All these years of Coronation Street later and I still don't know the difference between baps, butties, buns, barmcakes, sarnies and sandwiches (although I suspect the latter two are the same). I think there are a few more colloquialisms for these things but I can't think of them off the top of my head right now, probably because all this talk of food has made me hungry and I can't think straight. So. If you know of any more or, more particularly, if you know the difference between these things, please enlighten me.
Every now and then I spot a new local favourite and, in the interest of science and in the spirit of collaborative blogosmog journalism, I try it on for size. So yesterday's lunchtime consisted of a brie and cranberry sauce sandwich with pine nuts. Those of you who are squeamish about the consistency of your food -- c'mon, I know you're out there, hands up all of you with a hate-on for eggplant (or aubergine as they so cod-exotically call it here) -- probably won't dig it, but it was surprisingly delicious.
Tomorrow: mackerel in curry sauce. Yum!
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
And... exhale.
Being at university, and more particularly living in residence halls, is a lot like real life.
Okay, you're right. I take that back. It's nothing like real life.
But at least it provides a useful microcosm to help explain the way the world really works. On some days -- like today, when the weather is unspeakably delicious -- all is right with the world, your flatmates and colleagues from around the world are beautiful people and it's like a miniature United Nations, you can't help but marvel at how we're basically all the same, we have similar dreams and aspirations, hopes and fears, and we all want to be loved for who we are, and why can't we all just get along? (This most often occurs after a few pints down the pub.)
Then on some days you wonder why those same flatmates and colleagues wake you up with their drinking and vomiting binges and think they own the world so they leave dishes, the communal flat dishes, not their own bloody dishes, to rot and congeal in the sink so no one else can use them without first sandblasting them clean or using an oxyacetylene torch and all you want to do is punch them in the throat until the lint that passes for brains starts popping out their ears.
I now understand the world's fucked-upness much better. I don't excuse it; I just understand it.
Forgot to mention something important regarding the photos. In case you haven't already discovered this on your own, you can click on the photos and they'll expand, making it much easier to do things like read Byron's words at St. Mary's. One I didn't post, by the way (mainly because the 1-megapixel camera in the phone just wasn't up to the job) was quite funny in a sort of Walt Disneyish sort of way. It was a ladybug -- in mid-November! -- crawling along a relief map at the top of the Harrow hill. She was following one of the roads down to Harrow... literally. Guess you had to be there.
Correction: Reg Dwight/Elton John lived in Pinner, not in the Watford Road. Obviously. But the way to Pinner is via the Watford Road. Er, you know what I mean.
Okay, you're right. I take that back. It's nothing like real life.
But at least it provides a useful microcosm to help explain the way the world really works. On some days -- like today, when the weather is unspeakably delicious -- all is right with the world, your flatmates and colleagues from around the world are beautiful people and it's like a miniature United Nations, you can't help but marvel at how we're basically all the same, we have similar dreams and aspirations, hopes and fears, and we all want to be loved for who we are, and why can't we all just get along? (This most often occurs after a few pints down the pub.)
Then on some days you wonder why those same flatmates and colleagues wake you up with their drinking and vomiting binges and think they own the world so they leave dishes, the communal flat dishes, not their own bloody dishes, to rot and congeal in the sink so no one else can use them without first sandblasting them clean or using an oxyacetylene torch and all you want to do is punch them in the throat until the lint that passes for brains starts popping out their ears.
I now understand the world's fucked-upness much better. I don't excuse it; I just understand it.
* * *
Forgot to mention something important regarding the photos. In case you haven't already discovered this on your own, you can click on the photos and they'll expand, making it much easier to do things like read Byron's words at St. Mary's. One I didn't post, by the way (mainly because the 1-megapixel camera in the phone just wasn't up to the job) was quite funny in a sort of Walt Disneyish sort of way. It was a ladybug -- in mid-November! -- crawling along a relief map at the top of the Harrow hill. She was following one of the roads down to Harrow... literally. Guess you had to be there.
Correction: Reg Dwight/Elton John lived in Pinner, not in the Watford Road. Obviously. But the way to Pinner is via the Watford Road. Er, you know what I mean.
Monday, November 27, 2006
I think I've used up all my best words
Hello again.
That, woefully inadequate as it might be, is about all I can manage despite over two or more weeks' bloglessness. But that's what you get from me at 8:16 AM GMT on a Monday after burning the candle at both ends for a few consecutive days. I proudly point out that at no time did I pull an all-nighter, which is a sure sign of maturity, or better planning and organisation, or something. (If 'organisation' looks odd to you, as it does to my spell-checker, it's because I've taken to spelling everything English-style.) Most nights I managed at least 4.5 hours. It's just that there's been so many of them in a row lately.
Remember that ridiculously ineffective anti-drug campaign from back in the '70s or '80s or whenever that was? The one that went, 'This is your brain. This is your brain on drugs. Any questions?'? Well, if you can remember it that's probably because you were on drugs, and you thought the posters and adverts were so funny (especially when you were high) that you kept stealing them and putting them up in your room or your locker at school. Anyhow, that campaign should now be amended: This is your brain. This is your brain after writing seven three- to four-thousand word essays and reports in a row. Fuck the questions, get some sleep.
Speaking of sleep deprivation, have I told you about my neighbours?
Ahh, it's good to be back.
That, woefully inadequate as it might be, is about all I can manage despite over two or more weeks' bloglessness. But that's what you get from me at 8:16 AM GMT on a Monday after burning the candle at both ends for a few consecutive days. I proudly point out that at no time did I pull an all-nighter, which is a sure sign of maturity, or better planning and organisation, or something. (If 'organisation' looks odd to you, as it does to my spell-checker, it's because I've taken to spelling everything English-style.) Most nights I managed at least 4.5 hours. It's just that there's been so many of them in a row lately.
Remember that ridiculously ineffective anti-drug campaign from back in the '70s or '80s or whenever that was? The one that went, 'This is your brain. This is your brain on drugs. Any questions?'? Well, if you can remember it that's probably because you were on drugs, and you thought the posters and adverts were so funny (especially when you were high) that you kept stealing them and putting them up in your room or your locker at school. Anyhow, that campaign should now be amended: This is your brain. This is your brain after writing seven three- to four-thousand word essays and reports in a row. Fuck the questions, get some sleep.
Speaking of sleep deprivation, have I told you about my neighbours?
Ahh, it's good to be back.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
Now I know why they're called "pounds"
Welcome to today's installment of Postponing Another Paper. Actually I'm not procrastinating, just warming up my writing muscles. (See? I really can justify anything.)
OK, it's been a long week so let's get on with a completely random assortment of issues and observations. I've divided them up into sections for you, so they're more easily digestible and it should give you ample time to get more coffee or make room for more, all without missing a single thrilling detail:
Who knew that the accessory I'd miss most is... sunglasses?!? Yes, you read that right, the freakishly beautiful weather continues. Oh, it rained last night -- at about 11:30 or so -- but it was gone again by the time I woke up today.
Understand this is not a complaint. It's just... I almost said unnatural, which is oxymoronic (or maybe just moronic). No, what I mean is it's so thoroughly... unexpected.
I have ten pounds in my pants and it's making quite the noticeable bulge. That's not a boast, it's a simple statement of fact. I am referring, of course, to the coinage sitting in my right front pocket. (That's my handkerchief in my left front pants pocket. What were you thinking, you cheeky monkey?) That's not a complaint either. I mean, I like money. A lot. (I like money, and I like a lot of it.) But these coins of the realm are awfully heavy, and I'm sure it's part of a conspiracy to keep British tailors in gainful employment by forcing people to keep getting their pockets repaired. I hope to lighten the load by dropping a few at the nearby cinema in Harrow, where -- provided I'm a good boy and actually get some work done today -- I intend to see Borat.
It appears our flat is going for a record number of "You've got a filthy corridor/kitchen" letters from hall management. This is the second we've had in as many weeks.
Now some of you no doubt already know my tolerance level for uncleanliness and disorganisation, which is to say nil. So you already know that I'm about to go off on one, but let me just get it out of the way and we can continue as we began, with more lighthearted fare.
Mark Twain said, "Never confuse learning with education," and nowhere is this more evident than in a university, where people can be highly educated but remain stupid as a bag of hammers. Clearly some people can't even read the many signs posted all around the kitchen, some of which are the aforementioned official variety while some are notes from their long-suffering flatmates. They have not read or understood their leases, which clearly state who is (and who is not) responsible for cleaning up. Or they choose to ignore them, preferring to believe that their mothers, hired hands or the good washing-up fairies are doing their dirty work for them.
Hear this, people: IF YOU DON'T HAVE TIME TO CLEAN UP, YOU PROBABLY DON'T HAVE ENOUGH TIME TO EAT EITHER. Others should not have to pay for your time management incompetence.
People -- and I use that term loosely -- simply refuse to take responsibility for something as simple as washing up. It's always someone else's responsibility, isn't it? No wonder the world is fucked up.
[We now return to our regularly scheduled happy happy joy joy programming.]
A big up to Ian for the book (a copy of Simon Reynolds's Rip It UP And Start Again: Post-punk 1978-84), and props to Colin for the loan of the accompanying CD. Ian is Irish and Colin is a Scot. I don't know what that has to do with anything, other than they sure do have good taste.
OK, one more whinge: the moron across the hall has a cell phone that won't quit. Literally. Several times now he has left the flat for a day or more and left his phone on, despite repeated notes shoved under his door and visits from the hall security staff. Either he has very persistent friends and/or no e-mail, or he sets and alarm and forgets to turn it off, but it has rung insistently every 10 minutes or so all day and all night on each occasion. Needless to say it makes concentration very difficult and sleep next to impossible. I believe he is congenitally stupid, or perhaps willfully annoying. In either case, if someone completely lost it and went medieval on his toffee-nosed, white-boy English ass on account of the Chinese water-torture effect, would that constitute justifiable homicide? Just wondering.
In a previous post I deliberately misquoted Ian on the Mick Jagger/Performance thingy, in the vain hope that I too might get an e-mail from a celebrity correcting me, just like my friend Postmodern Sass did. She got such a note from Neil Gaiman, whom I've heard much about but never actually read until now (except maybe his blog, which is linked from Ms. Sass's). So damn you both, Sass and Gaiman, for adding to my ever-growing pile of must-reads... like I don't have enough reading material piling up on every bare surface of this room. Or like I don't already spend enough collecting books, particularly with Mrs. Clean-Air System as my enabler, who is arguably a greater addict than I.
Oh and by the way Mr. Gaiman, being accessible, friendly,nice and charming and is a very clever marketing ploy.
As my colleague Rocketgirl said, I don't have much luck going out in London. First there was night Alex and I took 2 hours to get to Chris's party in Chiswick via tube, only to have to down two quick beers and run back (literally) to catch the last tube home. I neglected to post that a couple of weeks ago the Kilburn Station closed "due to a police action" (whatever that means) as I was on my way to catch God Is An Astronaut at the Luminaire. I was stranded at Willesden Green without my A-Z Guide (even with which I'm directionally challenged at the best of times anyway), and no one seemed to know the best way to get to where I was going, In fact several Londoners approached to ask if I knew an alternate route to Kilburn, which would have been a classic case of the blind leading the blind. Rocketgirl didn't get my urgent text until the next day due to first-day-with-a-new-phone syndrome, so she couldn't help me out.
I took it as a sign that I should be back in the flat concentrating on my homework, so I turned right around and came back, stopping for some comforting ooey-gooey dessert on the way.
Best metaphor of the month award goes to Maureen O'Dowd of the New York Times who recently described the American neo-con hard-on for Iraq as taking "a baseball bat to a beehive."
And speaking of the NYT I don't mean to say I told you so, but I will anyway:
Here's a shot of London at night, taken from the hillside at Alexandra Palace on the night of the Guy Fawkes celebrations:
And here's some pictures that I took on a walkabout in Harrow-on-the-Hill last weekend, while taking a much-needed break from paper-writing:
Harrow-on-the-Hill is home to the famed Harrow School, where Byron studied. Kids still wear the old straw boaters and suits. In the churchyard at St. Mary's -- which was consecrated in 1092! -- is a plaque bearing some of Byron's words. Apparently he used to love sitting in the church yard and just observing his surroundings, which I can certainly understand:
That's all I have time for today. Must get some work done! Can't believe there's only 4 more weeks and then the first time is over. Wow. (And only 1 more week until Mercury goes direct... whew.) In case I don't post before this time next week, have a good one.
OK, it's been a long week so let's get on with a completely random assortment of issues and observations. I've divided them up into sections for you, so they're more easily digestible and it should give you ample time to get more coffee or make room for more, all without missing a single thrilling detail:
Who knew that the accessory I'd miss most is... sunglasses?!? Yes, you read that right, the freakishly beautiful weather continues. Oh, it rained last night -- at about 11:30 or so -- but it was gone again by the time I woke up today.
Understand this is not a complaint. It's just... I almost said unnatural, which is oxymoronic (or maybe just moronic). No, what I mean is it's so thoroughly... unexpected.
* * *
I have ten pounds in my pants and it's making quite the noticeable bulge. That's not a boast, it's a simple statement of fact. I am referring, of course, to the coinage sitting in my right front pocket. (That's my handkerchief in my left front pants pocket. What were you thinking, you cheeky monkey?) That's not a complaint either. I mean, I like money. A lot. (I like money, and I like a lot of it.) But these coins of the realm are awfully heavy, and I'm sure it's part of a conspiracy to keep British tailors in gainful employment by forcing people to keep getting their pockets repaired. I hope to lighten the load by dropping a few at the nearby cinema in Harrow, where -- provided I'm a good boy and actually get some work done today -- I intend to see Borat.
* * *
It appears our flat is going for a record number of "You've got a filthy corridor/kitchen" letters from hall management. This is the second we've had in as many weeks.
Now some of you no doubt already know my tolerance level for uncleanliness and disorganisation, which is to say nil. So you already know that I'm about to go off on one, but let me just get it out of the way and we can continue as we began, with more lighthearted fare.
Mark Twain said, "Never confuse learning with education," and nowhere is this more evident than in a university, where people can be highly educated but remain stupid as a bag of hammers. Clearly some people can't even read the many signs posted all around the kitchen, some of which are the aforementioned official variety while some are notes from their long-suffering flatmates. They have not read or understood their leases, which clearly state who is (and who is not) responsible for cleaning up. Or they choose to ignore them, preferring to believe that their mothers, hired hands or the good washing-up fairies are doing their dirty work for them.
Hear this, people: IF YOU DON'T HAVE TIME TO CLEAN UP, YOU PROBABLY DON'T HAVE ENOUGH TIME TO EAT EITHER. Others should not have to pay for your time management incompetence.
People -- and I use that term loosely -- simply refuse to take responsibility for something as simple as washing up. It's always someone else's responsibility, isn't it? No wonder the world is fucked up.
[We now return to our regularly scheduled happy happy joy joy programming.]
* * *
A big up to Ian for the book (a copy of Simon Reynolds's Rip It UP And Start Again: Post-punk 1978-84), and props to Colin for the loan of the accompanying CD. Ian is Irish and Colin is a Scot. I don't know what that has to do with anything, other than they sure do have good taste.
* * *
OK, one more whinge: the moron across the hall has a cell phone that won't quit. Literally. Several times now he has left the flat for a day or more and left his phone on, despite repeated notes shoved under his door and visits from the hall security staff. Either he has very persistent friends and/or no e-mail, or he sets and alarm and forgets to turn it off, but it has rung insistently every 10 minutes or so all day and all night on each occasion. Needless to say it makes concentration very difficult and sleep next to impossible. I believe he is congenitally stupid, or perhaps willfully annoying. In either case, if someone completely lost it and went medieval on his toffee-nosed, white-boy English ass on account of the Chinese water-torture effect, would that constitute justifiable homicide? Just wondering.
* * *
In a previous post I deliberately misquoted Ian on the Mick Jagger/Performance thingy, in the vain hope that I too might get an e-mail from a celebrity correcting me, just like my friend Postmodern Sass did. She got such a note from Neil Gaiman, whom I've heard much about but never actually read until now (except maybe his blog, which is linked from Ms. Sass's). So damn you both, Sass and Gaiman, for adding to my ever-growing pile of must-reads... like I don't have enough reading material piling up on every bare surface of this room. Or like I don't already spend enough collecting books, particularly with Mrs. Clean-Air System as my enabler, who is arguably a greater addict than I.
Oh and by the way Mr. Gaiman, being accessible, friendly,nice and charming and is a very clever marketing ploy.
* * *
As my colleague Rocketgirl said, I don't have much luck going out in London. First there was night Alex and I took 2 hours to get to Chris's party in Chiswick via tube, only to have to down two quick beers and run back (literally) to catch the last tube home. I neglected to post that a couple of weeks ago the Kilburn Station closed "due to a police action" (whatever that means) as I was on my way to catch God Is An Astronaut at the Luminaire. I was stranded at Willesden Green without my A-Z Guide (even with which I'm directionally challenged at the best of times anyway), and no one seemed to know the best way to get to where I was going, In fact several Londoners approached to ask if I knew an alternate route to Kilburn, which would have been a classic case of the blind leading the blind. Rocketgirl didn't get my urgent text until the next day due to first-day-with-a-new-phone syndrome, so she couldn't help me out.
I took it as a sign that I should be back in the flat concentrating on my homework, so I turned right around and came back, stopping for some comforting ooey-gooey dessert on the way.
* * *
Best metaphor of the month award goes to Maureen O'Dowd of the New York Times who recently described the American neo-con hard-on for Iraq as taking "a baseball bat to a beehive."
And speaking of the NYT I don't mean to say I told you so, but I will anyway:
Democrats Push to Counter G.O.P. in Turnout Race
By ADAM NAGOURNEY, Published: October 29, 2006
Democrats have invested heavily in catching up with the
Republicans' get-out-the-vote operation.
* * *
Here's a shot of London at night, taken from the hillside at Alexandra Palace on the night of the Guy Fawkes celebrations:
And here's some pictures that I took on a walkabout in Harrow-on-the-Hill last weekend, while taking a much-needed break from paper-writing:
Harrow-on-the-Hill is home to the famed Harrow School, where Byron studied. Kids still wear the old straw boaters and suits. In the churchyard at St. Mary's -- which was consecrated in 1092! -- is a plaque bearing some of Byron's words. Apparently he used to love sitting in the church yard and just observing his surroundings, which I can certainly understand:
That's all I have time for today. Must get some work done! Can't believe there's only 4 more weeks and then the first time is over. Wow. (And only 1 more week until Mercury goes direct... whew.) In case I don't post before this time next week, have a good one.
Friday, November 03, 2006
In which your narrator belatedly discovers the value of having a camera embedded in a mobile phone
Happy Friday! Happy November! It’s another unbelievably gorgeous morning here. It will be hard to focus on writing papers when the sunshine and blue skies beckon, but focus I must... in a moment. First, I need to flex my writing muscles and get my best thinking brain on. So I thought I’d warm up with a long-overdue blog entry.
Once again here’s the address for Digital Village Idiot: info@digi-vill.co.uk
Go ahead, slam their servers. Let the spambots do their worst. It’s not like it’s going to make any difference to us, is it? So please, Harriet B. Cleanliness (z.mensendiker@gmhlczzplzt.com), "Quilter Q. Glycerin" mmvxmttflr@spzzikzimxim.co.uk, and Chaining U. Overachieve (istolyergf@glbrnzksttfkbntt.com) -- send ‘em your Weighty letters, Significant notes, and Grand letters that they simply must to read!!! Clearly they take no notice of us, their users.
* * *
Sorry, where we we? Oh yes. Last Friday, the 27th, Ian and I took a (ce)mental health day out and went CD shopping in the Portobello Road area. Showed me the location of Trevor Horn’s Sarm studios and the famed Westway near where Mick Jones used to live with his Gran, apparently. (By amazing coincidence I only got around to borrowing The Clash: Gateway to the West from the uni library a few days earlier, so it had that much more relevance.) And where Mick Jagger chilled while hiding from adoring fans in Performance. Ian has an amazingly capacious brain. How he remembers all this trivia I do not know, but it’s like having my own personal (and very much alive) Lonely Planet Guide. But with more bad puns.
Luckily for my wallet I didn’t find much I really wanted in the indie shops – they tend to be very niche-specific in their clientele and product. And it would be pointless for me to start collecting more vinyl at this stage, since I don’t have a turntable in residence. (One shop had an entire section devoted to “power-pop bands from Toronto,” if you can believe that.) Actually, scratch my previous comment. There was plenty I wanted. I just exercised the most excruciating self-control I may have ever experienced.
After a long afternoon’s retail therapy we made our way to the the London Bridge area and the Menier Chocolate Factory, which is an old coverted, er, chocolate factory and where we ate a wonderful dinner (choosing from two amusing set table items on the specially concocted “kids menu”). It was a fine prelude to the Jeremy Lion show, which took place in the adjacent theatre, a cozy 200-seater. Jeremy is not, in fact, a children’s entertainer but rather an accomplished Fringe actor (Justin Edwards) portraying one; read the review here. Thanks for the treat, Ian. And thanks for the warning about the props.
Afterwards, in partial repayment for the Theatre Record’s kindness, we stopped by a venerable old – and I do mean hundreds of years old – pub called the George for a nightcap. And it was good.
Fire alarm! Gotta go.
False alarm. Or rather, fire drill. At least they had the decency to save it until the morning of a glorious sunny day to do it. (More on that in a moment.)
Speaking of drinks, it’s hard to overestimate how important drinking is to the British national culture. Wednesday evenings, being the last of our two full days of classes interspersed with group meetings, usually end in a trip to the pub. This would normally not be a problem since Thursdays are usually research and paper-writing days so a little lie-in afterward, if required, is always possible. But the trouble is that Wednesday’s classes start with Finance & Economics. This usually calls for at least one or two grande double shot cappuccinos to get us through, but by the time we get to the pub and these are complemented with one or two pints of Guinness... well, suffice to say it results in a weird sort of simultaneous coming-and-going buzz, not to mention plenty of bathroom miles to the gallon. An effect not unlike what I imagine a Red Bull with a shot of cough syrup might be like, only tastier.
It sure gets dark early, now that daylight savings time is here...
But as I write it is bright and sunny once again. Yesterday I kept thinking, “This would be a perfect day to take photos and show them to everyone back home, if only I had a camera.” And then I realized that I do, in fact, have a camera – on my mobile phone, or at least the Canadian mobile phone that I subsequently stuck in a drawer and turned off as soon as I got my local mobile because the first half-dozen text messages cost me $30 last month. So I used it as an excuse to get out of the house and go for a very long walk, which I may also do after lunch today. I took some snaps along the way.
Remember, the pictures I’m about to share are taken with a cell phone camera – which is probably about 1 megapixel or so, and has no real zoom or other features to enhance the picture quality or focus. But they’ll do for this blog.
When you get here, this is most likely how you’ll arrive: via the Northwick Park tube station.
The first sight you’ll probably see is the entrance to the halls of residence which, as I’ve said before, are practically right on top of the tube line.
If instead you turn a quick left as you come out of the tube, you’ll face south and east towards Northwick Park. In the background you can just barely make out the top of Wembley Stadium. Despite this image, it's actually a lot closer than it appears. It's only about 2 tube stops away on the Metropolitan Line. New Order played there last week.
This is a shot looking across Northwick Park, westward towards the halls of residence, the Harrow campus, the adjacent hospital, and if you squint very hard you can almost make out the spire in the distance (middle of frame), Harrow-on-the-Hill.
Let’s take a short walk along the pathway through the campus, from the halls towards the main school buildings.
My window is hidden just behind the Sports Hall. My view is half brick wall, half open sky.
This is The Street, the main pedestrian thoroughfare connecting the campus buildings. It’s partly open-air, partly covered...
...and there are various nooks and open space such as this courtyard. Pleasant as it is, the sad thing is I don’t actually have any classes at this campus. They’re all at Marylebone, which I’ll have to shoot some other time.
Exiting the other side, this shot looks back (i.e. facing east) toward the main entrance:
The entrance is near the roundabout that connects Kenton Road with the Watford Road (toward where Reg Dwight a/k/a Elton John grew up) and Sheepcote Road that will get you into the Harrow town centre in about ten or fifteen minutes by foot...
...and when you round the corner, you are greeting by this scene. You can’t see it very well in this shot, but the wrought iron archway welcomes you to Harrow’s centre. A little further down on the left is the St. Anne's and St. George's shopping district.
And there you have the quick tour. As indicated I’m probably going to take another break from my interminable round of papers this afternoon and try to get up to Harrow-on-the-Hill, which I’ve never been to yet. So maybe I’ll have more pictures to post tomorrow. See you then.
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