Oh dear

This is not true.

Well, not any more.

Erm, well, not without bags of dosh to spend on a modest place to live and £60 theatre tickets – not to mention gigs, exhibitions, cinema at £8 and so on.

Oh dear. I so earnestly hoped for New York.

You Belong in London

A little old fashioned, and a little modern.A little traditional, and a little bit punk rock. A unique soul like you needs a city that offers everything. No wonder you and London will get along so well.

What City Do You Belong In?

A gallery

Last time I was in London I got some postcards from the National Portrait Gallery to embellish the walls in my new job. I thought of getting portraits of some of my ‘heroes’, no matter how much I am suspicious of the whole ‘hero’ concept. I scanned them and am posting them here for your viewing pleasure.

 [Update of 7/11/2007: I have now removed the images -- see comments.]

Samuel Beckett

John Tavener

Mick Jagger

Helena Bonham Carter (I actually used to dislike her as an actress, but I did change my mind after Fight Club).

James Joyce

(The scans are deliberately poor quality, to discourage reproduction. The images are all copyright and have been reproduced without permission, only for as long as no-one objects to their presence here.)

Zounds!

‘Scuse my French, but I just found out, via this comment (thanks David!), that this blog is nominated for the prestigious annual Satin Pajama Award in the category “Best Expatriate Weblog”! I am genuinely shocked and pleased and elated.

So, go on! Click on! Vote for Loxias! What are you waiting for? Myself, I will vote for isoglossia, obviously: I am not such a git as to vote for myself.

Second order

Worst pop song lyrics ever, via here (check their site out).

Future in the past

A few weeks ago I casually mentioned some musings of mine on predictions and futurism of the past. Thankfully, there is someone having done a great job with investigating this issue.

Saturday in the city

Last Saturday we started with coffee al fresco, I also bumped into Zapata in the cafe.

Then a walk in town, where, among other things, I saw this:

Now, Dæmion was organising an architectural biennale on that very day. Part of it is was the make-believe founding of an urban museum of modern art using (or rather reclaiming) an existing block of flats; there were even leaflets distributed with all the relevant information.

We gathered outside the block, we ceremoniously set the mock-founding stone of the new museum in the pavement and then these guys showed up:

They played some all-time favourite (urgh) military marches:

Some of them looked exceptionally young. This is because this was the genuine article: the Principality’s National Guard Marching Band, where all male citizens of the principality have to serve, provided they are the right ethnicity and religion, from age 18 and for the following 26 horny months of their lives.

There are five armies stationed in the Outpost, but only one National Guard of the Principality. And their Marching Band was playing at the inauguration of a museum that will only ever exist as an exercise in fancy, as a mental experiment. How truly fitting!

“How on earth did you book them?”
“I made a phonecall. They do this for free if there is no other engagement. I told them they would play for the opening of a new museum. They asked me what to play and I told them to play the usual marches.”, said Dæmion.
“Wow.”, I said.

Then the band left:

In the meantime some of the block residents were alerted to our presence and were asking when the museum will open, which floors it will be occupying, whether there are any plans to evict them from their homes and offices. One of them, an architect, spontaneously invited us to his flat, which was carefully renovated so that all the original elements — including floors, cupboards, various fittings and so on — remain intact. He had a collection of plates:

So that his two Siamese cats do not freak out (they eventually did), we were invited to visit his 7th floor flat in groups of five. The rest had to wait outside:

On my way home I had to stop for a wedding procession to pass by. They looked like immigrants from the Caucasus and the bride distinctly pissed off.

A walk

We went for a long walk. The temperature was at 20 degrees, there was a light breeze and the humidity was just right. We finally crossed the walls (hardly conspicuous) to the Old City. Crowds pleasantly strolling and sitting down and window-shopping and generally loitering. You could almost say the place was magical, ideally lit and full of strollers.

This Mortal Coil – Song To The Siren