Glamour Boys, Harry Potter and the midnight train
Well, here I am back in London: back to the crappy weather, the city where no-one talks on the underground, the land of overpriced burger (we are, of course talking the conversion rates between AU$ and the British pound), and possible muggings (if you happen to live in Dollis Hill). I arrived yesterday to grey skies and heavy rain. Welcome to summer in London.
Today, it is warm but not humid. Sunny, but not glaring. The day is young and I have a date with 'the Glamour Boys' this evening. Let the mayhem and mis-education of Christina begin.
Just after noon, I make the pilgrimage to The Beatles store at 231 Baker Street. Next door is the Simply Elvis store, and wedged beneath the two and downstairs is The Beatles (mini) museum. Really though, it's a fan-run little room with Beatles paraphernalia, photos and posters. Beatles apron or candy dish, anyone? It costs 1 pound for entry. Who says you can't do London on the cheap?
Half an hour later, I find myself in front of Abbey Studios and, like all the other schmucks (read: tourists), crossing and recrossing 'that' crosswalk featured on The Beatles Abbey Road album cover. It's ridiculous really. You wouldn't be able to tell it from any other random crosswalk in the city. Ridiculous, but highly amusing, is becoming the theme of this holiday. Harry Potter dress-ups, firemen's balls, impossibly high shoes...
I whittle away the rest of the afternoon window-shopping along Oxford Street. Forget clothes. Forget makeup. Forget jewellery. Forget handbags. What I really want is one of those life-size light sabres in the 'Boys Toys' section of Selfridges that makes 'real' light sabre noises.
6.10pm: Rendezvous with the Glamour Boys out front of Covent Garden tube. It's easy to spot the couple in the crowd.
Martin is the 6-foot-something beanpole who stands out from the rest of us commoners. There's not too many men who can quite carry off pork-chop sideburns with the same panache as this guy. The man is gorgeous. He's an Essex lad with a posh English accent (at least to my untrained ear) who likes to tuck a napkin into the front of his shirt when he's eating. As for Sergio, he who was consistently billed as 'the butch one' at the conference, think cheeky Italian. What a doll. I feel a warm glow emanating from the centre of my chest when I see the two, and I have a permanent
smile etched on my sunburn face for the rest of the evening... which is also partly attributable to the fact that they have agreed to go see Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix with me tonight (which now means I have to call my first born Sergio and/or Martin).
We meet with Sergio's equally affable Italian friend for dinner, a fellow academic, Marcella who is my height. I like her already.
It is only myself, Sergio and Martin who stick around for the film at the Odeon in Leicester Square - the site where I braved the rain and hordes of screaming fans for a glimpse of Daniel Radcliffe. Oh hang on. I was one of those screaming fans. Yeah - but at least I didn't look like one. Oh hang on. I got dressed up for the occasion in complete Hogwarts costume.
So, how's about Manchester United?
Looks like I'm unable to use my 'visually enhanced' (read: slightly tampered with the expiry date) student card. Bag checks mean that we have to hide our already purchased bottled drinks. Is that an Evian down your pants or are you just happy to see me? The theatre is plush, more night-at-the-ballet than blockbuster film, although I am baffled as to why the interior decorator has chosen leopard print for the seats.
The movie begins. I'm inspired yet again from the opening credits and sweeping score. The kids are no longer kids. They've discovered spunk and good haircuts. Without spoiling the plot, the film boasts spectacular action sequences, some beautiful moments for the fans (oh come on, YOU wanted to applaud when Harry got his first snog too) and impressive special effects. On the downside, the difficulty of compressing a +700 page book into less than 2.5 hour manifests itself in a narrative that is somewhat lacking in depth and the nuances of emotional and psychological angst of the characters. Which really goes to show what a genius Peter Jackson is. Maybe he needs to do the 6th movie. Nevertheless, I enjoy the film. And Daniel Radcliffe is always good perve-value. Oh shut up. It's not that obscene!
11.25pm: I part company with the Glamour Boys. This Saturday, dinner at their place, followed by a de-virginising of we trans-gender club first-timers and sleepover. It's a date.
Train ride home - a highly camp and eccentric (and slightly inebriated) fashion designer called Habib starts a social club up on our caboose. He's determined to get people talking on the tube again and that we all partake in a very Jesus moment - the sharing of the cheese and onion crisps. One bag to feed them all. If I ever get married, he'll apparently 'sort me out'. Which is funny, because 20 minutes later he's already forgotten my name. He takes photos of all us strangers. We've been catalogued. What a nutter.
I think I'm going to fit right on in here.
Today, it is warm but not humid. Sunny, but not glaring. The day is young and I have a date with 'the Glamour Boys' this evening. Let the mayhem and mis-education of Christina begin.
Just after noon, I make the pilgrimage to The Beatles store at 231 Baker Street. Next door is the Simply Elvis store, and wedged beneath the two and downstairs is The Beatles (mini) museum. Really though, it's a fan-run little room with Beatles paraphernalia, photos and posters. Beatles apron or candy dish, anyone? It costs 1 pound for entry. Who says you can't do London on the cheap?
Half an hour later, I find myself in front of Abbey Studios and, like all the other schmucks (read: tourists), crossing and recrossing 'that' crosswalk featured on The Beatles Abbey Road album cover. It's ridiculous really. You wouldn't be able to tell it from any other random crosswalk in the city. Ridiculous, but highly amusing, is becoming the theme of this holiday. Harry Potter dress-ups, firemen's balls, impossibly high shoes...I whittle away the rest of the afternoon window-shopping along Oxford Street. Forget clothes. Forget makeup. Forget jewellery. Forget handbags. What I really want is one of those life-size light sabres in the 'Boys Toys' section of Selfridges that makes 'real' light sabre noises.
6.10pm: Rendezvous with the Glamour Boys out front of Covent Garden tube. It's easy to spot the couple in the crowd.
Martin is the 6-foot-something beanpole who stands out from the rest of us commoners. There's not too many men who can quite carry off pork-chop sideburns with the same panache as this guy. The man is gorgeous. He's an Essex lad with a posh English accent (at least to my untrained ear) who likes to tuck a napkin into the front of his shirt when he's eating. As for Sergio, he who was consistently billed as 'the butch one' at the conference, think cheeky Italian. What a doll. I feel a warm glow emanating from the centre of my chest when I see the two, and I have a permanent
smile etched on my sunburn face for the rest of the evening... which is also partly attributable to the fact that they have agreed to go see Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix with me tonight (which now means I have to call my first born Sergio and/or Martin).We meet with Sergio's equally affable Italian friend for dinner, a fellow academic, Marcella who is my height. I like her already.
It is only myself, Sergio and Martin who stick around for the film at the Odeon in Leicester Square - the site where I braved the rain and hordes of screaming fans for a glimpse of Daniel Radcliffe. Oh hang on. I was one of those screaming fans. Yeah - but at least I didn't look like one. Oh hang on. I got dressed up for the occasion in complete Hogwarts costume.
So, how's about Manchester United?
Looks like I'm unable to use my 'visually enhanced' (read: slightly tampered with the expiry date) student card. Bag checks mean that we have to hide our already purchased bottled drinks. Is that an Evian down your pants or are you just happy to see me? The theatre is plush, more night-at-the-ballet than blockbuster film, although I am baffled as to why the interior decorator has chosen leopard print for the seats.
The movie begins. I'm inspired yet again from the opening credits and sweeping score. The kids are no longer kids. They've discovered spunk and good haircuts. Without spoiling the plot, the film boasts spectacular action sequences, some beautiful moments for the fans (oh come on, YOU wanted to applaud when Harry got his first snog too) and impressive special effects. On the downside, the difficulty of compressing a +700 page book into less than 2.5 hour manifests itself in a narrative that is somewhat lacking in depth and the nuances of emotional and psychological angst of the characters. Which really goes to show what a genius Peter Jackson is. Maybe he needs to do the 6th movie. Nevertheless, I enjoy the film. And Daniel Radcliffe is always good perve-value. Oh shut up. It's not that obscene!
11.25pm: I part company with the Glamour Boys. This Saturday, dinner at their place, followed by a de-virginising of we trans-gender club first-timers and sleepover. It's a date.
Train ride home - a highly camp and eccentric (and slightly inebriated) fashion designer called Habib starts a social club up on our caboose. He's determined to get people talking on the tube again and that we all partake in a very Jesus moment - the sharing of the cheese and onion crisps. One bag to feed them all. If I ever get married, he'll apparently 'sort me out'. Which is funny, because 20 minutes later he's already forgotten my name. He takes photos of all us strangers. We've been catalogued. What a nutter.
I think I'm going to fit right on in here.
posted by Christina at 1:37 AM
3 Comments:
Oh Christina!
I read your desperate email and just had to leave a comment.
As my mate borat says "very niiice".
I have been relaying your emails to Maritta who also enjoys hearing about your tales and descriptive writing style. I think deep down she may be a journo who hasn't come out yet.
You might be frightened by this comment I'm about to make: I have not seen lord of the rings, nor have I seen any harry potter! well, about an hours worth of the first one, what was it...the enchanted stone or something? ...or the sword that sings? I dunno, but there was a big guy in it and the all have outrageous english accents.
You should have been a writer Christina. Love your work - Slyman
Slyman. Now that you have told me that you've not seen "The Lord Of The Rings" OR any "Harry Potter" films... I will now take you off my email list, out of my address books, and tear your face out of my photo album. You are SO UNCOOL!
8P
But you're a legend. So I'll forgive... IF you at least see one LOTR film and say you like it. Start at the very beginning, a very good place to start (now, if you know that that line came from "The Sound Of Music" but don't know who Gandalf is, I may have to reconsider erasing you from my address book after all...)
So good to hear from you! Doesn't one of us owe the other a phone call? I'm working on getting my ass to Sydney. Obviously not hard enough though if I'm doing Europe beforehand! I'll see if there's a conference I can get to and get my friends over to. Then you can take us all down to Oxford Street - you know, your local hangout. 8P
Big hello to Maritta! Tell her to indulge that inner journo. What's there to lose? Except one's sense of dignity. Heck, just look at my blogpage! And you are visitor No. 2 to have posted. I'm buying you a set of steak knives.
And Slyman. Send the little lady on down to the blogpage. There's plenty of firemen eye-candy action! 8P
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