Saturday, 1st April.
Get 'em out for the lads
This morning I rang my Mum while the sports news was on, and she gave me the
dreaful news that My Beloved had lost to the team formerly known as Footscray.
What's the story? Come on you bluebaggers!
I went out to Tufnell Park to visit Bonnie, who I've known since high school.
Bonnie's been in England for a while, and is married to Mark (my co-conspirator
in the house-hunting incident).
We were just hanging out, having a yak, and discussing what's different about
Bonnie pointed to a fly circling close to the ceiling. "How many of them have
you seen?" Not one! "There are no bugs in England. No spiders in the corner,
nothing." She's right. I haven't seen anything crawling around. Mark reckons
it's because England is a civilized country. Stick a redback under the dunny
seat and let's see how civilized they are then.
"What's the deal with the pigeons?" I asked. Bonnie explained that basically
there are approximately 12.6 billion pigeons in England, whose sole purpose is to
crap on things. "They sit on that ledge there and they just crap and crap and
crap." I was struck by a thought.
Having regained conciousness (it was a small thought but it was travelling
very fast) I dashed to the window. I then sat back down. "You know why? It's
because there are no power lines!" And there aren't. So the pigeons are denied
a natural perch (natural??) and have to resort to perching on windowsills, statues
and the like.
We had lunch at a greasy cafe round the corner, and I found a copy of The Sun
that had been left behind by another punter. I was saddened to read that today is
the last day of National Cleavage Week. And what a week it's been. Where would England
be without The Sun??
Buses in London are just as bad as buses in Melbourne and in Launceston.
This evening I was
travelling from Fulham to Shepherd's Bush, and had planned to take the tube.
"Why take the tube, there's a bus that leaves from right out front!" say my
flatmates. So they convince me to catch a 295 bus.
I told them later that night that the next time they feel like recommending a bus
don't. I won't go into detail, but suffice to say I could've walked there faster.
I arrived in Shepherd's Bush (late) and met up with everyone.
In our little group there was me, another Australian, an Englishman and a German.
Sounds like the beginning to a bad joke, and perhaps it was.
After causing mischief at one pub, we went to The Walkabout.
The Walkabout is an Australian-themed pub. It's a large-ish pub, crammed full
of Australians. You don't have to hear them speak, you can just tell which ones
the Australians are. There was a sprinkling of South Effrikans, and a few of the
locals. But other than the foreigners, it was just like being in a pub in
The highlight for the evening (for me) went like this...
An obviously drunk bloke staggered up to me, clapped me on the
shoulder and slurred
"Do you know Stewie Corcoran?" I stifled the urge to ask him if he'd shagged
Stewie (see my visit to White Hart Lane) and just
"Are you sure?" Yes, I'm sure.
"Right. Good onya mate." And he walked off.
Australians are weird.