackdown on accompanying exposed cracks.
- Lots of talk about "baby pub louts" (very young kids allowed to run riot in pubs) at the moment. I mean, it's hard enough carrying 5 pints back to your table when you're trousered without having to deal with what appears to your beery eyes to be a midget on speed jinking between your ankles screaming "Catch me!!!!!". Innit?? Here's a wild, anarchic idea - don't allow minors in booze barns. *Gasp* Wha' yew mean, "drinking culture"?? Where'd tha' all start??
- Colin Powell (yes, Prez Dubya's stern former Secretary of State), got up on stage at Albert Hall the other night and broke 'em all off a li'l sum'n sum'n when invited by the Nigerian hip hop crew performing at the time. Big fella even holla'd to all the peeps in da' hood and got shakin' that thang, fo' REAL. And then sat down again. Word.
- Apparently the credit crunch has all London's upper crust trying to outdo each other in the divesting-of-one's-assets stakes and competive cut-lunch making. The papers are rife with stories of former bling-sporting City types descending on unsuspecting thrift shops en masse like a plague of Botoxed locusts and photo shoots celebrating the pre-loved nature of the nonebrities' latest frocks at red carpet events. Trust these vacuous b*stards to turn the whole situation into a "look at me" merry-go-round. Bollocks to the lo' of 'em.
That'll have to do ye all until I have something worthwhile reporting myself. Fingers crossed that it's not too long a wait.
Wednesday 8 October 2008
Tuesday 7 October 2008
THIS PAST WEEK IN BRIEF
Friday night - went to the Concrete and Glass Music and Arts Festival at Shoreditch with Scotty (uni mate). Sampled first Brick Lane curry (wasn't too bad - the huckstering by the doormen at every restaurant down the entire street was better) prior to having a wander. Checked out one place that played nothing but '50's hits (surprisingly better than it sounds) then missed out on seeing the main band we went to see - TV On The Radio - but got into another place to see a punk band called - brace yourselves, ladies - Selfish C*nts. Not bad, lots of punk energy from the band and from the crowd, with a bit of beer-spitting courtesy of one punter and even a bit of slam-dancing. Conversations monosyllabic.
Saturday morning - The Final Push. Moved into my flat on Bermondsey Street in London Bridge. Finally got to remind myself what I'd packed on the bottom of the suitcase over a month ago. Good place, big room, Bermondsey Street never stops, close to London Bridge Station, 5 minute walk to the Thames and Tower Bridge - happy snaps are but a free weekend away.
Saturday night - went to dinner at Maggie Jones' in Notting Hill - amazingly charming little restaurant, apparently frequented by Princess Margaret herself, with not an inch of roof visible inside due to the staggering array of rustic agricultural tools, implements and produce hung like a stalactite infestation throughout. Dim lights, French waitstaff, French/New Brit food (try the pheasant - gamey goodness) - get there if you're in this neck o' the plantation.
Sunday - purchased a 160pound overcoat after a total of 36 seperate shopping expeditions since I first arrived, simply because its the only one I've found that could actually fit my arm length without making me look like:
(a) I was coming to stab you,
(b) I was on day release from the local mental hospital,
(c) a large, soft church bell, or
(d) I'd been unemployed since the age of 18 and listed "Seven Eleven" as my favourite cuisine.
So to all those fashion designers out there who continue to ignore the fact that the human race does indeed come in a vast array of shapes and sizes, and that the average height and length of said human race is steadily increasing, a massive F*CK YOU. Thanks for wasting over 40+ hours of my life that I could've spent doing something far more worthwhile than having to shop for clothes that fit, you mincing over-inflated little turds. Congratulations on having such a positive impact on society at large with your ever-so-important decisions.
Monday - Made an Argos blunder. Ordered a bunch of homewares for the new flat, like matress protector, clothes airer etc. Went to pick up said items from the store near work in Croydon, and damn near died from a Pulled Everything on the way back. To expand: the matress protector, which I thought would be in a neatly-squashed bundle inside a plastic carry-thing with handles, instead turned out to be a 30kg+, 6-foot Sausage Beast of a thing I had to carry on one shoulder like a labourer carries a plank of wood. While hanging onto numerous oddly-shaped items with the other. People ran for cover at the sight of me staggering down the footpath towards them. The matress protector is still at work in the corner until I muster up the energy and wherewithal to get it home on the train without getting attacked by an angry mob after knocking little Timmy off the platform and onto the 10-gazillion volt railtracks with my giant sausage.
Fun times here. More to come soon, no doubt. You click now! :p
Saturday morning - The Final Push. Moved into my flat on Bermondsey Street in London Bridge. Finally got to remind myself what I'd packed on the bottom of the suitcase over a month ago. Good place, big room, Bermondsey Street never stops, close to London Bridge Station, 5 minute walk to the Thames and Tower Bridge - happy snaps are but a free weekend away.
Saturday night - went to dinner at Maggie Jones' in Notting Hill - amazingly charming little restaurant, apparently frequented by Princess Margaret herself, with not an inch of roof visible inside due to the staggering array of rustic agricultural tools, implements and produce hung like a stalactite infestation throughout. Dim lights, French waitstaff, French/New Brit food (try the pheasant - gamey goodness) - get there if you're in this neck o' the plantation.
Sunday - purchased a 160pound overcoat after a total of 36 seperate shopping expeditions since I first arrived, simply because its the only one I've found that could actually fit my arm length without making me look like:
(a) I was coming to stab you,
(b) I was on day release from the local mental hospital,
(c) a large, soft church bell, or
(d) I'd been unemployed since the age of 18 and listed "Seven Eleven" as my favourite cuisine.
So to all those fashion designers out there who continue to ignore the fact that the human race does indeed come in a vast array of shapes and sizes, and that the average height and length of said human race is steadily increasing, a massive F*CK YOU. Thanks for wasting over 40+ hours of my life that I could've spent doing something far more worthwhile than having to shop for clothes that fit, you mincing over-inflated little turds. Congratulations on having such a positive impact on society at large with your ever-so-important decisions.
Monday - Made an Argos blunder. Ordered a bunch of homewares for the new flat, like matress protector, clothes airer etc. Went to pick up said items from the store near work in Croydon, and damn near died from a Pulled Everything on the way back. To expand: the matress protector, which I thought would be in a neatly-squashed bundle inside a plastic carry-thing with handles, instead turned out to be a 30kg+, 6-foot Sausage Beast of a thing I had to carry on one shoulder like a labourer carries a plank of wood. While hanging onto numerous oddly-shaped items with the other. People ran for cover at the sight of me staggering down the footpath towards them. The matress protector is still at work in the corner until I muster up the energy and wherewithal to get it home on the train without getting attacked by an angry mob after knocking little Timmy off the platform and onto the 10-gazillion volt railtracks with my giant sausage.
Fun times here. More to come soon, no doubt. You click now! :p
NEWS FROM THE OLD DART
- UK Knifing Epidemic Set To Reach Highest Level
Yes, that's right, I'm talking Downing Street again, people. After the washing-machine-like lead-up to the Labour Cabinet re-shuffle, PM Gordie's crew has stunned everyone by appointing........ a former Labour MP who's been sacked twice already and who's said to be PM Gordie's most venomous opponent. Confused? So's everyone here. Rumour has it that a few years back the PM said to a reporter "Peter Mandelson once asked me for 10p to call a friend; I gave him 20p and told him to call them all". Even better, a few days before he was re-appointed to government Mandelson unloaded an enormous dump of Brown-specific vitriol to......... a member of the Conservative Opposition. Sounds like they'll get along the way mongooses and rattlesnakes get along. I told you UK politics was far more entertaining than the Australian "Accountants-In-Power" version.
- Can't Cop Racism
You'd think multicultural England would've come a long, long way since the grimy '60's, when football fans still threw bananas at the black players (yes, this happened all the time apparently). But maybe not. The Met's Chief of Police resigned after a week's worth of claims that racism was rampant in the Force (apparently forced out by Bozo the Mayor, of all people - probably threatened him with the ol' water-in-the-eye-from-the-lapel-flower routine). Now the head of the Black Police Association is urging ethnic minorities not to apply for a cadetship with the Police, saying there's indemic racism throughout and black or ethnic officers have to work twice as hard as white officers to get a promotion.
- Febrile Economy Goes From Bad To Vortextual
Someone get me a parachute: according to every single news outlet across the Grey Havens, the UK economy is officially in freefall. Officially classified as a recession now, the UK economy is just one breathless headline of woe and doom after another. The Beeb (as the BBC is referred to by journos with nary a whisp of creativity) carries round-the-clock interruptions of its regular news taking the viewers LIVE ON LOCATION to Wall Street/US Congress/Downing Street etc where sober-looking men in sober-looking suits recount up-to-the-minute developments in the crisis with a finger stuck in their ear and appropriately furrowed eyebrows. Confidence in any of the UK's banks has made like a mango daquiri an AA meeting by disappearing quickly and stealthily. Numerous surveys continue to scream figures like "40%+ of Britons Planning To Leave UK In Coming Year" (wonder where they'll go to avoid the crunch - the UAE's already reached and breached it's Limey saturation point). The four biggest UK banks left (after Lehmans gasped its last) are all pleading, nay demanding PM Gordie deliver a bailout package ala the Yanks and the Paddys. Another Depression looms. Anyone want to go halves in some really cheap shares with me?
Yes, that's right, I'm talking Downing Street again, people. After the washing-machine-like lead-up to the Labour Cabinet re-shuffle, PM Gordie's crew has stunned everyone by appointing........ a former Labour MP who's been sacked twice already and who's said to be PM Gordie's most venomous opponent. Confused? So's everyone here. Rumour has it that a few years back the PM said to a reporter "Peter Mandelson once asked me for 10p to call a friend; I gave him 20p and told him to call them all". Even better, a few days before he was re-appointed to government Mandelson unloaded an enormous dump of Brown-specific vitriol to......... a member of the Conservative Opposition. Sounds like they'll get along the way mongooses and rattlesnakes get along. I told you UK politics was far more entertaining than the Australian "Accountants-In-Power" version.
- Can't Cop Racism
You'd think multicultural England would've come a long, long way since the grimy '60's, when football fans still threw bananas at the black players (yes, this happened all the time apparently). But maybe not. The Met's Chief of Police resigned after a week's worth of claims that racism was rampant in the Force (apparently forced out by Bozo the Mayor, of all people - probably threatened him with the ol' water-in-the-eye-from-the-lapel-flower routine). Now the head of the Black Police Association is urging ethnic minorities not to apply for a cadetship with the Police, saying there's indemic racism throughout and black or ethnic officers have to work twice as hard as white officers to get a promotion.
- Febrile Economy Goes From Bad To Vortextual
Someone get me a parachute: according to every single news outlet across the Grey Havens, the UK economy is officially in freefall. Officially classified as a recession now, the UK economy is just one breathless headline of woe and doom after another. The Beeb (as the BBC is referred to by journos with nary a whisp of creativity) carries round-the-clock interruptions of its regular news taking the viewers LIVE ON LOCATION to Wall Street/US Congress/Downing Street etc where sober-looking men in sober-looking suits recount up-to-the-minute developments in the crisis with a finger stuck in their ear and appropriately furrowed eyebrows. Confidence in any of the UK's banks has made like a mango daquiri an AA meeting by disappearing quickly and stealthily. Numerous surveys continue to scream figures like "40%+ of Britons Planning To Leave UK In Coming Year" (wonder where they'll go to avoid the crunch - the UAE's already reached and breached it's Limey saturation point). The four biggest UK banks left (after Lehmans gasped its last) are all pleading, nay demanding PM Gordie deliver a bailout package ala the Yanks and the Paddys. Another Depression looms. Anyone want to go halves in some really cheap shares with me?
Thursday 2 October 2008
APPLE CIDER & ECONOMIC MELTDOWNS
Top o' the mornin' to ye. Hope the blog's working for you all, and here's to brave new adventures in cyberspace (for yours truly the tech-Britney, anyway).
THE WEEK IN BRIEF
For all of those with attention spans as short as Paris Hilton's IQ number, this past week I:
- Went to a farewell 'do in a gorgeous 3-storey terrace house (with a backyard AND a bbq - see pics on Facebook for now) and then caught my first nightbus home. "Home" being somewhere near Westminster, where I gave up, jumped out and caught a cab.
- Had my first 2-hour run with the Rocco's basketball boys. First run of any kind in nearly 2 years, actually. Legs have only today decided to let me walk normally, as opposed to walking like I've just had a Close Encounter of The Brown Kind. If you know what I mean.
- Worked. Rivetting for you all, I'm sure.
- Lashed out and got some wild boar hamburgers, wild boar pate and pheasant sausages at the Borough Markets, then had breakfast from a stall in the sunlit courtyard of Southwark Cathedral surrounded by rich Londoners. Felt ultra-urbane and sophisticado until the mustard seeped through the bag onto my trousers.
- Sampled my new gym at The Scoop, on the Thames south bank, with its gigantic interior, Australian techno and Tower Bridge looming in the foreground as you walk out the front door. Nothing embarassing happened. That I know of.
THIS WEEKEND I AM:
(a) hitting a music festival Friday night with a uni mate,
(b) moving into my new flat Saturday morning, then
(c) midday Saturday I've agreed to go to.......... The Church. Sweet lord protect and preserve me. If you don't know what I mean look the place up on the net. You wonder where Australians get their bad reputation from on the international stage? You could do worse that to start here. Every type of Aussie-flag-waving, wifebeater-wearing, projectile-vomiting, inflatable-sheep-humping Bazza or Shazza currently gracing this fair city with their timeless elegance and subtle wit is usually on display in all their finery at this place. "No mate, I don't want to scull the yardie out of your mate's cow costume's udders - been there, done it all before". Have only ever walked past outside before, but I guess to be able to hang sh*t on the place you've technically got to have gone inside and actually walked with the animals, talked with the animals..... can't wait to write next week's update.
MORE LONDON OBSERVATIONS & ABSURDITIES:
- London handbags: suitcase-like. Large enough to stash a hairdryer, a makeup box, 3 different smaller handbags and a weekend's worth of clothes in. Or the entire works of Shakespeare. Am guessing the former is far more likely judging by the looks of most of the owners of these cavernous accessories. Especially handy for clearing a path through the teeming masses at London Bridge Station.
- Discovered a nifty method for getting through the London Bridge Human Tide myself. As you enter through the St Thomas Street entrance you accelerate rapidly so that your suit jacket flares out like a pair of woolen wings and you plaster a look on your dial that suggests you're going to eat anyone stepping into your path. Loudly. Have attempted this wondrous feat of theatre and body language three times to date (while in a good mood each time, mind) and, yea verily, the seas parted on each glorious occasion. Am considering teaching a Timid Commuter Empowerment class at nearest College.
- Brightly-coloured velour tracksuits. In public. During the day. Ladies, words fail me. Seriously, seek help.
- London pedestrians can be the rudest organisms this side of Kyle Sandilands. They'll see someone walking towards them, hemmed in by a crowd and a gutter and carrying, ohh, lets say, 45 kilos worth of boxes, suitcases and backpacks, and not alter their course an inch until said victim is forced to actually stop dead in their tracks and stare incredulously at the *ssho.... other pedestrian. At which point this skidmark on the underpants of society gives their victim a disbelieving look like they've just sh*t in their handbag, snorts and actually rams their shoulder into them to get past, thereby dislodging the victim's grip on their precariously-balanced goods and chattels and sending them careening into the next insult-waiting-to-happen Londoner coming up on their blind side. Thereby starting the whole merry-go-round again. Have declared a jihad on rude London pedestri......... hmmmmm, on second thoughts I don't want the Jackboots 'n' Kevlar All-Stars crashing through the window and hog-tying me, so I'll retract that. And a big hello to all my new ASIO, CIA and MI6 readers! (How 'bout them Western ideals!?! Love 'em).
- Famous scrubbers get an annoying amount of play in the media here, even more so than in Oz. Kate Moss, Posh Spice, Jordan, Amy Winecask, you name a classless minger, they're making daily appearances in The Sun, The Metro, Lite, etc. Even the Guardian and The Evening Standard prop up their hollow careers, thereby proving that everyone's got their price.
- Fixed-pedal bicycles are insanely fashionable here at the moment. Everywhere you go you'll see suit-and-tie-wearing men or leather-and-brushed-cotton-sporting ladies gliding past on contraptions your grandparents would've once yearned for as pre-pubescent teenagers, all the while sniffing at those riding anything with more than one gear (SO yesterday's news, apparently). Am secretly hoping to see one such trendsetter forget to keep pedalling while slowing down and get thrown bodily into a dumpster by the still-churning pedals. Not a very charitable thought, I know, but honestly, how does riding an old treadly with your work clothes on gain you chic-status?
- Brits and fake tans: The occasional oversized Oompa-Loompa exploding into your line-of-sight when a commuter crowd momentarily parts can be pretty damn disconcerting on a cold overcast morning, let me tell you.
- At the risk of sounding far too Sex In The City, I've gotta say that men's shoes are ridiculously cheap if you decide to go bargain-scouting. Picked up a pair of new-ish Nike Air Flights for £30 (compared to $90+AUD at home at the mo'), but could've gotten a pair of And 1's that were going for $100AUD when I left home for £10 in the same store. And there was a whole wall, stretching as far as the wallet could see, jammed full of shoe-y bargains. If I'd lived here in my late teens, when my kicks addiction was still ridiculously inflamed, I may well have gotten myself into the kind of debt that involves large men in ill-fitting suits and trips to abandoned warehouses.
- New favourite tipple (this week, anyway) - Olde English Medium Dry Cider. Like other ciders you've tried but so much better. Top marks. Cannot believe the ciders haven't taken off in Oz when we're still necking Fourex or VB's with the old "Its-my-State-beer-and-I'm-loyal" grimace. I can smell an export niche........ comin' on.
NEWS FROM OL' BLIGHTY
- It got colder. And started raining. What an absolute shock. Yet the BBC continues to predict woe and misery coming our way in the form of Jack Frost and his homies Nigel Wind, Percival Precipitation and Montgomery C. Cloudcover. In case, you know, everyone here forgot what the weather's usually like in winter.
- The word "recession" stopped being used in the past tense and the economy continued to wobble like an American housewife, yet foodprices here dropped and the FTSE rose in value. Mainly because the Brits can't possibly be seen to do anything the same way as the Yanks. They're an ex-colony, don't you know. Just wouldn't be proper.
- Manchester United's Wayne Rooney was criticised for failing to score a goal in the last two years or something. Always knew the fat fool was overrated.
- A group of Ghurkas won a long court battle for the right to settle permanently in Britain after fighting for Queeny-poo and alongside British Troops anywhere in the world someone needed a good bollocking. If I was the judge on that case I wouldn't have ruled against a group of disgruntled Ghurkas either. Those knives of theirs look like they'd tickle a tad.
- Seasick Steve, a on old whiteboy US solo blues musician who wears overalls and a beard and looks like someone from Deliverance, has sold out the Royal Albert Hall for his first show tonight apparently. Am thoroughly intrigued as to how this happened. Must see if he's got a website, never heard of the dude before but no doubt the musos among you will be shaking their heads at me.
- Australia's least-favourite rugby opponent, Johnny "I'm a Buddhist now so my mind will heal all wounds" Wilkinson, has gone out injured again, this time with a knee that apparently gave way under the weight of his new long locks.
- Finally, the cause of the devestating fire that obliterated the Cutty Sark has been revealed as..... an industrial strength vacuum cleaner that was left on accidentally. For two days. Yes, two days. Not just overnight. Two. Days. Correct me if I'm wrong here, but industrial strength vacuum cleaners pump out a few decibels, no?
More to come next week.
THE WEEK IN BRIEF
For all of those with attention spans as short as Paris Hilton's IQ number, this past week I:
- Went to a farewell 'do in a gorgeous 3-storey terrace house (with a backyard AND a bbq - see pics on Facebook for now) and then caught my first nightbus home. "Home" being somewhere near Westminster, where I gave up, jumped out and caught a cab.
- Had my first 2-hour run with the Rocco's basketball boys. First run of any kind in nearly 2 years, actually. Legs have only today decided to let me walk normally, as opposed to walking like I've just had a Close Encounter of The Brown Kind. If you know what I mean.
- Worked. Rivetting for you all, I'm sure.
- Lashed out and got some wild boar hamburgers, wild boar pate and pheasant sausages at the Borough Markets, then had breakfast from a stall in the sunlit courtyard of Southwark Cathedral surrounded by rich Londoners. Felt ultra-urbane and sophisticado until the mustard seeped through the bag onto my trousers.
- Sampled my new gym at The Scoop, on the Thames south bank, with its gigantic interior, Australian techno and Tower Bridge looming in the foreground as you walk out the front door. Nothing embarassing happened. That I know of.
THIS WEEKEND I AM:
(a) hitting a music festival Friday night with a uni mate,
(b) moving into my new flat Saturday morning, then
(c) midday Saturday I've agreed to go to.......... The Church. Sweet lord protect and preserve me. If you don't know what I mean look the place up on the net. You wonder where Australians get their bad reputation from on the international stage? You could do worse that to start here. Every type of Aussie-flag-waving, wifebeater-wearing, projectile-vomiting, inflatable-sheep-humping Bazza or Shazza currently gracing this fair city with their timeless elegance and subtle wit is usually on display in all their finery at this place. "No mate, I don't want to scull the yardie out of your mate's cow costume's udders - been there, done it all before". Have only ever walked past outside before, but I guess to be able to hang sh*t on the place you've technically got to have gone inside and actually walked with the animals, talked with the animals..... can't wait to write next week's update.
MORE LONDON OBSERVATIONS & ABSURDITIES:
- London handbags: suitcase-like. Large enough to stash a hairdryer, a makeup box, 3 different smaller handbags and a weekend's worth of clothes in. Or the entire works of Shakespeare. Am guessing the former is far more likely judging by the looks of most of the owners of these cavernous accessories. Especially handy for clearing a path through the teeming masses at London Bridge Station.
- Discovered a nifty method for getting through the London Bridge Human Tide myself. As you enter through the St Thomas Street entrance you accelerate rapidly so that your suit jacket flares out like a pair of woolen wings and you plaster a look on your dial that suggests you're going to eat anyone stepping into your path. Loudly. Have attempted this wondrous feat of theatre and body language three times to date (while in a good mood each time, mind) and, yea verily, the seas parted on each glorious occasion. Am considering teaching a Timid Commuter Empowerment class at nearest College.
- Brightly-coloured velour tracksuits. In public. During the day. Ladies, words fail me. Seriously, seek help.
- London pedestrians can be the rudest organisms this side of Kyle Sandilands. They'll see someone walking towards them, hemmed in by a crowd and a gutter and carrying, ohh, lets say, 45 kilos worth of boxes, suitcases and backpacks, and not alter their course an inch until said victim is forced to actually stop dead in their tracks and stare incredulously at the *ssho.... other pedestrian. At which point this skidmark on the underpants of society gives their victim a disbelieving look like they've just sh*t in their handbag, snorts and actually rams their shoulder into them to get past, thereby dislodging the victim's grip on their precariously-balanced goods and chattels and sending them careening into the next insult-waiting-to-happen Londoner coming up on their blind side. Thereby starting the whole merry-go-round again. Have declared a jihad on rude London pedestri......... hmmmmm, on second thoughts I don't want the Jackboots 'n' Kevlar All-Stars crashing through the window and hog-tying me, so I'll retract that. And a big hello to all my new ASIO, CIA and MI6 readers! (How 'bout them Western ideals!?! Love 'em).
- Famous scrubbers get an annoying amount of play in the media here, even more so than in Oz. Kate Moss, Posh Spice, Jordan, Amy Winecask, you name a classless minger, they're making daily appearances in The Sun, The Metro, Lite, etc. Even the Guardian and The Evening Standard prop up their hollow careers, thereby proving that everyone's got their price.
- Fixed-pedal bicycles are insanely fashionable here at the moment. Everywhere you go you'll see suit-and-tie-wearing men or leather-and-brushed-cotton-sporting ladies gliding past on contraptions your grandparents would've once yearned for as pre-pubescent teenagers, all the while sniffing at those riding anything with more than one gear (SO yesterday's news, apparently). Am secretly hoping to see one such trendsetter forget to keep pedalling while slowing down and get thrown bodily into a dumpster by the still-churning pedals. Not a very charitable thought, I know, but honestly, how does riding an old treadly with your work clothes on gain you chic-status?
- Brits and fake tans: The occasional oversized Oompa-Loompa exploding into your line-of-sight when a commuter crowd momentarily parts can be pretty damn disconcerting on a cold overcast morning, let me tell you.
- At the risk of sounding far too Sex In The City, I've gotta say that men's shoes are ridiculously cheap if you decide to go bargain-scouting. Picked up a pair of new-ish Nike Air Flights for £30 (compared to $90+AUD at home at the mo'), but could've gotten a pair of And 1's that were going for $100AUD when I left home for £10 in the same store. And there was a whole wall, stretching as far as the wallet could see, jammed full of shoe-y bargains. If I'd lived here in my late teens, when my kicks addiction was still ridiculously inflamed, I may well have gotten myself into the kind of debt that involves large men in ill-fitting suits and trips to abandoned warehouses.
- New favourite tipple (this week, anyway) - Olde English Medium Dry Cider. Like other ciders you've tried but so much better. Top marks. Cannot believe the ciders haven't taken off in Oz when we're still necking Fourex or VB's with the old "Its-my-State-beer-and-I'm-loyal" grimace. I can smell an export niche........ comin' on.
NEWS FROM OL' BLIGHTY
- It got colder. And started raining. What an absolute shock. Yet the BBC continues to predict woe and misery coming our way in the form of Jack Frost and his homies Nigel Wind, Percival Precipitation and Montgomery C. Cloudcover. In case, you know, everyone here forgot what the weather's usually like in winter.
- The word "recession" stopped being used in the past tense and the economy continued to wobble like an American housewife, yet foodprices here dropped and the FTSE rose in value. Mainly because the Brits can't possibly be seen to do anything the same way as the Yanks. They're an ex-colony, don't you know. Just wouldn't be proper.
- Manchester United's Wayne Rooney was criticised for failing to score a goal in the last two years or something. Always knew the fat fool was overrated.
- A group of Ghurkas won a long court battle for the right to settle permanently in Britain after fighting for Queeny-poo and alongside British Troops anywhere in the world someone needed a good bollocking. If I was the judge on that case I wouldn't have ruled against a group of disgruntled Ghurkas either. Those knives of theirs look like they'd tickle a tad.
- Seasick Steve, a on old whiteboy US solo blues musician who wears overalls and a beard and looks like someone from Deliverance, has sold out the Royal Albert Hall for his first show tonight apparently. Am thoroughly intrigued as to how this happened. Must see if he's got a website, never heard of the dude before but no doubt the musos among you will be shaking their heads at me.
- Australia's least-favourite rugby opponent, Johnny "I'm a Buddhist now so my mind will heal all wounds" Wilkinson, has gone out injured again, this time with a knee that apparently gave way under the weight of his new long locks.
- Finally, the cause of the devestating fire that obliterated the Cutty Sark has been revealed as..... an industrial strength vacuum cleaner that was left on accidentally. For two days. Yes, two days. Not just overnight. Two. Days. Correct me if I'm wrong here, but industrial strength vacuum cleaners pump out a few decibels, no?
More to come next week.
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