Public Address - Cracker (Home)

CALLING ALL NEW YORKERS | Mar 22, 2006 12:25

Dear Lord. I go away for a couple of weeks, come back and all you Nu Zilders are talking about gumboots.

Given that my time here in the UK has largely been spent in the company of Kiwis, it's still funny that I find my ears prick up excitedly everytime I'm out and about and hear that homegrown rising inflection. Yes, it's a funny little accent, but it's ours. Well, ours and the Australians, at least as far as anyone over here can discern.

We were watching the 6 Nations at the pub the other night (It's like the Tri-Nations, but there are twice as many teams, and the rules state that each team must be made up entirely of physically-challenged forwards chasing a greased ball). Italy was once again proving they were only brought in so the other teams never had to worry about coming last (note to Tri-Nations: Argentina).

Anyway, we'd struck up a friendly conversation with some kiwi girls who were at the bar, which lasted until Graeme arrived, and commented loudly they looked weird. New Zealand girls might be friendly, but they're not deaf (well, apart from those who are, and that's really unfortunate and stuff, but not the point). So we moved to the other side of the room and started talking to some locals. A great evening ensued. Long story short, as they were leaving, I overheard them say "haven't you noticed Kiwis are really easy to get on with?"

Which was nicer to overhear than "you look weird" I guess.

Don't get me wrong. I've had some great times with Londoners, but I have picked up an appreciation for what (huge generalisation, but it's a positive one so it's okay) easy going, nice people we are on the whole. So, um, yay us.

Highlights from the last couple of weeks in brief:

I did two things I swore I'd never do (don't worry mum, neither of them involved needles). I bought my first Mac, and I went for a jog for the first time in 18 years. I'm very pleased with both. The Mac is a little gutless compared to my PC at home, but it's beautiful and does everything I need. The jog was a one-off so far, but I got to discover bits of Oxford I never knew existed (canals!) and got soaking wet in the rain running through Christ Church College gardens. It was cool.

I got food poisoning from a bad oyster and threw up multiple times in a plane (in my seat, in the bag, next to people). The German word for "Air Sick Bag" is Spuckbeutel, which is the only amusing thing to come out of the whole wretched incident.

My thesis thingy is progressing. So is my time left in the UK, rapidly. Much like simultaneously watching the DVD and battery life bar on my Mac when I'm on the Oxford to London bus, it's going to be touch and go to see which one runs out first, my thesis or my visit). But that won't stop me from:

New York this weekend for my birthday. And this is where I need some help. Due to no fault of their own (or mine, I hope), all three of my friends in New York have to leave town the weekend I arrive. I have a place to stay, don't worry about that. But, as it goes, I'll be alone for my birthday this Saturday (the 25th). Anyone got any great ideas how I can entertain myself, or even better, anyone fancy showing a blogger a good time in the Big Apple? My interests include drinking and music. Flick me a line. Prove I'm right about us being good sorts.

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Beer and Loathing in Brussels (Pt II) | Mar 07, 2006 10:04

The European Commission was somewhat grander than NATO, but only in the same way that, um, Bowen House is grander than the Beehive (for Wellingtonians), or St Lukes grander than Manukau Shopping Centre (for Aucklanders). Neither is exactly a rockin' good time. But given we were there to learn about tariff reduction, EU expansion and other such things, my expectations weren't exactly at roof level.

I amused myself by watching my fellow Fellowship Fellows dropping off to sleep in anti-dumping seminars, then teasing them about it. Other than people falling over or catching fire, there's very little as funny as seeing someone nod off with their head on their elbow, then watching the same elbow slip out from under them as they face-plant into the table, jolting awake with a confused and pained look. Classic.

As we left Brussels I peeled off from my classmates, having planned a night in Paris on the way back to Oxford. I had my tickets, I knew in theory where I had to go, but theory is a long way from practice when you're negotiating the minutae of public transport in another language. My cellphone was out of credit, and outside of the UK was impossible to top up. I couldn't call anyone if I wanted to.

Aside from deserts and jungles and possibly the polar caps, there's nothing quite like being lost in a foreign airport, railway or underground station. Nothing looks familiar, the foreign words on your foreign ticket doesn't seem to match any of the foreign words on the foreign signs directing you from one foreign destination to another. Time is always of the essence, which also makes passers-by less inclined to stop and help as you turn dizzily round in circles, searching out the One True Sign.

My train was close to leaving, and I still didn't know how to find it. I felt like I was on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. Phone-a-Friend was out; with dozens of options there was no point going 50/50; and everyone around me was too busy or too foreign for me to Ask the Audience. I had to rely on dumb luck.

Sometimes I can be the luckiest dumb person alive.

Much sweat, jarred nerves and a couple of hours later, I'd chanced my way through Brussels Midi, Paris Nord, Haussmann St Lazare and the evening streets of Paris. All this for 22 hours in the French capital.

I hadn't reckoned on the beauty of the Eiffel Tower at night as the snow fell steadily, quickly covering everything. As much as I hate "doing the whole tourist thing", there's a good reason certain things acquire their popularity, and in the case of the Eiffel Tower (at night), it's well deserved.

Not so with the Louvre's two star attractions, the Venus de Milo and the Mona Lisa. IMHO there are better sculptures and better paintings at the Louvre – hell there are even better Da Vinci paintings – but none have the huge crowds and flashing bulbs of these two lasses.

Don't get me wrong, I still sought them out, it would be an affectation of cool on my part to do otherwise, but when you compare the size of the flock around those two, to the one other person sitting in front of the stunning, mammoth (5m x 7m), and still pretty damn famous Raft of the Medusa, you gotta wonder.

Other than a bit of random street wandering, which I consider just as vital as seeking out a city's star attractions, I didn't have time for much else in Paris. I returned to the hotel to grab my bag.

I have a slightly egocentric view of the Universe, i.e. I believe everything exists solely because of me. Refining this theory somewhat, I'm increasingly convinced that whoever's in charge of making new people for me to meet is either incompetent, or as lazy as I am.

In my lifetime I have known precisely one Parisian woman. We worked in a bar in Devonport together a decade ago, and developed a firm friendship. She taught me the stupid French phrases that I had been throwing around Paris for the last 21 hours. Being in my early twenties, I probably tried to sleep with her.

As I approached the hotel reception, the following conversation took place in Universe HQ.

"Shit! Who was in charge of creating a new French chick to help Damian check out? Murray, was that you?"

"Sorry Kyle, my bad."

"Well what are we going to do?"

"Just use that woman he worked with in the 90s. He's stupid, he'll never catch on."

And it almost worked. I stood there thinking "Wow, crazy, all these French girls look the same." She recognised me though, and with typical French aplomb, kindly remarked how much weight I'd put on. Um, in a good way, apparently.

Okay, so we've all got one of those "it was crazy, I was in London and I met some guy I know" stories. But I know heaps of people in London, and there are probably many people I know who I don't even realise are in London. So when I ran into someone in London a few weeks ago it was funny but not freaky. But this was freaky, especially as she'd only started at the hotel that week.

Anyway, all that is probably about as interesting as when someone tells you about their dreams: "And then there was this guy right, and he was standing in a field, and he was carrying a flag. And it just felt so real." So I'll leave it there. But I maintain it's pretty freaky.

Many of you will have seen The Go! Team at the Big Day Out this year. I missed it, obviously, but made a point of seeing them play in Oxford last night. Wow. What an evening. If you ever get the chance, make a point of it. A great combination of quirky (my personal favourite), rocky, dancey, retro hip cool. Great live band, great album. Have a good look around the website if you're unfamiliar.

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Beer and Loathing in Brussels (Pt I) | Mar 03, 2006 07:50

I've just returned from a class trip to Brussels, visiting the European Commission and NATO.

Unless you have pressing business with either institution it's not a trip I would advise. Beer and mussels aside – which are just as abundant in more interesting places such as Antwerp, or even Vulcan Lane – it's drab, drab, drab.

It's the Canberra of Europe.

Having wandered in London, and flitted about Venice (more on that in a future post) I had thought cool old buildings were de rigueur in the Old World. Not so.

NATO is a point in case. It's no small irony that the headquarters of Western defence during the Cold War looks like the absolute epitome of 1950's Soviet bloc design, complete with pillboxes, checkpoints, armed guards and razor wire. The architecture isn't so much uninspiring, as a unique example of soul-destroying brutal nihilism. The overall effect is not entirely unlike being hit by a big grey truck with a copy of Kafka's The Trial sellotaped to the front.

We were later informed the complex was indeed built during the Cold War, but was originally intended to be a military psychiatric hospital. Well blow me down.

After surrendering our passports, cameras, cellphones and will to live, we were ushered inside.

Inside was less oppressive, but no more impressive. Renovated in seventies-office-meets-regional-airport chic, it wasn't exactly the secret military complex kind of vibe I'd hoped for. No tables flipped over to reveal hi-tech world maps. No men in bio-suits studying banks of radar screens, and no master villains stroking white Persian cats while spilling their plans for world domination. If any of this was inside NATO, it wasn't in the Media & Visitors' Centre.

Instead, a small store sold newspapers, cigarettes and NATO merchandise. For €60, you too could be the proud owner of a NATO-emblazoned towelling robe. I immediately thought of NZ's own "International Man of Mystery", DPF, who I'm sure would consider it rather fetching and may indeed place it high on his Christmas list. Just leave it behind if you're planning on heading to the Middle East.

Despite being charged with security for the Free World, a large sign hung above a row of hooks: "NATO accepts no responsibility for coats left here".

Nor is OSH a high priority. As our speaker informed us, rooms (such as ours) with an "A" in the doorway, identified the presence of a little treat I like to call "asbestos". He assured us his frequent cough was just the end of a nasty cold.

The briefing was fairly innocuous. No classified information was imparted (like I'd tell you if it was). I recall thinking three things:

1. I wish I'd consumed more coffee at breakfast.
2. Shit the US spend a lot on guns.
3. Was I amused, disturbed, or both, by the speaker's Freudian slip in referring to "the war in Iran… sorry, Iraq"?

After a few hours we left, and other than being oddly transfixed by a small door wedge with the name "Lange" written on it, I was generally unmoved in emotion and opinion.

If you're in Brussels for a day, I'd probably give the group tour a miss.

Stay tuned for Part II, in which our intrepid hero visits the EU, spends One Night in Paris and still manages to arrive home in time for tea…

For those with time to kill on a Friday, watch this supercute and very clever music video. A JCB, in case the video isn't completely obvious, is a brand of construction machinery.

"Still bored?" as Popbitch is wont to say? Banksy produces quite possibly the most amazing stencil art/vandalism I have ever seen – in the sense that it's clever, funny, political and artistic, and it's all over the place here. There's a very nice hardcover book of his work called "Wall and Piece", published by Century, which an imprint of Random House, so it might be available in New Zealand. In the meantime, give the website a good going over for pictures such as these.

Ka kite ano.

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