Little Britain, Lazy Britain

One thing I am noticing already, here in Britain, is a general attitude of "Oh, don't worry about that, come have some tea, we'll do it tomorrow." This is particularly evident in the approach taken towards repairing Earl's Court Road, a very busy thoroughfare, just near where I am staying. Whatever department is reponsible for maintaining the road - probably the Mayor of London - dug several large holes on Wednesday and Thursday. Then did nothing on Friday, or for this weekend, at that. The result is a massive traffic snarl up at all hours of the day and night. But this is acceptable - apparently. I'm not even sure why they're digging the holes. All it seems to be in aid of is providing a large number of fat pricks in fluoro green safety vests with an excuse to stand around and sip hot drinks from a thermos.

But this gives one an insight as to why a country like Britain, which is quite frankly tiny compared to Australia or America, struggles to maintain anything resembling an efficient highway or public transport network. Because the country is lazy. Some decades ago, in a famous speech, Winston Churchill said he had blood, tears and sweat to offer in service of his country. I don't think you'd find many people in England these days prepared to work up a sweat. The only tears split come when England inevitably gets dumped in the quarters at the World Cup, and the only blood is the stuff that comes out of the Big Brother House and sent straight to the HIV lab.

No wonder companies and employers over here love to employ colonials and eastern europeans. Because we're actually prepared to work hard for a quid, because the exchange rate is so brilliant when we take them back home. Your average pom knows nothing of this, and thus is content to broaden their arse as opposed to their mind, wasting away the hours behind their desk practising their throwing skills as they attempt to land a rolled up ball of paper in the trash can.

No matter what you do or see in "British" Britain, you always get the impression that it could be done faster. That's why I go to the local Indian Sainsbury's, instead of to the British staffed Tesco's for food shopping. You might not be able to understand what they're saying, but you get in and out of there quickly. As opposed to standing around bored while the checkout ladies gossip on like a pair of fishwives, as they lazily sort through your groceries.

What this country needs is another good war, to shake it out of it's lethargy.

Man at Work

I come from a land down under...

This man, namely me, has a job. I've just been offered the position of Sales and Administration Assistant for a medical insurance company. Now I can start looking for a place to live, and can actually start going to see stuff.

I'll be starting on August 7th. Brilliant.

*Goes off and has a celebratory beer*

Va Va Vrooom

Part of the reason that I haven't had a great deal of travel to talk of late about on what is, after all, a travel blog, is that I've been trying to keep a low profile and avoid spending too much money until I get a job. Which means confining oneself to the cheaper pursuits in life. Yesterday however, I managed to go and see the National Portrait Gallery and the British Motorshow, all for the cost of a 5 pound train ticket. Not a bad effort. The first port of call was the Portrait Gallery, which houses all the paintings of the royals and various other famous Brits, dating from the 16th Century onwards, when paintings first came into existence as a valid means of preserving someone's image. Some of the paintings are magnificent in terms of scope and size. When wandering through the gallery, particularly the earlier era, when the Tudors and Stuarts ruled, you are constantly reminded what a grim and merciless bunch they all were. Lots of people depicted in the portraits died of what would definitely be described as unnatural causes, although undoubtedly they were quite natural at the time. Beheaded, killed in battle, syphilis, murdered, poisoned, stabbed etc. I would recommend paying the gallery a visit, since you don't really have to be interested in art to appreciate it, which is always handy for someone like me, who couldn't give a rats arse about bowls of fruit or vases of sunflowers.

From the Portrait Gallery I made my way out to the Docklands, rattling my way along the District and Jubilee tube lines, then on the Docklands Light Rail. I normally wouldn't have bothered going all the way out to the motorshow except a friend of ours managed to score some free tickets, so I felt obliged to go and see what was out there. I'm glad I did as well, since it was worth the effort. It's brilliant. Apart from all the standard car companies, you've also got companies like Aston, Lotus, Bentley and you can go and climb into their cars. The line up for the Bentley and Aston stands was enormous, so I confined myself to photos, but I did manage to get myself into a Lotus Elise. The driving position is great - you sit a long way down into the car and your legs extend out horizontally from your body to the pedals, like if you were sitting up in bed. The result is a low down driving position that would be perfect for when you're going around corners at 100 kph, something that's perfectly feasible in a Lotus. I would've loved to have gone there with Evan, one of the guys I used to live with at Enoggera - he's far more educated in the way of the car than I, and undoubedtly would've been able to appreciate the finer points of what was on display than me, who is limited to saying "Ohhh, shiny."

So, onto the photos.



This is the AF10 concept car. This is made by a company called Arash Cars, who I had never heard of before today. But this reportedly will do in excess of 220mph.Which is fairly brisk, all things considered.


This little number is an Ariel Atom. It has no bodywork, and a supercharged engine from a Honda Civic. But don't be fooled. It will do 0-100 km/h in 2.5 seconds, and will outcorner a motorbike with the greatest of ease. It's mainly designed to be driven on tracks and closed circuits, rather than a practical means of day to day transport.


Standard Aston Martin DB9 Coupe. My theory that this is the best looking car in the world was tested on this day, I can assure you. But I still maintain it is. Like the Spitfire, it just looks right from every angle.


A Citroen C1 that's been attacked by an airbrush, which isn't an uncommon sight here. These cars seem to be very popular amongst ricers. Needless to say, my sister liked this.


A Ferrari F60, better known as a Ferrari Enzo. This is number 20 of the 399 that were built, and is the finest machine ever to come out of the factory at Maranello.


A Ferrari F50, predecessor of the Enzo. This isn't quite as fast, but it's far more brutal. This was designed as a road car for the race track, and from all accounts it was an absolute pig to drive. I say from all accounts because there's no way in hell I'll ever get to drive one.


The Ferrari F40, predecessor to the F50, oddly enough. This would be over 10 years old now, but is still one of the fastest accelerating cars in the world, primarily because it's so light.


The Ford GT. This is the new one, based on the legendary GT40 that won Le Mans 4 years running. This has the same muscular looking body, and huge rear haunches, but is a hell of a lot faster and ruthless. On a flat straight it would actually beat the Enzo for top speed.


This is the new Honda Civic Type R. Now, we haven't seen the new Civic design in Australia yet, which is a pity, because it's quite a good looking car. This keeps the same looks, but adds a faster engine and better handling. I would be quite happy to own one of these, as you could definitely fit a tuba in the boot. Not sure how that would affect the handling though.


Again from Honda, we have here their Formula 1 car that Jenson Button drove, as well as a motorbike that I have no idea about. Dan may be able to elaborate for us.


In the absolute pinnacle of excess from Hummer, we have a Humvee Limousine. Miles per gallon on these things is listed as N/A. How nice. I saw a few of these in America and cursed myself for not taking a photo, so I was quite happy to see one here.


This blingy looking thing is actually a Hyundai - it's a new concept car SUV designed for the American market, hence the gigantic wheels. I think it may prove a bit brash for England or Australia, but you never know. Tastelessness isn't just an American thing.


This is what you would see if you were inside the Jaguar XJ V8. Unlike Holden, you actually get real wood, not plastic woodlike stuff, you get real, proper leather, shagpile carpets underfoot and a sense of absolute contentment. The clock even ticks along for you. It's sort of like sitting in a large, mobile couch.


This is the new Lexus LS460, soon to be on sale in Australia I believe. I was surprised at how large this car was - it's quite a bit bigger than the Jags or the S-Class I saw, and should be a pretty good contender in the prestige saloon market. I would wager that Meakin's Dad is already casting eyes on of these for the future. And well he should. It does look the part.


This is the Lexus SC430. This car is brilliant in every respect but one. It has undoubtedly the most stupid seating arrangement, bar none, of any production car in the world today. For some completely unknown and ridiculous reason, Lexus designed to try and fit 4 people into what is plainly a 2 person car. Granted, this car will only have at most 2 people in it, 99% of the time. So why have the extra two seats at all? It is beyond belief. Let me show you.


You'd struggle to fit a baby in there, let alone a child. I have no idea why they built it like this.


This bizarre gothic looking thing is actually a Maybach concept car, called the Excelero. It's the world's fastest limousine, although how you can call something with 2 seats a limousine is beyond me. However, it is very quick, and represents a substantial departure for a company renowned for it's fairly placid and understated multi-million dollar limos. You would not miss this coming, I assure you.


Same car, but the view from the rear. Make no mistake, this car is lonnnnngggg.


This is another concept car, this time from Mazda. While the car looks somewhat out of place, I was amazed with the interior of this thing. It really does look bizarre. And I don't see how it's possibly going to save you if you have a crash, given it all seems made from plastic and tissue paper. But I guess I don't think they worry about that when they design concepts.


A close up of the interior in question. I mean, look at it. There's no backing in the seat for chrissake, and the gearstick looks like something you'd find on a computer. Maybe that's the point.


The daddy of them all, the mighty McLaren F1. For over a decade, the fastest road going car in the world, until the advent of the Bugatti Veyron. Note the central position of the steering wheel - this car was designed like a Formula 1 car, and so the steering wheel was placed centrally to give the driver the best possible view and handling - which this car needed. It was, frankly, dangerous, with a skittish back end and a penchant to spin wildly.


Another McLaren, this time the McLaren Mercedes SLR. This car draws it's inspiration from a classic which I'll show you shortly. It, like all it's competitors is ludicrously fast, but this one, because it is based on a Mercedes SLK, still retains an element of comfort and leisure. Which is important when you're doing 350 km/h.


One of the most famous, if not the most famous silhouettes in motoring. This is the Mercedes 300SL, more commonly known as the "Gullwing", owing to the birdlike shape the doors make when opened. The door design formed the basis of all supercars today, being the first to employ lifting doors, rather than the more conventional horizontal opening doors on our day to day runabouts.


This is the inevitable fate that awaits Dan Meakin if he persists in his ridiculous trend of riding a motorbike. Get off the pillion and back in your Falcon Dan.


This is the Noble M15. Noble is a British car company, and are almost unheard of outside of Britain. However, they make cars that go like all hell set loose, and, compared to the various supercars, are very affordable. But still, at 75000 pounds for this one I don't think I'll be getting it anytime soon. It's still far cheaper than the next contender though.


The Pagani Zonda. One of these will set you back over 400000 pounds. But you do get the most radical looking car on the market today, and an interior more reminiscient of Versailles than the inside of motorcar. And of course, it goes like hell.


The TVR Sagaris. Top Gear Magazine calls it a car named after a weapon, and says we need more of these. Well, it would certainly keep the birth rate down. TVR's are lethal. They have no airbags, to which TVR's argument has always been "don't crash." However, without ABS, traction control, stability control, steering best described as loose and a rear end with a habit of stepping out wildly, this isn't as easy as it sounds. For 50000 pounds you get something equivalent to machines the Americans build with NASA painted on the side. For madmen only.


And finally, because this is an Australian blog, we have a Monaro. The Vauxhall Monaro as they call it over here. Vauxhall and Holden are both owned by General Motors, so we have the oddity of an Australian car with an American engine sold in Great Britain. The poms seem to like it though.

Well, that concludes the sample of motorshow photos. Hope you enjoyed them as much as I enjoyed wandering around taking them. I'm going to be on tenterhooks a bit tonight - tomorrow I'll find out if I have a job or not. If so, happy days and I'll start on Monday. If not, sod it, and back to the list of applications. We shall see.

Gossipmongering

Truly, there is no greater pursuit in England's green and pleasant land than that of disseminating juicy tidbits of gossip and dirt about celebrities. For whatever reason, which I am yet to discover, the English have what might be called an almost obsessive manner when it comes to the goings on of the rich and famous. When Wayne Rooney splashes out and buys his fiancee Coleen a new Merc, this is front page news. The Mirror trumpets, in enormous lettering, that the reason Mr Rooney is spending all this money on her is apparently because he had his end away in a Liverpool knock-shop some 4 years ago, when he was 16 and they'd just started going out. Apparently he's still trying to make up for it.

It's not just footballers either. The Evening Standard carried a headline yesterday, "Prezza's Secret Sleaze Exposed!". For those of you unaware, "Prezza" refers to John Prescott, a fat Welshman who's managed to connive his way into the position of Transport Minister. Frequently referred to snidely as Two Jags Prescott, owing to his love of Jags and cars all the while trying to convince the people of England to ride buses and trains, he is famous for various extra-marital affairs. No doubt Tony Blair would have given him the arse long ago, were he not such a good distraction to wave in front of the press everytime Blair drops the ball.

Whether you are a politician, a royal, a footballer, a tv star, an actor or even a contestant on Big Brother - your life is an open book in England. Everything you say and do is for the sole purpose of public consumption. For the life of me I can't understand it. My only conclusion is that the good people of England live such dreary monotonous lives that they need to bury themselves in the tripe that the media puts out, in order to forget their everyday drudgery. I find this hard to believe, but I'm struggling to think of any other reason. It's almost systematic as well. The papers in England indulge in jibes and barbs so cruel that any paper utilising them in Australia would be blackballed and criticised endlessly. Yet only a British paper could have come up with the now famous "Duchess of Pork" when referring to Fergie's thighs.

I'm struggling to think of a comparative example in Australia. The only one I can think of, in terms of political scandal is back in the 80's when "Silly Billy" Snedden got caught with his pants down in a hotel room, still wearing a latex sheath and lying dead with a grin on his face. The story, as it later turned out, was that he'd expired during a session of slap and tickle, and had been left there by the other party involved when she panicked and did a bunk. In Australia, this was news, granted, but is by and large forgotten these days - indeed, only the term Silly Billy survives. Even the identity of the woman involved remained unknown.

Were this to have happened in England, it would've never been left to rest. The land would have been scoured for the identity of the woman. Conspiracy theories would have been put forth. DNA evidence would have been taken. In fact the woman probably would have come forward of her own free will as she would have been made an offer of a squillion pounds to tell her story to the Fleet Street press anyway. In Australia she might have, at best, got half a column in New Idea and given enough money for a cab fare back from the magazine's office.

I guess what it comes down to is that in England, the press obviously thinks that every scrap of information about celebrities is worth publishing, despite them doing the exact same thing last month. In Australia we expect rugby players to start bar fights, we are not surprised when movie stars throw phones at people, we couldn't give a rats arse who's rooting who on Neighbours and we'd laugh at anyone who confessed to having an affair with an elected MP.

That's the difference between us. That, and ten thousand beautiful miles.

The Underground - It's not just transport, it's an institution

Click here for map of the London Underground.

I am constantly amazed by the London Underground. After coming from a town like Brisbane, which thinks running trains any more often than 30 minutes apart is the work of the devil, the Underground is a different world entirely. For starters, when we say underground, we mean underground. At some points, up to 60 metres underground. Apparently some of the longest escalators in the world are deployed here. Getting on a train at city stations is like descending into the bowels of the earth. You descend down innumerable corridors, stairs and escalators, pass through the ticketing machines, work your way onto the platform, get assailed by the steamy smell of oil and machinery, almost get blown off your feet by the air ventilator, and settle down to wait for a train. Which doesn't take long. Trains run very frequently here. 2 minutes is all you'll ever need to wait on the main lines.

But despite this, there are a few flaws. For starters, the underground is old. It had already been in operation for quite a few decades when Londoners had to sleep in it at night due to German bombing raids during the second world war. Therefore, being old, it requires a lot of maintenance. Which means that for starters, it doesn't run 24 hours, as they do maintenance in the early hours of the morning. This is a problem, for a city that expects to host the Olympics and a population that is being encouraged to depend on public transport. They also do maintenance on weekends - however, again, due to the age of the tracks, they can't just shut down a single track on a line. For whatever reason, the underground wasn't built so that trains could keep running while work was being done. The result is that maintenance equals shutting down that whole section of the line. Fortunately the underground is a maze, and you can always find a way around a track closure. You just might need to go through an extra stop or two. (Or twenty.)

Perhaps the most irritating thing for Londoners (not me, I'm used to Queensland Rail's own particular brand of ineptness) is the fact that tube trains aren't ventilated. Most of the trains date from the 70's, and keeping cool wasn't really a problem back then. Living in England was to live in a perpetual grey drizzle, where sun sightings made headlines. But, since then, for whatever reason, the climate in England has changed. I've been here for close to 2 weeks now and it hasn't rained in all that time. It's actually been quite hot (for England.) 35 degrees celsius yesterday. (Cue gasps and fainting) Hellish, I know. But this was apparently the hottest ever July day in Britain, so we had the sight of water being handed out for free at the tube, and people dragging themselves about as if they'd just got ten rounds with Tyson and also had the fluids squeezed out of them. The trains themselves were apparently like saunas. I went on one yesterday, to sample this so-called sauna and quite predictably, found it to be a load of hot air. I can assure all of you worried about Britain's "LETHAL KILLER HEAT WAVE" (according to the Daily Mail's display of redundancy) that the midday temperature at Knightsbridge tube station on the Piccadilly Line has nothing on the steamy fug that is associated with Brisbane Central station at 5:10pm on a January afternoon.

But it's these things that make the Underground so unique. The incessant calls of "mind the gap" are apparently world famous, a call necessitated because the 20th century trains ride about 30 cm higher than the 19th century rail platforms. The fact that you can hear the tortured metal of the train's suspension screeching while you travel, because all the windows are down to let some ventilation into the train. The fact that the pass you buy to travel on buses and trains is called an Oyster. I'm not sure why. Don't ask. Come to think of it, the thing that most amuses me most is how Londoners piss and moan about their underground, call it a stone age relic in between berating the Mayor of London Ken "Sturmbahnfuhrer" Livingstone and generally dwell on the faults.

I've been left standing on the platform of Central station more than once, wondering why my Ferny Grove train just disappeared from the computer timetable. I've been driven past the Los Angeles subway system in a bus, just in time for the driver to point out a guy injecting himself on the platform and warning us never to travel on it if we value our money, possessions and lives. I've got bruises on my shoulder from the argy bargy on the New York subway, and a sore neck from the whiplash associated with stopping. I've been assailed by beggars, water sellers, food sellers, organ grinders, cripples, hare krishnas and fucking accordion players more times than I can remember on the Italian train system. I will no doubt get irredeemably lost when I have to take the Istanbul train system from the airport to where I'm staying when I go there for ANZAC day.

More to the point, I haven't had any of that here. No trains cancelled, no undue waiting, no heroin addicts, no shoulder barging, no neck injuries, no goddamned squeezebox players and I'm yet to get lost. London - it's not too bad. It's by no means perfect (that's the Metro in Washington DC) but on the whole, it's not too bad.

Hot Cars and Hostels

Let me first start by saying that for anyone staying in London, if you're looking for a place to stay more than a week or two, avoid the Barmy Badger Backpackers. The beds are nice, the kitchen is well equipped and the rooms, are, well, roomy. It's nice - except for one thing. It's one of those places where there tend to be a lot of long-term residents. This creates a situation where 80% of the people tend to be stand-offish and rude towards the 20% of people who are only staying there temporarily. A clique of ladies dominate the TV. They always keep at least 5 of themselves in the room, so even if only 1 of them is watching the show in question, the other 4 can quickly say "oh, we're watching it too" and hence ensure a majority for viewing rights. The backyard bbq area is apparently for "residents" only - I got a few weird looks when I went outside to read a book. But fuck 'em. We're paying our money, just as they are, so I stayed as long as I wanted. God knows I lived with enough psychos, nutters and nasty individuals at Ninth av and Pickering st to be worried about what some pissant ex-pat aussie thinks.

Some of them have apparently lived in this place for over a year! A year! Single rooms in share houses are at least £20-£30 quid cheaper than this place. But they stay, because secretly they know that no normal person would put up with them. It's a place for social outcasts. At least we're only here another two weeks. By then I'll have a job, and a place to stay. It'll be nice to have my own room again.

But (and there's always a but in my blogs) one benefit of these miserable pricks moping around the building is the fact that I spend a fair bit of time out in London. For a person like me, who has a fetish for high performance European cars, this place is heaven. Porsches are everywhere. So are M Class Beamers. S-Type Jags adorn every road. I've also seen Lambos, Ferraris, Maseratis, Astons, Lotuses, a Koeniggsegg and even a Bugatti Veyron. The clunk from my jaw hitting the ground upon seeing the last one would've registered on the Richter scale.

Unfortunately, the aforementioned roost of couch hens prevented me from watching Top Gear tonight. Maybe I'll get a chance on Tuesday, you never know. Probably not. Still, I can always download it.

So, in summary - hostel residents are the scum of the earth. Most of them have forgotten what it's like to be Australian, and have turned into miserable, pasty-faced, tight-fisted, mean-spirited pommy bastards. But the cars here take your breath away.

It's a sacrifice I'm willing to make.

Photo Session

I know I'm going to sound like an absolute cultural philistine by saying this, but it needs to be said. Rome is not the cultural or historical centre of the world. I'm sorry. I know it's got some wonderful old buildings and ruins, the best artwork you're ever likely to see - but you can never really concentrate on it. You're always worrying about having your pocket picked, dealing with a random rude bastard who hates you for not being Italian, trying to drown out the high pitched jabbering and car horns that make up background noise and wondering just what died to make that god awful smell in the air that is assailing your senses.

Whereas London on the other hand...well, there's just such a sense of occasion and grandeur associated with this place. It always seems to muster up a quiet reserve to charm you, even in a place like Victoria St tube station at 5:30 in the afternoon. There's an endless procession of stately old buildings, mixed with new age architecture - in Rome, the ruins struggle to compete with hotels, bars, shops and bus stations.

I've got no doubt I'm going to enjoy my time here immensely. But, I digress. The main purpose of this particular entry is to catch up on photos that I'm yet to post, from Pompeii, Rome and some taken today at the Churchill Museum. Let's get cracking. Starting with the ruins.


This is a fairly standard scene in Pompeii - a Roman road runs between houses and various other domiciles on either side. Pedestrians would walk on the high ground either side of the road, while carts trundled along the lower part in the middle. The large rock in the road near the front of the photo was part of a crossing system for pedestrians, so they didn't have to step in the shit that lay strewn throughout the street. You might also notice in the background the mountain responsible for Pompeii's current fame.


Another shot of Vesuvius, with some more ruins in front of it.


These are a few samples of some of the famous plaster casts that were made of the victims of Pompeii. Although the bodies had long since rotted away, buried under the ash, the space they had occupied remained as a hollow cavity. When archaeologists located a cavity, they would pour plaster into it until it set, then uncover the ash surrounding it. The result would be a perfect cast of the body.


My sister Laura doing her best impression of a statue.


Never let it be said that the Romans were a bunch of prudes. The bloke with the large donger is the Roman god of fertility, resting it on one side of a set of scales, with a bag of gold on the other side. Essentially he is saying that he would rather have his prick than the gold.

Wait till he's 70.

After Pompeii, we went back to Naples, which I have no photos of, since taking my camera out in public there would be tantamount to me draping a sign around my neck saying please steal my camera. Rome on the other hand, well, let's just say it's more civilized than Naples. Which isn't saying much. There would be people who hail from Kingston and Woodridge who'd feel uncomfortable in Naples.

This is the Arch de Tito, within the ruins of old Rome. There is area about a square kilometre in size just near the Colosseum and Constantine's Arch, that was the heart of ancient Rome. Most of the buildings are ruined now, but it's still an amazing repository of ancient Roman history.


Constantine's Arch. This was erected after Constantine won a great victory and converted the Roman Empire to Christianity.


Me at the Colosseum. It's pretty impressive, but it's no Lang Park.


The tomb of the unknown soldier. Quite why a nation with probably the worst war record of any European country would have the most opulent tomb is beyond me, but what the hell. Very impressive nonetheless.

Weir on the River Tiber. Don't do as I did and go down to walk along the river, unless you enjoy the smell of stale urine and homeless people.


Saw this graffiti on a wall the day after Italy dumped France in the final. Sounds like a case of bad sportsmanship. After the game where Italy beat us, the Aussies at the courtfield hotel didn't bother with graffiti - they just started a fight with the Italians on the pedestrian crossing outside. The important thing though is that they never headbutted them.


This is why I don't play a harp. Lugging a bloody great tuba around is bad enough.


Italian nerds playing Magic: The Gathering (it's a card game) outside a hobby store. Being a miniature nerd, I was highly amused at this sight. Off to the side they had an unofficial wheeling and dealing circle, with various Ities flogging cards off the back of their scooters.


St Peter's Basilica. There is video footage of me here, taken by my sister, saying that "I've never believed in Jesus."

I'm surprised old Benedict wasn't on the balcony with a sniper rifle trying to do god's work.


Now, I'm not proud of this photo. They clearly said no photos in the Sistine chapel, and I fully intended to comply. But when I got in there and there were people snapping photos like mad, I couldn't resist taking one. It turned out kinda blurry anyway. Divine retribution no doubt.

But just on the Sistine Chapel - it is amazing. I've never seen any place like it. Just to get to it you travel through corridor after corridor of amazing tapestries, paintings and artwork - the map Room alone is worth coming for. I likened it to a computer game, in that the Sistine Chapel is the last thing you see, and the anticipation builds with every room you go through, waiting and searching for the final chapter. Then, you're there. Standing in the middle of that hallowed hall, neck craned backwards, staring up at that glorious ceiling. Like the statue of David, it's a once in a lifetime event.

The chapel was about the last thing of note we saw in Italy, apart from possibly the most inefficient and crappy airport of all time at Ciampino. Today in England I decided to do some more touristing to give myself time out from job hunting and made my way to the Churchill museum and the Cabinet War Rooms.

To elaborate, this underground complex was purpose built in 1938 and 1939 to allow the War Cabinet to continue to meet and run the British Empire without the risk associated with aerial bombardment if they were working from a normal office. The complex was locked and closed down in 1945 as soon as war ended, and remained top secret and almost unknown until Thatcher ordered it reopened as museum in the 1980's. Today it is a perfectly preserved museum showing what how Britain was run during it's greatest crisis, and a tribute to the greatest Briton who ever lived. To listen to one of Churchill's speeches while standing in the room which he dictated it from is an amazing experience. You can't help but be impressed by his supreme mastery of the written word.


The conference room where Churchill met with the Imperial General Staff. Like Hitler, Churchill frequently disagreed with his Generals, however unlike Hitler he never overruled them. Churchill, while a brilliant politician, was erratic and obsessed with unimportant detail when it came to military operations - a combination that would have been dangerous if left unrestrained.


Churchill's bedroom. Churchill would always spend the first waking hours in bed - he'd have breakfast and give orders sitting up in bed. A constant stream of generals, secretaries, ministers and aides would be coming in and out of the room whenever Churchill had slept the night in the War Room.


The map room - from here the Battle of the Atlantic was fought. The map on the far wall still has all the pinpricks from where cards were pinned to mark convoys. The holes give an excellent visual demonstration of British trade routes.


Finally, the man himself, in Parliament Square. Just goes to show that any old drunk can get bronzed in this city.

That's about it for now - have fun digesting that lot, and no doubt I'll have more to come in the next week or so.

Cheers.

Quick update

Well, as mentioned in previous posts, I am now back in England. There is something truly wonderful about returning to a country that speaks your lingo, as opposed to high pitched, high speed hand waving.

For the time being we're staying in a place called (and I'm not lying here) "Barmy Badger's Backpackers." Some people swear by hostel living but I can't see the appeal. My plan is to find a job, and move into a share house somewhere in London. Regarding job hunting - I've decided to try and hold out for an office job of some description for a week or so, and if nothing comes up, I'll just jump into retail or sales and eat the proverbial shit sandwich until something does come up.

Despite this somewhat melancholy beginning I am enjoying myself here - London is a remarkable place. So much to see, so little time. Ideally I'd like to try and keep my hand in at all my old pursuits in Australia, so that means finding an indoor cricket team, a band that has a tuba and needs a player, a decent library and so on and so forth.

However, all that has to wait until I find a job. I've been firing off job apps like a madman online, this afternoon I thought I might head to an employment agency in the city, and finish off by visiting the Churchill Museum.

I've also got photos from Italy, which I'll post this afternoon when I bring the laptop down.

Must dash, later all.

Of Beggars and Breakfast

With the time rapidly drawing to a close on my time here in Italy (in 24 hours I'll be on a plane back to London) I feel the need to comment on two things that have illustrated to me, in a very real sense, the differences between Italy and Australia.

Let's start with beggars. I would like to begin with an apology to all those people I've ever seen trying to flog me a copy of the Big Issue in Adelaide St. Here I thought you, a single person advertising their wares, was an annoyance. Never again. In fact, I think I'll even (committed right-winger that I am) purchase a copy of your rag when I return. No-one who's been through Italy could ever complain about too many beggars when they get back to Australia. I know Queensland Rail often run late, cancelled my train to Ferny Grove more than once, jolt and jar you from what feels like one track to the other when they approach rail junctions and stop running at midnight - but I can take comfort in the fact they've never had some hairy bastard playing a fucking accordion in the carriages while his chimp-like kid goes round with the hat. Queen St may have the odd wino, the fat bloke sitting out the front of the Commonwealth asking people if they'd like to contribute to a kid's foundation but it doesn't have the endless stream of Africans trying to flog you sunglasses, handbags, fans, water, jewellery, belts, jeans and hats.

If only one of them had tried to sell me cornflakes, they would've had a sale.

What is it with Italian breakfasts? In Australia, we have a healthy breakfast. Cereal, perhaps some toast, and a glass of juice, or tea/coffee. Italians prefer the 3 C's, that is, Croissant, Coffee, Cigarette. Now I know some of you undoubtedly enjoy the triple hit of sugar, caffeine and nicotine, but I for one can't handle it. I think the reason they call it a "Continental Breakfast" is to make it sound more appetising. In theory it means a breakfast without hot food, while in reality it means a breakfast in name only. When I eat a breakfast, I want something that will keep me nourished until midday. I don't want something that leaves me with a gnawing empty great hole in my guts by 9:30. In Rome we finally got sick of it, and now have a box of cereal in our room, and we go and buy milk each morning.

Boring I know, but to hell with it. After two weeks of being expected to swallow a goddamn croissant at 7 am, I am officially over it.

Anyways, the plan for tomorrow is to wander round, see everything I haven't seen, get on a bus to Ciampino airport, buy some duty free gin and get back to London. With any luck I'll have a job within a week or two, and can put an end to this idle workshy existence.

My theory on Jesus

I'd like to share with you a sort of revelation I've had. A few days ago, I was discussing an aspect of Jesus with Glen (of McBain fame), and I made the point, which Glen wholeheartedly agreed with, that there is altogether far too much dead Jesus. In fact, if you think about it, the bulk of paintings about Jesus are either of his first day (baby in the crib, doting parents, the wise men, and half the extras from the production of Noah's Ark) OR of his last day (3 dying guys on the cross, mourning citizens, unsympathetic romans, sneering jews).

The question I pose is this - why can't we have more paintings of the thirty-three years in between all this? How about a painting of when Jesus stayed at the temple as a child and outsmarted all the professors? We could show him being whipped by the teachers for being a snotty-nosed young upstart who dared to question his elders. Or perhaps a painting of when Jesus turned the water into wine? It could be done as a before and after - on one side we have the sad looking party goers, despondent due to having to face a night of sobriety. On the other side we have a wild drunken orgy and Jesus entertaining the crowd by dancing on tables.

Perhaps a different tack - the examples I've mentioned are of notable events in Jesus' life. We could have painting of what would be far more mundane pursuits. Such as "Jesus making a packed lunch of tuna sandwiches" Or "Jesus eating supper with his parents" Or even "Jesus walking through puddles."
I think it has potential. But to get the idea noticed, we'd need some pretty prominent artists to get to work.

This brings me onto another point - by and large all the paintings of Jesus I've seen are by artists I've never heard of. Why didn't the masters ever get round to putting Jesus on canvas? Well, while walking through a rather dull stretch of Rome today, I thought what it would've been like if the masters had painted Jesus.
- Rembrandt would have painted yet another self-portrait, but subtlely altered his own facial features so he resembled Jesus.
- Michaelangelo would have sculpted Jesus out of marble, and then had homoerotic fantasies about Jesus.
- Donatello would have started painting Jesus but died before finishing, leaving the world to wonder if the secret to Jesus' divinity was the fact that he had no eyebrows.
- Da Vinci would have painted Jesus as a woman.
- Botticelli would have forgone the usual muscular features of Jesus, instead portraying him with a big arse and large floppy breasts.
- Van Gogh would have painted Jesus and then driven real nails through the painting.

Perhaps they did paint Jesus, and that's what the Catholic Church has squirrelled away in its vaults. Not the priceless works of art everyone seems to think, but all the paintings of Jesus that aren't of his first or last days.

I'm onto something here. Comments?

Photos!

Ok, so I lied. Last blog I said I wouldn't post pictures till London since they were on my laptop, and I had no way to transfer them over to the computers at the internet cafe. Until I remembered my mp3 player is also a USB hard drive. Which can be plugged into other computers. Which can also store photos. I think you have a fair idea of where this is headed.

The tower. The funny thing is, if the tower had been built as originally intended, no-one would come to Pisa, because apart from the tower there is absolutely bugger all else to see here. And without the lean it isn't particularly remarkable.

An equally unremarkable photo of Pisa - this one showing a nice terraced effect in housing along the river that flows through town.

Part of what I had for lunch the day I was in Pisa. The great thing about being in Europe is that all the European beer is really cheap, so I can enjoy a Becks, for example, without having to pay an arm and a leg for the privilege.

On to Praiano now, and the sunny Mediterranean...

This was the view from the hotel balcony that we had each morning. But what looks like a million dollar view only cost the four of us a total of about $160 a day. It really was a fantastic place. The only downer was the fact you needed to descend a 300 metre cliff face to get to the beach, but you can't have everything I guess.

A shot of the harbour at Praiano. Pretty much all the locals own boats here. They buy a cheap scooter for the road, and pour all their cash into having souped up speedboats.

The dining area at the hotel we stayed at. I'm sure there are better views in the world to have whilst eating, but I'm yet to see one.

Ok, I was going to post pictures of Pompeii as well, but this shitty Itie computer is refusing to upload any more pictures onto blogger, so I'm giving it away. Might try again tomorrow. It's basically a large city of ruins - think of Ipswich and you'll get the general gist of it.