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 »

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!

So in about 24 hours, I’ll be looking at that thing there on the right. And, yes, it does look like some sort of phallic symbol: perhaps a penis with a condom designed by a minimalist (“as long as the ‘working end’ is covered, then the job’s sorted, innit?”). Perhaps something different; more filthy, perhaps.

Anyway, the point is that that’s the Air Traffic Control Tower of Vancouver International Airport. And, no it’s not a joke: we really do have an international one, with more than one runway and all that, just like a real airport. As a matter of fact, there’s four runways (yes, they’re all paved), and a total of 17,495,049 people on 326,026 æroplanes went in and/or out of the terminal for one reason or another, and if you don’t believe me, then go here.

So there!

All of the final matters are done: tickets confirmed for train to and from Warwick; the hotel in Londinium’s King’s Cross area booked (“room comes decorated with modern ‘rusted shopping trolley and discarded condom/hypodermic needle’ motif…”); relevant pages of Lonely Planet book of Britain passed through OCR and proofed for most weirdness (Westminster Abbey doesn’t have ‘electrical’ burial monuments, for instance, preferring “elaborate” ones); PDF copies of passport and other identity papers amassed in folder on lap-top’s hard-drive, along with as much music as I can shoe-horn on there as well; the digital camera’s 2GB memory card is empty and ready for images; extra batteries for the camera and an electrical adaptor for the laptop are ready; etc.

What’s not been done yet is packing.

Yes, really.

I’m doing laundry right now, so I’m getting very, very close to that. Probably most of it will be done tonight, with one last sweep through things tomorrow, ensuring I’ve enough socks, shirts, boxers, a face flannel, that sort of thing.

One must have priorities; mine happen to involve lots of digital media, personal documents, and travel guide pages.

The next you hear from me — should everything co-operate according to plan — will be from the Midlands of the UK and will cover flight plus train journeys.

Let’s hope the first two hours in England goes a tad better on this trip than the first two hours the last trip provided after landing.

I’ve passed excited, then terrified, and am now at the point of “can’t we just get this fucking over with so I can relax and drink wine in Spain?”

I’m sure as the æroplane’s tyres leave the tarmac I shall be filled with my typical thought:

WHAT AM I DOING? THIS IS ALL WRONG!! THIS THING SHOULDN’T BE ABLE TO DO THIS! WHY IS THE HUGE, HEAVY OBJECT RISING FROM THE GROUND?!? WE BELONG DOWN THERE, NOT UP HERE DEFYING ALL THE GOD-GIVEN PHYSICAL LAWS!!

Later on I’ll turn to wondering if the mechanics of the ‘plane will fail, a bomb will be ignited, some wack-o will attack the pilot(s), or a crate of serpents will be opened in the hold. The flight’s 9½ hours… there’s a lot that can be worried about during 9½ hours… and I’m an over-achiever, so…

Am I nervous? Not really, just one possessing a logical mind. I sit in a seat, look out the window, the plane leaves the ground, I realize I am now 300 feet up, humans aren’t built for that, I comprehend things are wrong, and logically panic. Fairly straight-forward.

Granted, once the plane’s up, I’m fine; it’s the time before the ground becomes so far away it looks like a satellite map that I’m a bit uncomfortable. Landing and taking off are, after all, 95% of all the times anything can — and usually does — go wrong on a flight. Let’s face it, trans-Atlantic mid-air collisions are not ten to the penny. Badly placing an A330 in the middle of some built-up area of Norwich, however, is a bit more statistically likely.

Am I used to long travel? Hell no. I’m able to recall every single time I’ve travelled by plane with crystal clarity. They number only four total occasions (in round trip terms), the most recent when I met Jennifer in California nine years ago [image from the trip, left]; the first being when I was four or so and we flew about as far as London to Paris.

Yes, really.

The advice I’ve heard about dealing with jet-lag, etc is much like what Cotts advised me to do:

There is a fairly simple answer to making the flight better for yourself and unsurprisingly it is ‘Cure All’! I implemented such a plan when flying back from the US a couple of weeks ago. Don’t be afraid to ask for more than one drink when they come round in the beginning of the flight, I found that 2 large Gin and Tonics and and airline sized bottle of wine did the trick. After that, you will eat your somewhat tasteless meal and be asleep before you know it. Job done.

A fine plan, except that I’ll be flying on an airline where they demand payment for their tiny servings, but according to him, the better price is had paying in Dollars than Sterling. No idea why, but apparently the price is better.

Anyway, the procedure I’m intending to follow doesn’t involve the cure-all. Eat lightly or snack/graze, drink much liquid (juice, water, etc) but no liquor, stay awake or nap lightly, arrive and eat the local meal at the correct hour, then sleep at the same schedule as the locals.

Ta-da; instant native adjustment. I’m told.

However, I have a nine-hour-plus flight that leaves at almost 9:00pm local time, arrive in the early afternoon at Gatwick on the Saturday, then drive up the motorway to Stratford (getting out of Greater London as fast as possible to avoid the gits who drive the area blind-folded… and may actually do so). So maybe the cure is good to put me to sleep, then wake-up on the plane at 8:00am GMT, and then adjust from there?

It seems that plans are well under-way for welcoming committees to line the streets of Shakespeare’s Stratford upon my arrival. According to our man on the ground there, the locals have been constructing a triumphal arch in the main street, the hotel is altering its menu to include a salmon course to be followed by maple syrup marinated caribou steaks then dessert of raspberry pie with Canadian cheddar on top. All accompanied with a flight of Okanagan wine, naturally.

The local shops will have “Grade, Eh?” sales as well, with prices of “whatever you can carry out is free” for anyone carrying a valid Canadian passport. Looking forward to getting my own Jester’s cap with jingling bells.

Then, on to FantasyCon, which is September the 21^st through the 23^rd inclusive, at the Britannia Nottingham Hotel (formally Holiday Inn Nottingham City Centre part of the Intercontinental Group), #1 St James Street, Nottingham [image, below left], and we’re staying there as well as the events being held in the convention rooms due to it being, according to the promotional bumpf:

…the city’s premier hotel. Adjacent to Nottingham Castle, it has a superb city centre location and is the perfect base for exploring all the sights of Nottingham.

The hotel is situated near to Nottingham Castle, Trent Bridge Cricket Ground, Victoria Shopping Centre and the Nottingham City business district, proving an ideal location for both business and pleasure. Nottingham is also renowned for its vibrant and popular nightlife.

Night life which includes being dragged up an alley and getting the boots, apparently. The city has the distinction as being ‘one of England’s Hard Cities’. Never saw having six types of shit out of one’s body as either “popular” or “vibrant”, but I suppose it takes all sorts…

Somewhere in the hotel will be the “Dealers’ Room” for the British Fantasy Society’s “FantasyCon”, or failing that we’ll be in the hotel’s pub. Friday we’re out for curry around 10:30 with a gang of famous authors (well, “industry fame”, not popular variety) but we’ll be easy to spot either earlier that evening or the next day. I’m sure asking at the desk during the event will cause them to roll their eyes and beg you to drag us from the building so that their rooms will be in fewer pieces.

And let’s look at those rooms…

All bedrooms are maintained to a high standard, and are decorated in a bright, and contemporary style. All beds now feature a luxury duvet and cotton bedcovers.

If that’s the way my room’s decorated, there’s no way I won’t wake up quickly in the morning. ‘Strooth! Turn on the light and I’ll be alert, that’s for sure! Hangovers will be especially painful, I expect.

Speaking of which, I’m told that last year, the hotel’s pub (Calahan’s [image, below left]) ran out of beer on the first evening. Literally ran dry of beer. The amount they had on hand they expected was to last the entire week-end. But it was tapped-out after one evening. The pub didn’t re-open until they had received a new delivery from the brewers the next day. This was deemed to be “far too late in the day” and it ought to have re-opened far earlier than 11:00 to quell the complaints.

That’s 11:00 in the morning.

No, that’s not hyperbole.

“It’s quite disturbing how much these people can drink”, as The Velvet Prince says.

I intend to blog from there as access and brain-clarity permit. Here’s hoping.