Why am I here?

Don't worry - this isn't a mournful "oh god I'm so homesick" type post.

Far from it.

No, this evening I find myself nursing a glass of a rather nice Banrock Station (Australian wine is available everywhere over here, and quite cheap too) and contemplating what brought me to this, the far side of the World.

As I brought up reasons in my mind, and rebutted them, or disputed them, I thought that perhaps this semi stream-of-consciousness would make for a decent blog. So, here goes.

I mean, the first thing that comes to mind is money. Rather a crude thing to think of for some, perhaps, but at the end of the day, it's not warm climes, nor ice cold beer, nor cheery locals that draw people from Australia to England. We have all that at home. To a large extent it's money...but at the same time, it's not really the be all and end all. I mean, the Aussie dollar trades at 2 and a half to the pound, but that's nothing compared to the exchange rates between a place like South Africa (12 to 1 on a good day, 15 to 1 on a bad day), Poland (300 to 1) or Romania (Several billion to 1). By the time you factor in flights, cost of living, inevitable travelling you do here...well, you'd probably be better off financially to have stayed home. So, scratch that one.

New people perhaps?. Well, it's true - I've met new people - there's a great crowd at work and at the hostel I was staying at. But it wasn't lack of friends or family that caused me to leave. I have one of the best group of friends anyone could ever hope for back home in Oz - a huge extended family, my gaming mates, the musicians and drinkers of the BMC Band, and of course, the great mates I've still got from high school. There is no way anything can replace those people, many of whom (the latter in particular, as well as my family) know me better than I know myself.

So, no. Meeting new people didn't do it.

Perhaps then it's because life at home gets routine. Well, there is some truth to this - looking back, I can see that I was in a bit of a rut, of sorts. I was still enjoying myself, but I wasn't really going anywhere. And I think - no, I know, that it was this rut that led to what I'm about to describe suddenly becoming the major concern in my life.

I guess, what it comes down to is that there's that itch in us all, to see what's out there - to see what else inhabits this big wide world of ours. To experience for real, what you've seen in films, and read about in books. For some people, this itch remains a minor irritation, and the tea-tree lotion of a marriage, family, or a new career cures it - sometimes for a short while, sometimes for 30 years. But eventually, it becomes something that drives you distraction.

And for me, I guess it happened sooner than later.

That being said, nothing will ever be able to replace the friends and family at home, or the life I have there. Australia calls to me - it's part of who I am, and I show it daily.

Whether it's making my way to a pub by 8:30am to cheer Australia on in the Rugby League back home, wearing full tracksuit, beanie and gloves against the "cold" while the Poms are still in shirts and jeans; not being ashamed to hide my accent, even in the most British of locations; or instinctively saying to my boss the reason the numbers aren't adding up on his excel spreadsheet is because my predecessor "screwed up....err, sorry, made a mistake, with the April Bordereau" (he replied, "You mean they fucked up", but that's a different story) - well, it's those things that show me for what I am.

An Australian, born and bred. Drawn to see the wide world, and destined to return home to the greatest country on that same world.

And fucking proud of it.

Not much to say, really.

The astute of you will soon notice that there is a distinct lack of pictures and of a trip down into the olde city.

I assure you, I fully intend to do so, but London Underground decided this weekend to close both the Circle and District lines for engineering work, thus creating chaos on the entire network. After dealing with this on Saturday, I decided to forego it in on Sunday in favour of a day at home and just taking it easy.

Saturday wasn't bad though - met up with Alberto from work to watch the Springboks slit their wrists against English in the Rugby (I've never seen a South African as gutted as Alberto was after the final siren) and then went over to join Nick and Dan along with the crew from the Badger for a cocktail night at TGIF, then to the Slug and Lettuce for some Snakebites.

A snakebite, for those unaware, is essentially Fosters, Vodka and something else that makes it turn red. It is singularly unappealing to the palate, but works wonders at getting you shitface drunk in the shortest time imaginable. I honestly hadn't tried one before that night, and after sampling one, doubt I will ever do so again.

That being said, I have been assured of excellent beer this weekend - a trip is planned to Nottingham, and to a pub called the View to Jerusalem. Apparently it is carved out of the side of a mountain, and dates from Crusading times. Nick assures me it is the finest pub in all of England, so it should be worth a look.

Plus, getting out of this grey scab on the earth's surface that is London can't hurt.

The Central Line smells like ARSE

Folks, it's exactly what's in the title. The Central Line smells like arse.

The Central Line is the oldest deep-level tube line in London, and as such, the odour associated with it has been given over a century to ripen.

Essentially, what you're dealing with is 100 years of sweat, piss, vomit, smoke, booze, farts, oil, grease, coal and shit.

Quite the aromatic cocktail, and not really that palatable when you have to use it as I did tonight, when the Piccadilly Line broke down at Covent Garden.

So yeah. Every line has it's own distinctive smell:

Northern - Smells of rage and anger at yet another delay due to signal failure
Waterloo & City - Smells of anxiety, due to suits sweating over their high-rolling deals in the City
Bakerloo - Can't smell anything due to deafening screech of wheels negotating century old rails
District - Smells of sweat from fat prick yank tourists going to see the "Touwar of Londun."
Circle - Smells of beer from fat prick brits vomiting in the carriages
Jubilee - Smells of money from all the suits going down to Canary Wharf in their Armani
Hammersmith & City - Smells of Poles, due to the gazillion Polish immigrants that get on at Hammersmith
East London - Smells like I don't know, because no-one uses it
Piccadilly - Smells like fear, from the tourists getting on at Heathrow saying "What the fuck have we done?!"
Metropolitan - Smells of boredom, due to multiple fuck-ups on a supposedly "express" line
Victoria - Smells of envy, due to all other underground users thinking of Victoria trains roaring past at 50 mph while they sit behind a broken signal







Central - Smells like ARSE.

Go West, Young Man!

And by Go West, I mean go to the West End.

Re-reading my last blog, I see that I made the rather rash promise of having an alcohol free weekend. Although to be honest, I was succeeding admirably up until about 8 pm on Friday night. True, I'd sculled a scotch & dry or two at the work lunch on Friday, but that doesn't count. When it's a work lunch, once the boss orders a Vodka & tonic, you're obligated to match him. Despite this, I was in good stead compared to Kim who ordered a drink that looked suspiciously like a Snakebite. She denied it of course, claiming instead it was a cranberry juice, but I never trust these South Africans. I imagine that after they failed to account for Ireland in the rugby, she'll be drinking a lot more indeed to forget about it.

*JOU MA SE*

Anyways, as I was saying, I was succeeding admirably in my alcohol free week, up until Friday night, when I got a phone call from Nick, who demanded to know what I was doing. Upon advising him that I was reclining at home, reading a book and taking it easy, within 2 milliseconds the words "YOU SLACK PRICK" came bellowing down the phone, and single-handedly coerced me into taking bus and tube to Covent Garden for beers at the Maple Leaf. For a canadian bar, it's actually not that bad. The beer is excellent - you can get Sleeman's on tap, and you can also buy Moosehead by the bottle. Despite the name, it's the closest thing I've encountered to Cascade since I've been away. The taste is almost indentical. That, in my opinion, makes it worth purchasing.

So, after falling off the wagon, I took it easy for most of Saturday - it was my week to clean the house, so I spent 4 hours drifting around the house clutching alternatively at broom, vacuum and cleaning cloth, with my headphones on and Tchaikovsky streaming through. It's somewhat of a letdown to clean a stovetop to the strains of the 1812, but what can you do. Saturday night was spent at the Badger, having been invited there by Nick and Co. to partake in a genuine South African braai (basically a BBQ, but a Saffa is wielding the tongs). While Springbok wasn't on the menu (the Irish had already killed 'em all) there was good food, and plenty of drink to be had.

And so to Sunday, and the central theme of this blog. I have decided to take a few hours each weekend to essentially get lost in London, and go see chunks of the city at a time. Essentially this involves getting off at a tube stop and going walkabout. This weekend I hopped off at Bond Street, and wandered through the West End, Soho, and Covent Garden.

Now, considering this part of London takes in Mayfair and various other hoity-toity locations, I can assure you, that after having walked through it, it would take a lot more than 400 dollars to buy Mayfair. Or even a small portion. Dressed in my somewhat shabby Reebok jumper and pants, I felt a bit out of place. Mind you, after seeing 15 Porsche 911's within the space of a kilometre, you get a bit blase towards the staggering amounts of wealth on offer. Bentley, Rolls, Ferrari, Lamborghinis - you get used to them after a while. The only thing that managed to turn my head was one of the three Koeniggsegg's in the UK, that nearly set Regent Street on fire as it roared by.

But the Soho district, well, that was something else. I was propositioned 3 times in the space of half a kilometre by various Asian slags - the usual "8 dollar, you gimme 8 dollar soldier boy" crap. Soho, for those unaware, is essentially the equivalent of Fortitude Valley in Brisbane, in terms of the sheer number of brothels, massage parlours and other houses of ill-repute. I observed a somewhat tubby (oh, fuck it, he was friggin' OBESE) gent who was walking ahead of me stepping inside one of these places, and that alone was enough to put me off my lunch.

After navigating this area, I moved on through Piccadilly Circus, Covent Garden, High Holborn, the Strand, Aldwych and Chancery Lane. Ultimately, there's not a huge amount of difference between these areas, as they're all part of the newer city, that is, that part of London that is outside of the old, olde city boundaries. Next week however, I plan to go and see the ancient part of London, that part that forms the original locale, so it should provide an interesting comparison.

And now, for today's dose of pixels.


This photo is of Selfridge's, which is one of the original and grandest department stores in Oxford High Street, the main shopping precinct in London. The thing you really notice about Oxford Street isn't so much the shopping as it is the amount of people crammed into it. Crowded is given a new definition when you're in Oxford Street on a Sunday.


To help alleviate the crowding on the roads, they cart Londoners around in these. Now, I cannot for the life of me understand why they brought in Bendy Buses in London when they have double decker buses everywhere. A double decker carries the same number of people, and yet takes up half the road space. Quite why they have these things I have no idea. They are one of the most despised things in London, according to recent surveys of Londoners.


The American embassy at the West End of Grosvenor Square. I hear that John Bolton, the US Ambassador to the UN is in London at the moment, which would explain the enormous motorcade that roared out of one of the side entrances as I was in the area.


At the east end of Grosvenor Square is the Canuk embassy. One does notice that the security level differs dramatically between these embassies, even though they are only separated by a few hundred metres of park. Evidently the Canadians have less to worry about.


A statue of Franklin Delano Roosevelt in Grosvenor Square. One does wonder why the sculptor chose to depict Roosevelt as standing, when, given the fact he had was crippled by Polio for most of his life, a far more realistic approach would have been to depict him in a wheelchair.

I mean hell, Winston Churchill is always depicted with cigars and brandy, so why should Roosevelt be any different, in showing his frailties?


I walked past this theatre in the West End - the musical is apparently worth seeing, so it might be worth a look. They'll have a hard task matching up to the original movie though.


The entrance to the Royal Courts of Justice, better known as the "Old Bailey". For a courthouse, it certainly looks more like a cathedral than anything else.


And finally, one of the markers that designate the boundaries of the old city of London, and where the city walls used to stand. Although I've ventured into Bank and St Paul's already, I haven't seen the greater part of the old city, so I'm making that my task for next weekend.

For now though, stay warm (shouldn't be hard, back in Oz) and I'll see you next week, so to speak.

Remember, Remember, the 5th of November

Despite the fact that it is now currently the 6th of November, the timing of this post is in no way less diminished. This is for 2 reasons. Firstly, it's been at least 2 weeks since I last slapped myself into gear and updated this blog. Secondly, it may be the 6th of November, and some 24 hours after Guy Fawkes night, but that still hasn't stopped people from setting off fireworks in the nearby council reserve.

Those of you unfortunate enough to be on my msn list, and therefore tasked with entertaining me during my ever decreasing amount of downtime at work, will know that I've been using the subject line as my msn tag for some time now. Although this has more to do with an ongoing love for the movie V for Vendetta, as opposed to a genuine fascination with Guy Fawkes night, it hasn't stopped me shamelessly cribbing the line.

Moreover, I went to Battersea Park, and enjoyed the fireworks and bonfire there. The fireworks I have on movie, so I can't show them here, but I did get a few pictures as well. I actually took a lot more pictures than I actually ended up saving on my computer, but I must confess to being slightly inebriated at this point, primarily due to having been at the pub since 2pm to watch Australia draw with Wales in the rugby union. As penance, I'm having an alcohol free week for the next 7 days. I also grabbed a few videos - probably the best is one where I am filming the bonfire whilst speaking into the camera, and although I start reciting the verses of "Remember, Remember" in my normal voice, within 4 lines I have inexplicably changed my voice into a fairly accurate imitation of Winston Spencer Churchill.

Mind you, this is the same person who has been reliably informed to have walked off from the park afterwards and yelled "Jou Ma Se Pous" at various people, thankfully whom none of which from Cape Town, South Africa, otherwise I may not still be here.

(For those unaware, it's the most vile and terrible insult you can hurl at anyone in Afrikaans, particularly those from Cape Town. I blame Kim and Matthew for teaching it to me. Yes, you.)

Anyways, let's have some pictures.


Some of the crew from the Badger, who I went with to the fireworks display. Nick (another Aussie) is the guy with the glasses, while Dan the Canadian is crouched at his feet. Tania is standing on the far right, and considering she's from South Africa, may never speak to me again after the previously mentioned comments. Mind you, she put up with Anna for a time, so she's fairly forgiving. The other 2 girl's names are an indelible blank on my mind.


Dan wondering what the hell that flashy thing was that just exploded in his face.


Nick doing his patented "I'm looking over my glasses" expression, that makes him appear as though he is possibly the most drunken man alive.


We found a witch, may we burn her?


The fire gradually dies down.

In other news, I am gradually settling into my routine over here, and have just about hit my stride. I've stocked up on winter clothing - although I'll need another beanie after I lost mine on bonfire night - and work is proving more familiar. Lots of changes happening though, so I'll need to stay on my toes.

Pretty much the only thing that's giving me grief is the timing of sporting events over here. I'm a mad devotee of league, union, cricket - hell, anything where Australia takes to the field, and the timing of rugby games back in Oz means that I need to be at the pub by 8:30 am to catch them. And once you've had four pints by 10am, it kind of turns your day upside down.

God knows how I'll manage when the Ashes is on...12 pm start, for an 8am finish. Might have to limit viewing that except on the odd weekend.

Still, it's going to be a dead rubber after 3 games anyway, what with Australia winning the first three, so maybe it won't be so much of a commitment.

Well, I'll give it a rest at that, and I promise to change my msn tag in the near future.