LondonTown

Pub Quiz!

2005-05-09T23:04:00.000+01:00

Pub Quiz!
Originally uploaded by christopherwold.

Although not specifically British, the pub quiz in England has evolved along a wonderfully social path of bar game development. Unlike bar room trivia in much of the US that has become electronically focused via TV’s mounted in every possible sight line, the pub quiz uses—gasp—real, live people to ask the questions. Rather than turning teams or individuals into solitary vidiots, in an English pub the quizmasters and mistresses are sassy and taunting, and the crowd becomes rowdier, smokier (remember smoking indoors, USA?) and louder as the night progresses.

Such was the case when my company packed The Distillers pub (which is carpeted throughout--I saw mushrooms growing in one spill-prone corner) across the street for a charity pub quiz. As soon as it was announced, a heavy jockeying for team members occurred internally as people tried to fill slots of competency in the various areas of trivia. The team I was on, gamely named “Johnny Foreigner” (as, originally, we only had one person from England) must have taken me on as a pity selection, as anyone who has played any sort of trivia game knows that it’s pop culture knowledge that wins a contest. And British pop culture—well, not a strong point of mine.

That said, Johnny Foreigner was a well-rounded group (see photo, l to r)—Barry (general knowledge, politics; social man-about-town), Chris Hardman (sport; also has the coolest name of the group and ran the London Marathon days earlier), Becky (geography, world politics; team captain and team Chardonnay drinker), Me (science; general-stone-around-team’s neck), and Dominic (music, television, gay iconography; style coach and choreographer). I soon found out that my true contribution to the team—and one that can’t be underestimated—was my ability to carry five drinks back to the table through a jostling, hostile crowd.

Long story short, we didn’t win. I did, however, learn that the number 1 favourite single in Britain is Bohemian Rhapsody, that Aquarius is an Air sign and not a Water sign of the Zodiac, and that as a traditional snack during a pub quiz, you’re given white bread and chips (fries), which you make into little sandwiches (called chip butties). Sounds gross, but does the trick of keeping you in the game and downing a couple more pints. Mmmm. Salty, bready goodness.

The team who eventually won was rewarded handsomely with bottles of cava for each member. Cava is a Spanish sparkling wine which some people like to say is like champagne. It’s not. Think bubbly strawberry-flavoured Boone’s Farm wine (known as ‘pink panty-remover’ at my university). But perhaps this is just my jealous side coming out. Wait until next quiz, when I shall have my revenge and the bubbling alcoholic spoils.

what's up, drude?

2005-04-15T18:48:00.000+01:00

julian
Originally uploaded by christopherwold.

Christ, I can't even get a post per-week up. I'll be better, I promise.

Most of the time, the authors that I work with are, well, pretty tame. Just normal people. Actually, more often than not they're the kind of people you wish would just stay at home and write some books. I expected more when, during career day, I thought to myself, "That Ernie Hemingway sure sounded interesting. Why don't I go into publishing!" Luckily, when Julian Cope comes into the office, you know something interesting is going to pop out of his mouth.

Julian has done a couple of books for us (The Modern Antiquarian and The Megalithic European, as well as (Head On/Repossessed) but is much better known as a musician. I'll admit, I had no clue who he was until I moved to London, but was soon educated. And after getting used to a 6'4" guy in platform boots who never takes his sunglasses off, I found out that he was possessed with an amazing intellect and a hugely entertaining interest in megaliths (stone circles--think Stonehenge) and basically self-educated himself in the area to the point of being one of the world's experts on the subject. The books are great, and Julian took years to research and visit every site he included--and many more that he didn't.

Anyway, so Julian was in the office on Thursday to talk about his next project with us. I'd gone down to the caf to get a latte and bumped into him. The next thing I know, we're talking about his new Jap Rock project and how the tour with his new band is going. "You've got to come and see the chaos we're playing. We're fucking punishing the cliche." 5 minutes later, we've somehow pulled some of the upper management of the company into a discussion about how amazing deep-sea diving on mushrooms can be, then bouncing to the imagery of the rock star as a modern shaman, a quick detour to how goalies are also shamans as they have to dress differently than the rest of the team, operate under different rules, and guard a gateway, then we were quickly back to music and on-stage belly-slashing, and then he was gone. Whew. I was exhausted.

How's your commute?

2005-03-19T19:32:00.000Z

My bus & Tube ride to work is not nearly as exciting as this. If I wasn't from North Dakota, I wouldn't believe it.

A shout out to Mike Aasen, who picked up on this first.

Gliterati Literati

2005-03-16T20:58:00.000Z

Cannongate
Originally uploaded by christopherwold.

I read somewhere a while back that publishing is considered a 'glamour industry', along with film, TV, radio, music, magazine publishing, and perhaps some other lines of work. It's cited as one of the reasons these industries can get away with paying the majority of their employees tremendously low wages, especially given that companies in these areas are more often than not located in places like New York, London, and LA. Not exactly the cheapest of places to live on $20k/yr as an editorial or marketing assistant. The reality of this 'glamour industry' is that it's very often anything but--more stuffing envelopes with books and press releases on Irritable Bowel Syndrome than three-martini lunches discussing literature.

BUT, every now and again, one gets a taste of the good life. Actually, more than every now and again, but that doesn't make for a very good continuation of my earlier argument. This past weekend and early week was when the London Book Fair was in town. Publishers from all over the world, but particularly the UK and the rest of Europe, descend on the city to do a deal, see some people, and generally celebrate the book world. I went to a long list of parties and drinks over the days of the Fair, but the best was what I can only call a 'new old-school' party thrown by Cannongate, Faber & Faber, and The Atlantic.

A very invite-only sort of affair, the only reason I was able to get in was that I'd hosted, with some colleages, a dinner with the folks from Easons, the premier book chain in Ireland, who happened to have a bunch of invites because they're party people extrondinarie. I must admit, having had a taste of their stamina for drink while in Dublin the weekend before (again, for work--where the hell did I get this non-glamour thing?), I was a bit gun shy about hosting the dinner. Luckily, the additional insurance that I bought to cover any and every eventuality wasn't needed. They're a brilliant crew, really fun and smart and game for most anything. And nothing was broken or set on fire when I would have been implicated.

Post-dinner, we proceeded to hit the party and tear up the dancefloor. So much so, that we had to head for the high ground of the fire exit to really put on a show.

The place was packed with bright young things with posh accents. There were likely famous authors galore, but the only one I recognized was Zadie Smith, who I chatted with at the bar. Until her husband?boyfriend? pulled her away. I hadn't spilled anything on her, so I can only assume that it was the tremendous aura of my masculine sexuality that had intimidated him. Although I do think that I may have burned her arm with a cigarette, come to think of it.

Regardless, it was fun. Lots of drinking, lots of dancing, and a handful of hours later, a tremendous amount of regret for staying out until 4AM on a school night.

Champagne on the Runway

2005-03-03T22:32:00.001Z

Branson
Originally uploaded by christopherwold.

Apologies to all four of you checking in on this blog. It's been a heck of a couple of weeks of work, so getting something up on the site has been a bit slow.

Highlight of the week: Meeting Richard Branson (bloke on the right in the photo). 'Dickie,' as I now call him, was on my Virgin flight from London to NYC on Sunday, having filled the rest of Upper Class with media he was taking on to Kansas to cover the takeoff of his flying machine, which just finished a circumnavigation of the globe without refueling. We had a small chat at the bar when I was getting a beer during lunch. Said Chris, "I like your plane." Dickie replied, "Thanks. Glad you like it." Said Chris, "Good luck with the flying machine in Kansas." Said Dickie, "We're going to need it. Thanks." So, we're clearly pals now. And, it's a pretty grand project to be backing. There aren't many records left to be broken these days, yet he still goes on financing 21st century dreams like affordable public space travel.

I'm glad he's rich because the man must spend a fortune on conditioner for that mane of his. Such silky locks! Seriously, he's a self-made mane, er man of the people. The guy started Virgin as a mail order record company in 1970 and went on to record the Stones at his studios before moving on to planes, trains, and cola. But, he still shook the hand of everyone getting off the flight in NYC. 400 handshakes is no fun, let me tell you.

I hate to boast, but flying Upper Class (ie First Class) is fantastic on a transAtlantic flight. Being serviced is a pretty close description of the blue-er interpretation of that phrase. Back massage? Yep. Gentleman's manicure? Sure. Another glass of chapagne with your salmon, Mr. Wold? Don't mind if I do.

I wish I could say that this was always the highclass method of travel I take between NYC and London, but unfortunately that's not the case. The fact of the matter is that one should always try to travel with their boss. Especially if that boss likes to live particularly well. From now on, I'm going to try to make the dual business trip happen a bit more often, if only for the free socks and sleep suits they give you as they make up the bed which is bigger than the one I have at home. Ah, air travel. Makes it feel as if I were about to step onto a Zepplin.

"V-Day" or "The Night I Met Pleasant French People"

2005-02-15T22:57:00.000Z

Albert Bridge
Originally uploaded by christopherwold.

Belated, I know, but I've found my new favourite restaurant in London--Cheyne Walk Brasserie. Not that I can afford to eat there much, but wowza, it was good. They do amazing food and made me look like a hero on Valentine's Day, making my gal completely forget that I hadn't sent flowers OR a card.

The restaurant is located on the Cheyne Walk, just a couple of doors down from where the Rolling Stones were arrested for holding dope back in the 70's. I think Mick and/or Keith still has a house here on the Thames, facing the wonderful Albert Bridge.

Super Frustrating

2005-02-07T22:27:00.000Z

87
Originally uploaded by christopherwold.

What's worse than watching American sports on television in London? Not much. It's a cringe-inducing exercise, not to mention the time change being a bit of pain in the arse. The World Series kept me up until 5am some nights, after which my beloved Red Sox finally won in the most boring Series in years. Although it was after the most exciting playoff series in years, it must be said.

But I digress. So, I flip on the TV at 11.00 in the evening to catch some of the pregame, and lo and behold, it's the regular US commentators chatting away. Hurrah! Some informed commentary from people who know the game! I head to the kitchen to get a beer, come back to the TV and it's all over. The regular UK feed is now on, using local commentators to discuss the game for a nation who really doesn't know anything about the sport--nor did the commentators. Discussing the much-hyped ankle injury to receiver Terrell Owens, this exchange in the booth between Gary Imlach and James Cracknell was heard;

Gary: "So James, would you risk going back out on a pitch for a championship game with a broken ankle held together by screws and metal plates?"

Replies James: "Well Gary, I don't think I would. You know, I've never much played contact sport."

The guy is an Olympic rower! A good one, but a rower nonetheless. This is what I have to deal with here.

And the one saving grace of the Super Bowl is its commercials, but of course,

that's not to be had here as I was forced to watch the same car insurance commercial over and over and over as the myriad TV timeouts were taken in a first quarter that took an hour and had me crawling to bed bored out of my mind at 12.30am. Sounds like they were bunk anyway. Luckily I don't have to endure the halftime show.

What this did reinforce to me was the incredible pace of rugby. There are no timeouts for commercials. No timeouts at all, actually. There are limited breaks in play for injury--the medics come onto the field and work on the guys while the game continues around them. .

It's a more physical game, regardless of them wearing pads or not, with each side going at each other for two brutal 45 minute halves, plus injury time added at the end. The hits aren't as spectacular as in the NFL, as who's going to go airborn and make head-to-head contact without a helmet?

That doesn't stop them making some crushing tackles, especially when the design of play allows for the smallest men on the field to often encounter the largest men on the field when the lines clash. Even crap games are good, and besides, they'll be done in 1 1/2 hours.

Battersea Power Station

2005-02-05T11:45:00.000Z

Look who's finally figured out how to include more than one photo per post!

Just a handful of streets from where we live towers the hulk that is Battersea Power Station. There are fewer more recognizable buildings in the city, although this one doesn't make it on to many tourist postcards. It's more of an icon for the people of London. Or Pink Floyd fans, who will recognize it from the cover of Animals.

It was designed in the 20's by Sir Giles Gilbert Scott, the creator of the red telephone box. For the last 22 years its been crumbling away, having last pumped power into London from its enormous steam turbines in 1983. Apparently, the interior of the control rooms are Deco masterpieces, with marble floors, walnut veneers, and walls of brass dials and gauges labelled 'Direct Coupled Exciter', 'Main Reactors', and 'Standby Exciter'. Whenever I see it while walking along the river, it reminds me of those science magazines which purported that by in the Year 2000, we'd all be talking with our minds and flying to work in our own fantastic flying machines.

The Power Station has been slowly decaying, having been in a limbo about just what to do with it. It's listed as a historic building, so you can't knock it down and the exterior must not be altered radically if developed. The 'listing' phenomenon is an interesting one here in the UK--in theory it's a way of preserving the architectual heritage of period buildings all over the country (ie you can't put a SKYTV dish on the side of Buckingham Palace) but often means that, because a building is listed, it's a tremendous hassle and expense to get the correct permits and authorization to do any repairs, which results in great buildings, be they big or small, often ending up decaying to a point that they're a pile of rubble. The Power Station was at that point--it's an enormous and expensive project to make it into a viable commercial exercise. Someone tried to turn it into a theme park 10 or 15 years ago (roller coasters, games, etc), but it was a money pit for them, thank God. The roof had to be taken off because it was made of asbestos. With the roof off, the turbines would have rusted into an incredible mess, so they were dragged out. But, without the supporting metal of the turbine mountings, the station's walls began to sink into the soft ground of Battersea (formerly a swamp along the Thames). So, hundreds of pilings were pounded 200 ft into the ground to shore it up. While doing that, they found a couple of unexploded 400 lbs German bombs from WWII. And on top of it all, the transport links are pretty limited, as the Victorians who dug the Tube refused to do so in Battersea, which not only being a swamp, was used as a site for 'plague pits' where the mass graves from the Black Plague had been located. Can't say I blame them.

But, success! A new buyer was found, an ultra-rich Chinese businessman living in London who's been redeveloping the site, getting the permits, laying the groundwork with the government to improve transport, and will be breaking ground in May of this year. They're planning to turn it into a residential and commercial complex, with a pier on the Thames, lots of green space, 700 flats, shopping (but no supermarkets are allowed), and all that could make it great--or an absolute mess. Come over in 2008 and make the call yourselves.

down the pub

2005-02-04T01:04:00.000Z

Barry, Damon, Ben
Originally uploaded by christopherwold.

Ah, Thursday. A day of celebrating Friday. Nothing really happens on a Friday, anyway, does it? Sounds like a great reason to join the lads in a session at The Dove to talk about women, freak family accidents, upcoming weddings--and eventually--commenting rudely on the apperances of everyone around us. It was a good crew, well up to the job.

In my opinion, a good pub is rated through 1) its beer, and 2) the quality of it's men's room graffiti. The beer was good, but the bathroom was strange. You can tell you're in a pretty well-to-do area when "Bach Is God" is answered with the drawing of four bars of a fugue and "Mozart Rules!!!".

The best bar bathroom I've been in to date is in DeLux in Boston, which is a wonderfully cozy little hole in the wall in the South End. The men's room is papered in pages from old comic books and the women's is done the same, but with the pages from Eloise.

Ah, raise a glass to a good memory and have a good weekend.

Badlands

2005-01-31T22:08:00.000Z

Badlands, Kit
Originally uploaded by christopherwold.

Holy crap. How had I forgotten how amazing and spooky Badlands is? The movies at the NFT as part of their Wild Bunch festival keep getting better and better. Martin Sheen and Sissy Spacek are brilliant as the most unattached and disaffected killers you've ever met. Part Swiss Family Robinson, part In Cold Blood, it's a brillant movie about, well, I'm not sure, but it's damn good. And even though I know better, I can't stop thinking about how cool smoking is after watching these films. I itch for a cigarette when Sheen is popping one up out of his pack like James Dean.

Can you believe this guy became President? Whew. What a country.

Burns Night

2005-01-29T20:40:00.000Z

Haggis!
Originally uploaded by christopherwold.

Last Tuesday marked Burns' Night , annually held on the 25 January to celebrate the life and work of Scotland's favourite son Robert Burns. A legendary poet and even more legendary drinker, the work that is pulled off the shelf most often has to do with that great Scottish culinary delight--haggis. Our friends Rob and Nik, she being Scottish, invited us to their flat for dinner that evening, complete with traditional haggis, shown above. What's in this brown bag? Well, the beast is made of a sheep's stomach which is stuffed with a mixture of oatmeal, sheep's lungs, kidneys, liver, beef heart, and some magical spices. Scary stuff, but once I'd stabbed it at the end of the traditional reading of the poem (made quite easy with a dram or five of whisky), I was ready to dive in. And I was wonderfully surprised. It's a big bundle of meaty goodness. I'll trade it for lutefisk as freaky traditional holiday fare any day of the week.

Oh, I have to mention the other famous Scottish culinary delight, deep-fried Mars bars, which I managed to avoid on my recent visit to Glasgow. Easily the most unhealthy food I've yet heard of. I also narrowly avoided the 'Glasgow kiss', which is what a headbutt is known as in that part of the world. But that's another entry entirely.

Altman and 'A Prairie Home Companion' ?

2005-01-17T20:45:00.000Z

Garrison @ Lake Harriett
Originally uploaded by christopherwold.

Rumour has it that Robert Altman is in the midst of putting a film together called "A Prairie Home Companion" and set within the span of a broadcast of the show of the same name. Altman? Keillor? Wha?

I'm proudly a huge fan of the show. Something about it really clicks for me. Ever since I moved away from the Midwest, I've been listening. I know it sounds as if somewhere around 22 I turned into a 55 year old, but screw it. While growing up, I never listened to the show, but it was always on the radio when nothing else was. But, when I moved to college and then to Boston, I started to 'listen' to the show. I loved it--it filled in all of the blanks in my semi-fictional story of where I'd come from.

At the Univ of North Dakota, I used to write for the student paper, The Dakota Student. One evening, there was a tremendous fundraiser held for The North Dakota Quarterly, one of the oldest continuously-publishing literary magazines in the nation, which was about to lose its funding from the University because the President of UND was getting pressure to build a new hockey arena or something. As an aside, for years it has been run by Bob Lewis, a man whose life could be the basis for an Indiana Jones-style film. I know him, but the legend is still pretty distant, if you know what I mean. But I digress.

Garrison Keillor was headlining this fundraiser for the NDQ, and I, as star cub reporter, was interviewing him. It went very well and a great article came out of it, in which he ranted eloquently about how he found it sick that universities were forced to cut French language instruction while their football teams were given new uniforms every year and wireless headphones for the coaches on the sidelines, etc, etc. It was fantastic. I still have the mini-tape from the handheld recorder that I had at the interview.

But, and I shudder to think that I'm going to put this down, the most memorable slice of the evening had to do with his crotch. He was wearing his trademark red socks with an ill-fitting grey suit and was crossing his legs in the 'figure-four leg-lock' style, where the top, bent, leg makes the knee shoot out to one side or the other. The unfortunate fact was that, with his suit not fitting very well in this position, it was showing off the fact that he has a horse's cock for a penis. Every time he'd shift his position, the thing would jump around like it had a life of its own. At one point, I thought that it was going to pipe up and contribute to the interview. I'm still pretty sure that the guy has had a baby elephant's truck surgically attached down there. As I left the room, I swear that I saw it tying one of his shoes as he straightened his tie before he went on stage.

Bill Bailey--fringe

2005-01-14T19:28:00.000Z

Bill Bailey--fringe
Originally uploaded by christopherwold.

I was at the pub in Hammersmith last night, seeing a friend off as part of her leaving party, when Bill Bailey and friends rolled in. He's a hillarious comedian, for those of you who don't know him. He's got something special, but I don't know what it is. It was obviously his birthday or he was celebrating the end of his "Part Troll" tour, because he and his group were tossing back shots like they thought that spirits were going to disappear tomorrow.

Bill co-starred in a great series here in the UK, Black Books, which also had Dylan Moran and Tamsin Greig (my imaginary celebrity girlfriend). You might recognize both of them from their parts in Shawn of the Dead. Black Books is an ace show, if you're looking for a little something to pick up on DVD, as it's all done now.

Oh, of course I was going to go up to Bill, tell him that I really liked his work and ask him if I could get a picture with him. Just as I'm standing up from the table, someone (me) bumps it, spilling a glass of mineral water on my trousers, which makes it look as if I've just pissed myself. Instead, I spent it at the table, drying off and trying not to look like a pervert as I kept rubbing my crotch in a feeble attempt to get my trousers to dry faster.

His Lordship the Mayor

2005-01-12T22:02:00.000Z

His Lordship the Mayor
Originally uploaded by christopherwold.

One of the great things about England is the history and pagentry of it all. I was at a publishing industry event last night in Canterbury (of the Tales fame), launching (ie drinking champagne) a new publishing initiative when who stopped by but His Lordship the Mayor. Here he is with my good friend Liz, who masterminded the event. How about that old school chain on His Lordship? Put some fresh Adidas on this guy and Run DMC would be absolutely ready to walk this way.

Seriously, he was an ace chap. We were talking throughout the evening, and during one point he said, "Oh, man, I can't wait to get home and take off the chain." I almost asked him if I could wear it.

play nice, or I'll take my ball and go home.

2005-01-12T21:25:00.000Z

Remember that really crazy girlfriend you had in college? The one which was a real psycho--but you'd only describe her that way if you knew that she wouldn't hear about it? And only if she wouldn't hear about it and you knew you had three alternate exits out of a room at any one time? Try this one on for size.

Use these three words/phrases in a sentence before opening this link: "bare hands," "testicle," "drunken house party". I mean, who among us hasn't been there?

five easy pieces

2005-01-09T17:05:00.000Z

five easy pieces
Originally uploaded by christopherwold.

What a great film. Just got back from seeing it at the National Film Theatre, which is putting on an amazing two-month feature (Jan & Feb) of American films called The Wild Bunch. It focuses on the amazing time from '67-'80 when the US film industry was putting out classics hand over fist. Easy Rider, Bad Company, Nashville, Night of the Living Dead, The Last Picture Show. You name it, it was shot in that period. And these are ultimately American films, reflecting on a time when the States was going through a tremendous time of change--Vietnam, Nixon's resignation, the fuel crisis. This is what my parents were living with at my age and younger. Raising many of us reading this, I imagine.

Take a look at the NFT's selections and work your way through them. I assure you, it's well-worth your time.

breakfast of champions

2005-01-09T16:04:00.000Z

When you're feeling grotesquely overweight and addled with booze, there are few sporting spectacles that are capable of making you feel better about yourself than professional darts. The UK has a drinking culture which makes that of the States look like little girls at a tea party. This essential truth has probably got something to do with the scheduling of the world darts championship directly post-holiday season. It is a time when nobody really feels like marvelling at the dedication of finely-honed athletes who have ignored the festive period in order to pound the lonely roads or put in the hours at otherwise empty gyms. Instead, it is the moment when gargantuan-girthed men with ridiculous nicknames and customised shirts the size of circus tents take to the stage to become heroes to a nation cursed with collective indigestion. Ladies and gentlemen, the best of order - it's game on!

Last year's champion is Andy "The Viking" Fordham, an immense man who's in the championship match tonight. He's amazing. He's in the 350+ lbs range, with hair like I've never seen. Think Fara Fawcett in the front and all Whitesnake in the back. But this guy throws darts like they're on a string. Also, this is a professional sport where you DRINK while you play. It's not really tossing it back, but still, they're drinking a beer while they're playing for a lot of money. He's so damn big that in the 2003 match, I believe, he had to conceed defeat to Phil "The Power" Taylor due to heat exhaustion--while playing darts.

2005-01-08T16:07:00.000Z

inside phonebox
Originally uploaded by christopherwold.

Of course, the interior of the phonebox contains a phone that doesn't work and lots of porn for "sexy 20 yr olds" who've never been touched. My favorite was the one showing a plus-sized Arabic beauty with the words "i'm big" across her chest. Ah, international and worldly London.

classy London

2005-01-08T16:02:00.000Z

phonebox
Originally uploaded by christopherwold.

After an old school publishing lunch which began at 1.00 and lasted well into the late afternoon, some associates and I headed to a 'meeting' at a pub in Mayfair to debate world events and plan for our takeover of the publishing world. There's nothing like a few beers to convince you that you have all the answers to the world's issues. If only Kofi Annan would give me a call, we could sort everything out. Kofi, you've just got to meet me halfway.

On the way to the pub, we passed one of London's most recognizable landmarks--the red telephone box.

NYE, part II

2005-01-08T15:25:00.000Z

ruth and susan dancing
Originally uploaded by christopherwold.

Forgot to post a pic of the fabulous Cole sisters, Ruth and Susan, tearing up the dance floor on NYE.

Really? Right in the closet? Me? In your new shoes?

2005-01-06T23:09:00.000Z

New Year Eve--the beginning
Originally uploaded by christopherwold.

Just downloaded the evidence of our New Year's Eve festivities here in London. Susan (my gal), Ruth (Susie's sister), Garth (Ruth's ball-and-chain), and myself rang it in in classic fashion from the Royal Festival Hall on the South Bank of the Thames.

Ruth and Garth were visiting from New York, braving the fact that this was the first return home since their migration to the States and that everyone in London wanted to tie one on with them on their return. Susan and I were no different. They're the greatest. They share with us a love of meat and booze which will no doubt lead to our early demise. Isn't that how the dinosaurs became extinct?

Here's Susan, Garth and myself about 4 bottles into the evening. See that fancy suit? Yep, it's VELVET. I adopted a Sean Connery accent while wearing it, "Happy New Year, schexy."

From here, it's all a bit fuzzy. I do hate how 1 Jan is essentially a wasted day, unless of course you spend it on the couch watching war movies on telly which included a classic in A Bridge Too Far.

Catching up with the 21st Century

2005-01-06T21:18:00.000Z

It begins.