Sadly, Rick Mercer is not King of Canada. Hell, he’s not even King of Kensington! If he was the King of Kensington, he’d be dead, and then where would we be? Up a creek without a political satirist, that’s where we’d be!

What’s the point of all that? Very little, as usual.

The only purpose of that is to provide some sort of unique content before I simply paste in some HTML code from YouTube and act like I’m providing some sort of unique material you couldn’t have seen if you weren’t such a lazy bugger, got off your arse once in awhile, and dug through the Internet on your own!

Now here’s the video which originally aired on the 14^th October, 2009.

Oh, why not; here’s another one. It aired originally last Tuesday; the 21^st of October, 2009

The Canadian Finance Minister has finally admitted we’re having a recession. However the PM continues to take the Harold M^cMillian approach to things that ‘if you don’t say you can see it, then it doesn’t exist’ about more serious economic situations being even possible. Meanwhile, one of the oldest steel manufacturers in North America is shutting one of its smelters in Hamilton, Ontario that’s never been cold since before Canada was created (for those of you in the UK, imagine half of Sheffield stopping steel making… oh wait, that’s 1988, isn’t?); General Motors is having its books examined and the report that they only have a few weeks to live, if that, is met with a response from the Board of Directors of “YES! THAT’S WHAT WE’VE BEEN SAYING TO YOU!”; Toyota, of all firms, is going to the Japanese Government cap-in-hand; the telecommunications company which was started by Alexander Graham Bell has basically chucked the entire staff out the door, no matter what their place on the ladder, and is trying to find a way to sell its bits and pieces off to other firms but getting little interest from anywhere in the world; and still we get the silly line about how ‘Canada’s economy is strong and we’ll weather this better than anyone shall’, which is probably true but it’s a matter of degrees, isn’t it, if everyone’s killed and chopped into little bits and we’re only killed and quartered, well we’re still dead aren’t we?

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“C.I.B.C. Towers, Vancouver, BC (#001 — neon edges)” by I am I.A.M., on Flickr

As many say, now that the consumer supposedly has no interest in purchasing anything, no-one wants to put their firm into any product being proposed. Going to the mall up the hill, however, the place is packed! and it’s not all just Asian teen-ages looking to be free of their homes and be seen by others; hardly many at all, actually. The place is wall-to-wall with all sorts of ages and types and classes are elbowing and carrying bags of products they’ve purchased and seem to be seeking more as well. Granted, the windows have sales being declared in them, but it’s not all “BUY FOUR, GET TEN MORE FREE!”, so the notion that no-one is buying anything is a load of bollocks. Have a look in the parking lot of IKEA or some such, you’ll be hard-pressed to find a place to put many more vehicles. So… either these people are buying what they anticipate will be expensive commodities after some impending collapse (‘hey, buddy, I got a sweet line on a “Blirj” what’s never even seen the sun since it was flat-packed!’) or they’re buying things on the never-never and intending to declare personal bankruptcy when put to the wall.

I doubt the extent of the actual economic pain is being actually felt beyond the stock market and financiers, but the problem is that — rightly or wrongly — they are the ones who ensure the currency for everyone’s day-to-day things, like payrolls, supply-lines, and ready-markets for production, continue to operate and function as they have done for some time. Therefore, eventually and inevitably, we all feel the pain that they both wrought and are now experiencing. The simplistic attitude of “think happy and carry on” is almost as correct as it is naïve, however. Yes, it’s right that we don’t have anything to do with it, but the anarchy of finance is also inherently going to effect us adversely. So, “we’re fucked and can’t do nothin’ about it, so carpe diem and pass the gin”, while depressing, is probably about as accurate as one can get.

Tom Joad, we needs you now!

Watch the video below for a moving examination of the effect the elimination of a paper has upon its readership, who expect to be provided with news of their own activities; upon its community in general, who require a record for the purpose of historical data; and upon its personnel, who require an outlet for their skills so engrained that they know of no other way to carry on their lives.

And then go out and buy a copy of every newspaper you can get your hands on before its too late, a moment which may have already passed in your area without even making itself apparent.

Thanks are due to Dave Kellet for the heads up on this one (ironically, he’s a cartoonist whose work appears almost exclusively on-line, and he noticed this on Vimeo, and then I followed a link on his Twitter feed).

Due to popular demand… Many people have asked… Someone idly asked yesterday… ‘when would this series continue?’ And so, because I am here to give the people what they want, here is what happened on the day The Colonial Went to the B.N.G.

Arising around 8:00 (although the notes for the day state an uncertainty about that time), St. Pancras International Rail Terminal is headed for, with a desire to locate coffee and food. Also, connectivity to confirm that Trudi Topham is still meeting me for the purpose of both delivering some material to me which has been ordered from both small publishers as well as through Amazon UK (which wasn’t available through Canadian sources; mostly books with different editions and/or covers), as well as accompanying me around the National Gallery.

Happily, one can check e-mail over breakfast of coffee and muffin-thing, as St. Pancras Station has free Wi-Fi! HUZZAH!

Sadly, Trudi is at King’s Cross Station on the other side of Pancras Road, but I’m able to see the grandness of this international terminal with its impressive roof of the Train Shed [image, left] which was designed by William Henry Barlow (who’s been immortalised in a statue in the Station). So, in the end, NICE!

I wander across the road, and — after working my way through a teeming mass of humanity down the entire King’s bloody Cross Station’s bloody warren of platforms and levels — locate the lady herself, complete with massive box of books. Huzzah! We head to hotel, dump the shit in my room, and then head to the wilds of the underground, where I buy an Oyster Card so as to be able to move about easily on any number of methods of available public transportation without the need to ensure my tickets not expired, correct change, and so on. For anyone visiting London, this is a boon, as you are only charged for the tickets you would normally need, but the most you can ever pay per day with this card is the maximum daily charge for unlimited use of the system and that flat rate is less than the cost of several tickets. If you plan to use the tube or the bus more than three times a day (go somewhere, go somewhere else, return to where you began), you’ve just saved money, and all you had to worry about was slapping your card on a big yellow disc when entering the tube or when both getting on and off a bus. Brilliant! Get one and make your visit to the City of Western Culture a breeze. You’ll thank me for it, I’m telling you!

The card, oddly, comes in a little yellow wallet with an advert for IKEA on the back. “Oh…! It’s got IKEA on it”, I remark to Trudi, whereupon we say “Oooooooo-OOOOOO!” at each other. Why it’s called an “Oyster Card” and not a BLAN or TORVELD as a consequence of the IKEA sponsorship is good for a few minutes of discussion. It may have something to do with IKEA’s brand-new Family Mobile — a virtual mobile phone network — but I suspect the new London Buses will be built from flat-pack kits. Read the rest of this entry »

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!