Londontown and the Occasional Blue Sky.

No witticism or sarcasm attached. I just like this picture.

We were sitting in Bahrain International Airport for six hours, when we were supposed to be there for two. Keeping with their proud tradition of lengthy delays, Gulf Airways left us to amuse ourselves in a country I could not even locate on a map. I now know that it is a small Island kingdom in the Gulf Sea, with their very own Monarch. And that don’t have to pay taxes. I thought it, like death, was a certainty. The beginning of travel legs never seem to progress smoothly – for what reasons I cannot discern, as you are soon to discover.

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The delay made our evidential arrival to Heathrow Airport far behind schedule. We arrived at 10pm, four hours after the latest possible check-in time to our accommodation, thus incurring a 25 Pound late fee. Striving on regardless of the British cold and the many, many steps in London’s tube system, we found Willesden Green, the suburb of our destination. We hauled our 20 kilogram-a-piece luggage several kilometres through the London streets, feeling the biting cold seep through our multiple layers of clothing. I wasn’t wearing gloves and I could see my hands were turning an unhealthy blue. Finally, after much tribulation, we found the street and the place where I could finally lay my head down to rest. By this time it was past 12am and the last time I had slept, I had only managed 5hrs. That was over 24 hrs ago.

The late check in fee, which was 25 Pound (roughly 60au) was for a combination lock box that held our set of keys. What logical was behind the cost of this device I cannot say. At that point, I didn’t care, I just wanted to sleep. But no, rest would have to wait for this weary traveller because the lock didn’t function. The numbered keys were all jammed, so inputting the right combination was impossible. After debating on what to do, one of the permanent tenents of the building arrives home. He was an Australian. He very generously gave us the landlord’s number, who he described as “a real wanker” and asked us if we “ wanted a beer for our troubles”. I believe the Cultural Stereotypes Committee is after this man for questioning. So, Anouska calls the landlord and feigns damsel distress as only she can and the man, under the impression she was by herself in the dark streets of London, rushes straight over. Sucker. He was very apologetic, naturally, about our situation, but when we sorted out the financial arrangements for the week, I noticed that we had been charged the late check-in fee. I enquired, “The late fee. Is this for the lock that didn’t work?” Which he replied, “I suppose you are going to tell me you are not happy with it”. I simply retorted “yes”, and that sum was detracted from our total bill.

London is a very liveable city. It has a certain charm that you can’t specifically describe with words, but I am sure the people who have visited this city can confirm that encompassing aura it has. I can understand why people reside here and why so many Australians emigrate. I seemed to recognise the familiar Ocker of my homeland everywhere and it filled me with a sense of pride. Well, not pride exactly. If you heard the idiotic ramblings of my fellow countrymen you would suddenly employ a British accent very quickly, to distance yourself from the pack of ‘flaming galahs’. But seriously, I love Australia, I do. I just wish many of the other Australians I have encountered on my journey would renounce their citizenship and head south for a prolonged winter in Antartica.

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Unlike Anouska, I simple adore cold weather. I must have a genetic disposition to it, because I take to it like Greeks to young bo … what I meant to say is that I take to it very well. There is nothing better in this world than stepping out into the refreshing, brisk air with your attire of coat and scarf and perambulating down the wet streets looking for a coffee. When you are in colder climates you start to see the practical side to the traditional meals. What better cuisine can one have in London than soup, Sunday roast, Bangers and Mash and Shepard’s pie. It filled my body and my heart with warmth. Sure, eating these rich foods on a consist basis will probably increase your waist by a full tire size, but you could just look at it as sufficient insulation to the cold. In this context, you start to question why Australian’s carry on the English tradition of certain meals. We don’t experience the same temperature as England, yet we are ever so ready to sit down to a Sunday roast while the harsh sun outside bakes a few things of its own. Is it really refreshing to eat a hot meal in summer? Is it good for our constitution? Just some food for thought.

If you haven’t chewed life over with a pint of lager at the pub, or sat reading a trashy newspaper on London’s underground, then one thing you should experience is the tranquillity of Hyde Park. Only knowing the place from novels, I drastically underestimated the size of this park. But, to my defence, the writer’s never indicated, with accuracy, the measurements of this location. Oscar Wilde might state that the characters took a leisurely walk, but he never suggested that a walk around the park would take over an hour. Despite being misinformed, I found Hyde Park to be a quiet haven hidden away from the excitement of the city. When you’re standing in the middle, and if you ignore the distant hum of traffic, you could almost believe you were no longer in London. I think that is what the planners had in mind. It has some very lovely little lakes and a surprising amount of wildlife. One could pass a very agreeable morning here, stopping to rest on a bench every now and then before settling for a lengthy midday picnic. We passed the Princess Diana memorial, which is absolute hideous and adds weight to the argument that Australia should be a Republic.

Anouska outside Buckingham Palace. Stupid Monarchy.

Naturally, you can’t be in London without making your way to the Thames. If you avoid, or at the very least limit the time you are under the tourist deathtrap, otherwise known as the London Eye or as I like to call it – the big ferris wheel that cost more than a night’s accomodation, then having a casual stroll along the banks and over the bridges is very pleasant. But with certain, one of the most fun aspects about London is playing physical Monopoly. We walked around admiring the weath of Piccadily Circus and Mayfair before jumping on the tube, bypassing King’s Cross Station to go to Euston Road for a few drinks. I didn’t know where Old Kent Road was, so I was unable to see if it is as crappy as its land value on the Monopoly board stipulates.

You landed on Trafalgar Square. I have three houses. That will be $320, please.

Like all civilized travellers we ended up at the colossal complex of the Tate Modern ( it was big until we saw the Lourve, but I digress). An unnamed friend, who will cry out that an injustice has been committed to his name, stated in his travel blog, “[W]e've been to the Tate Modern (which ******* dislike (sic) considerably - in all fairness a lot of it didn't make any sense). How anyone with a nearly completed university degree, or anyone who knows even the most basic rudiments of art history can think this is beyond my understanding. The gallery is brilliant and the curators should be applauded on their well thought our installations. It tracks the progression of art from the impressionist era, to the post-impressionist and then to the modernist fields which detract from the symbolic logic of their predecessors and employ completely new methods and subject matter for their works. When you look upon the genius of Picasso’s cubist paintings or Bacon’s disturbing depiction of sexuality, you to start realise that you have absolutely no talent next to these giants. Although this conclusion made me considerably depressed as my artistic endeavours have paled in comparison, it was nevertheless an intellectually profitable experience. The occasion was soured slightly by, of course, the remarks and actions of stupid tourists. The question I put to people who wish to repeatedly photograph an original painting is, why bother? If you an image of the piece, surely you can see it in a book or on the internet. Also, in doing this, not only does your flash damage the product, but you really piss off genuine art lovers like Anouska and myself. In addition to this ever-increasing rant, why do people feel the necessity on sprouting their ignorant opinions at a consider volume, so that everyone in the room can hear. I heard one woman remark that art was subjective and that the point of a particular art piece was that she should decide whether to touch it, even though there was a plague clearing stating, “Do not touch”. Jean Paul Sartre was right when he said, “Hell is other people”.

YOU SEE THAT! IT MEANS NO PHOTOGRAPHY! DAMN YOU, YOU FILTHY GOTHIC HORDE.

The National Gallery is of such a considerable size and design that I found myself getting lost more than I care to admit. Sure, I saw more religious paintings to last me several lifetimes, but seeing the works of Monet, Manet, Van Gogh, Cezanne, Da Vinci, Raphael and Pissarro in the flesh was awe inspiring and left me with a strong impression that I really needed to learn to draw something more complex than stick figures and silly faces. However, I was very disappointed in learning that one of the paintings I wanted to see, ‘The Ambassadors’, which was on permanent display there, had been temporarily moved to a exhibition. Oh well, I will have to make a special trip to see it when we return to London in January shorting before flying home. We also went to the British Museum, full of artefacts the glorious English Crown has stolen in its imperialist past. I have to admit, regardless of the questionable methods how they attained these pieces, the museum housed some terrific Egyptian relics and objects of Antiquity. I wish I was able to stand the flash photography, loud talking and incessant murmur of hyperactive children for longer than a few hours, so that I could absorb it better. But I can say that I tried. Twice, in fact. I gave it two goes, but it still didn’t improve my misanthropic self.

And of course we went to see a West End show. Our choice was a difficult one. Watch a play based a Monty Python film, or see some muppets, based on characters from Sesame Street sing and be offensive? We chose the latter. We scored cheap tickets on the day for only 25 Pound and they were for the second row. The show was amazing. The basic plot is that Princeton, a muppet, graduates for college and moves to the slums, a la Avenue Q. From there he tries to find his purpose in life and learns from valuable lessons about life from other tenants including a shy teacher’s aid, an interracial couple, a muppet obsessed with internet porn, a gay republican muppet and Gary Coleman, who laments his washed-up, child star profile. You quickly recognised which Sesame Street characters they are derived from, which made it all the more humorous. The songs were very catchy. This isn’t necessary a good thing, when you find yourself on the London tube, absentmindedly singing, “Everyone is a little bit racist sometimes … it’s not as though we go around committing hate crimes” and “the internet is for porn”. If at that point, you assumed that the creators of the show couldn’t further destroy those lovely childhood memories of Sesame Street, think again. After I saw two muppets having sex on stage, I thought, “now I have seen everything.” I can hear your thoughts from here. You’re thinking okay Daniel, you saw one crude show on the West End. Why didn’t you see something else? That would be a valid question and my answer is that both Ivanov (Chekhov), starring Kenneth Branuagh and Oedipus with mile high Ralph Fiennes, was sold out! Kenneth is one of my heros and to hear that there would be no way I could see him act was a terrific blow. Still, as I stated earlier, we are going back to London, so perhaps I will get the chance to see some other great thespian figurehead. I can only hope.

Some lucky swans.