There is nothing more frustrating that dedicating your free time to taking the piss out of Londoners and the English (please note that these are different races), only to find that when you pop home for a visit you miss the bastards.
This week I find myself back in Australia, although it is obvious to everyone (especially to me,) that I have brought a little bit of London back with me. In attitude, beliefs, the rain and even my hairstyle...although I doubt any city will put up their hand to take credit for my latest follicle creation.
Most of my racial intolerance back home seems to be coming from what I will dub ‘speed issues’; everything seems to move a little bit slower here and ironically despite the two stone that my frame could do without, I am used to things moving a little faster.
I have rediscovered that friendliness is likely to impede speed of service. I am so unaccustomed to someone talking to me when they take my order (or speaking English for that matter,) that I feel almost uncomfortable by the pleasantries. All I can think of is that if the waiting staff persist on enquiring how I am, they will reduce the likelihood that I am going to get food before I chew off my arm…or someone’s ear.
The government has ensured that the pace of life remains somewhere between ‘coma’ and ‘dead’ by providing internet speeds that would make Bulgaria blush. Australia, as a result, is eleven hours ahead and yet ten years behind. It would be faster to do a global reconnaissance, than to type something into Google and get a response. That is if you can access the net in the first place; for some reason the phenomenon of wifi seems to have escaped an entire continent and most Australians believe that you have to be tied to a wall to use the net. I am happy to report that they do have microwaves…they are just waiting for electricity.
Hell, even the speed limits for motorists are slower than in London. This is probably for the best, as it is unlikely that the Asian cars that the locals here drive would survive another 20kms per hour.
I heard this morning on the news that over 300,000 people have been rescued off the coast of NSW since the introduction of surf life saving back in the 1940’s. I am tempted to joke that these poor bastards were just immigrants from London trying desperately to get back. Then I look at the mountain of Sydney souvenirs that I am going to try and cram into my suitcase for my flight home. I will do this maybe in an attempt to remind me of my roots and the country that I annoyingly love so very much…even if it does drive me insane. The locals will tell you it is a short drive anyway, even in an Asian compact.
Showing posts with label Australian in London. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Australian in London. Show all posts
Sunday, 14 February 2010
Monday, 8 February 2010
Foreigner in London column: Contagious Customer Service
I discovered today that it is possible to catch English.
As I checked in with Thai Airways I was told that the seat I had requested had not in fact been reserved. This was an interesting turn of events, as I had confirmed my seat via the phone just a few hours earlier. My inability to identify the name of the call centre person I had spoken to meant that I was essentially accused of being delusional by Thai Airways. They seemed to conclude that I suffered from a rare strain on mental illness where the only symptom is imagining contact with call centre staff.
The airline could not give me an explanation. Nor did they apologise or make any effort to fix the situation. Am I am a gold card carrying member of Star Alliance…I feel really sorry for the rest of you. At least I have junk mail to look forward to that doesn’t involve the local pizzeria or mini cab company. At this moment I am struggling to identify any other perks that go with the card.
Whilst waiting in yet another queue to try and get someone to help me at Heathrow I suddenly realise that I am not dealing with Thai Airways employees. The people checking me in describe themselves as ‘contractors.’ I have concluded that the definition of a contractor is someone who is not contractually obliged to take any responsibly for problem solving. I look forward to making a significant impact in a similar role myself one day. It may also not surprise you to learn that these contractors who were proving to be entirely usless were English natives.
So apart from feeling sorry for the non gold card customers, I felt sympathy for Thai Airways who have just lost a customer (one who has done no less than four return trips from London to Sydney with them.) Actually I don’t feel that sorry for them, as they have seated me next to a man who may or not be Hagar the Horrible. I let him take the armrest in case he tries to club me.
I start to think of all the other global brands that have left their reputation in the hands of English customer service.
Getting Benetton to take back a faulty jacket last year took up one too many hours on the phone. Had these phone calls not given me a valid reason to excuse myself from meetings at work I would have most certainly held a grudge.
Then there are the folks at McDonalds who at 10.31am become entirely unable to fry up my beloved Sausage & Egg McMuffin because the clock tells them so…whether you have been waiting in line to be served for 10 minutes is of no consequence to them.
As I type this I am advised by the flight attendant (sorry in this case there title does not warrant capital letters), that they have a record of me reserving my seat on my return flight. When I ask why I might do that rather than reserve a seat on my outbound flight, I have a piece of paper waved in my face and am told that this is ‘evidence.’ Yes, evidence that this flight attendant has spent too long a stop over in London and caught a bad case of English.
Another attendant then rushes over and says that my seat has been given to a last minute booking, and therefore I cannot have my seat. I am unsure how this last piece of information is likely to achieve anything other than make more order even more gin. I make a metal note to investigate the correlation between alcoholism and flying Thai Airways.
If only Newton was alive to see the airline turn gold back into a non precious metal.
Until there is a cure, I guess the best thing for global brands is to quarantine their staff after any time spent in the UK, or dedicate a proportion of profits to finding a cure for being English.
As I checked in with Thai Airways I was told that the seat I had requested had not in fact been reserved. This was an interesting turn of events, as I had confirmed my seat via the phone just a few hours earlier. My inability to identify the name of the call centre person I had spoken to meant that I was essentially accused of being delusional by Thai Airways. They seemed to conclude that I suffered from a rare strain on mental illness where the only symptom is imagining contact with call centre staff.
The airline could not give me an explanation. Nor did they apologise or make any effort to fix the situation. Am I am a gold card carrying member of Star Alliance…I feel really sorry for the rest of you. At least I have junk mail to look forward to that doesn’t involve the local pizzeria or mini cab company. At this moment I am struggling to identify any other perks that go with the card.
Whilst waiting in yet another queue to try and get someone to help me at Heathrow I suddenly realise that I am not dealing with Thai Airways employees. The people checking me in describe themselves as ‘contractors.’ I have concluded that the definition of a contractor is someone who is not contractually obliged to take any responsibly for problem solving. I look forward to making a significant impact in a similar role myself one day. It may also not surprise you to learn that these contractors who were proving to be entirely usless were English natives.
So apart from feeling sorry for the non gold card customers, I felt sympathy for Thai Airways who have just lost a customer (one who has done no less than four return trips from London to Sydney with them.) Actually I don’t feel that sorry for them, as they have seated me next to a man who may or not be Hagar the Horrible. I let him take the armrest in case he tries to club me.
I start to think of all the other global brands that have left their reputation in the hands of English customer service.
Getting Benetton to take back a faulty jacket last year took up one too many hours on the phone. Had these phone calls not given me a valid reason to excuse myself from meetings at work I would have most certainly held a grudge.
Then there are the folks at McDonalds who at 10.31am become entirely unable to fry up my beloved Sausage & Egg McMuffin because the clock tells them so…whether you have been waiting in line to be served for 10 minutes is of no consequence to them.
As I type this I am advised by the flight attendant (sorry in this case there title does not warrant capital letters), that they have a record of me reserving my seat on my return flight. When I ask why I might do that rather than reserve a seat on my outbound flight, I have a piece of paper waved in my face and am told that this is ‘evidence.’ Yes, evidence that this flight attendant has spent too long a stop over in London and caught a bad case of English.
Another attendant then rushes over and says that my seat has been given to a last minute booking, and therefore I cannot have my seat. I am unsure how this last piece of information is likely to achieve anything other than make more order even more gin. I make a metal note to investigate the correlation between alcoholism and flying Thai Airways.
If only Newton was alive to see the airline turn gold back into a non precious metal.
Until there is a cure, I guess the best thing for global brands is to quarantine their staff after any time spent in the UK, or dedicate a proportion of profits to finding a cure for being English.
Monday, 1 February 2010
Foreigner in London column: Un Australia Day
I couldn’t enjoy a beer to welcome in Australia Day this year as the staff at A&E didn’t have a bottle opener.
I was with a friend who had taken ill, and whilst I did have a couple of bottles of beer in my handbag I had no way of opening them. (Please note I did make several attempts to take off the cap with the aid of an oxygen bottle.) To avoid being conscious on my country’s national day I did ask one of the nurses for morphine, but was told that there was none to spare…even though I flashed my private health insurance card at them.
Embarrassingly several days earlier I had had to Google ‘what date is Australia day?’ to remind myself when I should adorn myself in green and gold. It is easier to remember the date if you are living in Australia, as they quite rightly celebrate with a day off. A ‘day off’ being a euphemism for the largest piss up an island has seen…until the next year.
When I first moved to London, I did try to explain to my office that I needed to be able to celebrate Australia Day (ideally with a day off) or at the least with some decorations on my desk that may or may not include a blow up marsupial. Sadly this outburst of national pride is something that the locals don’t really understand, and not just because it was my national day I wanted to celebrate and not theirs. Unless national celebrations are in some way linked to their beloved football team, the locals in London don’t seem to get that worked up about very much at all. This is made all the more worse by the fact that their team is pretty dismal. This is not based on opinion just observation that there has been over 40 years between trophies. Even my school hockey team boasts a better track record.
So I didn’t drink beer, I couldn’t remember what date I was supposed to be drinking beer on and after 8 hours in A&E I couldn’t even face the thought of having to find where I last left my alarmingly gaudy rugby jersey to wear to the office.
I could only describe myself as Un-Australian. This is perhaps the greatest insult that you can pay to an Australian. You either stand for all that is Australian or you don’t… we are pretty black and white about things. Being Australian means celebrating Australia Day unashamedly, not understanding why Marmite has the edge of Vegemite, self combusting if you don’t get on a plane at least once every two weeks and making everything you say sound as though it is a question.
Was I starting to lose my Australianess? Had four years in London finally robbed me of most of my savings as well as my identity? Just as I start to panic I glance at my mantle piece, which shows off flowers that I borrowed from the garden next door. Now if ignoring a fence or too isn’t Australian I don’t know what is.
I was with a friend who had taken ill, and whilst I did have a couple of bottles of beer in my handbag I had no way of opening them. (Please note I did make several attempts to take off the cap with the aid of an oxygen bottle.) To avoid being conscious on my country’s national day I did ask one of the nurses for morphine, but was told that there was none to spare…even though I flashed my private health insurance card at them.
Embarrassingly several days earlier I had had to Google ‘what date is Australia day?’ to remind myself when I should adorn myself in green and gold. It is easier to remember the date if you are living in Australia, as they quite rightly celebrate with a day off. A ‘day off’ being a euphemism for the largest piss up an island has seen…until the next year.
When I first moved to London, I did try to explain to my office that I needed to be able to celebrate Australia Day (ideally with a day off) or at the least with some decorations on my desk that may or may not include a blow up marsupial. Sadly this outburst of national pride is something that the locals don’t really understand, and not just because it was my national day I wanted to celebrate and not theirs. Unless national celebrations are in some way linked to their beloved football team, the locals in London don’t seem to get that worked up about very much at all. This is made all the more worse by the fact that their team is pretty dismal. This is not based on opinion just observation that there has been over 40 years between trophies. Even my school hockey team boasts a better track record.
So I didn’t drink beer, I couldn’t remember what date I was supposed to be drinking beer on and after 8 hours in A&E I couldn’t even face the thought of having to find where I last left my alarmingly gaudy rugby jersey to wear to the office.
I could only describe myself as Un-Australian. This is perhaps the greatest insult that you can pay to an Australian. You either stand for all that is Australian or you don’t… we are pretty black and white about things. Being Australian means celebrating Australia Day unashamedly, not understanding why Marmite has the edge of Vegemite, self combusting if you don’t get on a plane at least once every two weeks and making everything you say sound as though it is a question.
Was I starting to lose my Australianess? Had four years in London finally robbed me of most of my savings as well as my identity? Just as I start to panic I glance at my mantle piece, which shows off flowers that I borrowed from the garden next door. Now if ignoring a fence or too isn’t Australian I don’t know what is.
Saturday, 23 January 2010
Saatchi Sister
I have decided to become an ‘art baron.’ Please note I made up this new title, but it truly feels like what I want to do with my life after my two recent visits to the Tate Modern.
I am unsure whether I am qualified. If it does involve having large amounts of cash, it may be a slow climb to the top. As I look around my sitting room I also hope it doesn’t involve actually having good taste. I say this specifically with reference to the framed takeaway menu on my wall (if you had eaten there you would understand.) I might have to settle for being less than an art baron, maybe just an ‘art bar,’ which on the upside might mean I get free membership to the Members Bar on the Tate top floor.
A girlfriend asked me to go all arty on the day that London got down to -11 Celsius. As it was -15 in my basement flat I decided a stroll along the Thames would warm me up.Upon arrival she asked me what I wanted to do first. My response was ‘Bathroom, bookshop, then art. In that order.’ This also does not bode well for my baron potential. Yet within 2minutes of being in the ‘Pop Life’ exhibition I knew that no matter how stacked the odds are against me I wanted to be involved with art. The fact that I draw like an epileptic and can barely dress myself is a minor detail.
Having met Tracey Emin last year and subsequently developed some kind of career role model crush on her, I spent most of my time hovering over one particular glass case. In there were obscenities scrawled across everything she could get her hands on. If writing the word ‘fuck’ on every texture provided by God isn’t art then I don’t know what is. I cannot bring myself to say the same thing about a calf in a vat of formaldehyde, and I was tempted to offer to get in there myself for several million pounds. My friend most certainly would have obliged.
What I did next however does lead me to believe that I do in fact have potential: I went on a bar crawl that started in the Tate Modern and wound up somewhere near Tower Bridge. I say ‘somewhere’ as the only record I have of the last place we went was is my camera and the shots involve a bowl of what is hopefully olive oil. I will leave this one to Colombo, but I like to think that these shots are a testament to my ability to find and even create art. I wonder whether out of professional courtesy I should offer the shots to Charles Saatchi before someone else snaps them up.
When I sober up the next day, I decide to go back and start my collection of work that shows ever slightly more potential than my own: I buy a Tracey Emin print. When I get it home however I realize that it will have to stay in a drawer, as it doesn’t really go with my framed menu.
My spell check has just advised me that I am unable to spell the word 'exhibition' without assistance, so I may after all have to take a glance at the job section to see if there is something more appropriate than ‘art baron.’
I am unsure whether I am qualified. If it does involve having large amounts of cash, it may be a slow climb to the top. As I look around my sitting room I also hope it doesn’t involve actually having good taste. I say this specifically with reference to the framed takeaway menu on my wall (if you had eaten there you would understand.) I might have to settle for being less than an art baron, maybe just an ‘art bar,’ which on the upside might mean I get free membership to the Members Bar on the Tate top floor.
A girlfriend asked me to go all arty on the day that London got down to -11 Celsius. As it was -15 in my basement flat I decided a stroll along the Thames would warm me up.Upon arrival she asked me what I wanted to do first. My response was ‘Bathroom, bookshop, then art. In that order.’ This also does not bode well for my baron potential. Yet within 2minutes of being in the ‘Pop Life’ exhibition I knew that no matter how stacked the odds are against me I wanted to be involved with art. The fact that I draw like an epileptic and can barely dress myself is a minor detail.
Having met Tracey Emin last year and subsequently developed some kind of career role model crush on her, I spent most of my time hovering over one particular glass case. In there were obscenities scrawled across everything she could get her hands on. If writing the word ‘fuck’ on every texture provided by God isn’t art then I don’t know what is. I cannot bring myself to say the same thing about a calf in a vat of formaldehyde, and I was tempted to offer to get in there myself for several million pounds. My friend most certainly would have obliged.
What I did next however does lead me to believe that I do in fact have potential: I went on a bar crawl that started in the Tate Modern and wound up somewhere near Tower Bridge. I say ‘somewhere’ as the only record I have of the last place we went was is my camera and the shots involve a bowl of what is hopefully olive oil. I will leave this one to Colombo, but I like to think that these shots are a testament to my ability to find and even create art. I wonder whether out of professional courtesy I should offer the shots to Charles Saatchi before someone else snaps them up.
When I sober up the next day, I decide to go back and start my collection of work that shows ever slightly more potential than my own: I buy a Tracey Emin print. When I get it home however I realize that it will have to stay in a drawer, as it doesn’t really go with my framed menu.
My spell check has just advised me that I am unable to spell the word 'exhibition' without assistance, so I may after all have to take a glance at the job section to see if there is something more appropriate than ‘art baron.’
Monday, 11 January 2010
My unfair lady
It has just occurred to me that I talk funny. I don’t have an accent when I talk in my head (and believe with the volume of conversations that go on in there, I would know.)
Having lived in London for four years I sort of assumed that I would now be mistaken for a local…the upside down smile and the fifteen additional kilos I am carrying not being enough. Yet I was taken aback on the phone today when, after announcing to the person on the other end that I was an Australian, back came ‘no shit’ as the response.
I must point out that thousands upon thousands of Australian dollars (approx £2) was wasted on elocution lessons in high school. My mother wanted to ensure that even in Australia I wouldn’t sound Australian. Had these lessons not been taught by a nun who was convinced I was the anti-Christ, I may have turned up to a few more of my Wednesday morning lessons. Believe me, after six years it becomes harder and harder to explain how it is possible for the public transport system to be thrown into turmoil at exactly the same time every Wednesday morning, or how every one of the 127 goldfish you claim to have had during high school seems to meet its maker on a Tuesday night.
I should not be that surprised that my accent can be detected; hell I can tell when the author of an email is Australian. The first clue is that words are shortened. It has always surprised me that a race of people considered to be hardworking (settling a wild island does tend to take it out of you,) are so lazy that they cannot even be bothered to finish the words coming out of their mouth. Afternoon becomes ‘arvo’ in most cases, in my case because the faster I finish talking about going to the pub in the afternoon the faster I can get on with getting there.
One morning on the tube (my beloved BMW has not coped with the cold spell and alas is not even a tasty enough model to be served up as a frozen dessert) I try and listen into the different accents around me. It is then that I realize I do not even know what a Londoner sounds like (apart from angry.) There are only a handful of people who do sound like they may be on their way to sell fruit or fish at the local market, the rest are Eastern Europeans and Americans (they may be Canadian and if so are they not just known for being almost American anyway?) Another clue that the six-figure sum spent on my education was not entirely fruitful.
So I realize that every Londoner sounds a bit foreign, it’s just a question of how foreign you are? And if it was between sounding like the call backs for Eliza Doolittle or a baddie in a James Bond flick or Danni Minogue I think I would chose the later anytime. Ideally my breasts would be more like hers as well.
Sister Sonia, if you are reading this, I must confess that the goldfish body count between 1988 and 1993 was zero. Although there really was a Mexican Walking Fish whose demise broke my heart. If it’s any conciliation my penance, it seems, is to one day, many years from now, end up sounding like I am selling them.
Having lived in London for four years I sort of assumed that I would now be mistaken for a local…the upside down smile and the fifteen additional kilos I am carrying not being enough. Yet I was taken aback on the phone today when, after announcing to the person on the other end that I was an Australian, back came ‘no shit’ as the response.
I must point out that thousands upon thousands of Australian dollars (approx £2) was wasted on elocution lessons in high school. My mother wanted to ensure that even in Australia I wouldn’t sound Australian. Had these lessons not been taught by a nun who was convinced I was the anti-Christ, I may have turned up to a few more of my Wednesday morning lessons. Believe me, after six years it becomes harder and harder to explain how it is possible for the public transport system to be thrown into turmoil at exactly the same time every Wednesday morning, or how every one of the 127 goldfish you claim to have had during high school seems to meet its maker on a Tuesday night.
I should not be that surprised that my accent can be detected; hell I can tell when the author of an email is Australian. The first clue is that words are shortened. It has always surprised me that a race of people considered to be hardworking (settling a wild island does tend to take it out of you,) are so lazy that they cannot even be bothered to finish the words coming out of their mouth. Afternoon becomes ‘arvo’ in most cases, in my case because the faster I finish talking about going to the pub in the afternoon the faster I can get on with getting there.
One morning on the tube (my beloved BMW has not coped with the cold spell and alas is not even a tasty enough model to be served up as a frozen dessert) I try and listen into the different accents around me. It is then that I realize I do not even know what a Londoner sounds like (apart from angry.) There are only a handful of people who do sound like they may be on their way to sell fruit or fish at the local market, the rest are Eastern Europeans and Americans (they may be Canadian and if so are they not just known for being almost American anyway?) Another clue that the six-figure sum spent on my education was not entirely fruitful.
So I realize that every Londoner sounds a bit foreign, it’s just a question of how foreign you are? And if it was between sounding like the call backs for Eliza Doolittle or a baddie in a James Bond flick or Danni Minogue I think I would chose the later anytime. Ideally my breasts would be more like hers as well.
Sister Sonia, if you are reading this, I must confess that the goldfish body count between 1988 and 1993 was zero. Although there really was a Mexican Walking Fish whose demise broke my heart. If it’s any conciliation my penance, it seems, is to one day, many years from now, end up sounding like I am selling them.
Saturday, 2 January 2010
Xmas miracle
Given the subject matter covered in my blog, I am always tremendously relieved that my family doesn’t read it, this post being no exception.
I know they won’t be reading it because they suffer from a severe case of technical retardation. Symptoms include a lack of desire to work out how to get online. This is common disability amongst Australians, who cannot imagine that everything they need to know is not found in their local paper. Happily what they won’t find in their local paper is this confession; I think I had my best Xmas ever in London, despite no one at the table swimming in my gene pool...for the best really, as it is rather shallow.
Now the fact that I was terribly intoxicated by 1pm obviously had nothing to do with it. Nor did the fact that with my neighbors away, I was able to dance naked to Madonna with the blinds up before I went off to lunch. I am joking of course: I dance naked to Madonna with the blinds up even when they are home.
Am I the only one who had never worked out that Xmas is far less stressful when you spend it with people you don’t know that well? No one cares what you do; because there is a very good chance you will never see each other again…that, and the fact they are just as hammered as you are. So there is no judgment when you ask for a vodka and coke at 11am, or a second vodka and coke at 11.03am.
There is also no judgment passed when whilst watching The Sound of Music you reveal to this room of strangers that you are sexually attracted to Captain Von Trapp. Admittedly after five bottles of Veuve and Moet the Captain is making everyone tingle…even the blokes.
The other bonus of Xmas with strangers is that because everyone brings a dish, you inadvertently reduce the odds of sitting down to a meal that leaves you rushing to find if there is a McDonalds open. Even if there is one dish that you would rather slip into a pot plant, the rest is pretty darn wonderful. If my host is reading this, I am sorry I really should have mentioned the incident with the pot plant sooner.
The only culinary drawback of Xmas with strangers is that you finally get confirmation that as you always suspected your mother overcooks her carrots. ‘Overcook’ being an uncharacteristically polite euphemism for ‘murders.’ The massacring of vegetation is not really such a travesty; you didn’t eat them at home, and when you are with strangers you don’t have to clean your plate. In fact on reflection if I had asked for a bucket of gravy and a snorkel instead of a knife and fork, no one would have battered an eyelid.
Even the presents are better. No one attempts to second guess what you might like, and so they just buy you something that anyone with a pulse would like; in my case a set of wine glasses. How did they know? Santa Claus never contributed to my liquor cabinet. This is how I knew he wasn’t real; anyone who really knows me would have slipped me some crystal and ideally a cocktail of lets say legal stimulants, instead of a Cabbage Patch Doll.
By the time I get home from Xmas at almost midnight I was so drunk I could barely walk, again nothing new for the neighbors. Well, except for the bit where I started undressing before I got the door open. Which I can report lead to a rather unfortunate case of frost bite, given the below freezing temperature.
So next year I am just going to wander into someone else’s house and see if they will have me, but not before I dance around naked. For old time's sake.
Here’s to the people who are no longer strangers: Amanda, Em, Jo, Peter, Tim and the two little girls who made me fall back in love with Xmas.
I know they won’t be reading it because they suffer from a severe case of technical retardation. Symptoms include a lack of desire to work out how to get online. This is common disability amongst Australians, who cannot imagine that everything they need to know is not found in their local paper. Happily what they won’t find in their local paper is this confession; I think I had my best Xmas ever in London, despite no one at the table swimming in my gene pool...for the best really, as it is rather shallow.
Now the fact that I was terribly intoxicated by 1pm obviously had nothing to do with it. Nor did the fact that with my neighbors away, I was able to dance naked to Madonna with the blinds up before I went off to lunch. I am joking of course: I dance naked to Madonna with the blinds up even when they are home.
Am I the only one who had never worked out that Xmas is far less stressful when you spend it with people you don’t know that well? No one cares what you do; because there is a very good chance you will never see each other again…that, and the fact they are just as hammered as you are. So there is no judgment when you ask for a vodka and coke at 11am, or a second vodka and coke at 11.03am.
There is also no judgment passed when whilst watching The Sound of Music you reveal to this room of strangers that you are sexually attracted to Captain Von Trapp. Admittedly after five bottles of Veuve and Moet the Captain is making everyone tingle…even the blokes.
The other bonus of Xmas with strangers is that because everyone brings a dish, you inadvertently reduce the odds of sitting down to a meal that leaves you rushing to find if there is a McDonalds open. Even if there is one dish that you would rather slip into a pot plant, the rest is pretty darn wonderful. If my host is reading this, I am sorry I really should have mentioned the incident with the pot plant sooner.
The only culinary drawback of Xmas with strangers is that you finally get confirmation that as you always suspected your mother overcooks her carrots. ‘Overcook’ being an uncharacteristically polite euphemism for ‘murders.’ The massacring of vegetation is not really such a travesty; you didn’t eat them at home, and when you are with strangers you don’t have to clean your plate. In fact on reflection if I had asked for a bucket of gravy and a snorkel instead of a knife and fork, no one would have battered an eyelid.
Even the presents are better. No one attempts to second guess what you might like, and so they just buy you something that anyone with a pulse would like; in my case a set of wine glasses. How did they know? Santa Claus never contributed to my liquor cabinet. This is how I knew he wasn’t real; anyone who really knows me would have slipped me some crystal and ideally a cocktail of lets say legal stimulants, instead of a Cabbage Patch Doll.
By the time I get home from Xmas at almost midnight I was so drunk I could barely walk, again nothing new for the neighbors. Well, except for the bit where I started undressing before I got the door open. Which I can report lead to a rather unfortunate case of frost bite, given the below freezing temperature.
So next year I am just going to wander into someone else’s house and see if they will have me, but not before I dance around naked. For old time's sake.
Here’s to the people who are no longer strangers: Amanda, Em, Jo, Peter, Tim and the two little girls who made me fall back in love with Xmas.
Saturday, 12 December 2009
Gobble Gobble
I have just survived my first Thanksgiving in the States unscathed, however now I do walk around under the impression that consuming just three meals a day is for people who lack ambition.
When I was there I had to eat something I didn’t want to, which for me is saying something. I had to eat my words.
For some time it has been a sport for of mine (and most Londoners) to slag off Americans. Maybe the participation rate of this sport is so high because it is pretty darn easy to win a place in the finals. Three words: war on terror. But our cousins across the pond do have something over us Londoners: a genuine capacity to relax and enjoy themselves without artificial stimulants (yes this includes X Factor.)
The joy that radiates from Americans during Thanksgiving is almost thermonuclear. At first I just assumed that the saturated fat had finally triumphed to become the number one ingredient in their brain. Then I realised that these jolly people were just genuinely happy. This emotion was difficult for me to recognise after living so many years in London. Their joy was also contagious. I even eventually gave in and found myself saying ‘happy holidays’ to every person who crossed my path. The odd poodle also had to endure my new found desire to spread goodwill. I didn’t even know what my annoying new greeting meant...admittedly I should've been able to crack this verbal code.
I only truly understood its meaning when Thanksgiving Day itself came around.
Never in one place have I seen so many potatoes, and I have been to Ireland on several occasions. Happy holidays indeed. My first task of the day was to peel all 20lbs of them for my hosts. Manual labour has never brought me so much pleasure.
Had I had an understandable heart attack at that moment, I would have died a happy woman. Nothing could have topped the sight of all those potatoes sitting in the pan, waiting for greatness. That is until I saw the cooking appliance in which my gravy was being made. I say ‘appliance’ deliberately, because anything that needs to be plugged in is surely an appliance. My gravy was being housed in the world’s largest crock-pot: undoubtably the two sweetest words in the English language.
Now I finally understood my host’s insistence that I wear sweat pants to lunch. This meal called for clothing without boundaries.
As promised the day consisted entirely of eating, drinking and watching TV in comfortable trousers that could sleep two. The genius of Thanksgiving being that unlike at Christmas time there is no requirement to make a pilgrimage to church, and no pressure to spend money on others (when you would obviously rather be spending on yourself.)
So I wondered why us London folk have not adopted this truly transformational holiday, after all our love of lard based products would make it easy for us assimilate. When it comes down to it, I am convinced it is simply because Thanksgiving would require us to relax to a point that would make us feel uncomfortable; loose clothing, spontaneous displays of affection and the decision to set a straw next to the knife and fork to aid gravy consumption. What if someone saw us? Making an arse of ourselves is reserved only for reality TV shows. Reality is something else.
So sorry Londoners, the Americans have got at least one thing right (please note that Americans have got the following things wrong: The Amish, cheese products in a spray can, any member of the Bush family, American Football, Dr Pepper and Britney Spears.)
I do wonder however whether I would be so happy to eat my words if said words weren’t smothered in gravy.
God bless the gravy makers: The Moore, Zajac and Plunkett families.
When I was there I had to eat something I didn’t want to, which for me is saying something. I had to eat my words.
For some time it has been a sport for of mine (and most Londoners) to slag off Americans. Maybe the participation rate of this sport is so high because it is pretty darn easy to win a place in the finals. Three words: war on terror. But our cousins across the pond do have something over us Londoners: a genuine capacity to relax and enjoy themselves without artificial stimulants (yes this includes X Factor.)
The joy that radiates from Americans during Thanksgiving is almost thermonuclear. At first I just assumed that the saturated fat had finally triumphed to become the number one ingredient in their brain. Then I realised that these jolly people were just genuinely happy. This emotion was difficult for me to recognise after living so many years in London. Their joy was also contagious. I even eventually gave in and found myself saying ‘happy holidays’ to every person who crossed my path. The odd poodle also had to endure my new found desire to spread goodwill. I didn’t even know what my annoying new greeting meant...admittedly I should've been able to crack this verbal code.
I only truly understood its meaning when Thanksgiving Day itself came around.
Never in one place have I seen so many potatoes, and I have been to Ireland on several occasions. Happy holidays indeed. My first task of the day was to peel all 20lbs of them for my hosts. Manual labour has never brought me so much pleasure.
Had I had an understandable heart attack at that moment, I would have died a happy woman. Nothing could have topped the sight of all those potatoes sitting in the pan, waiting for greatness. That is until I saw the cooking appliance in which my gravy was being made. I say ‘appliance’ deliberately, because anything that needs to be plugged in is surely an appliance. My gravy was being housed in the world’s largest crock-pot: undoubtably the two sweetest words in the English language.
Now I finally understood my host’s insistence that I wear sweat pants to lunch. This meal called for clothing without boundaries.
As promised the day consisted entirely of eating, drinking and watching TV in comfortable trousers that could sleep two. The genius of Thanksgiving being that unlike at Christmas time there is no requirement to make a pilgrimage to church, and no pressure to spend money on others (when you would obviously rather be spending on yourself.)
So I wondered why us London folk have not adopted this truly transformational holiday, after all our love of lard based products would make it easy for us assimilate. When it comes down to it, I am convinced it is simply because Thanksgiving would require us to relax to a point that would make us feel uncomfortable; loose clothing, spontaneous displays of affection and the decision to set a straw next to the knife and fork to aid gravy consumption. What if someone saw us? Making an arse of ourselves is reserved only for reality TV shows. Reality is something else.
So sorry Londoners, the Americans have got at least one thing right (please note that Americans have got the following things wrong: The Amish, cheese products in a spray can, any member of the Bush family, American Football, Dr Pepper and Britney Spears.)
I do wonder however whether I would be so happy to eat my words if said words weren’t smothered in gravy.
God bless the gravy makers: The Moore, Zajac and Plunkett families.
Thursday, 10 September 2009
Group Therapy
If London were a person, it would have been diagnosed with multiple personality disorder a long time ago. The therapy bill from Harley Street would have just about been affordable, if we split it 7 million ways. I make this observation after two very different pieces of junk mail were pushed through my letterbox this week. The first was promoting a local cab company, which proudly claimed; ‘If the driver is not wearing a tie, there is no charge.’ The second was a promotion for the NSPCC, claiming that one in seven kids in London are victims of domestic violence. The only consolation for these kids appears to be the fact that their dads are likely to be well dressed and will say ‘thank you’ after giving them a good belting. How can any city have such two very different sides to its personality?
Take my local area for starters.
I had a hunch that I had moved into one of the better areas when I went to my local butcher and discovered that they handed out postcards of the shop to customers. I had only come in for a kilo of sausages. This is the same kind of service you would expect to find an expensive hotel offering over paying guests, (Sadly my butcher didn’t extend to getting me an escort for the night.) The printing costs they incurred explains why my lamb & mint sausages cost £8.99 a kilo, at that price I had wondered whether ‘mint’ was a euphemism for a more aromatic and illegal substance. I confirmed that it really was mint after conducting an experiment whilst cooking, which involved me putting my head under a tea towel and frantically sniffing.
Yet on the same day that I went to the butchers the London papers were reporting on a very disturbing survey, conducted by home delivery giant Ocado on the capital’s shopping habits. It turns out that my neighbourhood buys the least amount of deodorant per capita in the whole of London. This includes the areas where the residents can’t even spell the word deodorant (this doesn’t really narrow things). There are two possible reasons for our seemingly poor hygiene: firstly we know that the more money you have, the more likely you are to try and subject people to your scent; Britney, Kylie and Jade being exhibits a, b and c. Perhaps more plausibly the locals in my area may just be just rubbing their underarms with fifty pound notes in lieu of having a bottle of ‘Sure’ (that’s ‘Rexona’ to you antipodeans) to hand.
The rest of the city provides other symptoms synonymous with multiple personality disorder to support my diagnoses. Take life North and South of the Thames. Very simply the difference is that there is no life South of the Thames. This is not my opinion; it is the opinion of the town planners who came up with the aptly named 'Dulwich.' Never did two such different places exist or evoke such rivalry (slight exaggeration if you take into account the whole West and East Berlin thing). I once had a heated row with a girlfriend when I pointed out to her that there was nothing worth crossing the river to go south for. She reminded me that the member’s bar at the Tate Modern was South of the river. I agreed to concede that this was indeed a reason to cross, if she would concede that the cocktails served there would have to be pretty strong, to numb the pain of being mugged at the end of the night. I passed out before I heard her reply…the hand luggage size handbag she swung at my head, was faster than my vodka affected reflex to duck.
Then there is the East end of London which has an entirely different personality to the West end of town. Apparently the East end is cool. Again I struggle to see this as I rate coolness and access to weapons after nice restaurants on the list of things I am looking for in a community. A guy I work with proudly wears an ‘I love Hackney’ t-shirt. I think that it came free with his 100th gram of cocaine, as there is no other way to explain pride in an area where a London Transport worker once explained to me that ‘you can’t get the black cab where there is the black people.’ Apparently arty people need to live in the East as it enhances the tortured, creative souls. Maybe if they moved West they would feel less tortured. They tend to, but only after they have sold a diamond-studded skull to an art collector for 50 million pounds. The artist in question probably had to take out loan for the rest of the deposit he would need to buy a two bedroom flat in the Royal Borough of Chelsea and Kensington. And he is probably still saving up to be able to buy a local residents parking permit.
I am told that the first step towards psychotherapy is recognising that you need help, but I have a feeling that there are 7 million people perfectly happy to embrace the madness that is London. We just don’t want professional help. As I sit typing this I notice that another flyer has been slipped through the letterbox on my front door mat. It is a timetable for church services asking me to come and ‘repent’ this Easter in order to save my soul. I will think about it, but they had better give me a free postcard.
Take my local area for starters.
I had a hunch that I had moved into one of the better areas when I went to my local butcher and discovered that they handed out postcards of the shop to customers. I had only come in for a kilo of sausages. This is the same kind of service you would expect to find an expensive hotel offering over paying guests, (Sadly my butcher didn’t extend to getting me an escort for the night.) The printing costs they incurred explains why my lamb & mint sausages cost £8.99 a kilo, at that price I had wondered whether ‘mint’ was a euphemism for a more aromatic and illegal substance. I confirmed that it really was mint after conducting an experiment whilst cooking, which involved me putting my head under a tea towel and frantically sniffing.
Yet on the same day that I went to the butchers the London papers were reporting on a very disturbing survey, conducted by home delivery giant Ocado on the capital’s shopping habits. It turns out that my neighbourhood buys the least amount of deodorant per capita in the whole of London. This includes the areas where the residents can’t even spell the word deodorant (this doesn’t really narrow things). There are two possible reasons for our seemingly poor hygiene: firstly we know that the more money you have, the more likely you are to try and subject people to your scent; Britney, Kylie and Jade being exhibits a, b and c. Perhaps more plausibly the locals in my area may just be just rubbing their underarms with fifty pound notes in lieu of having a bottle of ‘Sure’ (that’s ‘Rexona’ to you antipodeans) to hand.
The rest of the city provides other symptoms synonymous with multiple personality disorder to support my diagnoses. Take life North and South of the Thames. Very simply the difference is that there is no life South of the Thames. This is not my opinion; it is the opinion of the town planners who came up with the aptly named 'Dulwich.' Never did two such different places exist or evoke such rivalry (slight exaggeration if you take into account the whole West and East Berlin thing). I once had a heated row with a girlfriend when I pointed out to her that there was nothing worth crossing the river to go south for. She reminded me that the member’s bar at the Tate Modern was South of the river. I agreed to concede that this was indeed a reason to cross, if she would concede that the cocktails served there would have to be pretty strong, to numb the pain of being mugged at the end of the night. I passed out before I heard her reply…the hand luggage size handbag she swung at my head, was faster than my vodka affected reflex to duck.
Then there is the East end of London which has an entirely different personality to the West end of town. Apparently the East end is cool. Again I struggle to see this as I rate coolness and access to weapons after nice restaurants on the list of things I am looking for in a community. A guy I work with proudly wears an ‘I love Hackney’ t-shirt. I think that it came free with his 100th gram of cocaine, as there is no other way to explain pride in an area where a London Transport worker once explained to me that ‘you can’t get the black cab where there is the black people.’ Apparently arty people need to live in the East as it enhances the tortured, creative souls. Maybe if they moved West they would feel less tortured. They tend to, but only after they have sold a diamond-studded skull to an art collector for 50 million pounds. The artist in question probably had to take out loan for the rest of the deposit he would need to buy a two bedroom flat in the Royal Borough of Chelsea and Kensington. And he is probably still saving up to be able to buy a local residents parking permit.
I am told that the first step towards psychotherapy is recognising that you need help, but I have a feeling that there are 7 million people perfectly happy to embrace the madness that is London. We just don’t want professional help. As I sit typing this I notice that another flyer has been slipped through the letterbox on my front door mat. It is a timetable for church services asking me to come and ‘repent’ this Easter in order to save my soul. I will think about it, but they had better give me a free postcard.
Monday, 22 June 2009
Peek a boo hoo
‘All the world’s a stage,’ if we are to believe Shakespeare, who admittedly does come across as a pretty knowledgeable sort of a chap. Much to my surprise it seems that Londoners do not agree with his stage direction, or for that matter his belief that people should extend their communications skills beyond grunting. Grunting, as we know, is something that bus drivers can only aspire to.
The city in which celebrities choose to give birth on TV, have their wedding vows printed in magazines and give press interviews on their deathbed apparently has a limit. That limit has come surprisingly in the form of Google’s new Street View service, which has turned the city of London into a stage.
Londoners this week were outraged that Google had jeopardised their privacy by launching a service whereby people at home could observe every street in the capital whilst the locals performed mundane tasks. Channel 4 on the other hand were outraged that Google had managed to turn the entire city into an over crowded version of the Big Brother house, just with better haircuts.
The only mistake that Google really made was not telling Londoners that they were going to be apart of the world’s biggest reality TV show. Had the people of London thought that this was all some kind of audition the only complaint would have been that they had not been featured for long enough, or not at all. Their attempts to make sure that they had their 15 minutes of fame would have given Google and us armchair spectators some far more interesting footage. Which would be a breath of fresh air to workers in the office blocks where Facebook is banned.
If I knew that Google was auditioning Londoners I would walk, rather than run to my garbage bin every morning in my pyjamas in an attempt to impress any talent scouts watching at home. Given I wear pink pyjamas covered in piglets it is unlikely that I would be picked up for any TV work, other than maybe a cameo in The Muppets.
Google could have spiced things up further by promoting the fact that Simon Cowell and his X Factor judges would be trawling the images for his next star/puppet. If they are interested in doing this they should do it before Danni Minogue’s Botox induced facial paralysis spreads to her eyes. The latest photo on her official website would indicate that this is imminent.
Revenue from a public phone vote covering categories such as the worst dressed homeless person, the best vomit and teenage girl most likely to give birth in nine months would have ensured that the service paid for itself. It would also pay for the fleet of security vehicles Google will need to take more of these images in future. Google’s press office (run by Americans I would guess) didn’t think it was an issue to reveal to the knife wielding population of London, that Google had a number of spy cars with cameras on the streets taking these shots. My money is on the next version of Street View only covering a select number of the less dangerous areas, that or Google investing in some really long lenses.
There will be some people who are genuinely worried about their privacy, who would be relived to see the Street View service discontinued. I have in mind the middle-aged couple which I overheard panicking recently on a BA flight coming into Heathrow Terminal 5. The landing video announced that passengers would be filmed on arrival at the new terminal. The woman was in quite a state at the thought of being filmed like a common criminal, until her husband put down the copy of the Daily Mail he was studiously reading and reassured her that only foreigners would be filmed. I wondered at the time what they had to hide (and whether in fact they were the two people on the planet best suited to each other.) I guess we all have something we want to hide, such as the flowers in a vase on my dining room table which look suspiciously like the ones in my neighbour’s flower box. It’s times like this I could really embrace Google’s policy to blur the faces of people caught on camera. Alas the piglet pyjamas would be a give away.
As it stands the things I am most distressed about are: realising that my mother will know I am lying when I say I am keeping my front garden tidy. Also on Street View there appears to be a good looking guy walking past my place and had I been given prior warning of this phenomena I would have placed a bear trap outside my front door.
I do find it interesting though that Google has managed to launch this service in other countries without journalists or would be Daily Mail readers self combusting. Hell, they even launched it in Australia without much fuss. I can only assume this is because Australians were just relived that someone other than Baz Luhrmann had decided to bring an interpretation of Australia to the world.
Most curious of all is why anyone who has spent time on the streets of London would want to use this service in the first place. A friend of mine recently gave me directions to her flat. They went something like this: ‘Come out of the tube, walk past the Cock pub, you’ll run into an army of charity collectors, go past McDonalds, keep going as far as KFC, and then we are the flat above the betting shop.’ If all the world really is a stage then just maybe this is one play that should never be adapted into the movie.
The city in which celebrities choose to give birth on TV, have their wedding vows printed in magazines and give press interviews on their deathbed apparently has a limit. That limit has come surprisingly in the form of Google’s new Street View service, which has turned the city of London into a stage.
Londoners this week were outraged that Google had jeopardised their privacy by launching a service whereby people at home could observe every street in the capital whilst the locals performed mundane tasks. Channel 4 on the other hand were outraged that Google had managed to turn the entire city into an over crowded version of the Big Brother house, just with better haircuts.
The only mistake that Google really made was not telling Londoners that they were going to be apart of the world’s biggest reality TV show. Had the people of London thought that this was all some kind of audition the only complaint would have been that they had not been featured for long enough, or not at all. Their attempts to make sure that they had their 15 minutes of fame would have given Google and us armchair spectators some far more interesting footage. Which would be a breath of fresh air to workers in the office blocks where Facebook is banned.
If I knew that Google was auditioning Londoners I would walk, rather than run to my garbage bin every morning in my pyjamas in an attempt to impress any talent scouts watching at home. Given I wear pink pyjamas covered in piglets it is unlikely that I would be picked up for any TV work, other than maybe a cameo in The Muppets.
Google could have spiced things up further by promoting the fact that Simon Cowell and his X Factor judges would be trawling the images for his next star/puppet. If they are interested in doing this they should do it before Danni Minogue’s Botox induced facial paralysis spreads to her eyes. The latest photo on her official website would indicate that this is imminent.
Revenue from a public phone vote covering categories such as the worst dressed homeless person, the best vomit and teenage girl most likely to give birth in nine months would have ensured that the service paid for itself. It would also pay for the fleet of security vehicles Google will need to take more of these images in future. Google’s press office (run by Americans I would guess) didn’t think it was an issue to reveal to the knife wielding population of London, that Google had a number of spy cars with cameras on the streets taking these shots. My money is on the next version of Street View only covering a select number of the less dangerous areas, that or Google investing in some really long lenses.
There will be some people who are genuinely worried about their privacy, who would be relived to see the Street View service discontinued. I have in mind the middle-aged couple which I overheard panicking recently on a BA flight coming into Heathrow Terminal 5. The landing video announced that passengers would be filmed on arrival at the new terminal. The woman was in quite a state at the thought of being filmed like a common criminal, until her husband put down the copy of the Daily Mail he was studiously reading and reassured her that only foreigners would be filmed. I wondered at the time what they had to hide (and whether in fact they were the two people on the planet best suited to each other.) I guess we all have something we want to hide, such as the flowers in a vase on my dining room table which look suspiciously like the ones in my neighbour’s flower box. It’s times like this I could really embrace Google’s policy to blur the faces of people caught on camera. Alas the piglet pyjamas would be a give away.
As it stands the things I am most distressed about are: realising that my mother will know I am lying when I say I am keeping my front garden tidy. Also on Street View there appears to be a good looking guy walking past my place and had I been given prior warning of this phenomena I would have placed a bear trap outside my front door.
I do find it interesting though that Google has managed to launch this service in other countries without journalists or would be Daily Mail readers self combusting. Hell, they even launched it in Australia without much fuss. I can only assume this is because Australians were just relived that someone other than Baz Luhrmann had decided to bring an interpretation of Australia to the world.
Most curious of all is why anyone who has spent time on the streets of London would want to use this service in the first place. A friend of mine recently gave me directions to her flat. They went something like this: ‘Come out of the tube, walk past the Cock pub, you’ll run into an army of charity collectors, go past McDonalds, keep going as far as KFC, and then we are the flat above the betting shop.’ If all the world really is a stage then just maybe this is one play that should never be adapted into the movie.
Saturday, 14 February 2009
Identity Crisis
Recently whilst sitting in the doctor’s surgery I was asked to complete a customer service survey by the monosyllabic receptionist that the NHS had undoubtedly recruited as some kind of social experiment. The interruption broke my train of thought, I had been preoccupied weighing up the pros and cons of killing the four year old who had just managed to ram a toy truck into my ankle whilst his mother looked on. In the end I decided that it would be more painful for his mother if I kept her son alive.
I agreed to do the survey, knowing that my 4.30pm appointment stood the same chance of actually happening at 4.30pm as the receptionist stood of knowing how to use the pen she handed me. NHS appointments are run with the same efficiency as the London buses. Sadly unlike the buses doctors never come in threes.
Once I had managed to get the pen to work (I assumed yet another social experiment by the NHS) I began ticking boxes with the proficiency of an epileptic civil servant. Often on surveys it is easy to be tempted to bend the truth somewhat. Answering such questions as ‘how old are you?’ or ‘how much do you earn?’ no good can come of you telling the truth. A year off here and an extra zero added there and everyone comes off feeling good. As I was completing this particular survey wearing Ugg boots, odd coloured socks and old sweat pants and looking every one of my 32years, it seemed pointless to lie.
Then there came the question which I would never dream of answering with a lie: ‘how would you describe your ethnicity?’ As ‘bloody foreigner’ didn’t seem to be an option, I scanned the boxes for the best fit. Having been born in Australia of Anglo parents I could have taken pleasure toying with the NHS by ticking ‘Caribbean,’ but the NHS appeared to already have enough problems to cope with. There wasn’t a box for Australian; apparently the survey designer had never been to Earl’s Court. I didn’t want to tick the box ‘other white,’ for two reasons: firstly being the 'other white' made me feel a little too like the other white meat: pork and secondly I didn’t ever want to be grouped into the same box as the Americans. So I ticked the box ‘other’ and scrawled across the line left for further explanation the word ‘Londoner.’
I looked at the paper, realising the significance of what I had done. I had for the first time perhaps most accurately pinpointed the way I saw myself. I was a Londoner. Well, only as ‘floating misfit’ wasn’t an option.’ Maybe that’s what being a Londoner was? I wasn’t even sure if such an ethic group existed. If it did what distinguishes it from other groups?
A Londoner in 2009 is unlikely to have actually been born in London. The fact that so few of them are reliant on surviving a stay in a London hospital ensures the continuation of the race. Those that have been born here will speak with affection about the corner of town that they grew up in, they needn’t tell you where as their accent will tell you that. Perhaps it is more pride that affection. It is a tremendous accomplishment to survive your childhood in a city where more teenage girls carry knives than handbags and where the boys carry sexually transmitted diseases. I looked at the teenager opposite me in the surgery and tried to imagine what he had. He looked like a pin up for Chlamydia.
I wasn’t born here and it remained to be seen whether I survived my first hospital experience. So what made me feel like a Londoner? Sure, I live here, but I have lived in other cities without ever feeling the need to adopt its identity. Was it the fact that every time I saw a moving staircase my body would move to the right unconsciously? Was it that I thought it was unacceptable to have to walk more than thirty metres to get to a beer tap? Or seven metres to a rat? Or two metres to a Starbucks?
Perhaps more interesting was the fact that I would I never be caught dead in an English rugby jersey, yet I would proudly sport a London jersey if such a thing existed. Was I simply a geographical snob? Not much of a snob really to be proud of a town where Z list celebrities have taken on the role and status of Roman Gladiators? These people perform like caged animals while the crowds decide if they should survive or not after each battle. Those that do survive have ‘Celebrity Come Dine with me’ to look forward to. Those that don’t survive have ‘Celebrity Come Dine with me’ to look forward to.
It wasn’t just the people I had to question my affection for but actual the city itself. It had been designed centuries ago by groups of aging men who never expected in their lifetime to physically have to cross the city and so they didn’t allow for that practicality in their planning. Or the need to go to the bathroom during said journey.
So it wasn’t the people. It wasn’t the city. The fact that I was dressed like an Eskimo who had been let lose in a North Face factory sale meant it sure as hell wasn’t the weather. So what made me publicly out myself as a Londoner? I had better work it out as I had ticked the box ‘contact me to discuss further.’ And in a moment of madness I had given my real contact number. This was a rookie mistake, something perhaps that no true Londoner would have done. Where had this sudden outburst of honesty come from? I could feel the convict blood thinning in my veins. In an attempt to reinvigorate my Australianness I handed back the survey but I made sure I slipped their pen into my pocket.
I agreed to do the survey, knowing that my 4.30pm appointment stood the same chance of actually happening at 4.30pm as the receptionist stood of knowing how to use the pen she handed me. NHS appointments are run with the same efficiency as the London buses. Sadly unlike the buses doctors never come in threes.
Once I had managed to get the pen to work (I assumed yet another social experiment by the NHS) I began ticking boxes with the proficiency of an epileptic civil servant. Often on surveys it is easy to be tempted to bend the truth somewhat. Answering such questions as ‘how old are you?’ or ‘how much do you earn?’ no good can come of you telling the truth. A year off here and an extra zero added there and everyone comes off feeling good. As I was completing this particular survey wearing Ugg boots, odd coloured socks and old sweat pants and looking every one of my 32years, it seemed pointless to lie.
Then there came the question which I would never dream of answering with a lie: ‘how would you describe your ethnicity?’ As ‘bloody foreigner’ didn’t seem to be an option, I scanned the boxes for the best fit. Having been born in Australia of Anglo parents I could have taken pleasure toying with the NHS by ticking ‘Caribbean,’ but the NHS appeared to already have enough problems to cope with. There wasn’t a box for Australian; apparently the survey designer had never been to Earl’s Court. I didn’t want to tick the box ‘other white,’ for two reasons: firstly being the 'other white' made me feel a little too like the other white meat: pork and secondly I didn’t ever want to be grouped into the same box as the Americans. So I ticked the box ‘other’ and scrawled across the line left for further explanation the word ‘Londoner.’
I looked at the paper, realising the significance of what I had done. I had for the first time perhaps most accurately pinpointed the way I saw myself. I was a Londoner. Well, only as ‘floating misfit’ wasn’t an option.’ Maybe that’s what being a Londoner was? I wasn’t even sure if such an ethic group existed. If it did what distinguishes it from other groups?
A Londoner in 2009 is unlikely to have actually been born in London. The fact that so few of them are reliant on surviving a stay in a London hospital ensures the continuation of the race. Those that have been born here will speak with affection about the corner of town that they grew up in, they needn’t tell you where as their accent will tell you that. Perhaps it is more pride that affection. It is a tremendous accomplishment to survive your childhood in a city where more teenage girls carry knives than handbags and where the boys carry sexually transmitted diseases. I looked at the teenager opposite me in the surgery and tried to imagine what he had. He looked like a pin up for Chlamydia.
I wasn’t born here and it remained to be seen whether I survived my first hospital experience. So what made me feel like a Londoner? Sure, I live here, but I have lived in other cities without ever feeling the need to adopt its identity. Was it the fact that every time I saw a moving staircase my body would move to the right unconsciously? Was it that I thought it was unacceptable to have to walk more than thirty metres to get to a beer tap? Or seven metres to a rat? Or two metres to a Starbucks?
Perhaps more interesting was the fact that I would I never be caught dead in an English rugby jersey, yet I would proudly sport a London jersey if such a thing existed. Was I simply a geographical snob? Not much of a snob really to be proud of a town where Z list celebrities have taken on the role and status of Roman Gladiators? These people perform like caged animals while the crowds decide if they should survive or not after each battle. Those that do survive have ‘Celebrity Come Dine with me’ to look forward to. Those that don’t survive have ‘Celebrity Come Dine with me’ to look forward to.
It wasn’t just the people I had to question my affection for but actual the city itself. It had been designed centuries ago by groups of aging men who never expected in their lifetime to physically have to cross the city and so they didn’t allow for that practicality in their planning. Or the need to go to the bathroom during said journey.
So it wasn’t the people. It wasn’t the city. The fact that I was dressed like an Eskimo who had been let lose in a North Face factory sale meant it sure as hell wasn’t the weather. So what made me publicly out myself as a Londoner? I had better work it out as I had ticked the box ‘contact me to discuss further.’ And in a moment of madness I had given my real contact number. This was a rookie mistake, something perhaps that no true Londoner would have done. Where had this sudden outburst of honesty come from? I could feel the convict blood thinning in my veins. In an attempt to reinvigorate my Australianness I handed back the survey but I made sure I slipped their pen into my pocket.
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