Ok, I’m lying here on my bottom bunk in my London hostel and there’s a couple on the top bunk going hammer and tong. Oddly, despite me clearly using my laptop, they seem to be of the impression that I’m asleep. I actually can’t recall the last time I saw someone type on their laptop in their sleep, so I’m thinking it could be common practice in Albania or wherever they’re from. Either way, all I want right now is for the dude to hurry up and… ahhh…. finish off already so I can get some freakin’ shut-eye. Nice.
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My palatial dorm room in Bayswater.
I found a da vinci code book sitting on a bin. I found it quite symbolic of society's rapid fad movements and how entertainment is consumed with a sense of instant gratification by the average pleb.
Staying in a 6-person dorm this small is certainly a unique experience. Actually, to call it a dorm would be about as truthful as saying that Parklife is a festival patronised only by modest, down-to-earth, musically intellectual citizens that absolutely despise lollipops. It’s not much bigger than a Tower’s dorm room in Bathurst, with three bunk beds squeezed in. And it has a hauntingly similar feel to Towers. For the non-Bathurstians, a Towers residence room measures around 5m in length and around 2m in width. So, fitting 6 people in any configuration was always going to be tight. Although, I’ve heard it was regular practice in Towers to stage those infamous Paramedic vs Primary ed student tag-team orgies that usually followed a final fling outing. So, what I’m trying to convey is that this dorm is quintessentially Towers-esque. I’m even half expecting Stevo, former king of Towers, to pop his head around the corner any second and start rattling off some incongruous tangential tale.
Anyway, so you get the point - the rooms aren’t the best here. But thankfully it’s located in Bayswater, near Paddington, bustling with ‘Em Smith’ types. Scarves and all. Oh and Millward – no matter how cold it gets, I will still refuse to don a scarf. Although, you’d never know if I did. Oooh, controversial.
Return of the Jerk Centre. Bayswater, London.
One of my dormies.
But now, onto London itself. I quite like this city. I’d almost say I love it, in fact. My only gripe with the place is the pound. The friggin pound. But I’ll save my rant about the iniquitous global economic hegemony that Britain is quietly asserting while all eyes are diverted across the Atlantic at that place called the US, for later. People also whinge about the weather far too much. For me, the shitty weather is part of London’s innate charm. But, the constant dreariness does inevitably lead to the immeasurable number of Londoners flocking to the nearest scrap of grass and discarding their shirt in the process, the very second there is an iota of sunshine. Then, 4 minutes later when the sun disappears into the grey again, the locals waddle back to their offices, sporting a brand new blotchy chest and face.
The Avenue Q Musical in the West End. I went by myself. Yes, loner. Genius musical though!
The new set of my light-entertainment tv show.
Met up with Lisa in Kensington and by the end of the night had formed a band with some random locals. This is our first press shot.
Other than Heathrow, my first encounter with London was The Tube. And I did find it rather amusing that the train was destined for a place called Cockfosters.
The Tube is one of those things that is unjustly forced to cop the wrath of British whinging far too often. Other than the fact that they announce over the PA system when someone has jumped on the tracks and thus causing a delay, I found the tube to be an exceptionally efficient and comprehensive network (except for the price). You can get to anywhere in the London metro area within one change of line and without ever waiting more than three or four minutes on a platform. In Sydney, you could sit through the entire Act III of Shakespeare’s The Tempest and deliver a critical monologue on the cyclical nature of the plot in the aforementioned play and how it has become a template for modern playwrights across the globe, before the next train would arrive. Michael Costa (or whomever is handling the transport portfolio now) – get your arse into gear. Our transport network is truly shithouse. And it’s not like we don’t have the infrastructure either! The buses are slow, unreliable and generally too infrequent. And why aren’t there train stations at the major eastern beaches? Imagine the traffic that would be taken off Bondi Road if Bondi Beach finally had a train station. To expect tourists to hike from the city to Bondi Junction by train and then hop on a sickeningly crowded 380 bus in the dead heat of summer for 45 minutes as it trudges down Bondi Road is pure insanity. Fuck the stubborn Bondi ‘residents’ who continue to protest the eastern beaches train line. I’m a local and my vote is in favour. In fact, half of those fuckwits who protested aren’t even real residents now. Just chumps who get chauffeured daily to and from their Macquarie Bank swivel chairs and wouldn’t even know what a TravelTen was.
My apologies for that tirade.
Camden Markets. Wicked place to shop.
The legend WG Grace.
With Dean and Hayden in Soho.
I did read something slightly disturbing about the Tube, however. Apparently last summer during peak hour, someone recorded the temperature in one of the carriages to be 54 degrees celcius. Yes, that’s damn hot. But to make things worse, apparently even cattle aren’t legally permitted to be subjected to those conditions.
But despite my praise for the London Underground system, I still spent my first few days in London navigating the city by foot - mainly because I’m a tight-arse. And of course those days were spent visiting all the obligatory sites – Buckingham, Westminster Abbey, various galleries and museums (the Tate Modern was a big fave), Big Ben, Lords Cricket Ground (including seeing the 4th day of the England vs West Indies test), Trafalgar Square and the dreaded Walkabout pubs. But of all the touristy things I indulged in, my favourite was to just wander through the enormous Hyde Park/Kensington Gardens in the early evening with my iPod, sometimes becoming irretrievably lost, lie on a thick patch of grass by the Serpentine and just stare into space. Man I love that park.
I like these places.
But I didn’t just come to England for all the usual tourist stuff – there were two other things I was hoping to find – the towns that Postman Pat and Sooty were filmed in. If anyone can point me in the right direction, do oblige.
The pigeon-infested Trafalgar Square
I touched his balls and he liked it.
Heaven. Lords. Eng v WI.
One of the usual pitch invaders paying the 1000 quid fine to kiss Lords' hallowed turf.
Being on my own means there will inevitably be a fair portion of self-portrait taking (ooh vain), so to counter the potential stigma associated with this, I devised a series of techniques to undertake this activity as inconspicuously as possible. I will reveal these in the next instalment...
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