Misadventures on a Small Island

Here are two reasons:

Do I need any more reason? No. No, I don’t.

I’ve been here for 9 months. That is, I’ve been living in the UK for the same amount of time it takes to make a baby, give or take.

That’s a long time.

What are my thoughts so far considering I don’t post on this blog anywhere near enough, I hear you ask dear reader? Well, I shall tell you (even of you didn’t ask)

Here’s the first in my list of wants that I’ve compiled over the last 9 months:

I want to not live in perpetual winter.

Before moving to England I was under the foolish presumption that because I am adverse to heat and seem to suffer third degree burns from anything stronger than a 40 watt light globe that I wanted to travel the world chasing winter. That is, spend 6 months in Australia enjoying the mild temperatures and the odd cold snap, perhaps visiting the snow fields, and then spend the other 6 months in England frolicking in the snow and taking long, thoughtful walks along England’s pebbly seaside. In an ideal world, it is the perfect plan for someone with skin so white it’s almost translucent.

I was told that after a true British winter I would be depressed, wanting light and muttering about my precious. I scoffed. Oh, how I scoffed. To begin with, I would get to wear lots of clothes, which, in effect, would mean that I would need to buy lots of clothes. If there’s something I like more than wearing clothes, it’s buying clothes. It’s like a male version of Clueless in my head, but, you know, not gay. Furthermore, in the UK it snows in winter. The UK even has a place called Snowdonia (can I get an amen?). It even snows so much that you have to wear wellies sometimes. To work. How awesome is that, I hear you say.

Pretty awesome, I tell you. Pretty. Awesome.

Christmas came and went and it was the coldest winter since 1344 (or something like that). I learnt that if a single flake of snow falls on London, all public transport falls apart like Lego. Some days it took 6 hours to travel a total of about 30 kilometres.

It also gets dark very quickly in the UK during winter. In fact, some days the sun starts retreating at 3:30 in the afternoon. While at first this has a rather cool quasi-vampire feel to it, the novelty wears off after about 2 days. Then you start praying for sun. Even if you won’t get to enjoy it because it’s about minus twenty three degrees outside.

By the end of the winter I was depressed. I was wanting light so much that I would use Em’s Lightpod as a normal light around the house. I also started asking people to refer to me as Smeagol (wow… nerdy…).

Then Spring started. With a vengeance.

It started with the days getting longer, with pubs turning themselves inside out (people on the outside, empty on the inside) and the sun coming out. A lot. So much that at one point I managed to get sunburnt. In the UK. I know, it’s a strange concept.

Since then days have been filled with bright colours, happy music and sunshine. I have to remind myself that I’m in the UK, because it feels a lot like that sweet spot during Spring in Australia where it’s warm, sunny and humidity doesn’t really exist.

There are few bugs that annoy or attempt to destroy you here, the solution to every problem at the end of the day seems to either be a pint or a bbq, and TV is really bad during the summer so you don’t feel you actually need to be inside.

Summer in the UK is now possibly my favourite season.

Aside from severe bouts of hayfever caused by an assortment of plants, it may actually stay that way too.

And now I’m talking about the weather… I’m settling in better than I thought.

I’m attempting another go at my ill fated #ldnghoststories tomorrow night. This time, however, I have secured a small group of people from all walks of life to join in. All I had to promise them was a plethora of pubs along the route. I have delivered. However, there is a proviso that the pubs are haunted. This means revisiting bleeding heart yard, but I don’t mind.

It’s an interesting concept that I’ve been kicking around for the past month or so. These little ghost walks (I now carry around my book, just in case I chance into a chartered area) are teaching me a fair bit about London’s history, albeit the slightly stranger, innacurate version. It has become a bit of an obsession too. I’ve purchased a ghost radar app for the iPhone (you wouldn’t believe how many trains are haunted. Same goes for my work’s relatively new office block and a brand new cinema!). I’ve also downloaded some other supplies, such as dark room (to take photos in the dark), night vision (for night vision…) and spooky ghost noise (for when imagination isn’t enough). Sure, the iPhone can’t take photos in the dark, doesn’t have the technology for night vision or have ghost living inside it, but that’s completely beside the point. It’s really the same way that people download Facebook or a Twitter client to pretend they have friends. I download these to pretend I’m a ghost hunter.

The ghost hunting starts at 7pm GMT on Tuesday 23rd. Follow our live updates by searching #ldnghoststories or wait for the full blog posts and photo evidence of my ghost hunting group’s soiled undergarments.

If you’re interested in coming along on the next #ldnghoststories then hit me up on Twitter.

The first of my London Ghost Stories hunts/walks has been completed, albeit alone. Apparently giving people about 16 hours notice isn’t enough to get somebody to come along with you on a jaunty ghost walk.

I shall still collectively refer to myself as we, despite the fact that it was just me. It makes me less lonely.

We started out at St John’s Square. I ride past this place every day on the bus to work, often getting off one stop early to walk along the lovely cobblestone square. It’s now the home of St John’s Ambulance and across the road is the impressive St John’s Gate. I wish St John’s Gate was haunted, as it would make it far more impressive. However, I haven’t found any evidence. I blame the offices either side for giving it bad mojo.

St John’s Square is also the site of the old St John’s Church. The remains of the church are within the St John’s ambulance building, and you can see them if you peer through the gate. We did, indeed peer through the gate, looking like we were ‘casing the joint’ (that’s criminal lingo for ‘having a look at the place I’m going to rob later’ for those who haven’t seen Home Alone), as this is the site of our first ghost story, ‘Scratching Fanny of Cock Lane’.

Once again, this name is not a joke.

St John’s isn’t on Cock Lane. Basically, Fanny was convinced her house was haunted by her dead sister and publicised it widely, which made her house in Cock Lane a bit of a tourist attraction. She then died of smallpox. She was then found knocking on the lid of her casket where she was buried in St John’s Church. That’s the story, albeit slightly abridged. The most interesting thing is the name, really.

We figured that the darker the photographs I took were, the creepier they would look. Turns it it just makes them look dark.

we moved on and up Jerusalem Passage towards the House of Detention and St James’. Jerusalem Passage is another place that should be haunted. it’s a tiny little alleyway with poor lighting and cobblestones. There’s a strange Austrian pub/burger house that probably serves human meat a la Sweeney Todd. We saw many strange shadows up this alleyway. It turns out I just needed to put my glasses on.

As we were walking toward the infamous House of Detention, we passed St James’ church. It is only mentioned in passing in my book, but I noticed this sign posted on it’s gates:

What was that? Many of the 200 martyred Islington protestors? Buried underneath this pretty church? It’s a nice side note and to me suggests that the church MUST be haunted. we took a peek around the grounds and found no strange blurry shapes, although there was a man in a cloak/coat. It turns out he wasn’t a reincarnation of Jack the Ripper. I asked, just in case. Apparently, we were in the wrong part of town. On the ghosts, perhaps you can’t be a ghost if you were martyred. Anybody have any official word on this?

The next stop was the House of Detention.

According to my book, there has been a prison on this site since 1616, but all that is left of it today is a series of tunnels and passageways underneath. These are said to be incredibly haunted and have been open to the public since 1993. Unluckily for me, public access was stopped in 2000 and they instead built a series of swank looking apartments and offices. We took a walk around the perimeter, trying to find a gate inside, but it seems all access is via the security booth at the front. I don’t understand why people are trying to deter a friendly ghost hunt, but they were. As we neared the back of the building, I heard screams and shouts of children. It is well known that there are a number of child ghosts that haunt the passagways of the House of Detention. One such has been reported many times wandering the tunnels  and has apparently suffered a great deal.

I heard some children playing in a playground.

Intriguingly, there was an entrance towards the back for ‘special girls’. This was, by far, the most sinister thing we had seen so far.

We moved on and attempted to find Clerk’s Well. Somehow I got lost and ended up in a carpark. It was a spooky carpark, but my book makes no mention of a haunted Victorian carpark, so we moved on.

We eventually found Clerk’s Well, no thanks to a non-helpful map, and was suitably disappointed. Not only was Clerk’s Well a well that was only viewable by appointment, but on a second glance of my book, isn’t actually haunted. Why then is it in my book? We weren’t exactly sure. I shall create a story and submit it to the council so they can provide some literature on the haunting of Clerk’s Well and justify it’s existence in my book. The haunting shall involve a cow that fell down the well. You can still hear his mooing if you listen really carefully.

It seems here we deviated from the book, and boy were we glad we did. By far the most enjoyable part of my journey was up a trendy looking warehouse street called Herbal Hill. Why was it enjoyable?

Because of THESE CREEPY SIGNS!!??

We looked behind us…

There was a wall. A blurry wall.

Well, the signs were creepy at least. They were strewn all the way up the street. The office opposite the signs seemed to not take any notice of them even though they were threatening them with their life!

We moved on back to the actual ghost walk at Saffron Hill.

Saffron Hill is not a scary street. In my books, any street that is associated with the musical Oliver is not scary. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Saffron Hill (according to my book) is the basis for Fagin’s Lair from Oliver. The Musical… and apparently some book written by some Dickens guy. Again, this street isn’t haunted, yet earns a place amongst the pages of ‘Walking Haunted London’. Why, Mr Richard Jones? However, we did find a rather creepy door in Lily Lane. Probably not haunted, but at least the sight of one or two murders I’m sure…

This is where the ghost hunt gets quite cool though…

We had finally made it to Bleeding Heart Yard.

This is by far my favourite story from the Clerkenwell walk. Bleeding Heart Yard stands on the land once occupied by Hatton House. The story goes that Lady Hatton sold her soul to the devil, and one night the devil came to collect. A great ball was in progress at Hatton House, a man robed in black with his head covered led Lady Hatton from the room. The next morning her body was found in the cobblestone courtyard torn limb from limb, with her heart still pumping blood onto the cobblestones.

Sorry, were you eating?

Bleeding Heart Yard today is a quite cobblestone courtyard, surrounded by the Bleeding Heart restaurants, who actively tell the story of Bleeding Heart Yard, with the Bleeding Heart Tavern on the other end of the narrow alleyway leading to the courtyard. We were there during rush hour commute, yet the yard itself has an extremely still and quiet feeling to it. Due to the history, or perhaps the lack of people, this was definitely the place I felt the most uncomfortable. At the same time, it’s the one I find the most interesting. I shall be returning to sample the wares of the tavern and the restaurants at a later date. I wonder if they serve fresh heart…

Finally, we concluded my ghost hunt at Farringdon tube station.

Farringdon Tube Station stands on the site of an old Milliner’s where thirteen-year old Anne Naylor was murdered by the milliner and her daughter in 1758. Her terrified screams are often heard echoing through the station, and are so loud that staff have dubbed her ‘The Screaming Spectre’. We did hear screaming while at Farringdon Station, but it wasn’t anything unusual during peak hour on the London Underground. I wonder if there’s a second ghost called ‘The Screaming Commuter’.

That concluded our ghost hunt. We took one more walk up the Fagin’s Lair street to get back to the bus. I wonder if the ghosts of failed actors who have ruined their career doing Oliver still haunt this very spot? I suppose I shall never know…

My next London Ghost Story shall be soon. I will be asking on Twitter which one I shall do next, so keep an eye out. If you want to come along, then let me know. It’s always better to be scared in a group larger than one.

I know what you’re thinking. ‘Oh no, not another post about ghosts. This blog is nonsense’. That is what I assume you’re thinking, anyway.

This isn’t so much a blog post about ghosts, as it is me deciding how I’m going to spend my afternoon tomorrow. I have some time to kill before going to see a show tomorrow night and decided to go ghost hunting. On a weekday. At 5pm. In the middle of the city.

This all came about, in part, because of the Dover Castle ‘episode’. Both I and my partner in crime were holding court at her parent’s place describing how we came face to face with death and narrowly missed being seized upon by a wraith of some description. That is, we showed them our blurry photo that could well be a smudge on the lens. They were suitably impressed, as one would be, and the next time we saw them they produced this book:

They, in short, wanted to subject us to more terror.

Now, a little bit of back story here that I didn’t add to the previous ghost related post…

I am a little courage challenged when it comes to this area. Sure, these days I put on the face of male bravado in the face of supernatural. However, as we speak I am currently sitting in an empty house and because it is night I am constantly checking over my shoulder, in mirrors and windows convinced I’m about to see something that will terrify the bejeesus out of me. When I was 10 I distinctly remember hiding under the covers because I could hear the theme song to the X Files. There are episodes of Are You Afraid of the Dark that scared the hell out of me.

At 18.

I put this down to having an older sister who liked the scare the hell out of me by telling me stories about local ghosts, including that of one of her friends who tragically died when she was 16. What did my sister do a year later? Attempt contact using a ouiji board. Not cool, I tell you. Not cool.

I have been on one ghost tour, which was more of a history lesson about the Rocks in Sydney. The man who was leading us looked like Bill Bryson, but with a cape. In summary, it wasn’t very scary at all.

So to cure myself of boredom and scare myself a little, I am going to start doing my own self guided ghost tours around London. You can follow them on twitter if you want by following me, or searching for #ldnghoststories. Alternatively I shall be posting wrapups of each one on here.

To begin with, I am doing half a tour. I can’t fit in a full tour before I go to the theatre, so I shall be walking around bits of Clerkenwell visiting the local paranormal attractions. Yes, I shall be seeing them all! The Clerkenwell House of Detention, famous for being one of the most haunted places in London, Bleeding Heart Yard, where a socialite was found torn limb from limb with her heart still pumping blood on to the cobblestones, and my favourite, Scratching Fanny of Cock Lane.

Yes, you heard right.

If you’re interested in coming along with me then let me know via twitter. It should be most informative. I shall be reading aloud from my book whether people are there or not.

I shall report in full soon…

Hopefully…

Moving to London brings many good things: being close to certain loved ones, having so much history around, the proximity to exciting countries.

The West End.

Ok, so I wasn’t fooling anyone. The West End is a *huge* drawing card to London. Aside from New York, it is the place I would want to be in the world theatre wise. However, in saying that, the last 3 and a bit months haven’t contained enough theatre to satisfy my cravings. This is mostly because London is expensive.

I have, however, managed to see a few really good shows, so I thought I’d give a run down of what I’ve seen so far. If you want a more indepth / reviewy look at the shows, then a lot of them are (or will shortly be) on my other, more theatre oriented, site.

Talent – Menier Chocolate Factory

The first show I saw in London. Was more excited about the fact that I was seeing a show in London than I was about the show itself. I knew nothing about it, aside from the director’s name, and had no preconceptions about London theatre. I was jetlagged and it was an ample introduction to London theatre.

That is, it set the bar pretty low for what I was to see later.

The show itself wasn’t bad, just incredibly low budget. I kind of expected anything produced West End style (or off West End as the Chocolate Factory is) to be big and glitzy. I was surprised that a venue like the Chocolate Factory be so critically acclaimed, with many productions going on to full West End and Broadway runs.

Hairspray – Shaftesbury Theatre

Next show I managed to afford tickets to was Hairspray. On a whim, I decided that theatre was in order, as celebration for the recent employment acquisition. Hairspray has been a show that I’ve kind of liked for a while. It’s never been a favourite, apart from the brief period in my final year of uni when it got me an HD* (yes, I wrote a paper on Hairspray. That’s how useful my degree is).

If Hairspray was gold, Talent would be tin. The difference was ridiculous. The overall talent and production values on Hairspray were what I would expect from Broadway. At this moment, I realised that I was seeing a *West End* show. The difference in ticket price was that Hairspray was £10 cheaper, which didn’t make sense.

The only thing that I didn’t like about Hairspray was Belinda Carlisle. The vocal talent she has is in direct contrast to the acting ability she possesses. It was the best example of ‘just because you’ve topped the charts, doesn’t mean you should be allowed to act’ I have ever seen.

And I’ve seen Glitter.

*for the Brits, an HD is High Distinction. In fact, the paper secured me first in the unit [/pompous gloating].

The Nutcracker – Royal Opera House

For a treat, Em treated me to a night at the ballet around Christmas time. I have never been a big fan of ballet (aside from my indulgence in bad cinema), but The Nutcracker was something I genuinely wanted to see. Em was more excited than a 5 year old in their first tutu. I didn’t know what to expect.

What resulted was some of the best theatre I’ve ever seen. I was captivated from start to finish and my bottom didn’t fall asleep once. It was a strange feeling, especially considering I knew nothing about ballet (aside from what the aforementioned movie taught me), but I felt like I was being injected with culture AND enjoying myself!

Random Drag Show – Cellar Door

Cellar Door is a cool venue. It’s a converted public toilet.

Sounds appealing doesn’t it?

I decided on Cellar Door as the venue to take some friends from Sydney out on the town on a Monday night. I believe Cellar Door was my first mistake.

I believe Monday night was my second.

What ensued was hours of drinking cheap wine and watching a drag show in possibly the smallest venue ever conceived. The performer herself was quite entertaining. Unfortunately, we had the table directly next to where she was singing. This meant that four drunk, Australian musical theatre lovers were providing backup and banter for the 50 strong crowd.

On the night, we were certain we made the show that much better by not only having what was ostensibly an international act, but a bloody good one at that. Our dulcet (read: loud) tones were perfect for the harmonies and I think she really appreciated the backup dancing. A rapport was great and the awkward silences after every joke were merely a cultural misunderstanding. However, it was she who ended up getting paid at the end of the night. We were robbed.

The next morning, i wasn’t as confident that our onstage presence was welcome.

However, I do believe that our rendition of Wicked in Covent Garden Markets at 1am was welcome. It was just a shame that there weren’t many people about at 1 in the morning on a Monday night/Tuesday morning.

Silence! The Musical – Above the Stag

The following night I took Emily along to see the preview of Silence! The Musical. Extremely hungover, I managed to get lost on the way to the venue. I ended up finding the venue, after mistaking it for a dodgy pub.

Above the Stag isn’t a dodgy pub

It’s a dodgy gay bar.

A dodgy gay bar that I fell in love with. It is the perfect venue for anything I have ever wanted to produce/direct/star in. It’s a cabaret joint plus a theatre. I didn’t even need to see Silence, I had fallen in love.

Silence! The Musical didn’t bring my high down. This is, in fact, a musical adaptation of Silence of the Lambs. Written by some guys (Musical Theatre Nerds: including Title of Show’s Hunter Bell) in New York, it was a cult hit off Broadway in 2005. It then went into hiding for 4 years before resurfacing in London with new material.

I am so glad I saw Silence.

It is offensive, lo-fi, tongue-so-firmly-planted-in-cheek-that-said-cheek-is-bleeding theatre at it’s best. The cast were great considering it was the first time they had performed the material in front of an audience. Surprisingly, Emily enjoyed the evening as much as I did! Her favourite number being ‘I’d F**k Me’ by Buffalo Bill. I do wonder sometimes.

In addition they gave me a glow in the dark button. Yes, a button. That glows in the dark. Win.

Nation – The National Theatre

I picked up £5 tickets to Nation last night. It was worth it, even if the story was painfully bad at times. It was a theatrical experience I hadn’t had before.  was so utterly blown away by the performances and the production as whole that it saved the fact the script is a turd. a steaming one at that.

Also, I love that I got £5 tickets and was sitting in the stalls, 7 rows back, practically dead centre. In addition, the programmes were £3. Most amateur productions in Sydney charge more for their programs. For that £3 I received a book. A book full of… things. Not particularly useful things, but things nonetheless. There was also a little booklet on how to build my own Nation. Now that is quality.

You could learn something, ridiculous over charging Sydney theatres who expect $20-30 for a program. You hear me? Learn. something.

£3

Yes, three pounds.

Next up, I’m booking tickets to a few shows. Going to see Avenue Q, possibly Waiting for Godot with Ian McKellin and want to see Tom Stoppard’s new one at the National Theatre (and purchase another £3 programme).

Any suggestions?

Ok, so first off I’ve abandoned the tumblr blog. One, I like WordPress better. Two, I gots a new URL. I’m hoping you’ve noticed this, considering you are on a completely different site.

Secondly, I’ve also abandoned hope of catching everyone up to where I am now. Therefore, posts will be far more recent, which means I can stop making up the things I’ve been doing. I will cover the things I have done, but shall do so over time.

This is because I have seen a ghost.*

A real ghost.

Well… kind of.

Between Christmas and New Year, Emily and I wanted to test out the new English Heritage membership (of which I am now also a proud owner). We packed up our thermals and headed on a day trip to Dover Castle. However, the day we chose was a rather unimpressive day. That is, very cold and very very wet.

Determined not to let the bad weather phase me, I cheerily sang my new song all the way to Dover Castle. My new song consists  of the lyrics ‘Dover Castle’, repeated, to the tune of Beethoven’s ‘Hallelujah’. Emily thoroughly enjoyed the car ride and I’m almost certain that the ten or so car accidents we saw along the way weren’t a result of my new song.

Dover Castle is situated on a cliff in Dover. This seems simple enough, but as nothing else is named after its location, I thought it needed pointing out (Buckingham Palace is not in Buckingham. Leeds Castle is not in Leeds. Ham House is not made of Ham.). Dover Castle is, in fact, situated on the famous White Cliffs of Dover. What the tourist pamphlets don’t tell you is that Dover is actually a rather miserable town. It is full of cheap hotels, seedy looking drinking establishments and all sorts of unsavoury people.

Dover Castle, on the other hand, is quite nice. It’s big. It’s old. It’s a castle. There is also a network of tunnels beneath the castle that have been used for various wars, including the secret wartime tunnels of World War II. Unfortunately, we were informed at the gate that these tunnels were closed today. Also, there was no train to take us to the castle. Also, there was no hot food. Also, they had just had an outbreak of the plague.**

We meandered around the keep for a while, marveling at the IKEA children’s furniture (apparently Henry II liked flat-pack). We watched people reenact things and saw some holograms talking. Your typical castle, really. After having a look around the keep, we settled in the cafe (with no hot food) and discussed what else there was to see. On the map we noticed that whilst the Wartime Tunnels were closed, the Medieval Tunnels at the back of the castle were still open to visitors.

This is where I start to show you pictures…

These are the tunnels. This was at midday. These tunnels were dark. Also, considering it was pelting down with rain and a few days after Christmas, not many tourists were actually around. In summation, these tunnels were creepy.

Also, a lot of the tunnels weren’t lit. At all. We ended up using the camera flash to see if there actually was a tunnel ahead. This produced some interesting results…

Something mighty creepy

The same picture taken a few seconds later

Now, I thought the effect was quite cool and it was only when I looked at it days later that I realised it looks mighty creepy. However, thanks to google I found this picture:

That is, a picture taken from around the same place with a similar figure in it.

I shall let you decide what you will, but it promptly made my mind up as to whether I would be going back to Dover for one of their nighttime Ghost Tours. I just don’t particularly like being spooked.

Stupidly, we continued on deeper into the tunnels. Em was feeling more and more uneasy. We decided to turn around and leave after we came to a completely unlit tunnel that Em didn’t like at all. I took a photo with the flash and here is the result:

orbs and all

We seemed to cut our tour of the castle there.

We will go back and I’ll make sure I bring Bill Murray with me this time. He ain’t afraid of no ghosts.

*not the actual reason, but works for dramatic effect.

** slight exaggeration, but when you have been driving for two and a half hours this all seems a bit dire.

A very common question I keep getting asked is what Christmas is like in Australia. This means that my creative streak has been given a run. Stories can range from ‘Oh no, we do actually get snow. It’s 40 degrees in the day and then goes down to -10 at night and we usually get a blizzard on Christmas Eve. The Kangaroos hate it!’ to ‘Who’s this guy in red? At Christmas we sacrifice a platypus to appease the sun gods and then give each other a different platypus innard depending on how close the person is to you.’

It’s been fun.

What people seem to not realise is that in Australia, everything about Christmas is practically the same… just hotter. What’s struck me is how similar Christmas is here. Growing up in a country where the temperature regularly gets up to 40 on Christmas Day, yet the pervading imagery around the place is of furs and snow. It has always felt a little wrong.

Being in the cold feels right at Christmas. Especially because this year mother nature put on a show and made it snow a week ago. I’m currently sitting in a room with a real tree, surrounded by traditional Christmas decorations and when I look out the back window there’s a blanket of white across the garden. It’s slightly magical. And the fact that I’ve been accepted into Em’s family like I’m one of them is something that makes it even better (I was just given my first chore. Emptying the bin on to the compost heap. I think that means I’m one of them now.).

One thing is missing, though. The fact that my family and friends from the past 24 odd years are approximately 9000 miles from here. It’s funny though, because I don’t get homesick. Everyone tells me it will hit me soon, but it never has. I think it’s mostly because I’m still slightly in denial that I’m so far away and thanks to technology I am never that far away from family and friends. In fact, Facebook is a great way to say hello to someone, which I’m sure is not what it’s meant for. Since I’ve been in the UK, I’ve rarely used it to stalk and have actually used it to communicate with people! It’s especially fun when I’m sitting at my desk at 9 in the morning talking to my inebriated friends at 8 at night.

I’ve gone off on a tangent. Back to what I was talking about.

The first time I’ve been here and felt slightly homesick (or maybe just nostalgic) was this morning. I was standing on the platform at Twickenham Station, freezing my hands off (we’re polite here. Plus I was wearing thermals so we weren’t worried about that) listening to my ipod. I’d just downloaded Tim Minchin’s ‘White Wine in the Sun’ and it damn near made me tear up. Mostly because it’s true. (cue cheese) I know that wherever I am in the world at Christmas, my dad, my brother, my sisters, my aunts and my uncles, my cousins, my gran(s) and my mum will be waiting for me in the sun.

So here I am, writing a sappy Christmas post to wish everyone a Merry Christmas and to let the people in Australia know that I miss them. All of them. Except for the ones in Doonside. And most of Western Australia. And Tasmania. Nobody misses Tasmania.

Merry Christmas.

Well, I’m assuming it was a rather boring week. Upon skimming over my diary I had, apart from a London outing on Monday, two exciting entries. Sofa being delivered. Interview. Now that’s excitement. That being said, I think I had enough excitement on the Monday to last an entire month.*

I started the week with a rather full London outing. I, very ambitiously, decided that I would visit the “museums” near the London Eye, The Tate Modern, Soho and possibly squeeze in some time at a cafe to finish off a blog post, all by 6 o’clock. Well, I almost succeeded. I visited the “museums” near the London Eye and visited the Tate Modern, and did it all by approximately 6 o’clock. What I hadn’t expected was that the Tate Modern would take up so much of my time. So much, in fact, that I declared that I would be visiting again very soon (to nobody in particular) as soon as I hurried out of the building.

So, first the “museums” near the London Eye. Why do I keep putting quotation marks around “museums,” I hear you ask? Because I strongly believe that if you need to pay to get into a so-called museum in London, then chances are it’s not actually a museum, but a cleverly disguised rouse that will result in you walking through the door and being beaten by two large Albanians. Whilst this wasn’t entirely accurate, it wasn’t far off.

I decided to walk down past the Dali museum, the Movie Museum (affectionately [sic: stupidly] called ‘The Movieum’), the aquarium and a few other tourist traps mostly because it was next to the London Eye. I’m sure that everyone knows what the London Eye is, but for those who don’t, it’s a rather large Ferris Wheel that takes about an hour to go the full way round, and robs you of about three thousand quid when you try and buy a ticket.** I wanted to see what the fuss was about, and I probably will fork out exorbitant amounts of money to stand on an observation deck for an hour seeing the parts of London I already have seen, but not today. Instead, I wandered down towards Westminster to see what I could find before heading up to the Tate Modern. When a rather cheery young lady handed me a flyer and promised me cheaper tickets to the Movie Museum, I couldn’t really resist. What could be better than a museum about movies? Not much.

After forking over a tenner for entry (thanks to another stroke of charity from the lady at the door), I entered into what was promising to be an extremely exciting experience. I was even allowed to photograph the exhibitions! In a nutshell, The Movieum is a collection of props and costumes that nobody particularly wants (or wants to see) anymore. I may be being a little too harsh, but the only thing that mildly interested me was some Harry Potter costumes, along with some original wands from the film, and that was only because I am a very very sad person (pathetic, not depressed). What irked me about the entire exhibition was not that these things were on display, but that they actually charged people to see them. And a lot of the time you weren’t even looking at artefacts from the main characters. Prime example: ‘a head from a zombie from Shaun of the Dead’. Thanks.

I decided to forgo the other prize museums (Dali Experience, London Aquarium, some haunted horror thing) and head off towards the Tate Modern. Along the way I stumbled across the previously mentioned National Theatre Shop. I’ve already commented on the shop, so let me comment on the National Theatre itself. While the National Theatre seems to produce quality show after quality show, the building in which it is contained is a bloody eyesore. It reminds of Macquarie University with all of it’s cement and bad 70s architecture. However, I do have to say that at night the time-honoured stage tradition of making something awful look much better through effective lighting comes into play. It’s kind of like an art installation where the artist is vomiting blue paint: it’s repulsive, but boy, the colours are pretty.

I headed onwards towards the Tate Modern, another slightly unattractive building that at least has history. I had decided to make a trip to the Tate Modern to see the PopLife exhibition, as I fancy myself a pop art liker (it’s not quite love). When glancing over the other exhibition I decided to part with even more money and make a day of the Tate Modern. I’m glad I did at least. The other exhibition is John Baldessari’s ‘Pure Beauty’, and having never heard of the artist, I ventured in unknowingly.

John Baldessari is a cheeky, cheeky man. I felt that he is an absurdist at heart, and has gone through so many changes that to look at three pieces from the 60s, the 80s and now, you wouldn’t recognise it as the same artist. I absolutely love his early work.

Here are some examples of his early work:

Basically, he was taking the piss. I like that.

His later work is a bit meh, and I found myself not really appreciating it. I sped up, out, fed and drank then continued on to PopLife.

PopLife is a celebration of late Pop Art (post late 80s). it includes Jeff Koons, late Andy Warhol, Takashi Murakami and Keith Haring, amongst others. There was some absolute gems throughout the exhibition, as well as absolute bollocks. Personally, my favourite of the bollocks variety was a rather tasteful film of a lady artist and a male art dealer having sex for 60 minutes. It was her comment on how art dealers screw the artists. Apparently she paid the art dealer US$10,000 to partake.

After PopLife i stumbled through the rest of the galleries not really noticing anything. The two exhibitions that I had seen made me think and made me want to create something. I promptly emptied my wallet in the shop, buying things that would ‘inspire me’. They have yet to do so, but are doing a grand job of cluttering the study desk.

To end the day I took a stroll across Millennium Bridge. Yes, the Millennium Bridge that is destroyed in Harry Potter 6. I felt like I was walking across a celebrity. Not only were my feet touching someone(thing) famous, but I was treated to the beautiful sight of St Paul’s at night. Unfortunately photos just don’t do it justice, so after about 15 minutes of attempting to take a photo, I aimlessly wandered towards (where I thought there was) a tube station. I think I ended up near Brighton.

The rest of the week was fairly uninteresting. Sofa got delivered, Sofa got assembled. Job interview had, third job interview secured (give or take a week or two).

It’s Christmas in two days. I’ve got a week off so hopefully I can write and (almost) get this blog up to date. Either that or I’ll drink far too much mulled wine, eat too many mince pies and end up passed out on Em’s parents couch. Either way sounds pretty good to me.

*slight exaggeration

**another slight exaggeration

Even if you go to bed and there’s snow everywhere, and you have plans of getting up in the morning and racing around the streets with a camera before work, and you also have plans of renaming your immediate area ‘snowdonia’, and then you find out that apparently there’s already a place in the UK called ‘Snowdonia’ so you’ll have to call it ‘Snowland’ instead… doesn’t mean that when you wake up there will be any snow left.

Weather, you have killed Christmas. [/drama queen]