So, as a method of making up for the confusing daily digests of Twitter Status Updates which perplexed the typewriter-owners amongst the readership, here’s a bit of video content that makes an appeal to everyone taking technology for granted to start realising what we have going for us these days. It originally appeared on the Late Night with Conan O’Brien show on NBC, and now comes to you courtesy of some place called “Red Balcony”. That’s comedian and writer Louis C.K. on the left speaking the truth to the host. Learn more about Mr. C.K. right here.

No doubt I am not the only one who has arrived here from a link on the page of this radio show in the Canadian city of Vancouver. The song was run on the Chri$tma$ Eve show, and you can hear the 17½ minute show in Real Audio by clicking the appropriate link for whatever day you wish to hear.

This tune is what my Father always calls ‘an important record’. This typically means that it provides an opposing view to what is commonly thought of as ‘normal thought’, and does so in a way which not only points out flaws in the status quo, but also provides the listener to sufficient material to think for themselves. To merely suggest that its playing during the holidays ‘is welcomed’ would hardly cover the almost legislated requirement of it being blasted in the house at least twice during Christmas Day, and preferably in a room full of people listening in monk-like devotional attention. As a result of this, I have most of the words committed to memory, and can regale people with much of the recording at the drop of a hat should no stereo be available and I don’t have the song with me. One isn’t proud of this, it’s just something that is true.

The text of your article is being thrown in a layout, along with the images. It shall be printed and put in the box my wife and I pull out of the attic at the start of December, and then thrust into the hands of anyone who says — after having the recording stuffed into their ear-holes — ‘so, what’s the big deal about that, then?’ Education about The Man, and the vigilance with which he must be kept in check, is ‘an important thing’.

Blame my Father. I certainly do.

via A Christmas Yuleblog: Green Chri$tma$ — Fifty Year$: An Appreciation.

After beholding the wonder of the Swiss Re Tower (or whatever you wish to refer to it as), I headed directly North, taking the rather narrow and un-welcoming route of Bury, Goring, and Cutler Streets. In the process, I happened upon The City location of the infamous financial institution Northern Rock, which caused a panic in the streets of England last September when I was in the country (that being my first time in England, this being my first time in London). Northern Rock suddenly found itself running short of cash due to lending more money than it had and had borrowed money in turn from other banks, who had also… does this sound familiar? Yes, spot on, this was the start of the entire matter that was done on a much grander scale — as it usually is no matter what the undertaking — in the American Financial market. Now, just over year later, here I was in ‘the Sceptrèd Isle’ again as the economic world exploded around me; earlier there was a report in a newspaper of the Toronto Stock Exchange having a record-breaking one-day drop in stock prices, causing one to wonder if the entire world monetary system was on the brink of collapse and would one be able to return home after all? The answer to that question was simple: if that happens, max-out the VISA, head to The Pineapple in Kentish Town, and bolt the door; job done!

The matter of the financial world going hay-wire every time one’s visited the Mother Country does make one feel a tad self-conscious, however: soon someone will make the connection and ban me from ever returning to ‘this green and pleasant land’. I don’t think anyone’s blaming me for these things… yet…

Arriving in what is probably “Cutlers Gardens” (it’s around here that I decided to merely head in the general direction of ‘north’ with not much more than impulse to dictate the specifics, so details get a tad fuzzy as a result), wandering into a large assemblage of buildings enclosed within a wrought-iron fence of tall spikes. A pocket-handkerchief-sized lawn was just off to the right inside a traffic-controlling arm, and the path lead on into the heart of the stretch, where an alcove revealed a raised plateau leading to an entrance to one of the buildings. At the front edge of the plateau was a planted area with a sculpture of an arresting design [see image, right]. Upon closer examination, an explanatory sign was at its base, stating:

King Edgar (959 – 75) granted this derelict land to thirteen knights, on condition that they each perform three duels, one on land, one below ground, one on the water. These feats having been achieved, the King gave the knights, or Cnihtengild, certain rights over a piece of land ‘from Aldgate to the place where the bars are now, toward the east, on both sides of the lane, and extended it toward the gate now known as Bishopsgate in the north, to the house of William the Priest… and to the south to the Thames as far as a horseman riding into the river at low tide can throw a lance.’

This sculpture by Denys Mitchell, commissioned by the Standard Life Assurance Company, commemorates the Cnihtengild and was unveiled by the Right Honourable the Lord Mayor, Sir Alexander Graham G.B.E. D.C.L. on 21^st November 1990.

How fascinating! As a good photographic angle or two was being determined, one was hailed by an astonishingly polite and friendly-looking security man whose accent sounded vaguely African in origin, and whose over-all shape seemed vaguely Brobdingnagian in dimension. “Excuse me, Sir”, he said, “are you a tourist?” Initially the whole thing was a bit of a rattle-inducing moment, so this sounded like something ending in “florist”, but obviously wasn’t, so I merely replied “…sorry?” He repeated his query and I replied that he was correct in his assumption. “Well, Sir, photographs are not allowed to be taken here. I’m terribly sorry, Sir.”

This degree of seeming reluctance to actually enforce the regulations of his employer, with which he was specifically tasked, seemed a bit at odds with the fact he could have easily killed me using but his bare hands and not even a modicum of effort. My mind boggled with a number of thoughts, including ‘but why pray tell; this is hardly a headquarters for MI5, surely?’ as well as ‘I do apologise for being so forward as to give you cause to kill me; please forgive me, as I’m suffering the nasty birth defect of being a Canadian and know not the ways of this land…’

Suddenly a taller — and presumably more senior — like-dressed individual appeared from behind a construction screen and called out “It’s alright! I’ve called him in, and it’s fine. Leave the man alone.”

As the question of why one’s presence and/or photo-taking activity would have to be called-in — never mind the thought of ‘to whom would such a call be made?’ — I turned to the polite monstrosity of human flesh and sought confirmation of what seemed to be permission to record the sculpture’s greatness, which was granted by a simple nod and his hearty smile’s return to his face.

Mildly shaken, I took a few photos, then went my way through the quadrangle, which seemed to be under some sort of refurbishment. There also seemed to be an inordinate number of security personnel throughout the area. Why this was so wasn’t apparent, as a Life Assurance company doesn’t exactly rate National Security Protection, surely? Perhaps there was a Minister of Some Important Office or the Chancellor of the Exchequer was to give a speech or address a conference somewhere in the complex about the continuing financial turmoil. Not a clue ever presented itself, but the amount of security at the New Street entrance, through which I made good my egress, included a very plain vehicle from which a pair of serious-looking and heavily-padded gentlemen emerged. How the control on the south-side of the area could be so lax as to permit a common git to wander in entirely unchallenged is an intriguing contrast to the other end of the experience. Perhaps because I was wearing a tie and jacket? And I’m both short-haired and an honky?

Answers on a post-card, please.

Also confusing was why there was a statue of a ram on the top of an arch at the end of New Street. Perhaps it was Aries, which makes it even more confusing. Perhaps it represented the source of the wool or mutton which was originally processed in the area the other side of its opening. Whatever the reason, it seemed incongruous in the extreme.

As I continued north — past the massive Liverpool Street Station and into the Shoreditch District of Hackney — the close proximity of contrasting highs and lows was awe-inspiring. Behold, for instance the two images taken at Fairchild Place and Great Eastern Street below:

This is the same spot, and the two face each other. Stunningly wonderful, as all matters and undertakings have a place in the city’s whole. Fabulous!

I meandered further along Great Eastern, noting the continuing contrast of old and new happily co-existing, and then happened upon a sign that drew one’s mind to thoughts of Dickensian literature supposedly being honoured: Expectations. “I wonder”, one thought, “if they’re being modest and leaving off the ‘Great’ so as to not to raise people’s hopes unduly?” Passing the entrance’s alcove, a poster revealed itself, displaying an image of an entirely opposite nature to anything ever even hinted at in a book with Dickens’s name upon it’s frontispiece. Expectations, you see, is a retail company who specialise in leather, rubber, latex, and fetish gear, marketing principally to the Homosexual market. Which I’ve nothing against at all, but it wasn’t what one had in mind when seeing the sign, really.

So much for Victoriana…

Eventually I returned to the hotel, realised I hungered, then went out seeking food. Sadly, owing to lack of enthusiasm and imagination, dinner was located at the corner of York Way and Pentonville Road: M^cDonald’s. I know, I know… there I am in one of the very first World Cities and I head for something which at home I would avoid like the very plague which destroyed in this area only because of the city burning to the ground. Yet, fatigue of both the mental and physical sort was stronger than one’s resistance, and so the ubiquitous American Common Culture was knelt to.

Besides, when the day’s weather was once pleasant but has disintegrated to the sort presented below, the only other possibility would have been a chip van, but that sort of nonsense is looked down upon within Greater London, probably.

And so, to bed. Bah!

I arise around 10, probably. The head is still full of a bit of pooh, so the rest is good. Granted, today will probably set that health back a bit from being fully realised, but who cares?

Leaving the hotel on my way to breakfast and Wi-Fi, the pretty young African girl at reception brightens at my passing and greets me. “You’re not wearing your hat” she says, having obviously been on the desk yesterday afternoon when I wandered in under a red fez. This is what happens when you stay more than a week and don’t set fire to your room or engage in a drunken brawl: they remember you because of your anachronistic headgear.

Crossing Great Percy Street, I see two men eating chicken and each sucking heartily on large tins of Foster’s Lager. On the pavement. The boxes of chicken are sitting on the top of a metal dispenser, or rubbish tin ‚or something. Right next to the road. Wow. Upon my return, the men have gone and the empty Foster’s tin has been joined by an empty bottle of Tesco’s Scotch Whisky, so they are clearly men of selective and discerning tastes. Thank goodness they chose to share this display of hearty Lord’s Day Buffet with the public, so that the rumours of London’s citizens being able to carry-off any sort of behaviour and get away with it are continued.

Granted, this isn’t Mayfair or Knightsbridge, so what does one expect?

Caffé Nero has Diana Krall (Nanaimo’s Greatest Export) singing away about nobody wanting you when you’re down and out; how nice it is to hear a voice from home. However the staff recognised and greeted me me as a local — I think — or at least as someone other than just an anonymous bloke looking for coffee. How nice to be treated as belonging somewhere 1/3 around the world from my home. I could live here. Perhaps I am already doing so, in a way, but only for a short time?

After e-mail inviting me out for an afternoon, it’s back to the hotel to then meet up at King’s Cross [intersection, above] for a wander to the new King’s Place Arts Centre where we have cups of tea, browse some newspapers and see one of the many canals which make London accessible by barge. Mostly this is used for transport of things such as heavy transport goods now, but in the past has been used for bringing in ice and other supplies for use in The City; as well as people on barges taking a holiday or simply living and working on the canals of England, which they still do. More information on this ‘hidden gem of London and Greater Britain’ is available through the good people at the London Canal Museum.

Then it’s off to a find one of the famed London Black Cabs where an address is given to the driver who responds it with something akin to ‘where the hell’s that, then?’ After being chided for having done The Knowledge, help is offered him from one of his passengers sitting in one of the ‘jump seats’ behind him, and enquiry is made of another passenger as to what our destination is. “We’re going to The Pineapple!” I stare blankly at him, having no idea what he’s talking about. “It’s a pub.” I absorb this information: Pineapple, public house. Visions of people with massive arrangements of fruit on their heads serving drinks fill my mind, only to be replaced with images of people pulling pints into hallowed-out pineapple shells, or possibly fermented pineapple-juice.

It is as this precise moment that I internally shrug and resign myself to the understanding that I am no way in control of the rest of the day’s destiny, and accept that anything can — and probably will — happen.

The Pineapple (51 Leverton Street, Kentish Town, NW5 2NX) is a wonderful place to spend the afternoon in a massive chin-wag. Pints are inevitably involved. These are two of The Three Good Things in London (cf. 1066 and All That, Messrs. Sellar & Yateman [Methuen, 1998 re-print — ISBN-10: 0−413−77270−5; ISBN-13: 978 – 0-413 – 77270-1]), the third being currently discussed by a large committee struck to determine what it may be (word is that the third century of debate went rather well, but the fourth seems to be a bit distracted with discussing the introduction of motor carriages and ‘them dashed, pesky Labourites’).

I got the first round as we came in the door, we settled in ‘the snug’ with newspapers many… and then things got away from me as people came and went over a number of hours. At one point we had the day’s theme snack as it was “Sausage Sunday!”, which wasn’t bad to be honest. However, I’ve no idea who paid for my actual lunch of a Chicken Satay Wrap, which was also delightful. Rounds came and were consumed throughout, and again they appeared without my involvement… many people are owed pints by me… if only one could remember their names…

The lane behind the pub was visited, “because Ian wants to take a photo of it.” I did…? One doesn’t recall saying this, but upon arriving in it, the charm of it was immediately evident, and photos were taken [there’s one on the left, for instance]. A heaven of cobblestones, it harkened to a time of earlier days when the area was very working class and filled with a mixture of industrial filth and equally filthy people. These days the filth and the industry are gone, but the buildings — to an extent — remain, most of them having had ‘all mod cons’ rammed up their backsides and walls and floors moved around to accommodate the massive collection of stuff which the typical ‘civilised person’ scatters about their nest.

Time continued inexorably onward, we retired to the Solarium in the pub’s rear for a bit, then… Eventually we left and headed back to King’s Cross, on the way having a race on London Transport with one of our number taking the Overland Railway whilst the other two took the Underground. I’ve no idea the time at this point, nor if dinner was had, but I doubt it. I do recall coming back to the room to read The Independent on Sunday’s “Forgotten Authors” column and a piece about the new film W, all about the soon-to-be-ex-President.

And I watch more Blake’s 7. God, it’s slow to get going… the only suspense in it seems to be the question ‘will there be tension anytime?’

A day in which few things are done, but much takes place. Life’s like that, eh?