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Valentine's Day is Over | Feb 16, 2006 10:43
Isn't Valentine's Day just the *best* day to go out for dinner? Dozens of drooling idiot guys who really decided to think outside the square and treat their Special Someone to a slapped-up buffet while surrounded by hordes of equally unimaginative men in chinos.
While I think Valentine's Day is a big stinking pile of commercially-driven faeces, I suppose it serves a purpose. For a woman, if you're in a relationship with someone with all the romantic inclinations of a two litre tin of Dulux All Weather Matt paint, at least it means you might get flowers once a year. For a guy in a long-term relationship, having bought your Special Someone flowers and the aforementioned buffet, it could be the only day of the year (other than your birthday) you get a Certain Kind of Attention.
I'm more of a fan of the rationalist romantic cop-out.
"Valentine's Day is so lame" I begin. "How sad is it that people need a day to express their love for each other?" Carefully judging the reaction from my partner of the time, I continue, "I'd much rather give someone flowers randomly, just because, not because I'm expected to. Don't you agree hunny bunny?"
And having reduced her Valentine's expectations to zero, you can safely never buy her flowers for the rest of the year. Of course, if you try the same ploy the following V-Day, a more astute partner may pull your random flower giving scenario apart with a pithy, "Yeah, but you don't." The only safe response, going out as I tend to, with liberated equal-opportunity women, is "Well when was the last time you bought me flowers?"
Of course, you should always ensure you have a comfy couch and spare duvet.
I Predict a Riot | Feb 07, 2006 03:30
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Waitangi Day 2006, London.
(Actually it was Saturday.)
The smell of cigarette smoke, cheap scotch and strippers hung heavily on the clothes I'd fallen asleep in. It might be cold outside, but central heating's a bitch when you pass out in your winter woollies.
St Paul's from the Millenium Bridge
My mate Andy had gotten up a few minutes before and was already slumped on the couch, staring vacantly at The Crocodile Hunter Diaries. Tearing himself away from Steve's intrepid adventures ("have a go at the jaws on this fella!") he informed me there was a kiwi pub crawl following the Circle Line, to celebrate Waitangi Day.
It'll be huge and disgusting, he promised.
Horribly embarrassing?
Yep.
Everything we despite about our country and our people?
You know it.
Cringingly awful behaviour and boorish cultural references?
Oh yeah.
Shall we go then? Ironically, like?
Of course we're going. But only ironically.
Yeah. Stoopid kiwis.
The Evil Galactic Emperor at the Old Bailey
And that's why half an hour later we were standing in the corner of a pub in Gloucester Road, drinking the beer we'd bought at the off-license on the way, with hundreds of other New Zealanders doing likewise. The publican tried his best, but just as with the impromptu road closure outside – simply by virtue of there being hundreds of people standing on it – it was all about Strength in Numbers.
A few ironic beers later, a bit of sniggering at people dressed as sheep, NZ police, sumo wresters(?), Elvis impersonators and the ubiquitous "NZ" cheek art, we started to warm to our surroundings. It was hard not to, the enthusiasm of drunken youth is strangely contagious.
By the time we got back to the tube station, the police had other ideas. They shut it down. I don't know how common this is in London – if there are too many people somewhere, close the easiest way for them to actually get out – but you couldn't help being a little bit proud.
Taking the bus to the next tube station, we passed a small protest outside the Danish Embassy. Given the amount of media coverage they got with their comparatively tiny turnout (there was nothing in the paper about us), I think next Waitangi Day everyone should carry signs demanding the repeal of recent changes to the Working Holiday Visa laws. Or, um, something.
Magdalen College quad, Oxford
Anyway, a few more beers and we were at the tube again. Hundreds jostled for position on the platform. But when it train arrived it was already bursting at the seams with Aotearoa's finest. There was nothing for it. With a few calls of "hold…hold…hold…" as we politely allowed the bewildered Japanese tourists to escape… someone called "engage!" and we duly packed down, driving our way onto the tube.
Is it possible to scrum ironically?
Memo to all New Zealanders: Learn another Maori song other than this one. Just for variety's sake, please.
The event reached its cultural zenith at Westminster. Thousands upon thousands (I'd guess between ten and fifteen) gathered outside Big Ben. Police were directing traffic. Roads were closed. It was like that U2 video, but um, heaps bigger. Cars were stranded, obviously not having ever learned how to drive through sheep on a country road (slow and steady).
Running in from every direction, the skinniest and whitest of the men tore off their shirts and pushed forward. At Big Ben struck 4pm, a mass haka took place (no, I didn't, give me some credit), immediately followed by the national anthem.
It was hard not to be a little bit stoked.
Magdalen College chapel, Oxford
The crowd dissipated. I suspect most went to the nearest Walkabout to compare their eyeliner moko. We split off and watched England beat Wales (bad), and Scotland beat the French (good).
Despite being on the go for the best part of ten hours, we still had some life in us. We cabbed to an illegal electro warehouse party in Hackey. And it was possibly one of the best nights dancing I've had in years; knowing almost no-one, just a room full of strangers grinning at each other.
It was a very good Saturday.
Happy Waitangi Day everyone.
You know what's wrong with this world? | Jan 31, 2006 13:33
Okay, well, one thing first off.
Travel to Europe is so cheap in the UK, which is great. It literally costs me less to book a flight to Amsterdam than it does to get the bus to the airport. But what sort of perverse business model makes it one-third as cheap to book a return ticket (£47) from Paris to London as it does to book a one way ticket (£150) for the same journey?
I don't need to go both ways. And I figure they can't make me return, can they?
So what happens? Well I book the return trip, knowing I'm not about to use the return part. It goes completely to waste. In my mind, there's a little Parisian orphan with tuberculosis who really wanted to see his English penpal before he dies is coughing blood on the train platform, while an empty seat returns to England.
And that's what's wrong with the world.
Yeah I know, booking continental travel, sucks to be me. Sorry.
So Oxford isn't the most alive of towns. Who'da thunk it – medieval architecture isn't synonymous with "party central". So I'm living for the weekends, and London. Each weekend sees me exploring a different part of the city, because that's where the party's at. Whereas in Auckland most of my friends live within a few square miles (in Sandringham I'm almost on the outskirts), in London everyone is spread about fairly randomly, from Islington to Whitechapel, Old Kent Road to Park Lane, from Community Chest to Go To Jail. It's like (geographically) going for a night out in Papatoetoe or Albany (or Stokes Valley/Ashburton/Mosgeil for those of you in other parts of NZ). Any given night sees a combination of tubes, buses and good old fashioned walking into never before explored realms.
Fortunately the iPod makes life all good. My friend Smacked Face once wrote about how sublimely perceptive the iPod random song generator could be. On a crowded tube I need to chill, so I put on the extended mix of Odyssey's 'Native New Yorker' (because it's about riding the subway and stuff, but with a great groove)… the iPod chooses the next song – GnR's 'Welcome to the Jungle'. It's like it knows, dude.
Seriously though, don't consider travelling the tube without music in your ears. For this kiwi at least it makes everything seem more like a cool, gritty, urban movie set in the big smoke and less like skanky, unreliable, public transport.
What else?
Well, I'm a little bit over being called names.
Not only does every English person I meet call me Australian(!), I was walking through Camden the other night when a guy walked past me muttering something.
"I'm sorry?" I asked, stopping to turn around.
"Mutter"
"Sorry mate, I can't hear you." I said, as I walked up to him.
"Shhh....Charlie?"
"No, it's Damian, but I've been getting that a lot around here. Does he look a bit like me?"
"No mate… Charrrrrrrlie?"
"Oh right! Stupid me. No, sorry, I'm totally out. I've got some loose change though, or a cigarette, if that's any help."
And then he just walks off without saying anything. I mean, you try to help these people…
Which reminds me of something someone emailed in – my first bona fide London joke.
"Knock Knock."
"Who's there?"
"Biggish."
"Biggish Who?"
"No thanks mate."
Classic.
Oxford Tales | Jan 20, 2006 09:35
It's a paradox of the internet that while the world is made so much smaller, it means you know exactly what you're missing – the Big Day Out with yer mates – while you're sitting on the other side of the world. I'm listening to bFM's Big Day Out breakfast coverage on-line, and at a time when I'd usually be packing my survival kit (water, suntan lotion, speedos), instead I'm working out what's sadder – going to a bar by myself, or yet another movie.
Not that I'm complaining.
I've been in Oxford about a week, and it truly is an amazing place. Dozens of colleges all functioning as self-governing bodies within the university. They range in age from the 13th century through to the late twentieth. Most are cloistered, with castle-like walls separating their historic libraries, beautiful chapels, students and fellows from the prying eyes of the unworthy public. Some take undergraduate students, some only post-graduate, and some have no students whatsoever. Yeah, I know.
Here's a good photographic example of a cloistered college - the student-free All Soul's.
The cloistered nature of the colleges means it's very easy to keep students in, and the public out. Despite Oxford's rich history and attraction for tourists, most colleges are off limits most of the time, some all of the time, and some only allow entry by admission. As a student I can enter any college grounds and rummage about the mammoth Bodleian Library, but each college's crown jewels – the library and dining hall – remain off limits to all but their own members.
Since I've been here, I've been trying to sort out how life works for the average Oxford student, if there were such a thing. A warning about the following, it's based on what I've learnt thus far, and there may be many exceptions or mistakes...
Big differences (from what most of us are used to) include the fact undergraduates don't have exams at the end of each term, or even the end of each year (or at least not any that count). Instead, students' three years of study are assessed by a series of exams at the end of their degree. Stress, anyone?
Lectures aren't emphasised; most learning takes place in one-on-one or two-on-one tuition sessions. However with the talent available, you'd be crazy to skip lectures here. The day Russell wrote about Richard Dawkins' new television series, I saw him cycling past me. Personally, I can't wait until next week for the first lecture in a series by acclaimed British comedy writer Armando Iannucci (Knowing Me Knowing You, I'm Alan Patridge, and his new political comedy, The Thick Of It).
Still, right now I'm imagining myself plonked on the grass in front of the Magic Numbers.
Wish I was there.
A Little Respect | Jan 13, 2006 08:37
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After three days in London, I saw the sun. And Lo, all was good in the world. A crisp cloudless winters day was, to quote an Eels' lyric, Novocaine for the Soul. And it provided a wonderful backdrop for my long but leisurely walk from the Tate Modern, across the Minnellium Bridge, past St Paul's, Picadilly Circus, Covent Garden, Carnaby St, Soho and Oxford St.
It was a bloody long walk actually. But after three days, all I'd seen were the little pockets of activity surrounding various tube stations. I figured in a city of eight million people, there was bound to be something between those stations. It took a few hours, much of which was spent consulting my mini A-Z or bewlidering passing locals who had no idea why I'd possibly want to walk when there was a tube station just over there, innit?
It certainly helped with my geographical bearings. Previously I'd been puzzled why the West End was in North East London. It's not. Then again, I always thought Oxford was South of London, in non-existent lush part of Southern England. But don't tell them I said that.
I'd like to say the day's highlight was the Tate, but the sad reality is I was happy as a geekboy at Epic Heroes, two storeys of pop culture merchandise, from Star Wars to Simpsons, Russ Meyer's erotica to the Matrix.
Then I sampled store after store brimming with sneakers on Neal Street and the street fashion delights of Carnaby Street, where I bought a cool print by UK graf/stencil artist Eelus:
I'm liking the big city, even though (or maybe because) I'm haemorrhaging dollars like there's no tomorrow. And in London it's always possible there might not be. In the South Pacific you forget – or at least I do – that the Iraq war is not just about America and Iraq. Oh no, England's up its armpits in that little conflict. So, understandably for a nation at war, it occupies quite a bit of the media.
I use the word "Orwellian" far too much for my own good, but I can't think of any other way to describe Tony Blair's new "Respect" policy.
The Sydney Morning Herald sums it up pretty well:
The plan creates the power to evict anti-social householders and to "shut and seal" their homes for up to three months.
Extreme problem neighbours could be sent away to residential "sin bins", special units where they will be forced to stay and learn social skills.
Expanding existing programs, the Government will offer teenage parents £30 ($70) a week to attend parenting classes, force parents whose children are disruptive at school to attend classes on discipline skills and even establish a Parenting Academy.
Skills to be taught at parenting programs include getting up in the morning, how to pay bills and living together as a family.
What part of 'undesirables' being evicted and sent away to special camps for reprogramming doesn't scare the shit out of any human rights fan? First they came for the yobs, and I didn't speak up...
Is it possible God's started talking to Blair too?
In reference to last post's trivia tidbit, "changing at Baker St", Paul writes to say:
Getting Off at Redfern is old Sydney slang for Coitus Interuptus, Redfern being the last stop on the train before Sydney Central.
Without wanting to lower the tone completely, there's also a delightful (and hopefully self-explanatory) North Shore saying, "If the tide's in at Red Beach, head round to Browns Bay".
Anyone else have any public transport/geographical euphemisms they'd like to contribute?
I've arrived in Oxford today. Wish you were here.
Dirty Ol' Town | Jan 11, 2006 23:00
The thing about writing anything about London, is it's all been written before. Usually by people a lot smarter and more astute than me. Or should that be I? (Better sort that one out before me head to Oxford on Thursday.)
But anyway, a few brief observations about the trip thus far.
Long haul flying sucks. If the Catholics are right (just say), and there is such a thing as purgatory, I bet it resembles a transit lounge at 1am. There's only so much fun you can have riding the travelators and window shopping outside closed duty free stores.
The only thing worse than a transit lounge (which by definition must then be Hell) is having to sit on the plane at Heathrow for an hour – seatbelts fastened, no toilet or overhead locker action – because they can't find anywhere for the plane to park. Thirty hours in the air, the least they could do is put one of those little orange cones to reserve a space for you. In the end they realised they could just put some steps up to the plane and we could get off that way. Genius.
I'm beginning to think we, i.e the human race, might have our priorities wrong. Why can I fit 10,000 songs I don't even like that much onto my ipod, but it still takes more than an entire day to get to the other side of the world? I'm thinking 12 hours is about right – an hour per time zone. It makes good, intuitive sense.
If you thought "would you like to biggie size your meal for only 50 cents" was annoying, try having your inflight movie interrupted every ten minutes because the head flight attendant thinks it's really important you understand the benefits of buying your duty free on the plane direct from Qantas, as opposed to those nasty airport stores. "There's never been a better time to buy". Seriously? How bout fetching me another beer instead of flogging souvenirs eh buddy?
If you're in economy, don't bother buzzing for a flight attendant. They're trained to assume it's a malfunction and will continue hawking their wares.
Curiouser and curiouser: On the flight from Auckland to Sydney, I was told I'd been ordered a special Halal meal. "It must be on your profile" they said, as they handed me a chicken curry – sure enough, my name and seat was written on the top. I tried to remember whether I'd ticked the box for a laugh, which is the sort of thing I'd do. A joke for one. Then it hit me – they probably only have one style of Halal meal on the menu. Breakfast lunch and dinner was going to be chicken curry. But, as mysteriously as it appeared, my status reverted, and the next meal I ate was pork wrapped in bacon, with a side of gin.
It is an immutable law of long distance travel that you will spill something from every meal on your clothing. So when you arrive, not only will you have whatever the opposite of the Lynx effect is, your shirt will also be a dappled canvas of soy sauce, chocolate and chicken gravy. This will help create the impression you are in fact homeless, and will not make passing Passport Control any easier.
On the flipside, other than immigration, the English clearly don't give a rat's ass what anyone is bringing into their country. At Customs I selected the Green "nothing to declare" aisle, turned a corner and found myself standing in the main airport lobby. It's like an honesty box for drug trafficking.
London itself is a paradox; frighteningly efficient, yet struggling under its own weight and ennui. The Heathrow Express from the airport to Paddington couldn't be simpler. The tube strike that morning meant a half-hour, 200 metre queue for a cab. I notice oddly impractical things – there are no rubbish bins anywhere near the tube stations, which is fine if you're trying to thwart people planting bombs, but rubbish if you've got to carry an empty drink can from one side of the city to the other because there's nowhere to discard of it. Public toilets, same deal. I haven't seen one anywhere, not at the train stations, not on the street or in the parks. I've already learnt which chain stores and fast food restaurants are (obliviously) happy to take my bodily waste. Cheers, Borders.
From the time you arrive at Heathrow, to every day riding the tube, you are guided by automated voices. Mind the gap. This train will terminate at West Leceistershiresteadwick. Change here for Bakerloo and Circle. The white lines are for loading, unloading and snorting. Stand Right. The overall impression (at least until you tune out, I'm hoping on Day 3) is Orwellian. They know you're there. They're telling you how to stand, when to move and how to step doing it. Of course, it's All For Your Own Good…
Interesting thing I have learnt #1: "Changing at Baker St" is a euphemism for gay bum sex. As anyone with an intimate knowledge of the London underground will tell you, it's the only stop where you can swap from the pink Hammersmith & City line to the brown of Bakerloo.
It's not as cold here as I was led to believe. Sure, it's no picnic in Havana, but it's nowhere near as cold as Queenstown on a winter's night. And it doesn't even rain, well not properly. As my mate Graeme put it, striding through Notting Hill last night, it never rains, but the streets are always wet. The buildings are always brown, and the streets are always wet.
The darkness is going to take a bit of getting used to. (Judging by the dour avoid-all-eye-contact expressions on everyone trudging around, no-one really has.) While the days are starting to get longer, sunset at 4pm isn't anything to boast about. And as there's little evidence of sun in the first place, the sky being uniformly grey during the seven hours of daylight, you'd hardly call it sunset. So it's dark at four, but the city is still humming, the shops are open and everyone's going about their business. It's like late night Friday night at the mall, every day of the week.
I'll take my camera out today. Pictures soon.
Wish you were here.
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