Arise around 9:30, I think, and feel the pain of last night. Errrrrgh. As one heads to Caffé Nero for e-mail, etc., the face of the most notorious punk band in the world appears on a billboard advertising butter. Yes, Johnny Rotten of The Sex Pistols shilling for Country Life Dairy Products; and he’s wearing an excretiable red plaid jacket. Surely this is one of the signs of the apocalypse?

Breakfast out of the way, I seek an alarm clock so as to ensure catching my flight in a couple of days… Hang on, Jennifer’s note mentions picking me up at the airport Friday afternoon, which is excellent… but, erm… FRIDAY?!? Wasn’t it Saturday…? Shit!

I rapidly e-mail a few people pointing out that they now have a 36-hour window to meet me before I leave the country at an abominable hour Friday morning.

Back to hotel we head, after buying a newspaper for the sole benefit of confirmation of today’s date (and ensuring that there is a world outside for which to return), then check my printed flight information and itinerary. Friday, yes. Good to know that now. It might have been a bit of a problem had I got it wrong by a day.

Right. So off to Soak-Up Culture of Great Worth: the British Library to wander and stare at Really Old Books and Papers. These include (but were not limited to only): Read the rest of this entry »

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?’

So, after re-acquainting myself with ‘vertical’ and ‘non-sleeping’ (which was a bit tricky as the night prior wasn’t over until about 00.00 and a few pints) it was time to proceed to the next bit of the saga: the Centre of the Civilized World, the Cradle of Culture, the City That Contains All History (just don’t try to tell the French or Germans that… or the Israelis, or… okay, anyone, really): London!

After checking out of hotel and settling the matter of bills and fees and things, a taxi to the station was called, and as we went through the town the nice feller asked ‘did I get a chance to see the court…?’ Well, a matter of fact, yes! Why, yes I did! The reason I was in there didn’t seem to be germane, so wasn’t mentioned. Honestly, though, it’s a beautiful building inside. Apparently it’s to be converted into a Museum for the area shortly, but I never got it straight if that was a plan set in stone or if it was a proposal being floated. There certainly didn’t seem to be any sort of time attached to the scheme, no matter what level of acceptance it had gained. The matters held in that building now would be shifted to the courts in Leamington Spa, another victim of ‘centralisation’ and ‘streamlining’ that began after WWII to reduce the individuality of character for a borough or township.

Once yearly — during late August, I believe — the public is permitted to tour the entire Court House building, including the original gaol and prisoners’ cells in the basement that pre-date the building’s early 1800 construction via Public Subscription Scheme, which — as these things inevitably are — was cast aside after insufficient support and a local tax was levied to fund the Court House’s creation. Court Room ? One is a fairly close cousin of the Old Bailee in miniature, complete with accused appearing through a hole in the floor and galleries and all. The second is along similar lines, and the third is on the upper floor and was originally used as a lounge or meeting room for the Jury when ‘the great and the good’ were required to find guilt or innocence in a case. Now it is used for mostly civil matters, as well as the occasional case of ‘dangerous driving in the vicinity of a terrified colonial’. [ahem]

So… off to London via Chiltern Railways and the simultaneous experience of seeing the East Midlands during the day. How beautiful and how gentle the countryside; how soft and idyllic the landscape; how efficiently filled with piles of rubbish are the sides of National Railways right-of-ways. Ah-hhhhh.

Looking out at the passing countryside, I was struck by things as being unique to where I was. Certainly a train journey in Canada — for those who can afford one — will reveal farms, livestock, towns, and so on; but somehow this passing vision seemed specific to the site of the Island Kingdom: those are English cows laying down in those fields; that’s an English farmhouse at the edge of the field; that’s English graffiti tagging that tumble-down shed on the edge of the English rail yard, where English kids go to smoke dope! WOW!

While it’s good to remind yourself that you’re in a foreign country so as not to take things for granted, one can take things a tad too far if left un-checked.

Passengers on what was once called ‘BritRail’ are expected to have a broader vocabulary than Canadian ones, however. While many announcements haven’t stayed with me, the encouragement to ‘please alight at this platform’ if it was the one we needed was something that threw into a harsh light the fact I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. “Alight”? At home, people are told to ‘disembark’ possibly, or ‘leave the train’, and sometimes simply ‘get off’ (engendering snickering in those more prurient… not us though… no no no… only other people… yes…). It’s the little things such this that throw the cultural differences and intellectual comprehension betwixt the Mother Country and her Colonial Offspring into such sharp relief. As much as the English bemoan the reduction in quality of education for the country’s young people — and likely are quite justified and correct so to do — there is a vast swath of individuals who received this ‘new principles in education’ style of teaching, but there’s a good chunk of Canada of ‘above mean’ comprehension who would be soundly mocked by the well-below-average English person for their remarkably slim conversational vocabulary.

Having spent much of the southern journey — when not gazing at English cows, farmhouses, and dope sheds — scouring the Underground Map for a route from there to close to the hotel in less than three legs; each one of them involving shifting two pieces of luggage up and down from platform to train carriage. Finding no joy there for love nor money, after arriving at Marleybone Marylebone Station I approached a cabbie and bad him to transport me and my assembled what-not to mine hotel, and not to spare the energy levels of his mighty steeds, as this was an Important and Very Tired Colonial Personage which was suddenly in his care.

Having now checked in, and roughly assembled my oddments in the room assigned me, I set out to locate the Caffé Nero which was furthest from the hotel without actually having to cross the river.

Okay, that wasn’t the actual goal, but it ended up being the case in the end. About one mile to the south from the hotel at King’s Cross Road and Swinton is Chancery Lane Station on the Central Line. I did not, however, take the Central Line, choosing to walk in my search for Wi-Fi access to e-mail and the rest of the world. This was explained as being ‘the most effective way to acquaint oneself with the city’. Indeed, this was true, but the shins and thighs began saying ‘that’s great, but we really just want a hot bath right now…’ Dissuaded not, I persevered to the location which would prove to be the first of London to provide me with food and water, and the ability to communicate with loved ones.

Suddenly, an e-mail enquires if I am willing to head out for a quick pint or two? ‘Why not?’ is my enthusiastic reply… ‘however, I’ve not the faintest clue as to where this café is, as the street isn’t visible from the table, so the squeaky-clean copy of the London A-Z to hand is of little use. A delay sufficient to re-locate the hotel’ only about a certainty of 4:5 at that point, ‘and we can connect in the lobby, then onwards to locate pints of London’s finest ales!’

After a few delays — many of which involved me staring at corners of intersections wondering where the street signs were; then realising they were on the buildings’ outer walls — I managed to re gain the intersection where my bed was… and then frantically searched for more Wi-Fi access as it seemed I was the only one at the location… sure enough, another e-mail wished to know where the hotel was? ‘Ah… that might help a bit, yes. It’s the hotel at the corner of King’s Cross Road and… erm… King Rooster Chicken & Ribs…?’, this being the only location-based mark to be seen out the lobby window. Hardly enough specificity for anyone who hasn’t “the Knowledge”, as the cabbies refer to the memorization of street names whose index of names take-up pages 177 – 434 in the 2009 edition of the A-Z.

Oddly, we connected, and headed for a pub [research suggests this may very well have been the King Charles I, at 55 – 57 Northdown Street, but Admans Broadside consumed this night makes things tricky to be sure of], discussed the fact that pubs have always served London as living rooms; theatres; meeting rooms for not just political plotting, but also business and artistic organisations; due to their perceived neutrality of ownership by the community they were oft employed as court rooms, trial chambers; and places where important community members’ wakes were held, often with the person in question in attendance (albeit a little quiet and un-involved in the festivities).

A phone call informs us that we’re not to be met here by a third party, as they’re ‘working far too hard’, so off we head to the Lincoln Lounge which seems far more hip at the time than it does a few days later when we pass it during the day. When originally experienced, it feels like it’s got a serious case of being so hip there’s little possibility in anyone properly charting the size of its buttocks. The music of that ‘boompa-boompa-boompa’ sort suddenly gives way to something akin to St. Germain’s cool-old-skool jazz lounge tones, and we begin noting the assembling musicians dressed in… well… like Victorian Music Hall Entertainers, frankly. Not too surprisingly, this matched their thematic content of the evening. I almost followed one lithe young thing and her well-fitting jodhpurs into the Gentlemen’s, but it seemed to be impolite to engage in that sort of abandonment of fellowship for the more baser forms of entertainment so early in the experiencing of London and its many joys. Also, it was probable that the flesh filling that riding tackle was less than entirely feminine in physicality. It is London, after all.

We were finally three, had another round (it ought to have been mine by now, surely…?) and then headed for a restaurant… somewhere… we walked there past a wall-mounted sculpture of glazed half drain-tiles… I think… It was so dark… the routes were tortuous… I was so new to town…

We had tapas a-plenty. They were all delicious. Others insisted on paying, based on the ridiculous notion that I was engaged in negotiating the film rights for a work already written by one and to be produced and promoted by the other of our party. That’s what Inland Revenue will be told, anyway…

After all of this, I’m only barely able to put together where all of this took place, and the conversation itself is a blur of humorous banter, intelligent conversational interplay, and a flurry of verbal rubbish emanating from my mouth delivered in a slurred rendition of a Canadian accent.

Bed.

I slept until noon the next day.