Day 144-146: London to Berlin

Highlights:

• Torsten, EasyJet employee
• New German friend. Age 12 and 1/2
• House Music
• Alt-J at Astra Kulturhaus
• The ultimate Bucket List entry

Day 144
When I packed for 6 weeks around Europe, I wrote a list, set aside several hours and yet somehow came away without headphones, socks and, most importantly, underwear. On Thursday, very hungover after Dodgeball drinks and within 20minutes, I packed absolutely everything I needed. I think there's some sort of lesson there.

I checked in at Gatwick airport (through electronic boarding pass gates and after some chat with the first friendly baggage check assistant I've ever seen at an airport) and headed for some food. I felt adequately ashamed at heading straight for Wetherspoons, so I pretended to read the Cafe Rouge and Frankie and Benny's menus before slinking back to 'The Flying Horse' for some wine and Fish and Chips. The bartender 'warned' me that my food might take up to 10minutes to arrive. That was fine by me. I know if you eat food straight from the microwave it can be HOTTER THAN THE SUN. Better let that top quality cuisine have some resting time.

I'd been sitting for 3 minutes when my food arrived. Fish and Chips within 5 minutes. Hot fish and chips. Thank god for microwaves. I might have starved to death if I'd had to wait that whole 10minutes. 

I boarded my Easyjet flight via a tunnel. None of that walking out in the cold and boarding the plane from the ground for Easyjet anymore. Oh no. I sensed this was going to be a good flight. I picked a random seat on the plane before realising that Easyjet now have allocated seating. What's happened to this airline? It's suddenly become civilised, organised and not unpleasant. I was sitting next to a German woman before her 12/13 year old son swapped so she could sit next to his dad a few rows down. He started speaking to me in perfect English and after a few attempts at responding in German, I resorted to it too. I imagine this sounds patronising, but I'm pretty sure as a 12 year old I was scared of sitting next to strangers and yet this kid not only did that but also started a conversation in his second language. Impressive. If I were 13 years younger...This family were on their way back from London where they'd been visiting his older sister who was studying there for the year. With a twinkle in his eye, he told me he'd had to miss school to visit her...quite a sacrifice on his part. We took off after a funny introduction by Cabin Manager Torsten (Easyjet have started making jokes? This is mental!) and I watched this kid play Temple Run for the majority of the flight. We shook hands as we came into Berlin and I told him English was good. With a smirk he told me mine was too. I headed out from the airport to catch the train to Schonhauser Allee to where Gurk lived. It was snowy in Berlin, and there was a rail replacement service on the line I needed. Berlin; like home from home. 

Day 145
I did very little during the day. Aside from a quick coffee trip out and a visit to Netto, I sat in Gurk's apartment watching the snow fall on the Cuban embassy until she finished work. She came back for dinner and after some wine we caught the tram to Warschauer Strasse to meet my friend Harry who was staying at the Hostel Plus. Wow. What a hostel. It was massive and like some sort of Mediterranean hotel with potted plants everywhere and a 'super cool' (their words, not mine) swimming pool. Gurk and I headed to the bar to find lots of 18 year olds watching MTV videos and drinking sugary cocktails; we crashed back down to earth then. Harry was with a crowd, some of whom I imagine had risked hyperglycemic shocks with those sugary cocktails, though in his defence he only really knew one of the group; he warned us about two of the guys with a description that suggested they were embodying Dick and Dom. Stellar lads. They'd both gone to some sex spa whilst out there, paying €70 for use of the swimming pool, spa and sex workers. Classy. Last night one of them had slept with an insecure teenage blonde who kept coming over to us asking where he was. They appeared with childish energy and giggles and we had our first interaction when the guy leapt over to us having just spoken to the blonde, smacked his hand three times on the table gleefully, yelling 'what do you do when she tells you you've got a big dick!'. We left soon after.

We headed to a club called Prince Charles which was set in an old swimming pool. The bar area was in the sunken pool area which was still tiled over. We ordered a glass of wine and received BEAKERS of wine in return. We spent the next few hours dancing to House Music. Which apparently I love. House. I don't think I knew what that was before. 

When we were housed out, we caught a train back (they run 24h it's amazing!) and got a kebab.

Day 146
Gurk is moving back to London so is selling every single item in her apartment. We were woken around 9am when a guy came to collect a stand-alone clothes rail. Gurk dismantled it and put it in a bin liner. We were about to go back to sleep on her mattress without bed (that got sold last week) when we heard the comic sound of the bag ripping and metal poles bouncing down the stairs. For €3, he wasn't getting any extra assistance. We went back to sleep.

Gurk had to go to work (ON A SATURDAY) so I lounged about before going to join her at Zoologischer Garten. It was freezing cold. I was waiting a while outside Burger King before I became fed up with drunk men coming up to me (it was 1pm! There are so many drunks in Berlin) and headed inside to keep warm. The only people who come up to you in Berlin are people looking for ein feuer (a lighter) or drunks who I presume want the same but can't form words properly. Gurk arrived and we went to a really cool homely, unexpectedly spacious cafe called Schwarzes cafe. Apart from the slow service (because it was so busy) and the mammoth menu, it was great. Gurk says it's open 24h so she often comes here for a quick beer after she finishes work at 11pm. There's only one good thing in that habit. She ordered some sort of Kaiser crepes, deliciously crusted with caramelised sugar whilst I had ein Omelette. Gurk had to shoot back to work so I sat with a huge soup bowl of coffee, reading the New Statesmen, learning about the real issue behind the Horse Meat scandal. We're not cashing-in on British agricultural potential apparently. And we feed cows expensive soya, instead of the free grass.

We headed back to Gurk's apartment at 5.30pm to find her Canadian friend Sam waiting for us. Sam's in a band called 'Dear Reader'. We drank a Magnum of champagne and then headed back to Warschauer Strasse to go to Astra Kulturhaus to see Alt-J perform. I've seen the band a few times. I mean, they're constantly touring. Barely a week goes by without another Alt-J tour being announced. And they're not known for amazing live performances. They're alright, but not much is normally added to the music seeing them live. Might as well sit at home listening to the album whilst doing a crossword. The band came on around 8.30pm. Pretty early for a headliner, eh? They started with intro and played their socks off. They'd really kicked it up a notch. Perhaps fuelled by the enthusiastic and upbeat audience, or just having got the hang of it after numerous shows, but either way they killed it. The songs were much more powerful than usual and the formats changed slightly to fit the live setting. Brilliant. I've never seen them smile so much. After an encore of Tarot, the house music came up and rather than some gentle post-gig Led Zeppelin folk number, some sort of house music came on and the crowd went mental. It really was a great show.

Afterwards we tried to break into the backstage area. Sam's in a band right? He just kept saying 'we're from the label'. It wasn't working. We didn't know what label we were supposed to be from*. This guy in the car wasn't having any of it. Undeterred, we went further back and Sam climbed over a metal gate whilst I pelted him with snowballs. He came back defeated a few minutes later and a mega snowball fight ensued. It was 11pm and as we became increasingly soaked and covered in snow, Sam kept yelling 'no really, we're from the label! Seriously!'. I fell and whacked my head and knee but that didn't stop my attacks. Gurk took photos as we finished the battle with some snow angels. Sam used the snowball battle to resume his break-in attempts but some angry English guy saw straight through it. Sam and Gurk went to smoke so I lingered in the snow watching the tour bus try to turn on the ice. Twiddling my thumbs looking for something to do, I had a brainwave. I was on my hands and knees rolling the body of a snowman when a man came and offered me drugs. As a 25year old making a snowman on her own outside a music venue in Berlin, I must have looked like the perfect client. "No thanks", I said. "I'm making a snowman". 

Gurk and Sam came back and politely waited as I finished rolling the head and added some stick arms. I stood back, proudly looking at my knee-high friend. Gurk was about to take a photo when a new item suddenly appeared on my mental bucket list. Without a second thought, I kicked the little snowman's head off.  

We briefly went to a bar called KPTN (Captain). Gurk hadn't even taken her coat off when some guy hit on her (presumably saying in German 'keep your coat on, love, you've pulled'). We left shortly after and got a taxi home. Gurk was worried he was taking us down some dodgy route when the guy announced that there were problems with traffic due to some guy called Mario Barth playing at the O2 venue. 12,000 fans were blocking the roads. He's a German comedian apparently. Gurk commented that she hadn't realised they existed. 

We got home and on thinking the snow had given my hair an exotic damp look, I realised I actually looked like a lion. 

*Infectious Records we later discovered.

Game 2: The Jolly Dodgers vs. Dodgy Style

16th January, 2013

Battling their way through a Michael Fish-esque forecasted arctic storm (!), the Jolly Dodgers 2.0 easily made it to Clapham Leisure Centre for the early 7pm whistle. Defying all TFL delay warnings, they in fact arrived 20minutes early, allowing for a significant warm-up session. After discovering last week with relief that no other team had picked bright green for their team shirts, we finally committed the effort to complete the team strip, aiming to design a logo which would fulfil all appropriate categories (with the exception of comedy) and ideally take no longer than an episode of Miranda to create. After several hours of painful Photoshop tweaking, intricate cutting of transfer paper and green staining of the Bermondsey household’s table through Tony’s unsophisticated ironing technique, we were able to emerge with heads held high and a relevant (if barely adequate) team outfit. We hoped this was a two-fold victory; the skull and crossbones would surely intimidate our opposition to a state of petrified wimbling and by passing over T-shirt ownership to each player, we’d never EVER again have to wash the entire team’s sweaty gear. Abbie – we’re all sorry and utterly grateful that this responsibility fell to you.

We were ready – no – more than ready to face Dodgy Style, a team we presume were named to celebrate one of their players I-finally-feel-like-I’m-winning-at-life successful mash up attempt of 90’s classic ‘Good Enough’ with Psy’s 2012 hit. The Jolly Dodgers had a slightly different structure this week with ‘what do you actually do?’ Greg Foot living up to his name-tag by being absent on suspiciously vague work grounds. Back from Canada, 4-season strong Kira returned to the fold, hardened by the North American weather and invigorated by her first visit home in 18months. After fearing that Matt would be absent because of a ‘work dinner’ he turned up dressed in his finest toe trainers. Yeah, we’re talking these hobbit-like bad-boys http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vibram_FiveFingers. How could we lose with that technology to support us?

We recognised a few of Dodgy Style from last season: Kwai, a threatening, basketball-player like opponent and a girl (whose name I don’t know) with an unusual, but effective side-lobbing throwing style. Both were good, and we knew it was going to be tough game.

And so it began with a 3-2-1 FWEEEEEE (that’s the whistle) from the new referee. The first set was intense and closely fought. In one game, down to two vs. two, Kira was unluckily clipped on the ankle just as the whistle blew, bringing the score to 1-2. In the next game, controversy struck! Ellie received a shot to the back of her head (which was positioned at usual head level) that seemed clear to both us and the referee to be an illegal shot (it was obviously accidental, but still illegal), only to discover our opponents felt hard-done by this decision. A short while later the game ended, with the Jolly Dodgers 2.0 on top. Assuming victory of the game, we retreated to our wall for the final game and stood perplexed as there appeared to be some heated conversation between Dodgy Style and the referee. We’re still not quite sure what the actual argument was (does the back of the head not count as the head?), as when making efforts to discuss, Dodgy Style dismissed our interest and angrily (and ‘generously’) allowed us the game...

Possibly with the exception of Tony, the Jolly Dodgers 2.0 are a relatively uncompetitive team. It’s just a bit of a funny game, isn’t it? You can’t be that competitive when you’re the only person left against a full-side and you find yourself leaping about like a camp lord (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Louie_Spence) in the hope that you’ll at least finish the certain-defeat game with some semblance of pride. And we understand that in the heat of the game (which started so closely contested) individual decisions can wind you up slightly, but we were slightly putout by the hostility that this one verdict created. We hadn’t even pressed for the accidental head-shooter to be eliminated, which the Go Mammoth website rules declare was in our right (though this was mainly because we didn’t know about this rule until I just looked it up two minutes ago…)

With childish pride, we can announce that centre-of-controversy Ellie, a primary school teacher from Tooting, responded with equal hostility at what she perceived as un-sportsmanlike, overly-serious conduct (despite my battle terminology of last week, it’s Dodgeball in Clapham not war in the Middle East). In a move presumably learned from her six year old students, she initially refused to continue with the game and then once convinced to rejoin, sulkily lurked at the back of the pitch with a strong level of disinterest, slowly moving out of the way of Dodgeballs. The first set justly went in favour of Dodgy Style, though Ellie staying in until the end, with the other team not realising she was playing at one point due to her deliberate, nonchalant lean against the back wall, felt like a small victory for the downbeat Jolly heroes.

Set two began and perhaps the energising anger of Dodgy Style and the result of 20minutes intense and excessive warming up/pre-game throwing by the Jolly Dodgers 2.0, led to a brutal 5-0 win for the opposition. Their system of substitution was well done, and their team-wide strong throwing meant that most Dodgeballs bounced back to them without interference, allowing for a consistent offensive. No need to say any more about this set.

Aware that we had already lost the game, the Jolly Dodgers 2.0 threw ourselves into set three with abandon. Literally. We all watched in delighted slow motion as just after dealing a front-line throw, Tony dropped into a press-up to avoid an incoming ball and were devastated when it just clipped the back of his ankle. Ben leapt about like a voodoo masked tribesman dancing around a fire and Andy again appeared confused with one or two of the rules. Ellie impressed us as she caught several of fearsome Kwai’s throws and despite a severe case of tendonitis, Abbie proved a solid team mate. With regret though, I must note that Matt’s toe-shoes didn’t seem to improve his game at all. He definitely shouldn’t be embarrassed about wearing them though. Definitely.

As the assault continued, the Jolly Dodgers accepted their crushing defeat with laughter and continued whooping and we hope Dodgy Style’s improved mood was also due to the enjoyment of the game! No hard feelings, and what a team to find yourself up against.

The loft after for commiseration drinks with mutual losers Balls Deep.

Game 1: The Jolly Dodgers vs. 11 Shanes of Grah

9th January, 2013

And so begins a new Dodgeball season. Out of the ashes of the first 'serious' league's grappled-together-and-sometimes-struggling-to-put-out-a-full-side team of 2012, The Jolly Dodgers were hoping a committed, talented set of individuals would arise. With strength to rival Arnold Schwarzenegger, agility to rival Jessica Ennis, elasticity to rival Stretch Armstrong and with every Wednesday night free. After a pre-game strategy planning session/rule run-through and wedge of hydrating orange (well, glass of juice in the Go Mammoth discounted bar), seasoned players Moran and Shaw led the troops into the Dodge Battlefield, walled within Clapham's Leisure Centre. Heads held surprisingly aloft with the shame of the previous season's weak attempts at victory clearly brushed under a carpet and adorned in Sports Direct's finest green polo shirts (RRP two for a fiver) sans comedy logo (as Nicole had been too lazy to design it).

The atmosphere was buzzing as players signed away their safety on the Dodgeball form in exchange for a 2013 Go Mammoth T-Shirt; a noble sacrifice for the stylish red number. Watching the dying stages of a previous skirmish, the time eventually came for The Jolly Dodgers 2.0 to emerge from the sidelines into the enemies’ sight. First came archers Tony and Canadian Matt, with well-acknowledged powerful throws and gymnastically-impressive dodging. Next were the cavalrymen with horse-like grace and drive, new teammates Andy, Ben and Greg, who had only encountered the game at a Dodgeball party three years previously. And last but not least, the Dodgeball fodder infantry(wo)men to make up the female minimum requirement, Nicole, a slightly tardy Ellie and team secretary, motivator and coach Abbie.

The enemy at the gates: 11 Shanes of Grah, (wait, is that Grahhhh? Grey? Gra?) dressed in a less than intimidating mix of greyish T-shirts. First rule of Dodgeball: wear matching team gear if you want to appear at all threatening. One point to the Jolly Dodgers.

The six balls were unevenly lined up, the players restrained themselves to the appropriate wall with a stretched hand or foot, and the yellow Go Mammoth referee brought the whistle to his lips. And so at 7.40pm, Battle began.

New recruits Greg, Andy and Ben impressed with their enthusiasm, power and suggestion of using tactics. Tony hurdled over incoming cannoning Dodgeballs, Matt pelted to the front to smash balls against eager, forward standing enemies and Abbie pulled a muscle. As a dark cloud of pain and nausea descended over our leader, Ellie arrived and enthusiastically threw herself toward the mid-way line, succeeding in destroying crucial members of the other team, though often with kamikaze results. 

Perhaps unbeknownst to her comrades, Nicole only touched the ball twice in the first set, but presumed her dominating presence was vitally influential in the first victorious wave of battle, with the team securing the first set 3-2.

Having had a bit of a stretch, Abbie returned and led the Jolly D's to a 4-1 victory in the second set. The enemies played valiantly. With Dodgeball-friend Jordan a strong thrower and a gazelle-like female jointly impressing/amusing, with her speed, enthusiasm, and frequent newborn-giraffe-on-ice falls, 11 Shanes of Grah (apparently including team members Shane and Grah-am. Clever) offered a good defence, and went into the scuffle with good humour. But even with their energy-restoring system of substitutions, they were no match for the aggressive and powerful machine that was the Jolly Dodgers 2.0.

The game's victory sealed, the team went into the third set feeling pretty relaxed. Tony continued to throw himself around the field like a beach volley ball player trying to look up girls’ skirts, Nicole provided an easy target by turning her back on the enemy to explain the rules to Andy mid-game, and all showed a supreme catching-ability not seen since Australia’s victory and England’s shameful 0-5 defeat in the 06-07 Ashes series. A closely fought set, the still-victorious Bermondsey-initiated collective sadly lost 2-3. They left the combat arena to cheers of support from the onlookers and were declared "a real threat" by one of the Go Mammoth employees.

After filling in for another team, allowing the rookie players a little more practice, the whole team piled into The Loft for post-battle analysis and BOGOF bottles of becks. The merriment flowed, and the Jolly Dodgers 1.1 team proceeded to learn about their new, skilled comrades. The Lancastrian Bear Grylls meets Ross Kemp, ration pack eating Andy, the Wellcome Trust’s PhD extraordinaire Ben and nodule-growing, vagina-throated ‘what do you actually do?’ Greg. Several beers, a slated burger and a few Steve Wright ‘Alllllright! Ooooook!’s later, and a lifelong Dodgeball friendship was established.

Bring on game 2.

Day 71: London

Highlights:

• William Kentridge, an animated-film artist at the Tate Modern
• Jamie and Jimmy do Southend
• Some insider gossip/hearsay about that Billericay Facebook party

I had a nightmare last night. I think I've had the exact same nightmare before, so it was even worse as I knew what to expect; DEATH. It was a survival of the fittest competition meets Masterchef and/or SmART. I had a craft activity to complete but like many Masterchef contestants, I'd left myself too much to do and not enough time. I was trying to fill a box with squares of card, and the nightmare was just me and my teammate hacking through cardboard with scissors trying to make thousands of squares to fill this box. We could feel the defeat in the air, and someone murderous (Gregg Wallace?) was lurking over us. God knows what those squares were for. I woke around 3am with a genuine feeling that I was about to be hunted down and killed. I watched some Gnomeo and Juliet on my KindleFire, hoping a cartoon would settle me. It did, but just a quick comment on the film Gnomeo and Juliet (based on, wait for it...Romeo and Juliet); I appreciate the appeal of animated films with celebrity voices, but that film is ridiculously overcrowded. Virtually every single person is famous (IMDB here). I watched the entire thing just picturing Maggie Smith, Ozzy Osbourne and everyone in a studio saying their lines. You just can't take it seriously, not even when Patrick Stewart's Shakespeare statue comes alive and reels off the plot of Romeo and Juliet to a garden gnome.

I got up around 10am (what's that? You were all up for work at 7am?) and listened to some more Local Natives. I went to the gym in the afternoon, on the way passing a cyclist who was riding with no hands and wearing a badly-fitted bright blue balaclava with a lot of extra room above his tiny head*. I looked at him and as I did he let out a MASSIVE burp (more on this later).

After the gym I walked up along the river to the Tate Modern. I was planning on going further to the Oxo Tower where there's a free wildlife photography exhibition (here) before realising I couldn't give a flying monkey about wildlife photography. You've sometimes got to draw a line between your wish to absorb as much free stuff as possible and going to stuff that's ridiculously dull and doesn't interest you JUST because it's free. The Tate Modern had a free exhibition on in the Tanks by an animated-film artist called William Kentridge, called 'I am not me, the horse is not mine'. Apparently it's a Russian peasant phrase denying all guilt. I think the Tanks are relatively newly opened and they're on the same level as the Turbine Hall (still disappointingly empty). The main room is octagonal with concrete walls and flooring and broken concrete staircases which lead to nowhere. This exhibition was a selection of William Kentridge's films which he'd made in preparation for the production of an Opera based on a book by Nikolai Gogol about a guy who's nose leaves his face and starts causing trouble, I think. The films are different lengths but are played on a loop until they all sync up again, at which point the soundtrack starts again. It's an odd exhibition, with the meaning hard to gauge as there are so many different references, but it's an interesting experience. You can sit on the floor and watch the films again and again if you like, and it's never boring. The music works perfectly as well, with a Russian track turning into an African track at some point (presumably influenced by Kentridge's South African heritage). This was the style of some of the animated videos:

As I left the Tate Modern I walked past a guy in a hat and to my horror, HE BURPED AS WELL! Two in one day! I find burping gross. Seriously, it's got to be one of the rudest and most disgusting of all the bad habits. It's face level! And it gives you no time to escape! I walked a bit further thinking about how I'd probably include that double whammy in the blog when, no joke, ANOTHER GUY BURPED AS HE WALKED PAST ME. What the hell was going on? Since when did it become ok to burp in the street when you're in earshot of other people, and what has everyone been eating?!

Back home, I called my mum to compare notes on our recent Pontins experiences. She'd gone there for a gym weekend in 2010 (pre-refurb). Turns out not a lot had changed in the refurb, except the carpet in the main room was cleaner in my memory than from her descriptions. She said it was sticky and gross when you had to get down on the floor to do sit-ups. Perhaps more interesting than this was her take on the Pauline Gardens Facebook party (see yesterday's blog post), as heard from some of the kids at her school who supposedly went. They told her that someone had pooed in a bed (reminiscent of the scene in Misfits where Nathan tries to do it to the new girl) and someone else flushed a hedgehog down the toilet. The 'hedgehog' actually turned out to be a piece of Broccoli. That embellishment in mind, they also said the mum was a junkie who was drugged out of her mind. The papers have her as a church leader who provided the party with soft drinks:

I mean, I imagine those fosters and WKD were definitely lined up by the riotous, yet considerate-about-beverage-storage, party guests...I just don't know who to believe. One of the sides at least isn't all bad; either the mum had broccoli in the house (considerate about diet) or the party kids bought it with them as a healthy party snack between alcopops. Mum said the boy who fell through the ceiling was the son of my old driving instructor. He was playing on the insulation stuff in the loft. It's nice to know that that's actually dangerous, as I always used to think my parents were lying about it.

In other news, apparently Jamie Oliver and Jimmy (surname?) have taken over the cafe on Southend Pier:

We spent the evening eating a Tesco £10 meal deal (we're talking feta and spinach stuffed parcels, rather than one of those bags of Chinese food), drinking wine and looking at photos of that monkey in IKEA in Toronto wearing a sheepskin jacket:

It reminded us of this youtube video (I'm so sorry): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5_sfnQDr1-o


End of day 71.

*During a conversation with Abbie later, I learned that the technical term for someone with a small head is Microcephaly. She works with a kid on placement who is considered a medical miracle, as his microcephaly has left him with an underdeveloped brain but with white and grey matter mixed together. Apparently he should not be able to function at all, though he's been going to school as normal for 10 years. 

Day 70: Camber Sands to Hamstreet to Ashford to London

Highlights:

• Taxi driver from Hamstreet to Ashford
• Showering
• Going Dark at The Young Vic

There was a somewhat optimistic check-out time of 10am. I managed to get the ball rolling and started clearing up the jelly and mulled wine remnants of the previous day. I took our keys to the pirate ship to check out; this formal process consisting of our keys just being dumped in a pile with no ticking off of the number on them. Pontins just about does ATP (though it really was a brilliant weekend. The best sort of festival you can imagine).

Chris Bunting from Farnham offered to drive us to Rye, if we didn't want a lift all the way to Guildford. We picked the former, though due to some poor navigation on his part we ended up in Hamstreet in Kent. He gave us both hugs goodbye, and thanked us for our hospitality and welcoming natures. We didn't share contact details. 

Turns out Hamstreet has an extremely irregular train service, and the next train was coming from Rye with (we expected) a packed carriage of ATP goers. We decided to try the bus, though just as we were walking to the bus stop, one pulled out. The next bus wasn't for 50minutes. We truly were in the middle of nowhere. We called a cab, and a nice Ashford local came to pick us up. He was a United fan, as his only football influence as a youngster was from his Uncle who lives up North. Definitely not a glory hunter; did you know that Manchester United were relegated in the 70s? This guy supported them throughout. He dropped us at Ashford International with some useful stats; it's only 50 miles to London from Ashford and this new Hi-Speed train takes 36minutes. I jumped off the train at Stratford International and left Paddy to go to King's Cross. He needed to get home quick to sleep, ahead of going to 'the Ryder Cup of Pool' at York Hall in Bethnal Green. Yeah, it exists: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mosconi_Cup.*

I arrived home and SHOWERED. I spent the afternoon unsubscribing myself from all the remaining mailing lists I'd been added to when I entered those competitions in late November. I received a message from my friend Lucy showing me the headline about the Facebook party in Billericay. It was on her old road, Pauline Gardens and just seems a little extreme for suburban Billericay. The article is a tad confusing (here) as it seems to suggest the mum was there for the entire party and continued to let guests in even though the house was being completely trashed. Still, I've promised Abbie and Tony that when they're away for New Year I DEFINITELY WON'T hold a Facebook party at our flat. Definitely. 

Tony came home from a long day at the Studio (11-3pm, then a few beers in the pub) and invited me to the theatre in place of his original date, Ian. Ian works at a company which (I think) consults theatres on sets, lighting and sound for their shows, and they fund him to buy a number of tickets for plays each month as research. He had to pull out last minute to fulfil Dad duties and as Abbie was out, I was third choice to go see 'Going Dark' at The Young Vic (promo photo below). 

We caught a bus which (despite usually including this mundane information in my blog posts) I understand is not at all comment-worthy, except that I think it was the first time I've ever seen Tony on a bus. It was pretty harrowing. Whilst I tried to point out the viewing benefits of the top deck and seeing London in a different way etc., Tony just seemed frustrated that we had to stop to pick strangers up. You don't have to do that in a car apparently. We had the front seats of the top deck though. Just like a couple of year 7s before they get moved on by the older kids. We got there just in time before Tony had a complete meltdown. Abbie's since told me that you have to tell him it's a big red taxi. It's the only way to make it acceptable to him. 

There's a really nice bar above the Young Vic theatre, which I'm not sure if you all know. It's called The Cut and is just quite comfortable, friendly and does a good selection of wines, cocktails and food. Good for dates, I think. There were three plays showing that night though I hadn't realised the theatre had so many different rooms. I've only ever been to the main one before, the last time being to see Bingo with Patrick Stewart (who I unrealistically assumed I'd share a taxi with back to Bermondsey; he owns a pied-à-terre there, you know). Going Dark is being shown in The Maria Theatre. As it was all a little last minute, I had very little info about the play beyond Ian's comments that a lot of it was actually in the dark and it was about the Cosmos. You're advised to leave your coats and bags outside as you had to keep them on your laps during the 75minute performance (presumably for health and safety as people could trip over them in the dark)**. There are lights under each seat to guide you on the way in, but as soon as the performance starts, the room goes completely black. You can't even see your hand in front of you, and there's not even faint light for your eyes to adjust to. 

So, Going Dark is written by Hattie Taylor with assistance from Sound&Fury to really make some powerful connections between the plot and the audio and visual experience. It's a one man play, though there's a recorded voice for another character at various points during the production. As the light came and went, you could see audience members peering to see if there was an actor behind this voice. It really is an incredible show. The limited light, this great actor (and at one point, dancer) and all the sounds around you, alongside some substantial 'accidental learning' about the Cosmos make it well worth going. One of the strongest, most unique shows I've seen in a long time. I left with more knowledge of the astronomy than I EVER picked up at school and wanting to star gaze, though sadly in London we could only see one star. But I now know how to find Polaris (follow the two stars on the front of the plough and it's the constant, though fainter than you'd imagine, star not far ahead), know that Sirius is the brightest star in the sky, with only two planets being brighter (Venus and Jupiter) and know that Orion's armpit is called Beetlejuice. I also know how and why stars turn into Supernovas and that the nearest next galaxy (which can mainly be seen as a blur in your peripherals just below the second 'V' of Cassiopeia) is called Andromeda. I'm not going to use all my knowledge now. Saving that for dinner parties over the coming months. Watch out for my astronomy chat, guys.

We caught the tube back (I could literally feel the relief pour out of Tony) with a greater awareness of sound over vision. I came up with a project for tomorrow's blog. 

End of day 70.

*Apparently Paddy didn't end up going, though he informs me the US were winning after yesterday.
** My one criticism of the performance was the naff collection point they allocated for the racks of coats. The four racks were lined up down a thin corridor with only one entry/exit point and it only allowed single file, so you had to wait for everyone behind you to pile out before you could escape. I mean, it wasn't a deal breaker on my enjoyment of the evening, but still, fix up, Young Vic. 

Day 45-46: London

Highlights:

• Blackwood reunion
• Charge's comedic timing
• Children In Need with Hayley and Alex

THURSDAY

The new Blackberry Facebook app automatically imports people's birthdays into your calendar and so even though I definitely had remembered Thursday's birthday kids, it was an easy reminder that it was my old boss's birthday and on texting him I got an invite to drinks that evening. Socialising sorted, I got out of bed to discover I had horrendous dodgeball muscle ache. It really is one of the best work outs you can have; with all the bending down to collect the balls, the leaping and dodging, and then the throwing you can guarantee you'll hurt at least somewhere you didn't know it was possible to hurt. I shuffled around the house painfully and then after my first beans on toast in a long time (another British cuisine that is under-appreciated on the continent), applied for some jobs and listened to Blitzstein's weird U.S. Air force symphony (remember Blitzstein who was murdered by those Portuguese sailors?) and then some more of the new Bloc Party album. I really love it, so give Kettling a listen at least if you're up for some weird, metally Bloc Party.

I went to give blood at 2.55, but was told there were running 45minutes late as someone was sick and they also only had three beds. I literally live 2minutes away from the venue, so asked if I could check-in but go wait at home. Not allowed apparently. After my aggressive attempt to get you all to stick needles in your arms, the right thing for me to do would have been to wait around and give that day, but I didn't do the right thing and figured I could book into another appointment next week. It'll serve me right if there's a 2hour queue there.

I was going to head to the V&A (the last time I went was about 12years ago, and the William Morris stuff was so boring I've not been back since) but after receiving a fitness message from Abbie and knowing Lewis was at the gym, I decided to go for a run. There's a nice park called Burgess Park between Bermondsey and Peckham which has recently been done-up. It has a lake, a BBQ area, a kids park and some 'green gym' equipment. Not sure if you've seen this, but they're basically just gym machines that are cemented around parks but obviously don't require electricity to run. They have some in Southwark park as well, though they're grouped together. In Burgess Park there's one machine every 30metres. For an isolated workout.

Later I walked my old commute along the Thames, through Shad Thames and across London Bridge into the City. I've accidentally worked in the City for years, and whilst I don't really miss it, there's something cool about the little cobbled lanes and back alleys around Bank. I stopped off at my office to say hi to the building reception guy Joe, and fortunately bumped into my old colleague Chris who walked me to the pub where Banksy was having his drinks - The Cock and Woolpack on Finch Lane. Not a pub I'd necessarily go back to (the worst part of working in the city was mid/post work male drinkers. Awful). So it was Banksy's 32nd birthday (though a 10-Years-Younger style survey he did on his clients that day placed him a fair bit above that). I worked with him my entire time at Blackwood, but only started calling him Banksy like everyone else this year. I used to prefer to wind him up by calling him Andrew. Keep him in his place. It was a good little work reunion. I got all the latest gossip, baby announcements and envy at my freedom. I got a little drunk with my friend Louella and then went home to bed.

Abbie arrived home with her friend Jonny around 11pm, so I got up, put on some clothes and had another drink whilst catching up on Jonny's latest activities. I think I have an affinity with him due to our mutual lack of commitment to higher education. Stuff like that is binding.

FRIDAY
I got up on Friday morning and talked to Jonny for a bit before he went to the Entrepreneurs Conference 2012 at the Excel Centre. He's going in to business by himself as an eco-surveyor (not sure if that is his actual job title but it seems quite apt given that he goes round to properties and tells them how they can save money by implementing certain energy saving changes) after his former boss (at their two-man company) became somewhat impossible to work with. He'd signed up for the conference a while back and knew it was going to be a little bullshit (I think you can make strong comparisons with David Brent's motivational speaking career and those of the speakers there), but he had a mate working at the event who told him Bill Clinton was speaking on the Friday so it was worth going for that at least, and he planned to spend the rest of the day slating the shit speakers on twitter.

Being one of the only people I know to have plans to go top the Excel Centre, I recommended Jonny arrive in style by taking the Olympic/TFL Ski lift from the O2. The best possible use of an Oyster card:

After he left, I did my standard few hours of job searching before committing a full hour to entering on line competition. There are HEAPS of them. I completed loads of surveys targeted at housewives, was asked questions on every possible subject and only called it a day when I became worried that I wasn't putting enough money aside for my funeral (apparently we should all be concerned over the rising costs). A few years ago I did really well out of competitions (two Reading festival tickets, a Field Day ticket, few other miscellaneous gigs and a box of CDs. As I haven't won the lottery since I'm pretty sure I'm due at least an Argos voucher from this latest drive.

I was catching up with the first episode of the new series of The Hour when I heard the charming vocals of baby Charge coming from the living room. Abbie called me in with a "you've got to see this, Nicole!" I popped in to see Charge lying on his front on the sofa with his face smushed to the side. Almost immediately (after seeing me?), he threw up a little bit of milk baby sick on the cushion and settled in with satisfaction. We mopped it up but be careful where you sit next time you're over as we didn't dis-infect at all. More of a wipe really. Just before Ellen left, she confirmed her position as the coolest mum in the world by asking us if we wanted to see something she'd discovered recently, then proceeded to show us how Charge's whole fist could fit in her mouth, leaving his little baby arm looking like a sort of human lollipop stick. Bloody hilarious. She couldn't understand why the other baby mums at the mother/baby screening of Skyfall that morning (it is a 12A) weren't impressed. Squares.

After Charge left (and Ellen with him) I went for a run with Tony. I'm a little out of practice, and his slow run was faster than I'd have been inclined to go at even during my peak 5-times-a-week gyming period (back when my gym was in the stylish old Highbury stadium wing). I've always been a bit of an independent runner. I figure there's no need for anyone else to see me beetroot or judge how often I stop. After being jokingly shoved into a lamppost by Tony (he didn't realise I would actually run slap bang into it), and then him dancing to Carly Rae Jepson as we ran, I think I'm going to continue being an independent runner.

I went to meet Hayley at her flat in Bow in the evening to take her the bottle of wine I'd booze-cruised back from Paris. It was a Medoc. A nice musty number. Good legs. We toasted Hayley's new job and watched some Children in Need. Just a few notes about CIN this year:

• So, first thing's first; what was with the sexy, cartoon Pudsey bear? They kept showing a clip of him dancing sexily to some sort of smooth music, with a really creepy zoom and focus on his crotch area. His little animated hips gyrating to the the beat. Yuck
• Girls Aloud; not sure I approve of their new Stylist. I think drugged, anorexic, fake-tanned, gaunt drag queen is a bit 2007. I don't like to comment too heavily on female image (did anyone hear Clare Balding's amazing statement on HIGNFY about women in media, and newspaper focus on 'sexy' teens turning legal? Completely on the mark) but I really wish they'd grow older a bit more gracefully. They're still only late 20s but their attempts at beauty somehow have the reverse effect of making them look like 50 year old mutton dressed as sunbed lamb. The only one I can look at for longer than five seconds is Kimberley, who has retained a slim but not skeletal figure and some nice warmth to her face, keeping her looking her actual age, if not younger, and making her the only candidate for a half decent role model to young women (though after Darcy Bussell outrageously told her she needed to do a few more sit ups on Strictly this week, I imagine she'll struggle with weight issues before long).
• Good to see Dave Benson-Phillips back in business. After spotting his LinkedIn profile a few years back (http://www.linkedin.com/pub/dave-benson-phillips/21/450/67), I presumed he was struggling. Clearly not if that Horsham charity stint is anything to go by
• The Eastenders/Alan Sugar skit that could have been completely appalling if not for the one slightly redeeming line where he calls Billy Mitchell a 'Cockney SatNav'

I had meant to go to a housecooling party at Dom's (sorry Dom! I had the hat ready and everything) but Alex and Hayley kept me there with extra wine, telling rude jokes regarding the CIB equivalent of working with animals (too inappropriate for this audience I think) and showing me videos of Nick Helm performing (check out "He Makes You Look Fat" here). Even our near friendship-breaking disagreements on the qualities of Matt Baker (hero, if you've ever seen the Blue Peter episode "There's a Nomad In My House") couldn't drag me away. Hayley and I got the friendship back on track when the conversation somehow turned to deaf actors and when I mentioned the pretty, blonde deaf lady from West Wing, Hayley guessed it was the same actress who appeared in the L Word as there couldn't be two people in that category. Yep. It was the same actress.

I left after doing a few lunges behind the couch (my hammies* were killing me) and as Hayley cried with laughter as Alex declared himself victorious for winning a six year relationship with her only by staring at her for weeks across the dancefloor of a student indie club like some sort of creep. No need for roses or sweet talk with Hayley.

* I'm so, so sorry for using the word 'hammies' even as a joke. Sometimes even I want to stop being friends with me

Day 44: London

Highlights:

• World Press Photo 2012 at Royal Festival Hall
• Sir Paul Nurse and the Last Supper at the National Portrait Gallery
• Go Mammoth Dodgeball in Clapham

After a solid morning job search session, I signed up for my next blood doning session. This isn't a good-deed name drop but they're really short of blood at the moment, so if I ever try to convert you to anything, let me just persuade you to pop along to a centre and let some nice/brutal (it's pot luck really) nurses take some blood...they only take a pint, and that replenishes in no time at all. And the smug feeling you get from your good samaritanism is un-quantifiably high. I normally hear a lot of bullshit 'I'm scared of needles'. I'm sure it's a genuine fear, but I think it's probably a good experience for you to face your fear in the name of helping humanity. I'm just saying, you pansies. Plus sides are that you save lives blah blah blah, get free walkers crisps and biscuits, find out your blood type and about all sorts of exotic, if a little niche, sex partnerships that you're probably not even considered (have you had sex with a man who has paid for gay sex in Africa etc.), and get to go on the powerfully-named website www.blood.co.uk.

In the afternoon, I grabbed the tube to Waterloo and then wandered down to the Southbank. After a disappointing stop in the National Theatre (I'd read that they had an interesting exhibition on but the only thing I could see was about jewellery. Yawn), I struck lucky in the Royal Festival Hall where the World Press Photo 2012 winning photos were on show. It's displayed over both sides of the foyer on the bridge level with quite a few prize categories (nature, reporting of world event, individual shots, landscape shots etc.), but I only got around one side before I became a bit too tearful to continue. It's fair while ago now and so in case you've forgotten, 2011 was a bit of a rough year. The Arab spring, the Japanese Tsunami and nuclear disaster, continued economic downtown (leading to 4million US citizens losing their homes according to this display) and all sorts of bad shit for sex workers in Ukraine (HIV hotspot). I'm not sure how long the photos stay up, but you should check it out. It's free and afterwards you can check out the Christmas market tat stands. The stand-out photos in the display include (and if I accidentally sound flippant, I really don't mean to - the photos were really powerful and sobering) the shots of devastated now-rubbled Japanese towns, the Ukrainian interrogation photos, the drug cartel shot of Acapulco* complete with the dawn off arms and head of a man just lying in the street and then somehow the most moving were the photos of the recently evicted families in the US just sitting outside their old properties, surrounded by all their stuff, looking completely desolate. 4million is a lot of people to relocate. Abbie looked at the photos on the other side as well, and her favourite (if not her favourite, at least one she thought was a strong photo) was this:

I headed out across Waterloo Bridge. A man had just bought a Big Issue in front of me and the guy asked me to buy his last one. It was sunny, and I was in a good mood, and the last issue I bought was actually really good. So I bought it, earning a little banter in return that went a little like this:

Man who looked a little like a younger, toothier Hulk Hogan: Where you from?
Me: England, from Essex.
HH: No! You look much more exotic. Like you're from the place with all the Ferraris....(mumbles something that sounds like 'Goodbye')
Me: (affronted slightly by quick end to conversation) Oh, ok, goodbye.
HH: No, goodbye!
Me: Huh?
HH: The place with all the beaches and people in ferraris (acts driving a car). Hoobye!
Me: ...Dubai? I look like I'm from Dubai?
HH: Yes! From Dubai.
Me: Right....ok, that's a compliment I suppose? Thanks

Apparently I also pass as a Middle-Eastern. I walked up past Charing Cross to Trafalgar Square to go to the National Gallery. After a scene in James Bond (it's not a spoiler if I tell you that at one point he's sitting in the room with the Turner and Constable paintings), I had an urge to revisit. It's been about 10 years of no noticeable changes in the layout of the gallery but suddenly they've had a nifty reshuffle of the art in the main rooms, in part to include this cool photo/painting comparison where they put a painting of a naked figure next to a Degas, and a little explanation of the differences and similarities. I charged through the gallery, dominoeing tourists into the walls either side of me, to see my favourites. Cezanne, Claude, Canaletto and that. I was going to add to the 'suggested donation' pot but saw that they'd upped their price. Since then, I've noticed everywhere has done it. The suggestion amount had doubled in the Portrait Gallery. 

First time I went to the National Portrait Gallery it was full of loads of boring old portraits titled 'wealthy merchant's wife' and 'unknown man' and stuff like that. Really dull. I went back a while ago with my friend Tom Mayo to see a painting of Aleister Crowley (that's a Led Zeppelin story for another time), and discovered that the gallery now has a selection of modern portraits, probably making it my favourite gallery in London. There was a photographic/magazine exhibition of Marilyn Monroe and her British appeal, presumably because this year is the 50th anniversary of her death (she died in 1962 for the mathematically deficient). She really started out very sweet looking. Not all glamourous and pouty like the image most of us probably have of her, but just a pretty, happy and lively girl-next-door. The chronological magazine ordering was useful in seeing how she changed. 

Aside from this, there was a £2 exhibition I didn't have time to see (the 2012 Photographic Portrait Prize, featuring Mo Farah and a Pastry Chef) and then the collection of modern portraits. It's broken down into categories now as well, to give equal focus on all key figures in society, rather than just displaying artists' self portraits, so there's a section for politicians, scientists, artists, athletes and a few other categories. Alistair Morrison had taken a probably obvious, but well delivered photo of the last supper, featuring Colin Firth, Michael Gambon and Julie Walters (see here here). There was a bit of a weird head cast by Mark Quinn, which was made out of liquid silicone and the artist's own blood. Yeah, that was a bit gruesome. There was a portrait of Johnson Beharry, who I think probably deserves a particular mention, as he is the only living solider to have been awarded the Victoria Cross. On wikipedia it quotes him as saying 'sometimes you're the bug, sometimes you're the windshield', which I quite like. Nice to see him getting a place in the gallery, rather than focussing solely on David Beckham (a video of him sleeping by Sam Taylor-Wood) and the Beatles. My favourite painting by far is by Jason Brooks, of the doctor and nobel prize winner Sir Paul Nurse. You'd swear it was a photo until you get close and see it's a painting. Incredible. (here). I'm putting a few links on here rather than the actual photos, as I'd really recommend you go see it for yourself.

I walked home from the National Gallery along the river (the below is taken behind the ITV studio part) and whilst on the phone to my Grandma (usually no shorter than a one hour call), missed three calls from Abbie about dodgeball that evening. It was earlier than I realised, so after a super-quick turn around at home, and then a sprint from Clapham North station to the sports centre, I only just made it. 

Abbie and Tony started playing dodgeball last year, and then set up their own team this year. The company that runs it is called Go Mammoth, and after making excuses for months about why I couldn't play, I finally gave in and went along for a match. I bloody loved it. It's surprisingly fun and a really good workout (you ache for days after), and after the first ball flies past you, you lose all fear. Go Mammoth do loads of other sports as well and put together teams of individual players if you're looking to try something new and can't make up a team, or even if you're just looking to make friends. We were three players short, so Abbie called one of the put-together teams for reinforcements. The other team only had two players, so we won by default but we lent them some players and after some feet-dragging by the ref, we got started. On a weeknight you play three sets of three games, which lasts about 40minutes (apparently you play longer on the weekend league). I have what you might call a losing record at dodgeball. We lost each game I played before going away, but then the team started winning. We're not drawing a correlation between those two things. This match was really close. We won a set, they won the next, and then the last set we were tying one game each. In the dying moments of the last game, I was the only person left in against two others. A chance to prove myself at last. So I gathered a ball, flexed my muscles and lobbed it at the weaker one's (the girl's) calves. Only, I'm a bit of an inaccurate thrower, and it just went straight into her arms and so she caught it, meaning I was automatically out. Lose. And it turns out, we hadn't registered with the ref that they hadn't enough players and so it went down as a loss on our record as well. Shit.

We went to the pub after (The Loft near Clapham North), which offered discounts to Go Mammoth players. Two bottles of Becks for £4. It was like uni prices. Almost. I bloody hate Clapham and everything and everyone that is associated with it (only a few, very special exceptions) but this bar took you up a level from the highstreet and had lots of nice sofas and space, and wasn't particularly busy apart from dodgeball players. We hung out with our reinforcement team and some others for a while (see below photo), and then Abbie and I caught the bus to Elephant and Castle where we decided to have a Top Gear style race; her on a Boris Bike, me on the bus. I've been out of London a while, and everything all looks the same in the dark (…) so I sort of forgot where to get off and ended up in the middle of nowhere on a road name I half recognised. I had to wait for another bus for 15minutes, and then that took 20minutes to get back. So Abbie arrived home around 11pm, and I got in just before midnight. My phone battery had died, and Abbie was waiting up like a worried parent. Whoopsy.

* Acapulco like the song. Former holiday resort, now caught up in a drug war so perhaps head to the Copa Cabana or somewhere instead on your holidays if there's a choice

Day 41-43: London

SUNDAY/MONDAY

Six weeks travelling, eating barely any fruit and vegetables and living off mainly beer and bread but remaining completely healthy, and then three days back in London and I pick up a vicious cold. It happened on Saturday, in the space of about 30 minutes. You know when you can literally feel the sickness developing inside, but not being able to stop it? A slight discomfort in the throat, a sneeze and then BAM, death's door. Consequently, after a night out drinking on Saturday, and with this cold to beat all colds (well...not quite...but I was a little poorly) I did absolutely nothing on Sunday. I slummed around, completely guilt-free. I got out of bed around 3pm, and then eventually out of my pyjamas in the evening (rediscovering my onesie and then actual clothes). Tony cooked us a roast dinner and heated up a nutroast for me. Common misconceptions about vegetarian food aside, it was actually really tasty. I mean, it's just nuts and beans joined together with some cheese. You can't really get that wrong.

I still had the cold on Monday, so I moped around in the morning, feeling sorry for myself. I made it out of the house a few times to do errands, played on my Kindle a bit and then waited for Abbie to get home, at which point I stood around annoyingly as she made a tartlette and couscous for dinner. Ian and Ellen came over with baby Charge. It was all going swimmingly, until he threw a bit of a tantrum and started crying. You could confuse him for a few seconds and he’d stop crying, but then a second after he’d remember what he was supposed to be doing and belt out a few more tears. Film and TV baby cries are slightly misleading, or perhaps Charge has just developed his own unique style of crying. He sort of makes sounds like a pterodactyl when he’s in the throes of his unhappiness. Eeeeerch, eeeerch, eaaarrrrck. Those sort of sounds. Ian and Ellen seem to take it in their strides though, and adultly try to reason with him to stop, though there's varying success with that method. The old bounce and bop generally seems the best way to silence him.  

TUESDAY

Things got interesting on Tuesday. Well, in comparison to the past four days, things got interesting. After promising Abbie by text every day that I was going to go to the gym, and then afterwards head to the Design Museum, I finally found my membership card and made it there (no gym, though. I was in recovery from that brutal cold, wasn’t I?). 

The Design Museum is in the Shad Thames wharf and was set up by Terence Conran back in Thatcher's day. He tricked her into agreeing to part-fund the museum be saying that it would be a place to display British design and ingenuity. Terence, father of Jasper and founder of Habitat (R.I.P.), had his own exhibition at the museum a few months back called 'The Way We Live Now', which showed all the cool things he'd done in his life. He takes credit for revolutionising the sex lives of Brits by bringing the duvet to the country. Pre-duvet, we just hard horrible rigid blankets. Not conducive to sexy-times. Aside from the duvet, Jasper and Habitat, he's also designed the chairs and crockery for a lot of top London restaurants. 

As I’ve got a membership, I really need to go to every exhibition to get my money’s worth and the last time I went was a few months before to see the ‘Designed To Win’ exhibition (which I think is closing soon, given that all Olympic feeling is nearly depleted). On the walls as you head up into the exhibition, there are lifesize outlines of lots of famous athletes and a few stats about them. You feel slightly torn looking at these, as whilst you may be only one month younger than Lionel Messi and nowhere near as famous, talented or successful, you’re also the same height. Shorty. The exhibition itself displays all the top developments in sports technology, so from this lethal-looking time-trial bike (here) to the Speedo LZR (here) BSA: START I wrote a joke article about the LZR a few years ago with some friends (here) and then felt pretty pleased with myself when it came up as a question on University Challenge, and I could answer it correctly END

That was a cool exhibition, and at the time they also had the Designs of the Year 2012 displaying on the top floor which was INCREDIBLY cool. Covering all areas (entertainment, transport, public services, architecture, landmine-detonation devices, fashion etc.) it was so impressive and really inspiring to see design being used for things beyond the asthetic of various products. My favourite items were the landmine-clearing device (below), the earthquake table (here) and the Tesco virtual shop in South Korea (here). I bought the book showing all the designs if anyone ever wants to see it. 

At the moment they’re showing ‘Digital Crystal’, which is sponsored by Swarovski (I will consider it a major life achievement when I’m certain of the pronunciation of that word). I don’t know much about crystal or how it’s formed, but if it’s anything like the cool video you see on entry, then it is ridiculously cool. There were two long screens either side of a darkened corridor showing these enhanced, sped up videos of crystal growing as they played these eerie noises littered with crunching sounds as the crystal broke free of the ground:

The exhibition itself was cool (see photos below) and used a variety of devices to display the ideas, including a cool 3D projection thing you could only see as you got close up, like some sort of Star Trek technology. There was this cool ring of crystal, which looked relatively nondescript from the outside, but as you cut down through it, you created polar bear shapes (I've included the white one, as the crystal is too difficult to make out here). 

As a side note, Swarovski was founded by Daniel Swarovski in a place called Wattens in Austria, after he patented a specific sort of crystal cutting machine. Just so you know.

I didn't bother going in Designed to Win again, but headed to the top floor which is now displaying an exhibition called 'Thrift' by the Designers in Residence 2012. I think the museum funds a few young designers each year to get them started. Supposedly after being given access to as many materials and equipment as possible at university, when designers leave they've not got the funds to buy any of those things, so generally have to start out using either cheap goods or changing their styles completely. This is only a small display, but there was a cool PCB (Printed Circuit Board...) that looked like a tube map:

And another woman had created a new product from wool cast-offs from carpet factories, by mixing it with starch. She showed how firm the material could come by putting it in a toastie maker. Yummy, gluey wool toasties. 

After the exhibition I had a walk along the Thames, and took some photos of the nice sky and the seagulls flying over the river in front of Canary Wharf. Beauty in what would otherwise be a pretty grotty area. 

I then headed to the Woolpack pub on Bermondsey Street. This was my first day living as a London Tourist, so I had to resume my European lifestyle of a glass of wine at 3pm each day. Their house wine was a Hungarian wine called 'Moonriver Pinot Noir' (from Aszar-Neszemly, Hungary). Compared to cheap European prices for decent wine, I felt a bit hard done by for the £5.60 medium glass cost for something that was pretty minting. Probably not going to take Gabo up on his offer to show me round the Hungarian vineyards. 

I had to bring my costs up to a £10 card-payment minimum, so I ordered the next one up, which was 'Tilia Malbec' (Mendoza, Argentina) for £6.10. Steep cost, but it tasted much better. I probably can't afford this on a daily basis though. I mean, I've got no job. Can't really justify expensive wine purchases over paying my bills. Before going for the second glass, I went to the loo (don't worry, this is going somewhere) only to find the toilet didn't flush. I told the barmaid, but said it was fine and didn't look bad; it just had a bit of tissue down it but it wasn't gruesome. She went silent for a moment and I presumed the conversation was over when she suddenly said "Have you seen Dogma?". I have seen Dogma. I imagine it must be considered an appalling film by the reviewing community, but I loved it. Alan Rickman with no penis? Matt Damon and Ben Affleck as fallen angels? Alanis Morrisette as God? Amazing. I immediately knew the barmaid was thinking about the Shit Monster scene, where Jay and Silent-Bob have to fight a monster made of shit that comes out of the toilet. That barmaid is a legend. What a brilliant response to a non-flushing toilet warning! 

Went back to the flat to meet Abbie, Tony, Lewis and Abbie's Mum for a group cinema outing to finally see Skyfall. There's a big Odeon near us in Surrey Quays, and on Tuesdays with Abbie's premium card (which I think is a free loyalty card), tickets are only £5.50. Cheap for London. Abbie's mum bought us ice-cream to thanks us for taking her out to the cinema (it was originally supposed to be a date between her and Tony, until Abbie, Lewis and I crashed) and we settled in.

So, given that our housemate has been working on the score to Skyfall, and has had the film lying around on his computer since June, we've all done pretty well to not know any of the plot. Cue a phone conversation with my brother on Friday telling me he'd seen the film, and before I could even draw a breath, revealing what happens in the last scene. Thanks, bro. I presume it's payback for me convincing him to let me tell him what happens in HP and the Half Blood Prince (about a certain wizard dying...). In my defence, I at least gave him the option of not knowing. He just blurted it out before I could stop him. Also, when Abbie was booking our tickets online, in the customer reviews below the ticket options the  douchebag reviewer had revealed the same plot development in the first line of the review. So we went into it knowing at least part of what was about to happen.

Pre-film, there was the benefit of the Kevin Bacon advert being shown in the trailers, and then the Les Mis trailer. That's a family-induced guilty pleasure. Can't wait for it. All those celebs singing? Brilliant. They also showed the Life of Pi trailer which looks insane; it's been given a sort of mystical realism style and whilst I'm not sure I'll actually see it or if it's any good, I reckon it'll be visually impressive if nothing else. Another version of Great Expectations is coming out soon as well, though given that there's only just been another BBC version, not sure there was any point to a film? I wonder why they never check what's coming out before releasing two versions of the same thing in a short period. They did the same with Robin Hood.

Back to Bond; I haven't seen Quantam of Solace and I fell asleep during Casino Royale, so I wasn't really expecting to be blown away. But boy, was I blown away! I'm not going to reveal anything (because that's cruel, isn't it Tom?) but the opening credits are amazing (they go on for about 5 minutes and it's the most visually amazing thing I've seen in a while) and the film is generally great. Action, but without having unnecessary explosions/car chases serving no purpose to the plot, a good story, beautiful/bleak/hectic locations, a great villain (whose first scene might be my favourite Bond/Villain scene in the film series' entire history. It's hilarious. Watch it if only for that) and just brilliant cinematography. Not like your traditional Bond lady-killer stories, but for the first time I felt that it didn't matter. Daniel Craig's Bond is so much more engaging than any of the former ones. If you haven't seen it, I seriously recommend it. Also, there are loads of London scenes, and a nice Ben Whishaw in the National Gallery moment. BLOWN AWAY. We stayed to watch our housemate's name in the credits and then went home to have a beer.