Another boring Thursday night out (NOT)

Well, that was a  pretty interesting night out.
It started out the way these usually do, it's getting late in the afternoon, outside the sun is beating down, the temperature is at its socialising friendly optimum of 22 degrees and when Julia turns down my suggestion that we eat out for dinner  however, she thinks it might be good to walk down to the local for quiet drink. Well then  there's simply no going back and I can see the master 
plan  unfolding before my eyes.
First things first, as we are walking out of the lift I turn to Julia and say, what about a quick one at The Grenadier.
Julia may not be the world's best geographer however even she knew the Gren wasn't anywhere near Pimlico, however she let that one go.
Down into the tube with full knowledge that at just after five and at peak hour time, I thought that we would simply jump onto the Victoria Line and exit left at Green Park, then wander down through Green Park to the Gren.
However, when we reached Green Park Julia insisted on cutting down the walking distance which meant we had to take a one stop trip via the Piccadilly Line to Hyde Park Corner. I was very reluctant to make this move and like a fool just headed towards the Piccadilly platform . Now just consider for the moment that to reach that particular platform we had to walk for a good six minutes through absolute bloody hoards of workers  charging in different directions.
As we zero in on the platform, Julia shouts at me, where are all these people going? Trying (unsuccessfully) not to smile, I said, well dear , we and about ten thousand others are now about to make a mass assault on one westbound train with a maximum passenger capacity of 1,200. I think it's going to be a tad tight.
TIGHT! . It was a bloody nightmare!. Unless you have lived through one of these encounters it's hard to get your head around what it's actually like.
The Platform Master was screaming  through the PA that embarking passengers had to move back ( not a goer there, sorry) so that passengers could disembark. It was chaos , simply as that. We missed the cut on the first three trains (if we had stuck to plan A, we could have been kicking back in the Gren by now, not a thought to be shared at that particular moment)trains are having trouble exiting the station as people are leaving the odd limb or back back or walking stick to the mercy of the vice like train doors. And unless the doors close the train simply doesn't move. As an aside, Julia was bitten by a set of these doors the other day leaving a lasting thought that she wasn't going to go through that experience again. The Platform Master for the umpteenth time screams that the train won't depart until loose limbs or other projectiles are either inside the train or outside along with the rest of said individual's body. Fourth time lucky, and we hurl ourselves into an impossibly small space.
Victory is ours!
A minute later we stagger out of Hyde Park Station ecstatic that we are free with all limbs in working order and no bumps or bruises.
We positively charge down Grosvenor Place, fly into Grosvenor Crescent, hang a hard right into Wilton Crescent, sprint down the length of Wilton Row , charge up the steps of Grenadier , no easy task since as there are maybe a hundred drinkers outside on the cobblestone street drinking like they were at some kind of upper middle class beer festival.
I then take great joy in banging my fist on the pewter counter in victory and demanding that the Eastern European barman serve us two massive glasses of Sav, and the sooner the better!
A couple of drinks and an hour later and we are off to another favourite watering hole, The Horse and Groom in Groom Place. Now this is where things get a little weird.
As we walk through the front door the large Irish publican (Hayden/Aiden?depending on whether you're tone deaf) who is having a quiet pint at the end of the bar looks up and  in a very large voice yells out " aaah, my favourite Kiwi. Good to see you."  I was last there in May 2011, I'm thinking, how the hell can this dude remember me? Said publican then says "where's your friend? (that's you Colin) I haven't seen him in here since probably Christmas."(what a guy, what a memory)
After we have ordered a bottle on NZ Sav, Julia takes me to one side and says, out with it, come clean on me, what do you and your mates get up to on your jaunts over here that ensure a publican can pick you out from God knows how many thousand drinkers a year down the track. I just let her question hang in the air, drowned out by the cacophony of sound generated by fellow drinkers.
We certainly got value for money out of that bottle, proven by the fact that once we exited the pub we promptly got lost and ended up outside the Nags Head in Kinnerton Street.We had no choice, this pub has history and we have history with this pub. Straight inside, no question of Sav, Chardy or Pinot Gris.
You can have red or white, five quid a glass , take it or leave it.
Down to the basement bar, a fantastic drinking spot.
Ten minutes later in staggers the publican, a crotchety old guy who way back used to run a pub north of Auckland.
Said gentleman, takes one look at me , bends his head in my general direction, and says , welcome back. By this stage I'm starting to wonder if Julia thinks I've got shares in these Belgravia watering holes.
We had reached the point of the evening that things are becoming pretty animated and frankly , highly enjoyable. Julia and yours truly have similar senses of humour so by about ten we were laughing at anything and everything so hard our sides started to hurt.
Finally we agreed we would call it a night so headed back to Pimlico.
As we exit the tube and start the five minute stroll to Dolphin Square we were about to navigate past our closest local, The Gallery. It's maybe eleven and this joint is fair pumping, so using the conscience-clearing excuse that we needed a toilet stop, we dived inside for a quick roadie. In the history of the universe, has there ever been a quick roadie? I don't think so. We plonk ourselves down next to a group of four guys who have just been to soccer training. These guys proceed to dump their bags on the floor, head straight for the bar and order jugs of beer. We could hardly believe our eyes . Each of these chaps ordered a jug apiece. And I guess you are thinking, I wonder what these jugs hold. Well, I can tell you we were wondering the same thing and one of the guys informs us there are four pints to a jug, and yes, this is a thrice weekly ritual.
Home to sanity of the flat.
What a brilliant evening!



Sent from my iPad

A Varied Weekend

David Shrigley's "Brain Activity" (That's the one on the left. As for the exhibit on the right......?)

Jubilee Egg On Kings Road (Again, that's the one on the left)

Humpty Dumpty outside St James Palace on The Mall (in this case you have a choice!)

A Varied Weekend

Well hello everyone. I thought a quick update was in order starting from last Friday. We spent the morning checking out The Hayward Gallery to view the recent works of David Shrigley known for his very witty & shocking works  and Jeremy Deller who happened to arrive just in person as we were leaving. The exhibit gave us a good laugh, which is always very satisfying. Friday night was another wild and crazy evening at Ronnie Scotts. This time we had the pleasure of that soulful singer Ruby Turner. In short she was big, black and beautiful who can belt out hits like 'I would Rather go Blind' in memory of lost friends including Amy Whitehouse which left me tingling & tearful. This lady has class. She did mention that she had spent some time in NZ and had made a recording there. She then attempted to do the Haka, (whilst at the same time stress testing the stage floor boards) which drew roars of approval from the audience. My reaction was altogether different and I had to restrain myself from rushing on stage tackling the hefty singer 'Doooonnn'tttt  doooo   ittt!' because my personal experience (twice) of attempting this war dance in front of enthusiastic French rugby supporters was abysmal. Of course, back then I had been primed by French wine so at the time I didn't care but the next day had felt women should never do this action song in public. Take note. Saturday morning was spent tootling about 'Borough Market' sampling cheeses & enjoying the whole bustling market day experience. Good stuff! That night was spent at Southbank soaking up a glorious Bach concert. If Bach wasn't happy with that perfect performance,then nothing could satisfy him. Just thought I would happen to mention that John and I are a little tentative about attending certain concerts as we have had some rather unpleasant smelly evenings. The worst was at the Royal Albert Hall when the stench from the itinerant who had sneaked his way into the row in front, nearly knocked us out before we were seated. Whooaa...this guy was high!  At first I thought someone had wet themselves on the seats but quickly realised when he rustled about that the stink came from him. Then, this beautiful young girl arrives to sit next to  'said smelly fellow' and I nudge John to say 'watch this'. Two seconds later her delicate little nose is twitching and she is taking a good long peek at her neighbour with despair. I felt for her. She then spent the whole concert with either her green scarf or her blonde pony tail across her nose while gagging. A very sad sight, not. Well, we couldn't take it anymore and at the interval we raced to change our seats explaining to the ticket staff the situation. Their reaction was fairly  casual and indifferent. One young guy said we should talk to the stinky fellow. Pllleeeaasse!   Can you just imagine the outcome? I thought concert halls should install 'smell-o-meters' when passing through the front doors. When stinkos set off the alarm they are sprayed with some deodorisers & disinfectants, then they can make their merry way to mingle with us cleanies. This is not the end of this story, because our new seats in the next section placed us directly behind another old guy, where if you did the cartoon there would be flies and squiggles emanating from his entire person. J and I just looked at each other and rolled our eyes. Not again and accepted the fact that we were going to watch and listen to 'Jerusalem' through some invisible haze. We diplomatically shuffled down a few seats to limit the damage and to enjoy the remainder of the concert. Sunday was another one of those gorgeous spring days so we decided to walk along The Mall as this is closed to traffic on Sundays. Well, were we in for a surprise! It was the 'Sports Relief Mile' a fun run to raise money for disadvantaged people in the UK and poor countries. It was like a mardi-gras, festival, pantomime-city rolled into one. Flags, banners, music, celebrities, fancy-dress, steel-drum bands and of course the runners most of whom were dressed up. The British love a party!  We saw competitors dressed as bananas,  gladiators, Supermen, Where's Wally's, ballerinas, a bride, kids on stilts and a group doing a very slow Tai Chi exercise along the one mile route. I managed to get a handshake & quick cuddle from a rap band member (lucky me,being in the right place at the right time) while all the young girls around were swooning and squealing. I asked them who the gorgeous young dudes were, as I had no idea who had just given me a squeeze. It was something like MSC? or Bovril Head ??  Also came across Richard Hammond from Top Gear but wasn't close enough to get cosy. Damn! We got down to Buckingham Palace and I was convinced I saw Mrs Kravitz (aka The Queen) taking a sneaky peek through the curtains to see what all the fuss was about in her front yard. John said it was just the wind blowing the curtains back and not Gladys gawking at us peasants. The afternoon was spent at 'The Prospect of Whitby' in Wapping sipping chilled Pinot Gris, our current preferred plonk of choice, the best bang-for-a-buck, darling. This early summer weather is just exceptional. We want a refund for our thermals.

Flatting Life In Pimlico

Flatting Life In Pimlico

Flatting Life in Pimlico

Let me say from the outset that flat life in Dolphin Square is a breeze. For starters we are situated in a really user friendly location with three bus routes running from our front door including the 360 which zips up through Sloane Square, South Kensington and terminating at the front door of the Royal Albert Hall. And then there are the 24, which rockets straight into central London via Victoria, Westminster, Trafalgar Square and moves on up to the Camden Markets. Good stuff and at just over one quid per trip it’s a winner. The Pimlico tube is a five-minute stroll away and is one stop away from Victoria Station so we have all travel bases covered.

The flat itself, whilst fairly basic, does what it is supposed to do. We are located on the seventh floor, a level which affords spectacular views over in the general direction of the Battersea Power Station on the left and Westminster Cathedral on the right.

The heating system is just great and large windows let in sunlight all afternoon.

The bath is huge and the rose head on the show must be ten inches wide. Trust me, in these parts this is a big plus. A modern kitchen, great big bedroom, it’s the business.

And best of all, mail is delivered six days a week right to our front door and again six days a week we leave any rubbish in a cupboard just outside our door in the hallway, and our friendly non English speaking Eastern European uplifts same at nine on the dot.

I must also say that being on the seventh floor of a 2,000-apartment complex loaded up with all manner of security devices makes one feel pretty secure.

Retail stores, Doctors, Dentists and a Tesco outlet are all within three minutes walk from our front door.

Our main supermarket is Sainsbury’s a ten-minute stroll down the road heading towards Victoria Station. Unlike its sister operation that we used in Islington for six months back in 2010, this Pimlico operation is very slick and is both operated and populated by humans who are by and large normal.

The extensive and attractive pricing in this super store is very impressive. Julia continually passes comment about how significantly lower our food/drink bills are when we compare them with New World Fendalton prices.

The other interesting thing about Sainsbury’s is that they are no fools when it comes to marketing and are forever offering “Specials” or “Two for One”, “Three for Two” or “Half Price “ deals on basically anything and everything. To give you an indication a bottle of red, which would probably fetch NZ$16 (UKP8) at New World would probably go for UKP5, as a single purchase however you could well be able to nail three bottles for UKP12. And let me tell you the punters just love it. It doesn’t matter whether the shopper is young, old, black or white, when it comes to check out time their trollies all contain vast quantities of cut-price food and drink specials. One other observation, I don’t quite know if this is a supermarket driven thing, or as a result of customer demand, however what I do know is that after checking out other punters trollies it’s blatantly apparent that the English (and their new immigrant friends) are all into fast food, pre prepared meals, and food products that are ready for consumption after thirty seconds in the microwave. As a result when we hit the fresh food section we almost have that area to ourselves. The same can’t be said of the area surrounding the shelves containing sausage rolls, Cornish pasties, and ready to eat curries. That area is mayhem city and is no place for a novice out-of-towner.

Whilst we were out grabbing our shopping last week a couple of things happened that made me thing of my mother who, whenever I was reluctant to eat up as a kid, always asked me to remember all those starving in Africa etc.

So down we go to Sainsbury’s and as we walked through the front doors I was confronted by a very large West Indian woman who was wearing this massive rubber Elephant head inclusive of a trunk about one and a half meters long.

I tried to pretend this behemoth wasn’t actually there and attempted to slide around her but no such luck. This slightly scary object screamed at me “Help the animals”. What could I do, I flicked her a quid and trusted that some skunk at the London Zoo would flick his tail in my general direction next time I passed by.

Then when we came to the check out two young kids asked me if they could pack for me and suggested that in return I may wish to contribute to their favorite flavoured fund of the week, namely saving African Children in Kenya’s orphanages. At this point two thoughts immediately came to mind, one, my mothers plea from fifty something years back to remember the starving Africans and two, I thought what is it with these do- gooders, Pimlico residents, is this some kind of conscience clearing exercise. So as the kids supervisor was hovering at the next counter with smile intact, I asked her if her group and the rather large woman collector at the store entrance were in cahoots with each other. Well, I shouldn’t have opened my mouth. If I had known this woman was on a mission to save the world I would have meekly allowed the kids to have gone ahead and done their thing and I would have flicked them a couple of quid. Too late. Way too late. This woman launched into the “its all the colonial powers fault “ line of attack. I was forced to listen whilst wishing these kids would speed up their packing however in an effort to get into some dialogue I waited until she paused, then asked if these collections were like their New Zealand equivalents, where 95% of funds collected go to the collecting organization itself and only 5% actually hits the intended target. This woman then blushes and says that she has to come clean and confirmed that in fact the full 100% of this particular collection went to the organizational wing of the African Orphanage set up, however if I came back next week she could guarantee that 100% of the funds collected on that particular day would actually end up with the needy in Kenya.

As we exited the store I turned to Julia and said. “ Right, that’s it, from now on I’m a Tesco’s boy, Sainsbury’s is history. Off course, I was lying as three days later I sneaked back in to nail a “Three for Two “ special on a line of very good reds

Cheers    

   

Wackos on tap

Julia and friend in the architecture section at the V&A

The 360 to Sloane Square, South Kensington and The Royal Albert Hall from the safety of the Goya

Goya, our favourite late afternoon watering hole in Lupus St a stones throw from our apartment

Re Ken , what a plonker!

Talk about Wackos

Talk about Wackos.

Guys, to be frank, today was pretty weird. We start off at Post Office where Julia fronts up to pay our council rates (UKP60per mth). She starts to line up behind a wino reeking of stale urine and the guy behind the counter was waving a card to ward off the smell and it all becomes too much for her. The guy serving counter 1 tells her to move down to counter 4. He makes an attempt to apologize by saying ‘this is what we have to put up with’ but the offer to move was a pointless offer. This welfare recipient had basically destroyed the place. The smell was beyond description. Julia was gagging and bravely stood her ground her nostrils flattened as thin as a rabbit flattened by a truck.

Then onto the 360 bus to south Kensington. In troops a Jamaican woman aged about thirty. I thought she was having an argument on a mobile, however after thirty seconds Julia informed me that the woman was having a two way argument with herself which was both interesting and a tad scary. Just as we came abreast of the Chelsea Pensioners Home this woman turns to the guy next to her (a teenager wearing headphones and listening to very loud rap music) and screamed at the top of her lungs “ Stop talking to me. You are too fat, (in fact he was a skinny white guy). Don’t touch me or I will call the Police”. Maybe the teenager didn’t hear her or had heard it all before, however he didn’t move a muscle. I have to tell you I was slightly relieved when this barking mad wacko exited left at the Sloane Square stop.

Onto the V&A (no dramas there) then onto a life changing lecture at the natural science museum entitled ‘Bat Winter Survival Strategies’. Julia made the comment that she thought I should be certified for attending this lecture. What does she know? If this Bat thing develops I’m the first one she will turn to when looking for help.

The rest of the afternoon was pretty mundane. Down to the Goya in Lupus Street for a cheeky Spanish Sav (check out their web site, they do great Tapas).

Then no sooner had we returned to the flat than the buzzer rang and

I opened the door to be confronted by a huge fat guy wearing a flaming red rosette who proceeded to thrust out his hand, tell me he was working to reelect Ken Livingstone (that’s as in Red Ken Livingstone) and then turned to his left and said “ Let me introduce you to London’s next mayor, Ken Livingstone.”

At this point I’m wondering what the bloody hell is Ken Livingstone doing hanging out on the seventh floor of a two thousand unit apartment building clogged with foreigners and Conservative voters at 7.30 on a Thursday evening in March.

No matter, Ken delicately extends a paw and asks me if he can count on my vote.

Filled with Dutch courage, courtesy of the Goya’s modestly priced Spanish Savs, I proceed to tell Ken that once he has squared away uncertainty over his dodgy personal tax issues, I will more than likely tick his box.

Ken doesn’t say a word, thrusts a pamphlet into my palm then storms off towards apartment 709 and beyond.

Time to tune into the Classical Music Channel and wind down. These drama filled days are all getting a little too much.

      

A vital course for all resident Londoners

Guys, we have just attended a one hour course on Bat Winter Survival Strategies at the Natural History Museum.
I think we now have a good handle on this subject and are prepared for any eventuality
We are ready.
Now we just have to track down one of these little suckers so we can put our training to the test

Spare a thought for the piano tuner

Spare a thought for the piano tuner

Spare a thought for the piano tuner

Last night was a really uplifting experience. We managed to nail great seats at The Royal Albert Hall to take in a couple of Beethoven Piano Concertos performed by Lang Lang. What’s to say about this guy and his performance. In short this guy is a living genius. It’s no wonder that he is currently carrying popular opinion as the world’s premier pianist.

With a full support of the Philharmonia Orchestra, Lang Lang hit the ground running.

Within about a minute of assaulting the ivories this guy had a sell out crowd of 5,500 right within his grasp. What amazed me was the complete lack of noise from the audience. No coughing, no banging of doors, none of the usual background irritation.

It was like we were in some kind of collective trance and were hanging on every note as if it was a matter of life or death.

In fact at some points during quieter moments it was so eerily quiet you could have heard a pin drop.

What a concert!

What an experience!

So much talent within the body of one twenty seven year old. Amazing stuff

As an aside, when we took our seats twenty minutes prior to kick off the only guy on stage was the piano tuner who was  hard at work doing his thing and continued to fine tune the Grand right up to the point when the conductor hit the stage

Then again during the twenty five minute interval, no sooner had Lang Lang exited right  than our mate rushed back on stage and spend the full interval period fine tuning Lang Lang’s weapon of choice.

Give that tuner a  big bonus

As for the  audience reaction at concerts end, they went ballistic

Nine curtain calls. More bunches of flowers that you would find in a large hospital on Mothers Day.

And only a thirty minute trip back to the apartment.

Off to buy the CD today

Cheers 

Party Central

Brazen Head

O'Neills

O'Donaghues

The Foggy Dew

She's Got My Vote

Wild Weekend in Dublin

Wild Weekend in Dublin

My gift to John for his 60^th birthday was to celebrate this memorable occasion with an Irish flair and to take in St Patrick’s Day with its entire splendor. In other words…a three-day party!

The signs were there on the aircraft flying over to the Emerald Isle; lots of green and everyone pumped up with the air of anticipation. It was a bit like going to a final of Crusaders rugby game.

We were booked into a great hotel ‘The Shelbourne’ in a perfect location with grand bars and close to the action. It’s a pity the bed was over-plumped and the pillows only fit for Irish giants.

Now, as for the next 72 hours, it was just a blur.

The Highlights:

Day One. Dinner at that well know Lebanese restaurant ‘The Cedar Tree’ where John made the mother of all faux-pas. When asking the owner if the shaky, doddery waiter who had served us a couple of years back, when dining with our friends the Cockcrofts, was still above ground, only to be served thirty seconds later by this same doddery old fart! Oh dear. It has to be said that John was very good at disaster recovery. Impressive!

Post dinner drinks at The Foggy Dew.

Day Two. John’s BIG DAY of the big SIX O!

We started with a huge Irish brekkie including monstrous wedges of the famous black and white puddings.

We followed this near death experience with a feeble attempt to explore the sights but were constantly distracted by the green throng being sucked into the local pubs. It was raining, so that was our excuse. The queue to see The Book of Kells would have left us drenched so we abandoned that to head off down to The Brazen Head, where by 11.30am the Guinness was flowing like it was the last day on earth. Hoards of small green persons (not leprechauns) poured through the door and mingled with the increasingly intoxicated patrons. The mood was buoyant and getting higher all the time as the German group near us descended into drinking songs and we all joined in. Yah. It was overwhelming.

We left there and crawled around the other Dublin pubs like O’Neil’s and Donoghues that were swelling with partygoers.

To finish off this special day we dined at an enormous French Bistro ‘Café en Seine’ which is packed to the rafters with French décor and we sipped our French Champagne into the wee hours.

Day Three. The day arrived in a riot of green and orange. It took me a wee while to realize that the little green grassy masses tucked or pinned on to the staff at the hotel were fresh shamrocks. Cute.

After another Irish breakfast, five hundred thousand others and we couldn’t wait to hit the streets to take in the parade and general mayhem. We found our spot, enjoyed watching the antics of Irish teenagers in some sort of mating ritual and harassing the Garda by drinking banned alcohol and climbing up on to restricted fences. The parade was grand but it did bring back memories of old street marches of the past with pipe bands and garish floats.

Then into The Foggy Dew and we quickly became drinking buddies with our new Irish friend Marcus and his German friends. Lots of shenanigans then off to ‘Head for the Border’, another bar, to view the Ireland vs. England, six nations rugby battle. When we said we were New Zealanders the response for the Irish patrons around us was ‘ R E S P E C T’. That makes you feel good being a Kiwi. Thanks All Blacks.

Well, as you can see it was a fantastic three-day break and well worth repeating.

Now we are back in London to a more normal and liver friendly existence.