The loveliest evacuation point in the world?

 

I started a temporary job in February which has me communting to the Aldwych, part of the Strand in London. It's a nice job with good people and some interesting things to do. I thought it was the best job ever on day two when the building was closed due to power failure and we were sent home with full pay. And then on the fifth day the fire alarms went off. And we were evacuated. To Somerset House, a lovely old building with a beautiful courtyard and fountains of water which are shut off over Christmas to make way for an ice rink. And we got to enjoy it for half an hour while the alarms were switched off.

Britain decides.

I am slightly preoccupied with the upcoming Eurovision song contest. I can only explain this as being a reaction to having to watch it on the internet in Japan last year as opposed to watching it at home with my Ma as I have done for as long sa can remember (including the first year I was in Japan when I flew home for four days). And so the madness continued as Britain chose its entrant on Saturday.

While my friends were away at a fancy cottage celebrating Mandy's 30th birthday I was pressing redial like a man possessed, just to make sure a French girl singing a dreary celtic ballad didn't end up representing the UK. And who was the other option? Well, after the (s)hitlist had been whittled down from 6 to 2, we were left with French Cyndi and Scooch. Scooch had a marvellous top 5 hit in 2000, then two top 20 hits, then the singer made a baby with their producer and they decided childbirth and fizzy pop didn't mix. And then they came back from Eurovision with a song that you either love or hate. I hateed it until I saw them perform it, and now I love it. It's like a Carry On film set to music. And here it is:

I'm ready for my ASBO*.

 

(ASBO= Anti-Social Behaviour Order/ Badge of honour for louts, thugs and chavs)

Yes, it all came to a huge climax last week. Melodifestivalen reached its peak and so did our alcoholism. Terese and I had pre-booked seats in the Harcourt Arms which turned out to be seats in a the upper bar with a fridge full of beers and cider and a gaggle of excited gays. Including me. The Swedes were outnumbered 5-1 and we won't even talk about the small number of women in the upstairs bar. And the event kicked off with cheers for our heroes Andreas Johnson, Sanna Nielsen and the Ark, and boos for the tranny (not the actual tranny who was in it a couple of weeks before, but the fat bird with make-up application problems). And lashings and lashings of Tiger beer for us. Indeed, we each had 5 bottles of beer in an hour and a half. Which is not wise. And makes you take photos like this:

 

Well, unsurprisingly the Ark won the Melodifestivalen and will go on to represent Sweden in the Eurovision Song Contest this year. This is probably a very good thing.
And after the show the pub filled with more people who'd not been able to get tickets and had been watching at the nearby Swedish Church. Which is where Johanna, Ivan and Sarah had been. And with the schlager music pumping the party was soon in full swing. So we drank more, talked to lots of people and danced. And sang. And had a brief relax in the Swedish Salongen.

 

And I was being told to get off the chairs by the bar manager. And when the pub was closing, I lead a sing-a-long of "Take Me To Your Heaven", and was told to quieten down by the bar manager. So, song over, we headed off into the streets of London, still singing, me swinging around lampposts and laying in the road to take photos (as you do). Fortunately the girls mirrored my behaviour.

 

Apparently we boarded a bus to Camden, singing "Vagar du, vagar jag" at the top of our voices even though no-one knew the words, and we ended up in Camden's notorious gay bar, the Black Cat. Well, we could have been in church for all the use a gay bar was to me at that specific time. I was neither use nor ornament while Terese and Johanna seemed to be happily carrying on. It was while trying to find the loo that I managed to not find the loo, instead leaning over a railing that gave the impression of a balcony where there was in fact just more roof. And I was rather ill.

I was rather ill for most of Sunday too. Terese was marvellously hospitable and we enjoyed a lazy sunday of hangovers, Charlie's Angels and baked beans on toast.

I heart my camera (part 9,867,142)

 

Covent Garden, February 27th 2007. Moody and old looking.

Marching on...

Lordy! It's already March!

Actually it's nice that it's March. For a start the date has finally caught up with the temperature and it feels like it should be warm (or at least almost as warm, it's still slightly unseasonal). And the evenings are getting lighter which means socialising would be great.

Except that I've stopped.

Almost.

I'm trying to save money, so the dinner dates are being cut down and the random shopping has been cut down. I am a soup-man now and have tins of soup for lunch most days (too lazy to get up early and make something else) and I am also trying to develop discipline by setting myself a running plan of at least 3 times a week.

In fact I've been quite unsocial of late, having gone to dinner one week with Mark, then round Megan's for tea, dinner with Adam and drinks with Roland and Neil. That's been it for 4 weeks. Except for one thing of course...

Melodifestivalen.
It's all coming to an end this week and I think I shall miss having somewhere fun to go every Saturday night. The company's been brilliant- there's always someone new to talk to, some great songs to dance to and tasty beer. And the contest itself is more than entertaining.

Last week was the "second chance" round where contestants were paired against each other. One of the pairings was Magnus Uggla (think 50 year old dwarf with too much hair, a comedy song about nationalism and dancers in army uniforms) against perennial favourite Nanne Gronvall (think 45 year old dwarf with too much hair, a song about kissing and a dance routine based around a ropey climbing frame). The crowd wanted Nanne to go through- after all she was robbed of victory 2 years ago- but Terese and I, and seemingly most of Sweden had other ideas, and in a perfect display of how to make friends and influence people we sang Magnus' lovely ditty and laughed as much as we could while the gathered throng booed and hollered.

Fortunately we were all united by the mighty Sanna Nielsen, a lovely traditional Swedish blonde singing a lovely traditional Swedish schlager stomper.


There had been much gnashing of teeth when she didn't make it straight through to the final as it pretty much the perfect example of how to make a Eurovision song the Gays (tm) will love. And we all did. And to add insult to injury, she was beaten by a fat woman whose make-up had been applied by a transvestite using a sandblaster. Fatty's song was called "I remember love", which was probably a reference to the thinner days when she wouldn't accidently crush someone to death in the name of rumpo. Bitter? Me? Taking it all a bit too seriously? Me?

Anyway, as has become the norm, we drank till the bar closed and headed off to a club. Trash Palace to be exact. It was quite odd to be in there and not be molested in seconds, but actually it was quite nice. Although what wasn't nice were the sulky teenagers that were hanging around the stage bit where Terese and I were dancing. I couldn't help but wonder what was wrong. They were young, they weren't unattractive (although their scowls could maim from 50 feet). They should have been taking drugs, having unprotected sex or robbing pensioners- whatever it is the young people do for pleasure nowadays...

And so to this week, a week of early (ish) nights, indigestion, running and soup. Soup, soup, soup. It does taste nice, but the novelty's wearing off, and I'm sure there's a type of person who enjoys soup. I don't want to be one of them. Next week I'll have to reintroduce solids...