Arriving at the infamous Heathrow ariport, it certainly lived up to it’s reputation is being a shit fight to end all shit fights in the line up to border security. I believe it took no less than 2hours to escape the madness. I can only imagine what tourists at the moment are going through with the Olympics looming. I did recently read, they were thinking of adding a “low risk” fast track line for the old commonwealth countries… much to the malign of other supposed -by all things relative- high risk countries. We did curse ourselves for not having the forethought to apply for our “Right of abode” and dual passports to which we are respectively entitled, in order to jump the queue into the British Nationals line.
Other Australians were already starting to find cracks in my patience. Is this how we act when we’re let loose on the world?. Sure thing it can be seen as all “larrikin” to be cheeky and jump the queue, ( you would get a right telling off, for doing that in AUS, and you know it!) but this group of middle aged, round and slightly hippie looking women and one “by the apron strings” man, who I assume was one of their husbands took advantage of the fact that no-one else is really quite as rude and brazen, and everyone else is far too polite to yell at you for cheating the system. I really could’ve yelled at them too.. feeling responsible for other Australian’s behavior, and not wanting them to represent me.. but to be quite honest I was glad they had fucked off away, from my sight and hearing range. ( We later learned that seeing other Australians in random parts of the world is quite irritating*) My patience is thin when Im tired. And Ive already outlined what a shithouse flight it was to get here.
Completing the queue, while irritating, was also kind of exciting. I’d never been to England and it was all a bit awesome.
Once we were through, Mr. P had more of an idea where to go. We rang our mate, and arranged to meet at King’s Cross. Posting pictures on FB, and laughing at some friend’s comments about name similarities. First thing to organise – Oyster card.
Everyone who has been to London ( Frankly, just about everyone other than me) knows, how much more efficient this system is than, that which we use in Sydney ( paper tickets ffs) and I was suitably impressed, after I had heard all about it from Mr. P in the past.
Since having come back to Sydney and recently caught the train to Newtown, I was repulsed at just how disgusting and unkempt our trains are allowed to be. Seriously, give some people some jobs, cleaning! and, that scratching graffiti in the glass.. it just looks like shit. Don’t try it.
Arriving at “The Fellow” I was just in a bit of awe. At first I had to compare what I’d seen, to something I already knew. Melbourne. But even cool Melbourne town, doesn’t have the air of sophistication I could feel around here.
Large beers were in order, as per usual and that they were.’ Catch up’ conversation with poet almost laureate Pervoe, and we ordered some pretty nice food. ( Again I couldn’t help compare, and this time, like most games of cricket, Australia won against Englad. Who can beat Aus or NZ Lamb? not even the so called “mother country”.) The veggies did win that fight though. I was extremely amused by the menu which says “game may contain shot” ew. I thought to myself that I was not in Kansas any more.
From there on, is blur of two pound beers and collecting pork scratchings from various pubs. About which,I was quite excited after watching a Doco a while back about all the different “Black country” pork products I might be privy to, once I arrived on British soil. I pretty much found one brand and that was that. I did manage to smuggle 2 packets back into the homeland. But am loathe to eat them due to Pork scratching overload, which I later experienced as quite unpleasant. The difference, I worked out all on my own, is that pork scratchings still have the fat attached. Unlike the commercial pork “Crackle” or whatever they call it here. It can be quite sickening.
We did: Tower Bridge and the Tate Modern. We did Shop. We shopped a fair bit in Camden Lock. Go there if you’re in any way cool. I did something less than PC and bought a vintage rabbit fur coat. The lady selling it claimed was from 1983. It looks rabbit, and it looks fucking fabulous. It therein was referred to as “Lapin“. This must be said in the French accent, and pronounced loudly as “LAH -PAAAHHN” for full effect. I didn’t think it through though, as I then had to cart it everywhere from there on.
Jet lag hit me on the third day quite hard, and I sadly missed the Pub and darts evening that ensued that night. I just wanted to beat that horrible horrible feeling. I think managed it that night. Hit a wall and 8:30pm bed time. Next day I was good from then on in I was in another time zone completely, and I liked it there, very much indeed…..
To be continued, it really is too much in one sitting. Like most English meals.
*except for Australian who we were actually there to see.