Two Day Guide to London

It’s fair to say I didn’t arrive in this city on the best of forms. In the nature of all last nights in Belfast, one needs a piss up. In the hour and a half before I entered the venue of that evening, I had guzzled four tins of Bavaria. The rest of the evening had been no different. Unfortunately, since my Dad had made the crazy decision to get us on a flight that left at ten to six in the morning that gave me approximately two hours to sleep. Those two Godless hours were slept through in my clothes. After the painful trawling with heavy baggage through tube and train station that followed the quick flight between Belfast and Gatwick, I wasn’t allowed the pleasure of even a brief nap. Even a greasy spoon meal from Whetherspoon wouldn’t make up for that and with the alcohol rumbling around my inner organs; my stomach was turning and my head was in a state that I can only describe as buhhhh.

To add insult to injury, Friday’s weather was cold, damp and grey. A walk around Hyde park, as big and impressive as it may be just didn’t seem to be helping. Despite this, I still managed to take in the most impressive Prince Albert memorial. If anyone hasn’t seen it, it can be only described as a large dome with maybe somewhere around forty statues of great philosophers, scientists, artists and poets of ages gone by.
Apparently the government spent millions restoring it and it shows. I imagine it looks just as good as it did back when it was first constructed. Compared to what I was to see next it was breathtaking.

Near Hyde park is a famous spot called Speaker’s corner. Brief wikiapedia-ing of it would probably tell its history, but the general idea is anyone can go there and voice their opinion to the wandering general public, maybe give a valid rant or two. Right now the corner is marked by a large metal container - one of those eight foot tall, fifteen foot long constructions, kind of throwing a spanner in the works of me getting to hear a good rant, or give one for that matter.

What I visited after the Albert Memorial was the Serpentine Gallery. A small somewhere in the middle of Hyde Park, its main attraction was its admission price; free. Maybe its because of my disinterest in modern art that I failed to get any real enjoyment out of it. I, like a lot of people I just don’t see the point of many modern pieces, perhaps because often enough there is none. Some don’t seem like they require a lot of time or effort to make. A bulbous mound of unfired clay is neither particularly impressive in its design, or is it anyway aesthetically pleasing. Similarly, miniature red floruescent lights curled around badly sculpted pieces of clay don’t really add up to too much either. Lastly, I just don’t think there’s that much need for seemingly meaningless phallus shapes. Maybe there was one real gem in that place and its not something that ever could leave the gallery. A bronze work piece with a bronze saw embedded into it was great did have a kind of cool factor to it.

Otherwise calling that place an art gallery was a bit of a stretch of the imagination. Thats perhaps why its called the Serpentine gallery; because of the deception involved. The Large bookshop that also had a host of computers advertising a badly designed online game called Second Life would be a little bit better. What was even more scandalous was the prices in that bookshop. A scalpel used by some random artist who’s name wasn’t recognized by me or my History of Art studying mother, £100. Can this artistic blade cut through diamond? Does it improve your ability to sculpt by 50%?

Next to it was a set of ceramic salt and pepper shakers going for £55. What were special about them? One had heroin written on it and the other had cocaine written on it. Now I’m sorry, but unless these condiment dispensers are filled with the class A substances specified on them, I don’t get it. For that amount of money, I want to be able to skag up my steak and sprinkle my chips a lick of coke and vinegar.

By that point, the hangover had me condemning London as a town made for wankers. I had texted a friend asking for his advice on what to with my parents to do in the capital that wasn’t going to have me scraping out my eyes with a rusty spoon. The answer lay in a town called Camden.

I loved it. The place had that bohemian feel that made Chrstiania such an interesting place in Copenhagen albeit with about 240% more character destroying consumerism. Not to sound like a capitalist hating pussy liberal but one has to admit, when money is involved in something, it can destroy the easy going alternative lifestyle vibe that gets one excited. Of course the whole point of the place is that by its name and nature, Camden Town is a town and what makes it interesting is the various shops and cafés. Given some time on my own I probably would have left the place with a nice new shiny bong and a crystal catching grinder, but I didn’t want to have to explain to my Dad what the purposes of these counter-cultural creations were designed for. That being said, those multiple shops with the overly large collections get a bit tacky after a while. As do those tourist catering shops with the slogos of “My sister went to London and all she brought me was this lousy t-shirts. Almost every big city in the world has got these sorts of places. Barcelona is no different in this aspect and you’d expect it out of them; people come to Barcelona and London for touristy purposes - sightseeing, that sort of thing. It just means you’re slightly more unlikely to get a real London experience, although if that involves getting stabbed on some dodgy council estate, I’ll stick to seeing art museums and parks.

After seeing Camden town we went back to the hotel. The hotel was pretty standard, kind of like a travel lodge minus half a star for everything being noisy and the bed not being as comfortable as it could have. What made it worse was that whenever I checked into my room, some self absorbed bastard before me had left on the radiator for what must have been hours meaning it was nothing short of roasting. To a hung over body it was like being twatted with a radiator. I got some kip and went and got myself a mixed shwarma from a Lebanese restaurant called Beiti whilst my parents were off having a fish and chip dinner in some pub they didn’t really rate.

The next day I managed to get my lazy, still slightly hung-over ass up in time for a free 9 am breakfast. Croissant, toast and a bowl of cereal that I can only describe as muesakes. Being a connoisseur of cereal, I have a long tradition of mixing different types of cereal in my quest to find the greatest combination. Muesli and cornflakes isn’t a bad mix. Not quite as good as banana and pear yoghurt mixed with chocolate chip muesli, but good none the less.

Anyway, the fact I had a hang over two days after the drinking session is a sign of how bad it has got ladies and gentlemen, at the age of 22 I’m about ready to hang up my drinking boots. Not only are hangovers life ruining on the day after session (I mean questioning my obligation to be on this planet) but they are somewhat detrimental the day after that.

I’m going to interrupt this post to say that I’ve just been stung. Four weeks ago when I was booking the rail ticket from London to Lancaster, it was priced at £30. I had to go back a few steps to add my rail card and in the space of time it had almost doubled in price. Adding my railcard brought it down to £39.90. I had booked it for 15:25 because I thought that’s when I was going to end up leaving London. Having to check out of my room earlier and wanting to avoid hanging around London with my baggage in tow meant that I decided to hop on an earlier train. I just got ticket checked and then for my reservation and the smarmy little prick of a ticket checker added on £7.60. So in total for one rail journey I’ve paid £47.50. For a fucking train ride?! Apparently it can cost up to £250 for that ride. I could have a full scale hydroponics grow operation for that!

I could get a fucking return flight to the middle of Europe and back, taxes included for that. British rail charges are amongst the highest in the world and it needs to stop. Somebody needs to punch the minister of transport in the mouth until he wakes the fuck up and realizes we’re sick of this shit. I’m going to lie to every ticket checker I ever meet on a British train until they do. There’s probably some law limiting our free speech that suggests we can’t encourage unlawful behaviour, but hell, I suggest you do the same. Do what a friend of my does and hide in the toilet whenever ticket collection comes around.

Anyway, back to the story about London. That day my Mum, my Dad and I went and visited the Imperial War Museum. If you’re as big a geek as me, you’ll be amazed - even by the two guns outside of the museum, once belonging to some old British warships. Inside the place is filled with tanks, artillery pieces, planes, bits of submarines, weapons, armour and just general artefacts collected from the beginning of the First World War. You could almost spend a day on each of the floors, examining everything from holocaust inspired art to the above mentioned -stuff-. The amount of information at hand does just cause a brain overload.

After that, we stopped by a Spanish themed pub who’s name escapes me. One thing you have to admit about London is it has variety. Kaiser Wilhelm II was so cocky about winning the First World War that he declared “Lunch in Paris, St. Petersburg for dinner”. If you’re in London that’s not impossible, you could go through every regional cuisine. It’s probably the reason why The Times tends to write so many guides on where to go for a good meal in London, especially on a budget. Having all the money could get you whatever you want. In Lancaster I can comfortably live off £80 a week. In London I’d probably have to stop myself from spending that in a day. Hell, probably even in an hour.

After that we went off to the National Gallery to see the Picasso exhibition, which is only £6 with a student card. Not that I was paying, I am all too well catered for by my very loving parents. It was interesting, but in the time that we were waiting to get in, we checked out the classical paintings upstairs. Maybe this is just another expression of my distaste of modern art, but I was far more impressed with the vivid colours of Turner and Rembradt than I was with the loopy natured cubism of Pabs. I’d quite happily trip my balls off in those halls, just taking in the beauty and brilliance for hours. I felt I learned a few things anyway, I’d trade one of those audio things for the conversation of my madre any day. Aren’t I a sweet, culture loving boy.

Once we were through with that, we went outside to enjoy the sunshine and watch some Dutch bands playing. There was some Holland Festival outside of the museum, maybe as some sort of drive to encourage tourism. Stalls were set up selling Heiniken, pancakes, waffles, and tulips. I was wondering where all the coffee shops and bicycles were though. Surely that’s the whole point of going to Holland?!

We returned back to the hotel for a brief break. During that time, I put on the new Prodigy album on my iPod full blast and watched some David Attenborough documentary about African Wildlife. Take me the Hospital, Otter vs. Crocodile remix. Immense. Somehow I managed to collapse asleep for an hour after that. A knock on my door awoke me to get me up and go for the reason that we were in London in the first place - Van Morisson’s Astral Weeks tour. Father is in avid fan of Van the Grumpy Old Man. If he’s in any room in the house that has a CD player or L.P. for more than five minutes he’ll probably stick on some Van. There are a few other things that he listens to but if he had an iTunes, 85% of his top 25 list would be Van. Quite sad, I know, but this is the middle aged Northern Irish man. Go to any chippy on a Saturday night and you’ll probably have some drunken forty seven year old give you his rendition of Brown Eyed Girl. I can almost guarantee it.

Anyway, the concert was in the Royal Albert Hall of all places, we had a balcony seat, equipped with its own little bar to pour the drinks you’d purchased downstairs. A couple of glasses of red wine in me and I was enjoying it almost as much as he was. A lot of Van’s music has a mellow bluesy feel to it, meaning I sort of go off and day dream in true pothead fashion. With a bit of vino rogue in me I’m positively bouncing to the rhythm of Baby Please Don’t Go and Moon dance. Not quite as much as the guy from Bangor in the booth beside me who had seen Northern Ireland’s visually un-impaired Ray Charles 35 times and was convinced this was the best performance the old cunt had ever belted out. What amused me about this was that a couple in the booth on the other side of them offered them a bottle of red wine to not be so noisy after the interval. To which the man replied “I’ll take your wine, but it’ll be no guarantee I’ll be any quieter!” Once again, that is typical Northern Irish behaviour. Don’t expect any better. Despite the fact you’re in one of the most renowned musical venues in the world, we’ll still belt out

G
L

O

R

I

A

G-L-O-R-I-A, GLORRRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIAAAAAAAAA! G-L-O-R-I-A, GLORRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIAAAA!

After that we returned for late meal in Beiti again, which I’ll have to find the website for as I firmly recommend it, for anything from a take out kebab to an actual meal. My parents had their reservations but the quality food and amiable service soon put a stop to those.

I think I was destined to be in London that weekend because on both nights before I went to sleep I got to see two films that I’d seen the start of but never the end, almost picking up where they left off. Inside I’m Dancing on Friday, Lord of War on Saturday. I slept, woke and had the same jam covered breakfast as I had the day before, packed and after a mocha chino from Bella Italia, got on this train. Giving my parents a few hugs before doing so.

If you’ve managed to stick with me this whole time well done. What was meant to be a guide was pretty much a diary entry. If its been entertaining, then I’m more than happy.

If I had taken pictures, I’d post them and give you a Where’s Wally index. Most of you are unlikely to have picked up a Where’s Wally book in years, although I’m sure you still remember the banging theme tune of its animated representation. However, if you think back there was always an index of crazy things to look for on each of the different pages if you got bored of just looking for the stripy jumper wearing nerd. If my life had one of those index, it would probably give you pictures of evil grey squirrels, the view on the train ride to Lancaster, noisy Northern Irish people, the seemingly endless supply of beautiful women in London (there must be at least two gorgeous girls on every tube carriage, I remember a girl making eye contact with one over the tube tracks, realizing we’d never meet again and romantically imagining our live together in my underground lair), a barbar shop trio in Hyde Park, chalk graffiti by artistic buskers at Camden lock and the expression on my face when it finally clicked with me that London is actually pretty fucking cool.

Glad to be back in Lancs though.

Ratings

Beiti ****
Check that tasty Lebanese shit out! Even my parents reservations soon went away once they got food put in front of them and it was also the best of a bad situation; its hard to get fed after eleven unless one wants to lower themselves to an AIDs infested cheeseburger. Turned out all the better.

Imperial War Museum ****
For any true geek you’ve got go to see it, even just to marvel at the collection of old stuff and learn a few quotes from the Kaiser along the way.

National Art Gallery *****
Pablo Picasso was still a ridiculously cool and talented artist that wanted to break boundaries even if his stuff isn’t as pretty as Turner’s classical artwork of the 18th (?) century.

Serpentine Gallery **
Avoid if you can unless you really want some books on art or want to test out Second Life by flying around a room of bad, linear graphics.

Apparently though, the exhibitions change every so often so I might have just been unlucky.

Van Morison’s Astral Weeks Live ****
I’d probably say I still would go to an Easy Star All Stars gig, but the old man still has it after all these years. Talented fucker can play the sax, guitar, piano, harmonica and sing and that’s just from what he was whipping out on stage. As long as he’s not grumpy he can put on a show.

Hangover *
Buhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Tube rides and general London ignorance *
Not to make sweeping statements, but people in London can be self serving pricks that don’t see people and only see routes through them, especially when involved in the tube. The underground is busy for sure, but it shouldn’t allow for ignorance. Same as any other town as well, when you see some 24 year old women dressed like a fourteen year old girl listening to metal at full blast with no sound cancelling headphones on public transport you really feel like having a go. Best not bother too much really.

Overall weekend in London rating *****
I might have to write a version of this post with the swearing and drug references edited out so my parents can know I’m thankful for the things they bring me to and the times that we have. The only way I could have made this better is if some London savvy friend of mine had taken me out to a cool club or bar, one that didn’t require me to get blind drunk just to enjoy.


Thanks again to anybody that read, shoot me any questions and comments the usual way.

Much love.

X

CC.