Thursday, December 28, 2006, 11:43 PM
If you are a Hamburger (and by this, I mean a North German resident, not a meat sandwich), you will recognise this instantly. Not only will the sight of snow be familiar to you, but the sight of the Michel church will get you feeling al warm and misty. For a city bombed to near annihilation over 60 years ago, any tranditional structure left standing became a precious link to the heritage of the city. Whatever Parisians think of their Eiffel Tower, New Yorkers think of their Statue of Liberty, or Sydney residents think of their Opera House, I do not think they could collectively muster as much fondness as this church attracts.
For seafarers entering the harbour, it is one of the distinctive spires on the skyline, whilst it simultaneously serves as a beacon to guide the alcoholically wayward on their journey home from the intoxicatingly seedy Reeperbahn. Walk in the direction of the Michel and you will find a hotel even if you don't find God.
Just make sure you wrap up warm.
[ add comment ] | [ 0 trackbacks ] | permalink
Saturday, December 23, 2006, 10:26 PM
If anyone out there is planning on a walking holiday abroad, I can suggest the perfect warm-up exercise: it's called the Heathrow Express. Whilst this rather expensive train does indeed deliver you swiftly and purposefully to the vicinity of Heathrow in 15 minutes in return for 15 pounds of your money, the problem is that it is nothing more than the 'vicinity'. You still have a proper trek of another 15 minutes ahead of you to get to Terminal 2, and God help you if you have something urgent like a plane to catch. As you wonder just how many more corridors you have to walk down before you see anything resembling an airport, you keep yourself occupied with the sight of anxious-looking, waddling businessmen, whose faces seem to be rapt with the effort of working out excuses as to why they missed the plane ("sorry boss, I took the Heathrow Express" is now an acceptable excuse for a no-show).
Due to open in 2008, the new extension to the Heathrow Express (codenamed the 'Real' Heathrow Express) will actually deliver you to Heathrow Airport for a mere thirty quid, and the walk will be no longer than five minutes.
Meanwhile, for anyone who needs to lose a few pounds, you can do no better than combine exercise with stress and visit the Heathrow Express website in its current incarnation here.
[ add comment ] | [ 0 trackbacks ] | permalink
Friday, December 22, 2006, 08:33 PM
The entries on this blog could dry up over Christmas as I make my way around Europe to see the various parts of my family. My flight out of Heathrow tomorrow may still be grounded due to the thick pea-souper that has caused England to virtually grind to a halt. Attached is a view of my very own Fordwych Road, looking a little more like the setting for a bad, Northwest London horror movie.
Happy Christmas to you all and take care.
[ add comment ] | [ 0 trackbacks ] | permalink
Monday, December 18, 2006, 10:44 PM
I did my expenses today.Nothing exciting in that, I have to say, well... not until I chanced across the back of this taxi receipt.
Showing laser-guided marketing skills, these sophisticated London chest-ablishments zero in on the capital's wealthy businessmen rushing about in taxis from meeting to meeting. And which self-respecting director is going to bother with a contact report when you can report to the Director's Lodge Club to cop an eyeful of individuals far more attractive than the team of suits from Dusseldorf?
Frankly, the mental image of bulging-shirted, pudgy directors from Surrey swilling their champagnes as a young vixen from Bucharest puts on an oscar-winning show of interest in them is quite amusing. Whilst wives slumber after an evening's exertions with the kids, the hubbies Ken, Nigel and Mike are busy stuffing their earnings inside someone's La Perla like cash is going out of fashion.
And since I got this started on receipts, I happen to know that vast quantities of cash are reclaimed from companies' coffers for the necessary business expense of Watching Ladies' Boobs. You know who you are.
I am unaware of the market value of strip clubs, and probably the vast majority of the cash disappears off the radar anyway. I mean, how are KPMG going to audit a fistful of twenties that have been wedged up against a lady's front bottom?
Personally, I've only been to one strip joint, and it was to a ropey outfit on a stag night in Edinburgh. I won't pretend I hated it, but any potential frisson that could have been supplied by the ladies was wiped out by the frenzied drooling of men - behaviour that I have only otherwise witnessed from girls in shoe shops and randy baboons on the Discovery Channel.
Anyhow, for research purposes, I checked out the websites of the Director's Lodge and its sister business, the Gaslight club. Among the history and the unmissable special offers (An introductory drink, bottle of Champagne and company of one of the girls will set you back an Asda-beating £245), I also encountered a page where they were generous enough with their spelling to describe a real innovation: Click here to discover "poll dancing"
[ add comment ] | [ 0 trackbacks ] | permalink
Friday, December 15, 2006, 01:39 AM
This is the scene as you emerge from the Silverlink station at Brondesbury Park in Kilburn.
The streets are nowhere near as dangerous as the food. Take your pick - you could start with mechanically-recovered pieces of 'chicken' encased in soggy, starchy crumbs, dished up in its own little cardboard coffin. Or perhaps sir (commonly referred to as "mate" in polite modern society) would be more interested in a kebab - a poledancing slab of unidentified frying animal, glistening with leaking fat, and served in a pitta so tough and tasteless, you could use it for airmail. I think Sir will be having the chilli sauce.
The kebab's defenders protest that the obligatory salad is good for you, but that's like saying that a bullet is ok for you because it is made out of allergy-free metal.
As for the fish and chips, best of a bad bunch, once you have tasted the gorgeous experience of fish and chips on a seaside in North East England, the Brondesbury version is rather less appetising - the fish has all of the texture of claggy porridge.
The problem is, if you emerge from a pub with more than three pints inside you, this trio of eateries will exert a magnetic pull - your stomach will crave the settling sensation of warm fat, your mouth desperately needs some salt to add to all the liquid, and you remain magically oblivious to the toilet trouble you'll have tomorrow morning. Each of these places serves bliss on a Friday night plate. Pass the napkins please, mate.
[ add comment ] | [ 0 trackbacks ] | permalink
Back Next