Monthly Archives: February 2008

London Journal – Day 15 – The Scary Days

Yesterday it was The Woman In Black, today I am following Werewolves! These are the scary days!

Saw The Woman In Black last night down in Drury Lane at Covent Garden. This show, in its 18th year, is all about scaring the bejeezus out of the audience. It is basically a very well told ghost story of which we watch the developing dramatization. Various gimmicks and effects are employed to shock and frighten us. Well, my first fright was seeing that fully a quarter of the audience were third and forth form students (think American high school junior and senior) . They were quite rowdy, carrying on before the show, and I feared for my enjoyment of the show. They did calm down well once the show started, and I will admit to feeling proud of them for their constraint. They did shriek a lot during the scary bits, but what can one expect.

The show was a treat. It is morbid and a very depressing story, but well done, and a rollicking good time. Next to me were a 20 year old girl and her auntie. The auntie kept telling me how they were both the wimpiest people in their family, and should not have been allowed to come to this show together. They had themselves worked into a twirl before the show even started. On the other side were a young couple who had actually moved back a row during interval. When I asked why they pointed forward to the couple in front of their previous seats and said, “Getting away from the lovebirds.” Ha!

Today I went and got a seat for opening night for the revival of Noël Coward’s “The Vortex” at the Apollo. This regular morning trip to Leicester Square is routine now, but today I found a nice little Italian café which has been in the same locale since 1888 and had a cappuccino and brownie while I waited for the Photographer’s Gallery to open. Raul, over at Heading East tipped me off to a good show there, Deutsche Börse Photography Prize 2008. My favourites were the John Holt slide show of his 1970’s trip through the poverty and racial and class tension of the American south. Quite moving.

One of the refreshing differences between the Photographer’s Gallery and most public galleries is the actively maintained and well presented and staffed Print Sales facility. One can browse the portfolios of dozens of the highest calibre professional photographers, including those in exhibition, and buy prints in a variety of sizes, even custom, framed, etc.

A free admission, I was glad to drop a few pound into the collection box. The place was swarming with art students, all furiously writing notes about the photographs. Whenever I see such a thing I am reminded of a quote variously attributed to Frank Zappa and Elvis Costello: “Writing about music is like dancing about architecture.”

The swarm of art students was so thick that I actually left the galleries and strolled Chinatown for an hour waiting for them to leave. It was a nice interval, and I found the restaurant I would return to for lunch after the gallery: Lee Ho Fook.

Warren Zevon fans may remember this place from the lyric to the popular Werewolves Of London:

I saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand
Walking through the streets of Soho in the rain
He was looking for a place called Lee Ho Fook's
Going to get a big dish of beef chow mein
Ah-ooooo, werewolves of London
Ah-ooooo
Ah-ooooo, werewolves of London
Ah-ooooo

So I had myself a big dish of beef chow mein and came home to read up on Prague and prepare for theatre tonight. As it’s opening night, curtain is unconscionably early, at 7:00. Getting to the West End for a 7:00 show will be a nightmare on the tube, so I may well just walk.

Ta!

London Journal – Day 14 – Surveillence Society

One sees the signs of the surveillance society everywhere one looks in London. This pre-dates 9.11 but has magnified dramatically since then. Here is a 2002 era poster:

Here is an even more sinister appearing poster I found yesterday upon leaving Sunday Roast at The Green:

Watch Your Neighbour

Seems this is a popular poster to photograph, as a Google search turns up these other images:

Watch Your Neighbour

Turns out this was just a clever guerilla marketing campaign for the Australian soap opera “Neighbours” which moved from the BBC to Channel Five. Oh well.

London is a very monitored city.  In the Greater London area there are literally millions of CCTV cameras, all either controlled by the authorities or available at their beckoned call.  Here’s a shot from Oxford Circus:

Oxford Square cameras

The pole to the right houses a camera in that globe.  This is a common sight on London street corners, you often see clusters of these robotic cameras in one place.  A careful look inside the decorative spheres reveals that they, too, house cameras:

Oxford Circus cameras

In the subways, both pedestrian and tubes, they are on every stairway, escalator, hallway, platform and plaza.  Everywhere you go you are being watched, recorded sampled, and biometrically profiled.  All in the name of counter terrorism.

Do I feel safe?  Yes.  Do I feel violated?  You bet.

London Journal – Day 13 – So Sped The Plow

I went to see Mamet’s Speed The Plow at The Old Vic last night and I wanted to just give some quick thoughts about it.

The play stars Kevin Spacey, the Old Vic artistic director, and Jeff Goldblum, along with Laura Michelle Kelly. Spacey is magnetic and riveting (dangerous combination, those magnetic rivets…). Kelly was genuine and engaging. Goldblum was dry and enigmatic. I could never quite figure out if he was flat or was it his character.

It is tempting to think that Spacey trolls Hollywood looking for actors with time on their hands against whom he can look strong. If that is the case he found his man in Goldblum. I am a real fan of Goldblum, have been since the early days of Earth Girls Are Easy and the like. In this, however, he just never raises the temperature on stage above tepid, while Spacey can take two steps on stage and sparks fly. In the penultimate scene, when things get rough, I found myself hoping that maybe Spacey would wake Jeff up, but not so much.

I don’t want this to sound like the show is a dud. It is not. Even with Goldblum’s flat performance the script, in all of its realism and intricacy, shines through. That, along with the red-letter performances by Spacey and Kelly, and the capable acting of Goldblum (despite his lack of colour or depth) makes for a brilliant night out.

London Journal – Day 13 – La Dolce Vita


There are so many newspapers to chose from here, and the competition is fierce. One way they grab you is to include free promotional items in with the issue. Last weekend one of the papers (I forget which) included a learning Spanish CD one day and a phrase book the next. This went along with a week long travel series about Madrid and Balboa.

Today brought us films, as it is Oscar night (since it’s 10:00 pm here I could tell you who won what, but I won’t). The choices I faced at the newsagent were “My Left Foot” and “La Dolce Vita” You can guess which one I picked. That means I read The Observer today.

I have had no telly or film since I got here, almost two weeks, aside from some football in the pub. To watch a film will be a treat.

London Journal – Day 13 – Sunday In The Park With Pawn

This morning took me to Hyde Park for a nice long stroll and a visit to the Serpentine Gallery for a new showing of works by and inspired by Derek Jarman. Quite good, all round. It was a beautiful day out, and loads of people were clambering all over the park capturing the warmth and sunshine as best they could while it was here.

I then took a bus to Angel and found myself a nice pub to have Sunday Roast in. Inspired though I was by the smell of the beef, I went for the salmon. Delightful! The fixings were good, best beets I’ve had in ages, parsnips, yum yum. And some Yorkshire pudding to sop up the sauce. Mmm.

Home again to set up a new photo gallery. I have been spending an inordinate amount of time preparing photos to adorn this site, which is silly as there is plenty of software to do it for me. So, I installed a new gallery, CLICK HERE I have uploaded all of my London photos there, a couple hundred by now I figure. You can check that any time to see what all I’ve seen. I will still include good ones here.

Ta!

London Journal – Day 12 – A Hard Night’s Day

After the theatre (more on that later) I went down to Windsor Palace for a spot.  The 6 Nation’s match was on, England vs France.  You can only imagine what this meant for pubs across the great country who had the foresight to invest in HDTV!

In the Windsor Palace I found a plush leather seat in the corner with no view whatsoever of the telly.  It isn’t that I didn’t want to watch, I gladly would have.  My father played rugby, and I can figure it out within a minute or two of watching, generally.

Suddenly, after much cheering, the crowd dissipated, and I got a seat at the bar.  I captured the night’s scores in the margins of my Telegraph: England 24 – France 13.  Wales 40 – Italy 8, Ireland 34 – Scotland 13.  So, other than Scotland’s ignominious defeat, Great Britain had a damn good day.  This was not lost on the 16 year old French bartendress at the Windsor Palace.  She cursed under her breath and kept slinging ale at the sotted masses.

A Little London Midnights Dream

Hmmph.

Hmmph. Ahummph.

Humph.

Hmmph. Ahummph.

Hmmph …

Are you awake?

Hummph.

Hello…are you there?

Hmmph. Ahummph. Wha?

I can’t sleep… Are you awake?

Oh…oh…okay, what?

I can’t sleep… Are you up too?

No. Go back to sleep now dear. Mummy’s had a long da…

 Hmmph.

 Ahummph.

Hummph.

 Mummy… Mummy, are you awake? Mummy?

 Oh what is it dear?!

 Don’t be upset with me mummy…I can’t sleep. Tell me a story…

 Please…

 Okay. Let mummy think…

Do you remember Sadie? Do you remember little Sadie the martin?

 No, no mummy, I don’t. Tell me about Sadie. Tell me about little Sadie the what?

 The martin, the bird.

Okay, pull up here to mummy and settle into the pillow, and let mummy tell you a little tale about Sadie and the first day of Summer…

Okay mummy…

Sadie leaned out her door and stretched. It was a long wonderful kind of stretch, the sort of stretch that starts a day. As she stretched Sadie wondered what this day would bring her. The dew on the grass from the rain last night was just starting to disappear, and already there were many of her neighbours playing about on the ground. Some of them were drinking or bathing in the fountain, while others were eating their morning meal. Sadie cleared her throat and sung her hello to the day. She sung “Good Morning!” and “Hello Sun!” and “Hello Neighbours!” Sadie didn’t always sing this way in the morning, but it was the beginning of summer today. Sadie loved summer. She hoped that this would be the best summer yet.

Sadie went back into the house and straightened up her room. Her mother had taught her that it was much easier to straighten her room in the morning, when she was chipper and alert, than at night, when she was tired and sleepy. When she was young Sadie didn’t always listen to her mother, but as she grew older Sadie saw how wise her mother was. This is why she straightened up her room.

Since it was the first day of summer Sadie wanted to celebrate. She wanted to go to the fountain to have a swim. She looked out to see if her mother or sisters or brothers were there, but she did not see them. “I’ll have to go find Mother and she if she wants to swim too.” Sadie thought to herself, and that’s what she did.

Sadie had a room on the very top of the house, and it was a very big house. There were thirty-six rooms in the house, and in each room was a member of Sadie’s family. Her mother and father, her sisters and brothers, her aunts and uncles, her grandparents and great-grandparents, and even her great-great-grandmother and her great-great-grandfather, all lived in this house. The house was also very very old. No one new for sure just how old it was, because it had been here even longer than Sadie’s great-great-grandfather could remember. He had been born in this house, so it was certainly very old.

Almost everything in the neighbourhood was very very old, for that matter. Around the edges of the grass which surrounds the fountain were large blocks on which many of Sadie’s neighbours lived. Some of these blocks were dark red in colour, and others were all sorts of bright colours. There were even some other houses like Sadie’s in this neighbourhood. And, of course, in the centre of Sadie’s neighbourhood, there was the fountain. And it was very old indeed.

Sadie went down to the bottom of the house, were her great-great-grandfather lived. She expected that her mother would be there, talking to him, as she was most mornings. When Sadie got there she asked her great-great-grandfather, “Who built the fountain, and when?”

“Who and when indeed!” harrumphed Sadie’s great-great-grandfather. “That fountain is so old it must have been put there by the Stars themselves.” he said.

“By the Stars, Great-Great-Grandfather? Did the Stars really put it there?” Sadie asked, her eyes wide.

“Why of course they did, who else could have done such a thing!” he replied. “Haven’t you seen how it lights up at night, its as if pieces of the Stars themselves are laying in the bottom shining up through the water!”

“Tell me more about the Stars,” Sadie said, and tell her he did. He told her how many many summers ago, before the first of their family had sung “Hello!” to the first morning, before the house had been built, before even the fountain had sprayed its first stream of water, before any of that, there was only the Stars.

“The Stars sing and fly and twinkle in the sky, as they have for all the summers there have been.” he said. “They have done that since before there were any summers.”

“What do you mean, Great-Great-Grandfather? When weren’t there any summers?” asked Sadie.

“Let Great-Great-Grandfather tell you his story, and you will understand.” Sadie’s mother said.

“The world hasn’t always been here, little girl, and before the world was here there were no summers, and no winters either.” Sadie’s great-great-grandfather said, continuing his story. “There was only the Stars. And for a long long time, how long it was we don’t really know, the Stars sang and flew and twinkled.

“The Stars loved to sing and fly and twinkle, and they thought that maybe they should let someone else have as much fun as they did. They decided to invent the world, and put us here on it, so that we could sing and fly and twinkle, too. That is when they made the blocks, and that is when they made the fountain. Why little girl, they may even have made this house. Haven’t you noticed that, on a windy night, this house sings as well! That is the song of the Stars, that is the song that is all around us; in the trees, in the grass, in the blocks and the fountain, the song of the Stars is the song of life and all that is good.”

“But Great-Great-Grandfather, how do we twinkle,” said Sadie, “I see the Stars twinkle at night, I see them fly and hear them sing. I have my own song, though it’s not as good as theirs. I even fly. But twinkle, how do I twinkle, Great-Great-Grandfather?” she asked.

Her great-great-grandfather leaned back, and smiled, “Sadie, my dear little girl, you certainly do ask allot of questions.” he said, and, with a twinkle in his eye, he flew off into the distance. Sadie giggled and blushed, for she felt a little foolish that she hadn’t known how birds twinkled.

Hmmphh… ssshhhh.

Hummph… Hmmphh…

Ahummph.

Are you asleep little one?

 zzzzzzzz

 Thank you Sadie. Twinkle on…

hmmmph…

London Journal – Day 12 – A Close Up View From Abroad

I have been meaning for some time to write a bit about the political and social tides which are currently roiling the UK. I finally made time to do so.

Ever since I got here I have been hearing and reading about the impact of immigration on the country. Now as someone who’s here precisely to see if repatriation is the right move for me, this is a topic of great interest. First a little background.

The UK has very liberal immigration policies at the present time, especially for citizens of other European Union (EU) countries. In the EU, one country’s passport is pretty much as good as any other’s is. When I received my UK passport, the first thing I noticed is that it says “European Union” above “United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland” on the cover and the first page. With this passport I am a citizen of pretty much the entire continent, and may travel, live and work fairly freely about it.

This may sound simple enough, but the economic integration of Europe, the “Eurozone” is incomplete. There are many countries being integrated, but they still have their own economic ups and downs, and different standards of living. The free and open borders created by the EU, and the freedom of movement integral to the “Four Freedoms” upon which it was formed, has allowed people from the poorer countries to migrate to and get jobs in the richer ones. Thus a massive influx of Polish workers have taken most of the entry level jobs in the service industry.

This has lead to some bridling by traditionalists. Recently there was a row when it was proposed that Chinese, Indian and other ethnic restaurants be required to actually have some members of those ethnicities on their kitchen staff; so many are the Poles.

The complaints are not just nationalistic, though. Culture plays a large role as well. There have been a huge immigration, too, of illegals from Muslim countries such as Jordan, Algeria, Palestine. Many of these recent immigrants have not integrated into the British society, but have constituted their own insular communities alongside that of the majority. The same has been true for years in portions of the Indian, Bangladeshi, Pakistani and other former commonwealth populations.

A recent Vanity Fair article outlined the effect of this insular world upon one man and the struggle he is now locked in with the state over allegations (as yet unsupported) of terrorism.

These struggles are not unique to the UK – most European countries, especially in the north of the continent, The Netherlands, Germany, France, Belgium, have had to contend with similar problems. The failure to integrate, is achingly troubling to these liberal, open, socially supportive nations. What is different about the UK, however, is that as the colonial power over the former commonwealth, and with the national sense of commitment to the citizens of that commonwealth, it does face unique struggles.

This was reflected in the conversation I had last Saturday, the 16th, with a shopkeep in Church Street. She admonished me to stay in America and not think of repatriation. “Immigration is ruining this country!” she exclaimed. “I am not racist, it is an economic issue. The dole is too generous. A family on the dole gets £100 per child*, so a Bangladeshi woman has five kids, that’s £500! She can just have another if they need some more. What am I supposed to do? My taxes are paying that. I can’t have any more kids, I’m not getting anything for free.” and on.

That was on Saturday. Interestingly enough, just a few days later, on Tuesday, 19th Feb., PM Gordon Brown announced “As people are ever more mobile, it also becomes ever more important to develop a new approach to managed migration…I stand for a British way of life where we, the people, are protected from crime but in return we obey the law.” New immigrants are “actively entering into a contract through which, by virtue of responsibilities accepted, the right of citizenship is earned.”

“We will introduce a new English language requirement for those applying for a marriage visa and planning to settle in the UK – both as part of our determination that everyone who comes here to live should be able to speak English and to make sure they cannot be exploited” said his home secretary, Jacqui Smith. “This is a country of liberty and tolerance, opportunity and diversity, and these values are reinforced by the expectation that all who live here should learn our language, play by the rules, obey the law and contribute to the community.”

“Foreigners will also have to demonstrate fluency in English and knowledge of the British way of life. After five years in the country, they will have to choose to apply to become a citizen or a permanent resident. Those refusing to take either option will be ordered to leave,” according to press reports.

Well, I am here at the cusp aren’t I.

All around me in the paper, on the wireless and in the streets a drama is playing out in the life of a country struggling to cope with the essence of what it means to be a country. This is the tenor of debate on the topic, and the tension is palpable. People complain openly that the neighbourhood pub now serves Thai cuisine instead of bangers and pies (okay, no English food jokes here). There is open distrust on the streets, especially in places like Finsbury Park, home of the controversial Mosque where many recent terrorists and terrorism suspects, such as Richard Reid and Zacarias Moussaoui, the shoe bomber and the “20th” 9/11 hijacker, have studied and where Imam Adu Hamza gave fiery hate filled sermons.

There are calls afoot to review the nation’s much vaunted approach to a multicultural society. Deborah Orr, whom I quoted in a recent posting, makes reference to this in another column here .

I do not know where this will lead, but it is hot right now, and there is no election or other event looming in the near future to force the issues. It will be interesting to see where things go.

Ta!

*I am not clear if this is per month or per week. In England many rates are commonly posted and calculated per week.

Note: As I sit writing this, sitting on the patio, I have been listening to the family who lives in the home above me having tea.  The window to their kitchen is open, and I hear the sounds of dining and their easy conversation.  I understand very little of it as they easily slip between French and Arabic.  Not much in English.  I would venture a guess that they are Algerian, but that is only a guess.

London Journal – Day 12 – Quiet Time

I have decided that I have earned some quiet time. I have spent so much time out and about, and my feet have had a workout. I am going to stay in most of the day.

I did pop out for breakfast over the Daily Telegraph this AM over at La Fromagerie. Nice latté and croissant, followed by an assortment of cheeses selected for breakfast. It was pricey, but well worth it.

It has gotten up to 12° today, which is about as warm as it will get. I will probably go out onto the patio to do some writing.

Ta!