Things I Like; Things I Don't Like

The stamp on my UK visa tells me I entered this country on a permanent basis Jan. 21, 2006. Three years (or thereabouts) gives me some perspective on life here. It's not long enough to be cynical ... OK, it's long enough to be cynical about some aspects of life here ... but long enough to have developed some clear likes and dislikes. Or at least things we enjoy and things we find peculiar. So to celebrate the three-year anniversary, I thought I'd do a series of posts on things I really like and things I really don't like (Mrs. Werbenmanjensen is free to join in as she wishes).

A thing I like:

Beer.

It is fortunate that I live in a land with so many good beers. It is unfortunate that I am unable to try each and every one of them. So my advice to those who ask me what they ought to drink when visiting Britain is to tell them to walk into the nearest pub, look for the long handles on the bar and order what looks interesting from the selection of badges on those handles. Those are the cask ales, pumped by hand from a cellar to your pint glass. While over time they may have gone from being made by specialist brewers to being a brand owned by a major conglomerate, they are beers you won't get in any other country--bitters, porters and the like. Across the rest of the bar you may see familiar names--Guinness, Kronenbourg, Carling, even Budweiser and Coors. But you can get those at any old bar. I like to try something I haven't drunk before.

A thing I don't like:

The obsession with the carbon cost of heating a kettle of water for tea.

This is a comparison you'll find in many contexts. This morning, the BBC reported that two Google searches consume the same amount of energy as boiling a kettle of water (never mind the auto trips to the library averted by Google searching). A major train operator advertises that its trains are so energy efficient that they actually make up for millions of boiling kettles (the first of four on this clip):




Look, almost every action causes carbon dioxide to be released into the atmosphere. If we're going to drink tea, it will require energy, and until our energy sources are 100% sustainable, that energy consumption will result in carbon emissions--no matter if we heat our water in kettle, on a stove, or in an animal skin over a wood fire. If you don't want your beverage to have a carbon impact, drink water. From a stream.

This obsession wouldn't be so bad if it weren't trivial in comparison to some of the choices we make in our lifestyle, living accommodations, residence, commute, and leisure travel that release far more than the 14 grams of carbon that a kettle does. But we don't like the thought of giving up our houses, yards, automobiles, and sunny holidays, so we obsess about tea kettles.

An Extra Special Message From Steve Guttenberg

And while we're at it ....



And in other panto news, Huggy Bear is doing a Snow White panto show in Catford.

EDITED: Hat tip to Mrs. W's colleague who pointed this out to us.

Gonna Lay Down My Sword And Shield

The United States has Veterans Day. Britain has Remembrance Day. Unlike the U.S. holiday, Remembrance Day is not a government holiday--everybody goes to work if it's a weekday. But it's in your face nonetheless in the form of plastic poppies growing like weeds on lapels and collars, purchased for the price of a chugger contribution to the Royal British Legion.

While watching football over the weekend, I noticed that no less than 100 percent of the studio commentators for one match were wearing plastic poppies. As an experiment, I just turned on BBC News 24 this moment, and both of the on-screen anchors were wearing plastic poppies. If you walk down a given city street this time of year, you will notice that at least half of the people you see are wearing the poppies. (The always clever Time Out London, in its "Lies To Tell Tourists" column a couple of years ago, urged Londoners to tell tourists that any person wearing a plastic poppy had actually killed a German in combat.)

But I won't.

I have the greatest respect for veterans and their sacrifices. I do like to know that people who come back from war with physical, psychological or emotional wounds are taken care of. I will give money to the cause. And I'm aware of the cultural significance of the Flandrian poppy in reference to the horror of World War I. But I won't wear the poppy. I guess I resent the overtones of it--the suggestion that if I don't wear the poppy I'm somehow disrespectful of veterans. And to me, the poppy remains a symbol of war, rather than the peace we should hope for. Give me a Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament peace symbol any day.

Skyrockets In Flight

I've begun to hear fireworks at night again, which can only mean that we're getting close to Guy Fawkes Day, aka Bonfire Night, the night England celebrates pyrotechnics, or maybe it was to commemorate the Gunpowder Plot, or maybe it was to commemorate the failure of the Gunpowder Plot. Anyway ... fireworks have been purchased, and I believe we're in the midst of the first school holiday of the year, which means aimless youth are wandering about at night setting off fireworks.

Still, the volume of fireworks is probably insufficient for this guy:

The Further Continuing Adventures Of English As A Second Language

Crimbo.

Saying "Merry Crimbo" just doesn't sound right.

Talk Like A Pirate Day!

Aye, it's Capn Smitty here to remind ye it's Talk Like A Pirate Day, which be a holiday in the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster. Celebrate or I'll keelhaul ye! Ye mateys can start by singing this shanty.

A Letter From Steve Guttenberg

Hello Friends,

Here I am trying on my pantomime costume, whilst making the most of the LA sunshine, before I pack my bags and head for Bromley this Christmas. I'm over the moon about making my UK pantomime debut as Baron Hard-up in the magical Cindarella.

Working with rogues during my Police Academy days should, I hope, be a fine workout for my battles with the Ugly Sisters; but I'm sure I can count on your help to boo them off! The song and dance routines will be awesome--something I'm really going to enjoy after taking part on America's top-rated show Dancing With The Stars. I am also delighted to announce that the Absolutely Fabulous Helen Lederer will be joining me as Fairy Godmother to add a sprinkling of comedy magic to the fun.

It's going to be a truly wonderful Chrismas for me in the UK, so make sure you join me for the biggest and funniest traditional pantomime around and book your ticket today.

See you soon!

Steve

Because you want to: Who holds back the elec-tric car? Who made Steve Guttenberg a star?

(Hat tip to Annie Mole, whose Twitter feed alerted me to this show.)

Deep Thought

Why does National Rail suppose that nobody would want to travel by train on a holiday weekend?

Deep Thought

How is that hoteliers have mastered the art of installing multi-voltage, multi-plug outlets for men's shavers, but not for any other personal appliance?

Happy Thanksgiving

It is, of course, not a holiday here, although it has many roots here, as we all learned in elementary school and as Mrs. W, our friends and I were reminded when we visited Plymouth in Devon back in August. It's not a holiday here, so Mrs. W doesn't get the day off, but I'm not working, for money, anyway, because I work almost exclusively for Americans. (We get the Commie holiday, May Day, however). I am working, uncompensated, because I'm thinking about our menu for a Thanksgiving feast we're putting on for a mixture of English and American guests on Sunday. Thanks to the avian influenza outbreak in Suffolk, our butcher's turkey supplier cannot deliver, but we're promised ducks. So be it. We don't know what the Pilgrims ate, anyway.

I get the sense that there's some fascination with this holiday here, the idea that you take a day to give thanks to the deity of your choice (or fate) for what you have. I don't have a sense that there's any desire to add it to the rather meager holiday schedule here (OK, OK, there's the minimum four weeks of vacation), but I think people like the quaintness of the idea.

Happy Leif Erikson, er, Guy Fawkes Day

Guy Fawkes Day, aka Bonfire Night, is the holiday named after the villain, unless you're Roman Catholic, in which case, well, never mind, it gets really complicated and, oooo, look over there, things are popping and exploding in mid-air!

We went up to the Alexandra Palace, (the "Ally Pally"), and watched one of London's organized fireworks displays last night. I won't go into the details of getting there and back, other than to say it proves an earlier point I made about London's inability to manage mass events, so those who are planning to come to the 2012 Olympics are forewarned. We shared space with a lot of folks, including some who liked their personal displays along with the organized fireworks ....


See what you can do when you insist on shooting only in natural light?

Hollow-een

I'm told that Halloween is a less-important holiday here than in the States. Since I don't venture that often into London's commercial core, I can't really tell you how, for example, retailers pitched the holiday. I can tell you that I went for a run on Wednesday evening, just as trick-or-treating was getting underway, and saw my share of costumed children. Many appeared to be heading into parties, rather than taking part in door-to-door treat-gathering. It wasn't the armies of children one would see in a typical family-oriented neighborhood like the one we live in. I can't recall seeing a single house decorated in our neighborhood. I'm not sure if that's because of a particularly British sense of decorum or a particularly Highgate sense of propriety.

What I did notice, however, is that Halloween was the night I first heard fireworks this year as London ramps up for Guy Fawkes Day, aka Bonfire Night. The pops of fireworks continued into last night and I'm sure we'll be hearing them until Monday or so. I believe our plan for the weekend is to view the big display at the Alexandra Palace Saturday night.

Americans Amuck ... In America

Howdy. A quick update ... Mrs. Werbenmanjensen and I have been in America for more than 48 hours now, in New Jersey. Yesterday, Sir Kevin and I kicked around Manhattan, visiting the Guggenheim Museum, Natural History Museum and Central Park. Today we were at the Grounds For Sculpture, an amazing sculpture collection on the former grounds of the former state fairground (insert jokes about Jerseyites winning blue ribbons for shivmaking and body-dumping here). Lots of photos from the sculpture gardens, but no way to actually get them on the web right now, so you'll have to wait.

Avast!

It be International Talk Like A Pirate Day, and to celebrate ye day at Americans Amuck, wa're gonna remind folks that the first, and greatest pirate of all time was ye Sir Francis Drake, who was such a scalawag to ye Spanish and their shipping that e'en the Queen harself made him a knight! So thar's hope for all ye pirates out there. Arrrrrr!!!!

Updated: Tom Smith, the world's greatest filker and a fellow commenter at this site, has his own Talk Like A Pirate Day Song. Feel free to join in: Yo, ho, yo, ho, it's Talk Like A Pirate Day ....

Devon: The American Connection

The words on the above plaque are hard to make out, but it commemorates the departure from Plymouth, in Devon, of the religious refugees we've come to know as the Pilgrims, who landed in 1620 in the American colony we know as Plymouth. (Click on the photo to see a big version of it so you can read it better.) The plaque sits on a harbor wall above the steps ...



... that the Pilgrims are said to have descended before boarding the Mayflower. (Mrs. W got the best Pilgrim's-eye-view.)



The stone arch also commemorates the New England pilgrims and gives a viewing platform for the steps.



Happily for us, down the street is the Plymouth Gin distillery. Had it been there in 1620, I doubt the Pilgrims would have partaken.

Over in Torquay, some aging concrete ramps are also preserved for historical purposes. These were the "hards" that were used to load troops and supplies for the Normandy invasion in WWII. (You can read about it a bit at the Wikipedia entry linked above.) We didn't take any pictures of them because, well, they're just aging concrete ramps.

Welcome To The English Riviera

Which has all the scenic appeal of the French Riviera ...


... but none of the climactic (hot chocolate in August?)

A region of uplands ...


... and seascapes ...



... where the English crowd(?) to the beaches.

How Slow Has It Been At Americans Amuck Lately?

But we have scads of photos from our trip to Devon, aka the English Riviera, (including this snap from Mrs. W during a boat/steam train trip through several seaside towns) so look forward to more reporting from that trip.

A Scarlet Knight Says Ni!

I decided to let our guest, my esteemed brother, guest blog and share a few thoughts with you on his visit, which is drawing to a close:

'Ello, mates! Sir Kevin the Blunt here to share with you the many sights, sounds, and smells a tourist encounters & produces whilst travelling in Swinging London. Let me start by saying that one week is simply not enough time to be here to see everything, and I wish I could scrounge off my sister & brother-in-law for just a little bit longer! This trip marks my first time going abroad. Unless you count the time I spent a weekend on the Canadian side of Niagara Falls, a summer vacation in Bermuda, or several rides down the Turnpike into South Jersey. It was certainly the furthest distance I've ever travelled, and the first time I used my passport...the real one, of course!

One of my first adventures in the Angel Isle was the Beatles/Abbey Road walking tour.
We got to see Paul McCartney's publishing company, the studio where "Hey Jude" was recorded, and finally, Abbey Road itself and the studio which bears its name. On the exterior wall, people were allowed to scribble a message for everyone passing by to read. I wrote, "All you need is love -John, Paul, George, Ringo, and Sir Kevin the Blunt of Hamilton"
I only wrote it in pen, so please look for it as soon as possible before it gets easily washed off.

Other excursions included visits to the Tower of London (home of the Crown Jewels and King Henry VIII's large codpiece), Westminster Abbey (home of lots of dead famous people), Stonehenge (possibly the home not-so-famous dead people), and Buckingham Palace (even more dead people). The weather cooperated for the most part, if by the "most part", you mean one hour late in the day, which is probably considered a dry spell in this country.

Since both my sister & brother-in-law were working some days, I would have to go and view these sites alone. Luckily, they gave me this essential book of maps that reduced my aimless wandering by at least 40%. However, the times they were able to accompany me were without a doubt the best times. Especially when we saw "Spamalot"
this past Friday.

For those of you unfamiliar with the show, it is based on one of the funniest films ever made: "Monty Python & the Holy Grail". But rather than simply do a repeat of the film onstage, it was a hilarious re-telling of the classic story mixed with skits from the TV show & some beloved new additions (especially the "lady of the lake"...YOWZA!)

But hilarity and great showmanship aside, the message was as clear as it was poignant: "Find Your Grail". This simple yet inspiring adage, as well as the wisdom & company of my family, has set me on my quest to find the divine within myself. So upon my arrival home, I shall begin to pursue the thing which will find me not only personal fulfillment, but hope & joy to millions the world over...Murder Mystery Dinner Theater! (Warning: Shameless Plug Approaching)

So if you plan on being in the Princeton-Mercer County area of New Jersey, USA, and you're in the mood for some faboulous entertainment, check out "Murder at Liarton Manor" playing at the Palmer Inn on Route 1 next to Charlie Brown's! I will be more than happy to sign any autographs.

So as I finally finish typing, and the last night of my trip draws to a close, I would like to take this time to give a big shout out to my lovely & talented sister and her equally qualified soul mate. Their love, hospitality, and friendship is one of the things that gives me a new hope in this troubled world. I can never fathom what I have done to deserve such people in my life...but I'm pretty sure there's a reason somewhere!

Anyways, to all you bloggers out there, CHEERS! TALLY HO! and...RUN AWAY!!!

Sincerely,

Sir Kevin the Blunt of Hamilton

Planes, Trains and the Vomit Comet

Hi. The Werbenmanjensens have just set foot back in mainland Britain, such as it is, after a rather harrowing return journey from Jersey (the channel island, not this place) (more on that later). It seems that the winds that made our visit to the Noirmont point on Jersey so dramatic yesterday afternoon actually made for difficult flying--so much so that planes were neither flying in nor out of Jersey. After being promised a 5 p.m. flight home today, and hearing that other airlines were getting people out of Jersey only mid-afternoon today, Mrs. Werbenmanjensen and I decided to try our luck with the cross-channel ferries, figuring that if we could get to Britain, we could get a train back sooner than the airlines could get us home.

The run from Jersey to Guernsey was rather rough--all the way the paper bag was on my knee. I kept it all down, unlike one guy near us, and the crew was rushing around with mops, garbage bags, and sick bags throughout this leg. Before I could lose the cheeseburger and beer I foolishly wolfed down as we went through the gentle waters near St. Helier, we pulled into the harbor in Guernsey. The next leg I sat with my head on the table and listened to a hypnosis file on my iPod, hoping it would help me at least sleep on the two-hour leg from Guernsey to Weymouth. (While in harbor at Guernsey, I asked for a Dramamine at the cafe, and the cashier looked at me as if I was speaking a foreign language. "Motion sickness medication," I clarified. She shook her head. "We've got those motion-sickness bands," she offered in a helpful tone of voice. "Do they work?" I asked. She shrugged. I ordered another Pepsi to supplement the one Mrs. W bought for me when I had the sickness bag at the ready, over my mouth.)

Either it was the hypnosis file or the easing of the winds, but I made it without throwing up through the leg to Weymouth and mainland Britain. We alighted, gathered our luggage from the belt, and went to the information desk. The last train for London had left a couple of hours earlier, but we were told we could find a hotel on the beachfront. We walked into the misty air, hoping for the best. The first actual house-like building we saw, however, said "hotel" with a vacancies sign in the window, still-burning lights and a "welcome ferries" sign in the foyer. We pushed the doorbell. Success! An innkeeper with freshly bathed child answered the door.

It was a quick night, and then back up again to catch as early a train as we could (we didn't try for the very first train, since it left at 5:10 a.m., but it was the next one). At the station, the man running the newsagent/snack bar kiosk asked us if we were on holiday, and we briefly told him our story. "Ah, the ferry," he said. "I used to be a merchant seaman, and you know what we used to call the ferry? The vomit comet. It can get rough out on the channel."

A two-hour train journey put us into London's Waterloo station a little before 11 a.m. I was never so happy to see our flat, even if it did mean I had to go back to work.

RIP, MacLeod Of MacLeod

This is old news in Britain, I suppose, but it's worth noting that John MacLeod of MacLeod, chief of the MacLeod clan, the man who tried to sell the mountains of Skye to pay for repairs to his house, died last week.

Since Skye and the mountain range Chief MacLeod tried to sell are very special to us, I thought his death deserved to be marked by us, too.