Last week news of a law suit in defence of Stalin’s ‘good name’ was filed in the former Soviet Union’s courts, after The Novaya Gazeta had published a piece referring to declassified death warrants, which it said bore Stalin’s personal signature. The grandson of ‘Uncle Joe’ was shocked – shocked! – at the suggestion that Granddad had done anything of the sort, claiming that the paper had lied about the signed documents, and had defamed the memory of his ancestor.

Some time in the next while, the court will make public its reasons for the case being thrown out.

For the BBC NEWS article, CLICK THIS BIT HERE.

I’d suggest that the essence of the judgement would be that ‘the individual responsible for filing of the suit is a first-class wing-nut!’ Only, obviously, it would be put in more ‘typical legal terms’. Suggestions of those are welcomed.

Tomorrow (Thursday) is William Shakespeare’s 445^th birthday, in honour of which you are encouraged to partake in “Talk Like Shakespeare Day” (although t’is a pity that there are so many typos in the text of the site).

Tomorrow’s post will not be written in either sonnet or simple iambic pentameter forms.

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!

All of these posts about the trip are composed using notes about each day’s events and points of interest which were jotted down either at the end of that day or a few days after, so as to have fresh insights about what was intriguing and permit the viewpoint to be kept as close to the original impressions as possible. Often, when visiting a new place, aspects of a location and its uniqueness is lost when thinking back upon it weeks later after returning to the mundanity of one’s normal locale. That which was foreign to one’s experience is now foreign again, so the recollection of its spark of excitement when first seen is lost. Thus, with both time and physicality in close proximity, the making of notes and occasional bits of text putting into words what one thinks and feels is of great aid when composing more complete works of prose about the moment in the past.

For some reason, no notes were made about the 20^th, which is why this post is all based on photos.

I’ve no idea why I didn’t note anything down, but perhaps I was too completely knackered at the end of the day to place words into a document. Also possible is that the intention was to make some notes the next day, but couldn’t recall anything more detailed than ‘went for a walk in The City’; which is precisely what I did.

As a result, most of this will follow the time-honoured style of “here’s a photo, and here’s what it is and what was happening at the time”. Logically, some of the images will be bigger than normal so as to show you things in them. Additionally, if you click them they’ll not take you to a page at Flickr, but instead will open a larger version of the image in front of the post so you can see as much detail as is needed.

Now, are you all sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin…

The decision was made that this was the day I would wander into The City of London proper, choosing to eschew those lesser places such as Westminster, Covent Garden, and St. John’s Wood. Begone with your talk of the Wonder of Wandsworth, the Charm of Chelsea, or the Beauty of Brixton! ‘Tis London, I say; LONDON!

For those of you thinking ‘but isn’t he already in London?’, it’s important to remember that there is Greater London which encompasses all of the places just mentioned and more besides, and then there’s the specific original City of London which comprises post codes EC1-EC4, and is often merely referred to as ‘The City’, as there is no other city in the world worth the breath of mentioning it. That was the story during the time of The Empire, anyway.

The ultimate goal for the day was to head into the area and see the Sites of Historic Import within that Sacred and Holy City of the New Jerusalem (a.k.a.: ‘London’). Having examined the map of The City in the Lonely Planet Guide to England, it seemed a goodly day’s walking tour would bring one in contact with a plethora of things which one ought to have an idea what they really look like. Choosing to basically start at one end and work to the other, this made St. Paul’s Cathedral [image of dome, above left] the logical ‘start point’ was there, albeit by way of Blackfriar’s Bridge.

Silly me… One cannot simply ‘take a peek’ at something as one heads to the supposed ‘first big thing’ when walking in London. The place is filled with big, important things; to the extent that you’ll probably sit down on one to rest for a minute and not realise it.

For instance, the cattle troughs are still there [see right], testifying to the Borough of Clerkenwell’s origins as a Goods and Warehousing area. This one was put in place in 1886 by the Metropolitan Drinking Fountain and Cattle Trough Association, who may very well be still finding location for the things, for all one knows.

Whilst writing this, I was stunned to discover that the M.D.F.&C.T.A. have an entry in Wikipedia, proving once and for all that everything is available to answer your questions if you merely search that site. Still, it’s incredible to locate so much information about something seemingly so innocuous as a group dedicated to the construction of public water fountains.

Shortly thereafter one passes what is probably the Smithfield Central Markets (word of its exact nature is still to come from my tame London Expert), which that day were either closed because the place is a death trap — which it looks like [image, above left] — or because it was Monday — which it was that day — and eventually arrive at Blackfriars Bridge, where I once again give directions to people, this time to a nice young German couple who needed to know how to get to the Tate Modern, just the other side of the span. Easy-peasy.

The bridge [image, right] is an impressive thing: wide, flat, and quite easy to drive across without realising the thing’s a bridge, one should think. It was being worked on at the City end that day. It’s possible they were completing a bit someone in 1645 made a note about getting to at the end of the job. One didn’t want to ask as it might be quite embarrassing for the men involved.

After passing a Welsh church trapped on all sides by an underpass and an overpass and a by-way… and the poor people are already suffering so much merely by being Welsh… one next passes by the Royal College of Arms (just sitting there, no fanfares, no big fancy security force, no neon sign), when suddenly — up a pedestrian mall between who buildings — you see St. Paul’s.

I’d spotted it a few times in the past hour as the distance decreased, but hadn’t seen it for the past twenty minutes or so, so to suddenly be one block from it, and to have it a goodly height upwards from my elevation, was to be presented with the full glory of its construction. The height, the design, the incomprehensibility of something that massive not being destroyed in the blitz (how could you not hit the thing, even if you tried to miss it?), it all fell into place. The scale of the undertaking of its construction is incomprehensible when gazing upon its whole. The setting in the landscape is such that you are able to stand at a great enough distance that you appreciate its lines and dimensions.

Let’s stop here for this post, and continue with more of the walking tour of The City tomorrow.