The girl next door can rot in hell

This being me, is not the age old story of the girl next door. In fact, she's not even my neighbour. Well, she is, but only for a certain period during the day. Perhaps I should start at the beginning.

Basically, office space being at somewhat of a premium in England, our company shares an office with another company. We have half the floor, they have the other half. The traditional grey dividers march up and down the centre of the room, blocking access betwixt us.

While they block us from seeing each other, they do not, regrettably, block sound waves. I think you can see where this is heading.

Everyone on our side of the office is conscious of the noise we make. As is almost everyone on the other side of the office, bar one lady, who shall remain nameless.

Without putting too fine a point on it, this woman is appalling. She is obnoxious, has a laugh that would make Goofy blanch, feels the need to share her conversations with everyone within visual range and normally talks about subject matter that would be more familiar to patrons of Soho slap and tickle club, as opposed to a London office. Moreover, she's even managed to convert/lead astray most of the others over that side as well. I've been reliably informed that they were quiet as lambs until the human equivalent of a noise grenade landed in the midst of their office, and now they jabber away like so many lyrebirds, mimicing her behaviour.

Honestly, sometimes it's enough to make you want to go Van Gogh on your ears. In all fairness, it's not all the time, but remains constant enough just to move beyond an occasional irritance to a regular annoyance. It doesn't help that she's in possession of an accent that Dick van Dyke made sound larrikin and charming in Mary Poppins and yet after a few weeks is enough to make your ears bleed spotaneously.

I suppose I could retaliate by upping the Awwwwstraliana factor in my speech, but then I'd likely get defenestrated by the other Aussies, Kiwis and South Africans who make up the majority of the working populace in our office. More to the point, it still wouldn't shut her up.

My theory is that she's either shagging the boss or somehow does outstanding work when she's not jabbering away, because for the life of me I can't understand why she's still there.

Or maybe her behaviour is to be expected. We are talking about the English work ethic after all.

The Music of the (Monday) Night

That's right folks. I finally made it down to the West End, to Her Majesty's Theatre, along with Nye, who's just passing through London, to see the following musical:


I had seen it once, about 13 years ago when it was showing in Brisbane, whereas Nye had never seen it before. It was a fantastic showing, and one gains a sense of the heritage this musical has, having been shown in the same theatre every night for over 20 years. 20 years on, and it still packs out the theatre every night, with hundreds of people coming along to witness a great musical show.

While certain lyrics had changed somewhat, and the Phantom, although fantastic, was not quite up to the standard of the incomparable Michael Crawford, it was still a show well worth seeing.

It was good to catch up with a familiar face as well, and be reassured that everyone hasn't forgotten me, or isn't still coming down after the highs of the "Thank Fuck he's gone" parties that undoubtedly spontaneously erupted upon my depature. Nye's stay here is pretty short - he's jetting off to New York on Wednesday morning, but I'm reliably assured that Captain Irish, the protestant bastard extraordinaire will be sweeping me up in his cloverleaf wake off to Ireland, in order to brighten up Christmas by inflicting me upon his undeserving relatives.

Actually, to fit in I'll probably need to be hitting the Guinness by 8am, so maybe I'll be ok after all.

This weekend should be a cracker - got a gathering to attend at the Canadian Bar on Friday night for Nick of Badger fame, so should be a good night of Ice Hockey and Sleeman's honey malt beer. Saturday will see me at the Walkabout to watch what is sure to be another fiery clash between the Australians and the Kiwis in the Rugby League Tri-Nations, and I might even make it to somewhere touristy this weekend - depends on how wellied I get on Friday and Saturday.

May have to give it a miss in favour of spending a portion of my stash of sterling on winter clothing - the weather is getting to the point where it's becoming harder and harder to put it off.

On that chilly note, I bid you all farewell.

Global Warming

One issue that always makes an appearance in the English papers (particularly the London papers) is the issue of how England is gradually getting hotter. While the definition of hot is entirely relative - the poms think 25 degrees and higher is a scorcher - it is undoubtedly true that the climate in England is warming up.

This is a big deal in London, especially since the current mayor of London, one Ken Livingstone, is a raving left-wing ratbag with a pathological hatred of anything that has the potential to cause damage to the environment. Unsurprisingly, global warming is pretty high on his shitlist as a result.

Now, while the English are generally apathetic to the onset of global warming, I can provide them with a very good reason as to why they need to take action swiftly. See, your average pom isn't too fussed by slightly warmer weather. They see it as a good excuse to go down to Hyde Park, remove their shirt and barbecue their back. But, I can assure you, the cold weather is a superb repellent for those of us of an antipodean origin. This is what Englanders should be concerned about. The only thing preventing Aussies, Kiwis and Saffas from invading England en masse is the fact that the winter here is purportedly enough to make one's testicles shrivel up and die. I haven't experienced a winter here yet, but I have been assured the weather here is fucking cold. Although I won't be rushing to Heathrow clutching an airline ticket the moment the mercury hits 5 degrees or less, the cold weather is somewhat offputting.

And this is why England, for the sake of Englanders, needs to take immediate action against rising temperatures. Once England becomes a land of hot summers and mild winters, the climate in London will be no different to the glorious weather one encounters in Brisbane, Cape Town and Auckland. As a result, England will be invaded, nay engulfed, by those of us from the glorious Southern Hemisphere. The last barrier against massive antipodean immigration will be removed. So, unless England wants to see even more of us waving flags and belting out Pommy Bastard chants whenever we're bending them over in the Rugby, they would do well to pay heed to climate change.

Tube Etiquette

Well, I don't want anyone to have anyone staring at my depressing sickbed rant any longer than they have to when they open up my blog, so I think it's time I turn my mind to something that has intrigued me ever since I first stepped, bleary-eyed, onto a Piccadilly Line train from Heathrow.

I mean, let's cut to the chase. The tube, compared to other transport icons, is an institution, as I made reference to in an earlier blog. Anything that has existed for this long will inevitably accrue certain conditions, or a modus operandi, if you will. Therefore, for those of you considering visiting London in the future, allow me therefore to outline some of the commandments that await you once you've minded the gap and stepped onto the hallowed, grime stained floor of an underground carriage.

Seats are Holy.

Indeed they are. Given that a standard tube carriage will have over 100 people in it when it's busy, and about 30 will be sitting down, tops, any time a seat near you becomes vacant it is your sacred duty to ensure that the resulting space remains vacant for the shortest time as possible. Blocking fellow contenders for the seat, using your bag or umbrella (I swear some people carry them solely for this purpose) is perfectly acceptable, as is barging past someone who is patiently waiting for the person getting up to fully extricate themselves and their belongings before they sit down. If you take the same attitude as you would to getting a carpark at a supermarket on Super Sales Sunday, you won't go far wrong. The moral equivalent of parking in the handicapped zone and faking cerebal palsy as you walk into the store is basically what you're looking to achieve on the tube.

Avoid Eye Contact.

Even though in rush hour you will be shoulder to shoulder with the great unwashed of England, listening to a tinny version of Verve due to reverb on the IPod of the person behind you, people on either side of you breathing heavily, and the person in front of you reading a paper - YOU MUST NEVER MAKE EYE CONTACT WITH ANYONE. You know you're a hardened cellar dwellar when you can stare right through the skull of the person 10 centimetres in front of you, and pretend to be fascinated in one of Ken Livingstone's London - ONE CITY posters that plaster every tube carriage.

In the same vein, you must also avoid conversation if at all possible. I had an occasion where I accidentally stood on the toe of someone's foot - and instead of saying to me "OWWWWW" or "Excuse Me" or even "Do you mind" she sat there and brushed at my pants for what must have been five minutes in retrospect. I stood there from Swiss Cottage to Bond Street, through 3 stations, looking at my feet and wondering where that draught was coming from and why it was hitting the back of my leg. It was only when she followed through on one and smacked my calf that I looked behind me and saw a glowering face, eyes red with hatred and pain. It was all I could do not to laugh, as I ever so slightly repositioned my size 12 boot, to avoid cutting off further circulation to her toes.

Turnstile Protocol

When one approaches the turnstiles, it is imperative that you should have everything ready to go. Whether you're on a ticket, or an oyster card, woe betide the person who fails to open the gates on the first time. Given that there will you usually be anywhere between 1-25 people behind you (depending on whether you're at Willesden Green at midnight or Knightsbridge at 8:30am), any faltering in getting through the gates will result in any (or all) of the following occurring...

You'll either get the person behind you barging into your back, as they assume you were going to get through, a la the rear end car accidents you always get on turn left at any time slip lanes in Australia, when the person in front goes forward and then stops. Alternatively, you'll get angry looks from the people behind you for delaying them for a good 3 seconds as you extricate yourself from the turnstile and head over to the underground help desk, where a bored attendant just tells you to go through the luggage entrance without checking your card.

The other alternative is to just assume your card will always work and hit the gates with the full force of your body at the same time as you swipe your card, so whether you get a green or red light, you're going through regardless. If you want to eschew brute force in favour of cunning, you can always line up behind someone else who has an oyster card, and follow closely behind them, with a perfunctory tap on the card reader for show. You'll be through before the gates close. While I don't recommend fare dodging on the tube, and don't practice it myself, it can be done by a truly stingy and determined person.

No Talking

And finally, perhaps the most sacred rule of all. The Sistine Chapel might have a no talking policy, but no-one ever listens to it. Anyone trying to find God in the chapel would have a hard time hearing him over the hubbub of American accents and general muttering that exists. However, if Michaelangelo had painted Adam in the buff on the ceiling of the 8:20am tube from Kilburn to Green Park, I can guarantee you wouldn't hear a damn thing, apart from the tortured screams of the wheel bearings as the train negotiates the curves in the track.

While talking on the tube is accepted at certain times - 12:00am on a Saturday morning springs to mind, particularly when pissed - on a weekday and during working hours, the cone of silence reigns supreme. Everyone strives desperately to avoid seeing that there are in fact one hundred other people around them, and concentrates on studying that poster of Livingstone's, or takes an unusual interest in just how much floor lint they've managed to accumulate on their shoe.

They actually have a day dedicated to conversing on the Tube in November, a day when people are supposed to start conversations. Should be an interesting experience.

Ideally, the perfect tube traveller should be a person who brings a fold out chair with them, is blind, has a travelcard valid for the next 3 decades and who is a mute. Such is the manner of the overlord of the London Underground. Follow in his footsteps and you won't go far wrong.

Long time no see

I'm going to be brief in this blog for entry for two reasons, both of which explain the other.

1.) I haven't got anything to write about, and
2.) I'm sick.

Because I've been down with a bad cold since Wednesday, the last few days have basically consisted of me coughing and sneezing, getting through two days of work while trying to prevent the fever behind my eyeballs consuming my retinas, and now lying in bed for pretty much the entire weekend reading and sleeping.

In fact, I'd go so far as to say this has probably been the week I've enjoyed least in my time over here. A combination of being sick, which always guarantees to bring your spirits down, along with a bout of homesickness, what with the grand finals happening back home, the beginning of six months of cold weather here, the knowledge I'm going to miss seeing the Ashes etc etc.

Well, I shouldn't mope too much. Apart from this week things have been pretty good, so that's what I need to focus on.

Sorry for being miserable, but I needed to get this off my chest.