That said, there’s still time around London town, and still more than a few new things to see. Mary’s tied up with a flu – Jaysus, poor Don; Mary Walsh is a diva on a good day, can you imagine a sick, cranky Mary Walsh? – so our trip to the city was delayed yesterday. Myself, Lor, and Kayla opted for the earlier train, to get some shopping and browsing done at Covent Garden, a former fruit and vegetable market from the 17th century that’s now an outdoor assemblage of shops and restaurants and a smaller, more mainstream commercial version of Camden Market.
Once again, I showed how good I am at shopping. Surprise, friends and family who I’ve been thinking so much about for the past three months that I had to get you something perfect: in three hours, I got novelty London condoms and a Will and Kate guitar pick. I officially suck. Merry Christmas.
Admittedly, it could have been worse
In between our weaving through the market, all decorated in lights and Christmas bulbs, we found a wooden pavilion that houses “The Nativity,” a digital, randomized painting depicting the Nativity scene, but also rotating between scenes of cultural evolution.
Some people have called it London’s most unique Christmas attraction. Does unique mean the same thing as crappy? When I read the display, that the painting had a consciousness all of its own, I was just thinking how much the artist managed to suck out of grant funding with phrasing like that.
But who can be miserable around Christmas? Not even Michael Caine as Scrooge in Disney’s A Christmas Carol – which, by the way, was showing at the lavishly decorated Disney Store. I remember getting those songs taped off as a kid – classic.
After we’d bought as much as we were going to manage to get anyway and got good and accosted by a middle-aged Asian dude who offered to give me a back rub, we wanted to find Abbey Road. The street runs through St. John’s Wood, but we got off at Baker Street, mainly because we did the trip on a whim and I had a vague idea that the two were close together. The walk was longer than I thought – it was turning duckish by the time we made it to the crosswalk – but it was a pretty good night for it.
Abbey Road is a residential part of London, but it’s (of course) most notable for EMI’s Abbey Road Studios, where a bunch of musicians have recorded over the years, but none more notable than the Beatles. You know, those English hippy dudes whose biggest musical contributions are “Yellow Submarine” and writing the score for the musical Across the Universe?
"Plus, one of us eventually goes on to be in 'Shining Time Station' "
Their 1969 album, the aptly titled Abbey Road, is not only their final project, recorded during a time of band turmoil, but also popularly considered the band’s finest work, as well as one of the greatest rock albums of all time. The intersection that they walk across on the cover is the one right across from the studio, and it’s a tourist haven to this day, so much so that the present-day studios have launched a 24-hour webcam on their website to capture all the shenanigans.
And shenanigans there are. The whole white wall outside the studio is marked up by fan graffiti, from signature to song lyrics, so much so that it gets repainted every three months. I marked it up in 2007, and I marked it up in 2011 – no touristy picture of us walking across it this time (probably because there were only three of us), but after waiting for the crowd to thin out a bit and the traffic to relax for a few seconds (both happening at the same time is something of a rarity), I was able to get at least one triumphant pose where Paul and the b’ys once trod.
Thanks to Lor for waiting by the side of the road for this perfect moment
It was good and dark once we had wore out all the photo ops at Abbey Road, but still a few more hours before we were due to meet the rest of the crowd back at Covent Garden for the evening showing of War Horse at the New London Theatre, on nearby Drury Lane, home of the Muffin Man. That gave me just enough time to cap off my Secret Santa gift and check out the lights along Covent Garden and Seven Dials.
War Horse, based on a Michael Morpurgo children’s book of the same name from the early 1980s, is the story of a horse and his boy, except that it doesn’t take place in Narnia (or Calormen, if we’re being completely geographically accurate). A jerk of a father buys a foal for way more than it’s worth, but the son, Albert, falls in love with “Joey” (platonic of course . . . at least, that’s what was dealt with on stage . . .), and the horse ends up going from a regretful hangover to a pretty cool addition to the farm. Then, the First World War cramps everyone’s style, and the father gives his son a giant middle finger by selling the horse to the cavalry. Albert responds like a twat and goes right off to war in search of the damn horse, and somehow (even though he ought to be temporarily blind from tear gas) finds Joey, interjects right in the middle of him getting shot and turned into a crate of Elmers, and rides off into the sunset. If you weren’t paying attention for a second, you might think the horse was responsible for ending WWI.
The story is about as simple (read: stupid) a narrative as you get on stage, and the dialogue wasn’t much better. Why did these tickets cost more than anything else we’ve seen in London?
Because everything was staged, right up to the cavalry charges. Morpurgo supposedly said “they must be mad” when he was told his novel was being adapted for the stage, but writer Nick Stafford, in conjunction with Handspring Puppet Company, found a way, and turned it into a big success. The secret involves some really talented puppeteers and some fancy equipment. The mechanical horses, which took multiple people to operate, were about as real as you can get without something that occasionally craps on the stage. War Horse was an incredible spectacle, completely selling out on a Monday night. The horses were so good, you could overlook a whole lot of not so good stuff (like a German soldier and an English soldier shaking hands after freeing Joey from a barbed wire tangle in No Man’s Land).
Once I got to the theatre and walked up the carpeted stairways, I had déjà vu. I’d been there before, I was sure. I just looked, and it checks out – the New London Theatre was the same spot that I saw the Blue Man Group in April, 2007.
Today was another later day heading into London, and one of our last ones as a full group (we’ll be going in for “Leonardo da Vinci: Painter at the Court of Milan” – the unprecedented da Vinci exhibit at the National Gallery where scalpers are now selling tickets for 15 times their retail value – next Tuesday, and then that’s it). And it was a dreary one.
When we got into the city, it was practically dark, and not even 5 o’clock. After wearing a [metaphorical] leash for three months, it was strange for D. Nix to let us go on our own from Liverpool Street, leaving instructions to reconvene at the National Theatre along the Thames later that night. It’s not like we didn’t know our way there or anything – we’ve seen Grief, Mike Leigh in Conversation, The Veil, and Juno and the Paycock there already – but it still felt like a new rush, with the training wheels off.
All along the South Bank, there was an outdoor festive market set up in booths alongside the river, with a lighted carousel at one end, just within the shadow of the candy cane coloured London Eye. St. John’s had better be dressed up for Christmas by now, because there’s no way I can go from this Winter Wonderland to a bare city – my holly jolly good cheer won’t stand for it.
We wandered through the candy and crafts shops, stopping to poke in every so often and take a look. I even had an ostrich burger – that’s right, an ostrich burger – with some grilled onions, which tasted a lot like a non-disgusting breakfast sausage on a bun.
Next time you see an ostrich, I recommend slaughtering it and turning its carcass into patties.
"Why you eatz me?"
Leaving the lights and sounds behind, we continued along the river bank until coming to Doggetts Coat and Badge, a pub that gave us shelter from a typhoon rainstorm the day we visited the Tate Modern and ended up being a consistently cool watering hole in the months afterwards. The Christmas feeling just kept up – the lights were dimmed, the tables lit by candlelight and white bulbs sprinkled in overhanging holly, and mulled cider was the drink of choice. Cheers to that.
Walking out into the brisk night to make our way to the National, someone pointed out that this would probably be the last time we would ever be at Doggetts – definitely the last time the group of us would be there, putting our glasses together in a chin-chin. Thanks a lot, douchebag. That’s what’s going to be the hardest thing to deal with: not the uncertainty of ever coming back to London, but the certainty that, if and when that happens, it won’t be with the other seventeen Harlow students.
That sucks, but now’s not the time – not yet.
We started our whirlwind London theatre tour – whirlwind is right, seeing some 30 different productions over three months – with a comedy, and that’s how it ended. The Comedy of Errors is one of Shakespeare’s earliest, silliest, and shortest plays. Basically, the highly unlikely plot centres around two sets of twins who get caught up in a day of mistaken identities and pandemonium. Kind of like that old Archie comic where the guy with an uncanny resemblance to Reggie makes a pass at Midge – guess who Moose beats up?
Up to this point, the National Theatre has been a bit of a disappointment, and Shakespearean interpretations have been a disappointment. Things were not looking good, especially when the play tonight started off taking itself too seriously, and the laughs just weren’t coming.
Then, things got ridiculous, copious fart jokes happened, a revolving set with a Scooby-Doo-esque chase scene (and a real live ambulance) ensued, and all the players found their strides. Not a bad way to end an autumn of seeing shows throughout the London area.
Walking back over Waterloo Bridge, realizing this could be our last time on the South Bank, it was hard not to think about the first time we walked across the Thames, or the sweltering hot day crossing Hungerford when everyone was nursing a killer midweek hangover. The Thames is a pretty disgusting cesspool in central London, but it’s become a familiar reference point since September – seeing it beneath a sky that was actually pretty clear, with the lights of the city illuminating all the major sights within an eye span, from Big Ben and Westminster all the way up to St. Paul’s . . . well, it’s been nice knowing you, London – you great big, glorious, fantastic son of a bitch.
Thanks for everything.
Cheers,
rb
PS: It’s November 23, which means there’s one more week left to Movember, the international, month-long challenge to raise money and awareness for men’s health issues. The ’staches of the Canadian Upper Lips are coming along, but the cha-ching needs some momentum. If the impulse should strike, you can find more information and a spot to donate here. Either way, I get one more week to look like someone’s creepy uncle who hugs too long, so everyone wins.
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