London, 11.05.08

London is full of ghosts. It’s like it’s afflicted with a terminal nostalgia, unable to let go and move on from its ‘glorious’ past. Everything about the place is meant to impress.1

And I am impressed with certain aspects of London, but I remain unimpressed with others. I am impressed by its size, vibrancy and culture. There is always something going on here, and it is by no means an apathetic city (unlike so many places in the UK). But when I walk the streets, I do not feel much affinity with it. I see the Union Jack fluttering everywhere, and all of the important buildings and proud, erect statues and monuments of dead men, but it all fails to stir me in any patriotic sense. A lot of the buildings are very beautiful, but then, they are still only bricks, stone and mortar. Never has my lack of patriotism been more apparent to me; but then, it is hardly surprising coming from someone who does not believe in the concept of countries.2

Now, I will recount my experience. Although I tried not to be, I was quite anxious while the train was pulling into Euston Station, mostly because of the sheer size and the reputation of the city. Coming from sleepy, lethargic Handsacre/Lichfield to bustling, dynamic London would be a shock to anybody, especially without any transition point whatsoever, and I do have a tendency to get anxious in crowds sometimes.3

So, I got off of the train and I called my friend, and I met him, and we shook hands, and it was good. The only real hiccup came when I had to use my ‘oyster’ card. I’d never even heard of the concept of an ‘oyster’ card, let alone had to use one before, and Ciaran had conveniently forgotten to explain to me how to use one. I was busy gawking around, and I didn’t see what he did in order to get through the electronic gates. So, I tried to physically push my way through after him. Needless to say, this didn’t work. So Ciaran turned round and said, ‘Touch the thing!’ So I touched the wrong ‘thing’ (a circular yellow panel) with my hand, and then touched the right thing with my hand, and then finally, touched the right thing with the card, thus opening the gate and in the process, loudly declaring my London virginity to everyone on the scene. But, we laugh these things off, don’t we?4

So, the first half hour or so in London, in which we walked to Ciaran’s student accommodation, was a little iffy. I had a big bag strapped over my shoulder (which made sidling through the gates awkward), and a sleeping bag in one hand. I felt a little like a mouse in a maze, what with all of the lifts and the gates and the echoing, twisting corridors, and then there was the roaring, hectic subway, of course. Added to this was the fact that the weather was a lot warmer in London, so I was overdressed. And so, it was nice to arrive at Ciaran’s accommodation and put all of my stuff down.5

After I was a little more comfortable, we went for lunch at a nice little Italian cafe around the corner. On the way, one thing I noticed was that one street in London is roughly the equivalent of the entire town centre of Lichfield, which was quite an eye-opener (and no mistake). The café was nice, and the girls were typical Italian; short with jet black hair, olive complexions, deep, dark eyes and loud, affectionate personalities. We sat outside in the shade and it felt continental, which was strange. There we were, in the middle of London, sitting outside of an Italian café on a sunny day, next to a busy street, being served by pretty Italian girls who spoke in Italian to one another. I remembered an urge I had had some weeks earlier to ‘go to a big city and soak up the atmosphere,’ and I reflected upon how soon I had gotten my wish. The meal was pleasant if you ignored all of the traffic and the occasional sirens (a police station was across the road).6

After the meal, Ciaran gave me a guided tour of London, and it was during this process that I realised how I was being hit by a new smell approximately every five paces, which was an interesting experience, to say the least. I also had to dodge somebody after the same, which, although annoying, one has to get used to in such a city. We walked alongside the Thames at one point, and Ciaran told me that it was actually the cleanest river in any European city, which I was a little dubious about when I looked over the side and saw how murky and brown it was. I remarked how badly that reflected on other European cities. However, I did recall an incident a couple of years ago when a whale swam up the Thames, demonstrating how clean it had become, so I reluctantly supposed that there was some truth to the statement.7

As we walked along, Ciaran pointed to and named every single building on the opposite bank, including Shell HQ, which was an ugly one in my opinion. When I asked him why he didn’t become a tour guide for a bit of extra money, he said that he simply couldn’t stand tourists. He told me how, whenever he put on his horse guards uniform, he was constantly stopped by tourists who wanted to take a photograph or simply gape. The problem with tourists was underlined when we went to cross the Hungerford Bridge, and a French teenager stopped right in the middle of a crowd and thrust his arms out so that a friend could take a picture. I wasn’t sure what he was doing at first, because I’d never encountered such a rude, arrogant and inconsiderate thing before; at least not in such a public place and in such an unashamed manner. Ciaran told me that he had used to try and get around such people politely, but that he had found himself being constantly late to everywhere he went, so now he just pushes straight through them. I can’t say I blame him.8

At one point, I saw a horse guard standing stolidly to attention while a whole bunch of tourists flocked around him, joyously taking photographs and the like. We walked straight past, but then I stopped and walked back and grinned, because I had heard so much about these famous guardsmen who would not move a muscle unless directly assaulted. But Ciaran implored me, ‘Don’t, Sam.’ He’s training to become a horse guard, so I had pity on him and we moved on. I asked him whether he was going to be like that guard, but he said that no, he was going to be an officer. I was disappointed, as I had entertained a vague hope of coming along and throwing peanuts at him in my spare time, while he was on duty. Oh, well.9

Eventually, we wound our way to Trafalgar Square and went into the National Gallery. We started with the paintings from the 1500s, because we had both studied the Tudors extensively. I walked around those grand, prestigious, echoing halls which smelled of paint and polish and dust, and looked at these paintings from centuries ago. The first thing that struck me was the scale on which some of them were painted, and how much paint it must have taken to create such pieces, as I know that 90% of painting is done on the palette. The skill was also tremendous, of course, as was the attention to detail, and I could only imagine how long some pieces had taken the artists. But I was also struck by how ugly most of the subjects were. It was as though the artists were challenged when it came to dreaming up aesthetically pleasing people, especially when it came to women. None of them were beautiful to me, not even the Virgin Mary. I’ve heard that they had a different conception of beauty back then, but this just struck me as ridiculous, and it felt vaguely surreal. Am I the only one to notice such things? It seems like it, sometimes.10

After the National Gallery, we went into the National Portrait Gallery. My feet and legs were getting slightly sore by this time, but we stayed in there for a decent amount of time. Again, all of the paintings were executed with a great deal of skill, and it had the same smell of polish, paint and dust, and our footsteps had a way of echoing, which must have impressed a lot of people. But, the more I looked at the paintings, the more they seemed to be of self-important people painted by self-important artists. I was not impressed by all the scenes of battle and glorious monarchs and leaders. I deplore such things. And also, the more I looked, the more I realised how the vast majority of the subjects had the same noses and eyes, even though they could hardly have all been related. Or could they? The only vaguely modest painting I saw was one of Dickens sprawled next to his desk as a young man, and I liked him all the more for that.11

On our way into the National Portrait Gallery, we had picked up a leaflet advertising a Vivaldi concert on at St. Martin-in-the-Fields, and had decided to spend our evening there. So, when we came out, we went into the theatre to buy our tickets, and were served by a pretty little French girl. Incidentally, having noticed that we were in a restaurant which used to be a crypt (the whole building was a converted church), I asked her, ‘Are there actually corpses buried under here?’ I enjoyed listening to her lazy accent as she laughed and told me that no, they had all been removed, but that they had found one which they’d missed not long ago, and the entire restaurant had had to be closed down while it was exhumed.12

I was relieved that all of the bodies had been removed, because when I had asked Ciaran about the matter, he had replied in a fit of his peculiar brand of naiveté that he didn’t know, and what disturbed me the most was how unruffled he seemed about the whole thing. To me, the thought of all of those people (and possibly us) eating only a few feet above dozens of decaying cadavers made me feel slightly uneasy, to say the least. There is simply something wrong about the thought. And actually, come to think of it, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the place was haunted.13

However, I for one am a great admirer of Vivaldi, and I think his music is ‘exquisite,’ inspiring a zest for life which is unique and which few others of the classic composers can equal in my experience. And so, once we’d bought our tickets, we went back to Ciaran’s room where we relaxed for a while and I jotted down some of my first impressions of London. Then we put on our suits, minus the ties, and made our way via the underground into London proper once more. The concert was excellent, and I particularly enjoyed listening to pieces which I had not heard before. The singers especially, were something special, and of course the violinists were incredibly skilful, although I don’t pretend to be any great judge of such things.14

Oh, and as an interesting side-note, about fifteen minutes into the concert, a woman on the upper tier fainted. I had my eyes closed when it happened (enjoying the music, not sleeping), and all I heard was a loud gasp and some other sounds which were indistinct, but in retrospect I think it was a collective murmur from the audience. At first, I thought it was a part of the music, which I thought was a little odd. But then I opened my eyes and saw a commotion above us (we were sitting opposite the upper tier, on the side). I asked Ciaran what had happened and he said, ‘She sort of gasped, then hit the pillar and collapsed.’ However, she was well enough to perform in the second half, as she was part of the choir, and I and Ciaran both agreed with guilty humour that her little swoon had added dramatic effect to the performance, especially as her faint had coincided with a particularly grave and dramatic burst from the violins. Indeed, there are few places better to collapse, in my opinion.15

So, the concert was excellent, despite the fact that the seats were church-style which forced you to sit up very straight. Afterwards, at about 10 o’ clock, we went for a late dinner at another Italian restaurant (there really are so many in London), and we both reflected upon how I had spent a very Italian first day in London, which was quite ironic. Be that as it may, the food there was very nice, and we both had huge pizzas with red wine after nibbles of olives and bread with olive oil, and for dessert we had cheesecake, which was also gorgeous except for the fact that it was very small for its price. When the waitress said that it would fill us up, she had lied.16

Unfortunately, a damper was put on the evening when, half way through his pizza, Ciaran announced that he was in terrible pain from a stomach ache which had started ‘after the olives.’ Despite this, he soldiered on bravely, although he couldn’t touch the red wine again, which resulted in me drinking most of the bottle, and subsequently finding myself becoming happier and rosier as the night went on. I thought to myself that it would be such a shame to waste all of that wine which we had paid for, and so I am proud to say that I drank every last drop.17

On our walk back to the room, I noticed Nelson standing on his tall column in Trafalgar Square above the rest of the city, with the spotlights shining on him amidst the darkness. I admit that I was struck with the grandeur of the scene. Imagine standing there illuminated for centuries, a recognised saviour and servant of your country. But then, he was just another phantom in a city of ghosts.18

During our walk back, we also had a rather heated debate. Somehow or other, I expressed to Ciaran my lack of belief in the concept of countries. Ciaran replied with, ‘The sooner you realise that people aren’t perfect, the sooner you’ll see that such things are necessary.’ He had a point, and I replied with, ‘Someone has to believe in humanity. I’m just a dreamer; an idealist, but then someone has to be. We all strive towards perfection.’ But then, when will perfection ever be realistic? Our argument had reached a kind of stalemate by the time we reached the student accommodation, and we were both quite flustered as we walked through the door.19

It was in this flustered and slightly tipsy state that I was introduced to some of Ciaran’s friends who had been waiting for us in the common room. It was nice to meet his friends, and it was interesting to note how many of them were American. There were three of them; a guy from Arizona whose name I can’t remember, a girl from New York and a girl whose origins I can’t recall, but I do remember that both of their names were Nicole. I was also introduced to Antonia, who was from Bulgaria. The reason I stress that is because when I said to her, ‘You’re from Eastern Europe?’ she said, ‘Eastern Europe is not a country! I am from Bulgaria!’ which was fine. I later got back in her good books when I remarked that Eastern Europe was beautiful, even though I was speaking from reputation and not experience, although she didn’t ask. There were other people there, but they were not a part of the immediate group.20

We all drank a lot of whisky. But again, Ciaran didn’t have any because of his stomach, and so I felt obliged to have his share too, just to save it from being wasted.21

One thing I learned about myself in London is that I have some very strong opinions which I am not afraid to be vocal about under certain circumstances: when drunk, for example. So, we got into several discussions, all of which I was very involved in. For example, I wasn’t shy when it came to telling them all about my ‘all-problems-in-the-world-originate-from-the-collective-male-insecurity-over-the-size-of-his-penis’ theory, shortened for convenience to the ‘Phallus Theorem’, which they found very amusing yet thought-provoking. I also had a very animated discussion with Antonia concerning the equality of men and women.22

Because of her upbringing, she believed that women were inferior to men, and that it was their sole duty to provide for them after a hard days work. I pointed out to her that men provide for women and women provide for men, therefore creating an equal, whole unit wherein one part was as necessary as the other. But she was very stubborn (all of the others had taken cover), and I was forced to bring out the Phallus Theorem again, telling her how the subjugation of females could again be explained by male insecurity. I have no problem with the role that many women play as housewives; only with the implication that they are somehow unequal because of that. I don’t know if I changed her mind, but I certainly had a good crack at it.23

Eventually, around 3am, we went to bed, and Antonia brought her airbed into our room for me to sleep on, which was very thoughtful of her. Here, I may as well mention that she is virtually immune to the effects of alcohol due to her behavioural heritage, and that when I had added coke to my whisky during our discussion, she had said, ‘Why you do that?’ When I explained to her that I couldn’t drink straight spirits, she was not very impressed, which I found amusing. Either I was a complete naïf, or she was an alcoholic. It was actually a mixture of the two. Alas! She will be even less impressed with my manliness when she discovers that all of my valiant determination not to waste a drop of Ciaran’s alcohol did take its toll, as I am very sorry to say that I was sick on his carpet later that night.24

The next morning, Ciaran woke up and was even more ill than when he had gone to bed, and it became regretfully apparent that we were going to have to cut my visit short, and he got on the internet and booked me a ticket for 11:30am the next morning. He did soldier on through the rest of the day though, despite being in god knows how much pain, which I respect him greatly for. Oh, and I know that he was genuinely very ill because from that point on, he didn’t eat anything, having only picked at his lunch, which is extremely strange for Ciaran (who is a Cancerian like me, and loves his food), and is not something which he would ever be able to fake.25

One of the things we did that day was to have our portraits sketched by street artists in Piccadilly Circus, which I have never had done before. I had considered leaving my sunglasses on for the portrait, because I had a hangover and looked quite tired, but I got over that by simply asking him to leave that aspect out of the portrait. It was an interesting experience, sitting there and waiting for the result, as I hadn’t a clue what to expect. I view my Self as an essence, and am often illogically surprised to see it condensed down into a physical form with boundaries in drawings, paintings, and photographs and such-like.26

I stared at the artist, who was, incidentally, Chinese, for the whole time because I wanted the portrait to be intense. But, the artist paints or draws that aspect of a person which he/she wishes to draw out the most, unless you specifically tell them otherwise. The result was that he captured a smile playing around my lips. He also made me look like royalty, which I suppose was a part of the service which he was offering. Maybe some day I will go up to a sketch artist and simply say, ‘Be honest,’ as I am sure that I am not as handsome as he made me appear. Incidentally, one of the other artists managed to harass Ciaran into having his portrait done also, and I couldn’t help but thinking to myself, ‘I wonder if he’ll capture the pain in his eyes,’ which gave me an urge to laugh. That’s probably the smile that the artist captured on my face – a slightly sadistic one.27

After we had our portraits done, we went back to the room and chilled out for a while. Then we donned our suits again, plus ties this time and left for a musical performance of the Lord of the Rings which began at 7:30pm. Unfortunately, we were ten minutes late, but the show was still fantastic (no pun intended). It would be fair to say that it actually blew me away, and that at several points (especially the ending), I even ‘got something stuck in my eye.’ I just found the whole concept of ordinary people standing up for what they believe in, and in so doing, becoming extraordinary, inspiring. I loved seeing these warriors fight the forces of darkness, because it speaks to my soul.28

I also loved the individual twist they put on the whole thing due to artistic license, and it was refreshing to see it presented in such a radically different way. At one point, the ‘orcs’ even came out into the audience and started terrifying the people, which was very entertaining. The only things I would mention would be the actor who played Aragorn, who felt it necessary to put on a ridiculously guttural voice in order to sound fierce, and the actor who played Gandalf, who sounded unnecessarily camp and who had a tendency to get a little indecently excited for a wise, grand wizard. However, Gollum was absolutely brilliant, and the actor portrayed his split mind and his insanity very effectively. The scenes with the Balrog and later with Shelob were also very impressive. The whole thing just smacked of quality, and it was obvious that a lot of effort and resources had gone into it.29

After the show, we walked home through the very busy streets, and I got a pasty from the pasty shop. We didn’t eat out because Ciaran didn’t feel like eating, which again, was a sign of how ill he was. We were both very tired besides, not having gotten much sleep last night, and our beds seemed very appealing to us. When we got in, I went online for a while and mostly just chatted to people, as I was too tired to start writing again. Then, eventually, we both went to bed.30

In the morning we got up at approximately 9am, and I had a cold shower, packed and wrote a little more. Then we travelled via the hurtling subway to the train station, and I shook hands with my friend again, said that I hoped that he got better soon, and apologised about the mess I’d made on his carpet. Then, we parted ways, and that was the end of my London experience. And here, I may as well write down some thoughts and observations on myself and the city.31

One of the first things that became apparent to me was how many advertisements there were plastered all over the place. They even had mobile electronic screens propped up in corners so that they could flash sound and images at you as you glided down the escalators. And then there were the billboards, stuck to the walls everywhere. A thought that occurred to me while I was waiting for the train home was how it almost seemed as though the line between art and advertisement had become blurred. Oh, and another thing: I got so sick of seeing Gordon Ramsay’s face all over the place, as it somehow manages to combine a spectacular paradox of babyishness and belligerence on its pugnacious features. I hope he reads this someday and realises what a belligerent, foul-mouthed jerk he is. There were also a lot of images portraying a rather juvenile ideal of beauty: blonde hair, sparse frame and vacant, blue eyes (Paris Hilton).32

Another thing I noticed is something which I notice a lot in other places, but which was more pronounced in London. It was how oblivious the people seemed to one another as they walked along. They were like completely isolated islands merely drifting by one another in an ocean of time. They are so absorbed in their own lives and in their own worlds, that none of them ever seem to simply stop and observe, or wonder about the people around them. I was constantly looking around, trying to find another observer like myself, but there were none that I could see. I often felt that I was moving through syrup. The atmosphere of the place was almost that thick, and I felt quite bombarded at some points. One quite distinct thought I had was, ‘I am such a dreamer, and a sucker for beautiful women.’ I also felt quite lonely. Ciaran can be very aloof and rigid at times, and I often wished that I was with someone more able to let their hair down and really not care about what other people thought about them. He is so conscious of other people’s opinions, and that made me conscious, too. I would prefer to break away from that.33

On an ending note, the greatest personal revelation came to me in this form near the end of my trip: one of my purposes in life is to serve as a commentator on humanity; an observer who stands outside of the box. And finally, my trip to London made me feel somehow larger in a metaphorical sense, and when I returned to Handsacre, it seemed very much smaller than before. It makes me feel stagnant and restless, and I feel that I have changed somehow, and it makes me look very much forward to any and all future travel. But most of all, walking down the streets of London made me feel like a lump of clay; a blank page or canvas, waiting to be moulded to a shape or painted or written into something definable. It made me feel completely and utterly like a child in the womb, and highlighted my humble origins. It made me realise how far I have to go. But despite that, I enjoyed my experience, and am glad that I have finally gotten to see the capitol of my country.34