Are you in Powderfinger?

What should have been a quiet pint with Mad Mark so I could lend him some ski gear turned out to be a night so random that it makes the Cauchy distribution look normal (there's a gag for all you stats nerds out there).

Things started normally enough at the mutually convenient Faltering Fullback: "What are you drinking? 2 pints of Pride please. How was your week? yada yada yada." So far so normal for a quick Friday pint.

"Been following the cricket?" In retrospect, that's where it all started. While discussing the Aussie's surprising dominance in South Africa, the chap at the next table came over, and with a "You discussing cricket?" joined in our conversation. Again, so far, so normal for drinks in a London pub. A pint and a chat about sport are unifying forces for the London pub-going male population. People who might otherwise stab you on the tube are suddenly bosom buddies. We humoured him for a while, did some mutual colonial/pom-bashing, then his phone rang and he disappeared. All fine. Mad Mark and I returned to other topics of conversation...

Not long after, Barney (for that is his name) returned. Smoking. And said, "If you see a short kiwi girl coming up the stairs, I'm not here." Given that we were sitting directly at the top of the stairs, I figured this to be some sort of joke game of hide-and-seek and he wasn't particularly keen on winning. Mark and I returned to normal conversation, and Barney sucked down his cancer stick. 

Within the time it takes to smoke half a fag, the short kiwi girl came up the stairs. She saw Barney, cigarette in hand, and immediately joined our table and started laying into him. Mark and I couldn't believe it - for the price of a pint, we were getting our drinks and domestic dispute dinner theatre thrown in. Awesome. To summarise: Saskia (the diminutive kiwi) has issues with smokers - it's not the smoking per se, but an ex was a smoker, and there are obviously some latent issues remaining, and she can't stand the thought of being with another smoker. Barney, for his part, has a stubborn streak and some sense of pride, and if he wants to smoke, goddamit woman, he's going to smoke! Mark and I couldn't believe our luck and sat back to enjoy the show.

But this was a full 3 act play, and we were yet to meet the clown. Some English guy who had played pool with Saskia, and clearly fancied his chances, came to join us after Barney had left in a fit of nicotine-induced pride. Saskia was dismissive, the Englishman was oblivious, and Mark turned offensive. I was pissing myself. It was about this stage that Saskia asked me:"Are you in Powderfinger?" ... 

So much for my alcohol-free month. When there's entertainment like this to be had at your local boozer, why would you stay sober?

Only in London Part 3: London Word Festival

Often people back home ask me "Why would you live in London? The weather and dentistry are terrible, it's full of poms... sure you can travel, but that's about getting OUT of London. Why would you live IN it?" To those people I reply with this series of 'Only in London' posts, dedicated to fantabulous - it's what the F stands for, remember - events so London-y you couldn't imagine them happening anywhere else. So read the posts, shut up, and go back to dodging sharks.

From 2009-03-00-London

Spoken. Word. Two such harmless pieces of verbiage, but put them together and people suddenly have other things to do. Although the idea of it appeals, I'd never actually gotten around to seeing (should that be hearing?) a spoken word gig. Thanks (again) to Londonist, I scored an invite to the opening night of the London Word Festival (check out the website if only for the daily random neologism in the bottom of the right frame). Sure, I felt like an impostor intruding on a sub-culture of which I knew almost nothing, but the local wordy-types were welcoming and friendly. Perhaps it was my man-bag. It seemed to be a compulsory part of the uniform for all males in the room.

Within half a pint of arriving, I was chatting to some of the 'natives' - one of whom is one of the very few born-and-bred Londoners I've actually come across in London. Despite the fact our origins are almost literally polar opposites, our views on life in the city ran along the same lines. Interestingly though, he professed that most of his Londoner-since-birth friends have absolutely no desire to explore beyond its limits, not even venturing to other parts of England. The concept floored me. Most of the world is on your doorstep, and (until recently) you've had the currency that makes travelling affordable, and you stay in grey, drizzly London all year round? Perhaps the wanderlust typical of the Australian psyche comes from something in our upbringing, or perhaps it's in the water supply. Who knows, it could be the fluoride. Maybe it does more than teeth.

As for the event itself, my performance poetry cherry was popped by one Tim Key and I regret it not a jot. Having no other performance poets to compare it to, it's easiest to describe it as like seeing a stand-up comic doing a particularly bizarre set, with notebooks. The 'golden fib' finalists ranged from touching to hilarious, and I may have embarrassed myself when I was the only person in the room to laugh at the joke about Schroedinger's cat. Tough crowd.

All in all it was a great way to spend a night out, even without the open bar, leaving me with an invite from the organisers of another spoken word event, and the lingering, haunting image of a girl, wine in hand, sitting alone in the corner of the bar playing solitaire scrabble... I've definitely never seen that in Sydney.

Only in London Part 2: Fitzrovia Radio Hour

Often people back home ask me "Why would you live in London? The weather and dentistry are terrible, it's full of poms... sure you can travel, but that's about getting OUT of London. Why would you live IN it?" To those people I reply with this series of 'Only in London' posts, dedicated to fantabulous - it's what the F stands for, remember - events so London-y you couldn't imagine them happening anywhere else. So read the posts, shut up, and go back to dodging sharks. 

From 2009-03-00-London

Remember life before TV? No? Neither do I. But apparently there was one, and if renditions of these throwback radio plays are anything to go by, it was probably a lot better than 'non-ratings period' back in Australia. I'll admit it: this sounds like a weird night out. And it is. Weird and wonderful.

On a I-have-nothing-planned-for-Saturday-night whim, I decided to do something unusual, and as usual, London(ist) delivered. Getting mildly lost on the South bank of the Thames, I eventually found the Swan at the Globe Bar... heading towards the big white Globe Theatre should have been a clue. Approaching the stairs up to the bar, I had fear in my heart. Venues co-located with tourist attractions tend to be mediocre at best. Crossing the threshold I couldn't have been more relieved. The clinking of cocktail and wine glasses, the hubbub of conversation flowing in the rather trendy looking crowd, and strangely, the tiny angel wings attached to the light bulbs, all gave the place a satisfying buzz. The view across the river didn't hurt either.

The above average dress sense of the crowd became apparent when the Fitzrovia Radio Hour kicked off. Although the performance is ultimately for podcasting, the chaps and damsels of the cast had set the tone in vintage outfits, and the regulars knew to, literally, follow suit. I've tried and failed to describe the show to people since, so I think I'll leave it to their own words:

We are the olive in the Martini.

Classic mystery, science fiction and drama radio plays of the 40's and 50's performed and recorded with style in front of a live studio audience, with live sound effects, then broadcast via The World Wide Web. Enjoy the simpler pleasures in life with cut-glass received pronunciation in a speakeasy bar.


We refute the notion that the well-crafted written word is dead, it's alive and well, living in Fitzrovia and wearing a tuxedo.

In theory the concept could be done anywhere, but only in London do you have the heritage of the British radio play (they still do them on Radio 4), and the kingdom of British accents to call upon. Add to that the ingenious use of props for sound effects, and although we the audience practiced our gasps and hisses before the show, the only sound we added during the broadcast was laughter. Even at the frighteningly aurally disturbing sound of Frank Maskill going 'the lathers way'...

Thankfully, there's another one coming up soon.

Only in London Part 1: Drinking with Dinosaurs

Often people back home ask me "Why would you live in London? The weather and dentistry are terrible, it's full of poms... sure you can travel, but that's about getting OUT of London. Why would you live IN it?" To those people I reply with this series of 'Only in London' posts, dedicated to fantabulous - it's what the F stands for, remember - events so London-y you couldn't imagine them happening anywhere else. So read the posts, shut up, and go back to dodging sharks.

Last Friday of the month at the Natural History Museum

You'll know already that I'm quite partial to the occasional museum. The reverence for objects that no longer serve a useful purpose, other than simply having once existed, to be admired, studied, beheld; the collected historical quanta of human life, thought and experience, housed together to shelter from the bustling, Blackberry-wielding world outside; someone occasionally popping in to admire the relics, gaze upon them in awe and wonder, and leave again reminded, in a good way, of your own personal insignificance in the grand scheme of things, without having to resort to inventing a god. Or maybe it's just the mustiness.

But I ramble. Musea are great in their own right, but are usually a little... uptight. Lots of "No participle" signs. So it's great when a museum lets its hair down, takes off the specs, and much like a scene in any cheesy teen movie, with a shake of the head, is suddenly transformed, and you can't help but gasp "Wow, you were awesome all along, and I just didn't realise..."

The big musea in London are free. It might take you a while to get your head around that. And I won't go into the argument about whether that cheapens the museum and its collection, or is an accurate reflection of their pricelessness. Once you've assimilated that fact, assimilate this: once a month, they open their doors late and let you go in and wander around the collections with a glass of red in your hand. I shit you not. (Aside: I didn't realise how quintessentially Sydney that phrase was until I came here... and when I hear someone utter it, it makes me unbearably homesick for no reason I can fathom... I shit you not.) And so I eventually get to the point. Leaving work on a Friday, and heading to the Natural History Museum for a few drinks with friends, seeing the Darwin exhibition in this, the year of Chucky D (200 years since he was born, dontcherknow... which opens up your eyes to both the progress and regress that has occured since then), and also casting an eye over the Wildlife Photographer of the Year exhibition (which opens up your eyes to the plight of some marvellous animals, and also to the fact that there are spoilt 10 year olds out there being given DSLRs and taken on safari trips to Africa)... well, a night like that, it's as close as I get to being a pig in muck.

It was so good I even signed up on the night and became a member. I shit you not.