Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough…

At the time of writing I’m lying on the bed* in my rather Spartan Travelodge room after a long but enjoyable day. As well as writing this blog entry (which most likely won’t be uploaded until I’m in New York due to obscene wifi costs here), I’m transferring the first 134 of what will no doubt become thousands of photos onto my computer.

After a fairly early breakfast at seven o’clock this morning, mother and father Farrington bundled myself and my belongings into the car and very kindly took me to Exeter to catch the MEGABUS to London. I wouldn’t be surprised if Exeter Bus Station turned out to be a highlight of this entire trip. Not a piece of litter in sight, the perfect pastiche of avant-garde and classical architecture, with glorious glass walls letting in the light of the morning sun. Simply beautiful. In fact, the only blemish on the place was the naughty boy smoking where, as the fat controller pointed out, there were signs which said he oughtn’t.**

As it turns out, Megabus is a bit of a misnomer. The girl on the seats in front of me (greedy, not fat) was asleep before I’d even sat down, and by the time we’d reached the M5 I’d estimate a good 70% of passengers had nodded off. My motorway/passenger/sleep record remains intact as I followed shortly afterwards and spent most of the journey unconscious. As for the brief moments I was awake? Celebrating the sunshine, bemoaning the grey clouds and eventual rain, and doing that thing where you try not to listen in but somehow the harder you try the more interesting the conversation becomes. Apparently Newquay to London on a bus felt longer than Exeter to London on a bus. Who knew?

When I arrived, I decided I would spend some time wandering aimlessly and see what I stumbled upon. After a cheeky toilet stop in McDonalds, I’d soon walked past an abbey where some wedding took place a few weeks ago, seen a large building someone tried to blow up last November, and clocked a big, shiny bell tower in the sky. I’ll be honest, I cheated, because I’ve been to London before. Nevertheless, I played the part of the stereotypical tourist and took some fairly poor shots of the Houses of Parliament bathed in the midday sun (complete with glorious barrel distortion), before asking Jade where the other stuff in London was and heading towards Trafalgar Square. No sign of David Cameron on the way past Downing Street, and I was a little confused because the Cenotaph seemed to be missing something. It didn’t take me long to realise that Charlie Gilmour must not be a permanent fixture. I would add, though, that rotten wreaths don’t do a lot for me in terms of impressing upon people the importance of remembrance.

I also saw this, which made me chortle, because I’d just seen someone get on a bus there.

A little further down Whitehall I joined the crowds who were watching the very young, uncomfortable looking guards on horseback who were wearing ill-fitting armour and helmets which kept falling down over their eyes. It took a lot of willpower to resist poking one of them in his DeBergerac-esque nose. I’d be lying if I said my restraint didn’t have at least something to do with the big sword he was carrying. From there, I bypassed Trafalgar Square to return later and walked through some back streets.

I got to wondering whether ‘London’s First Bead Shop’ actually came first, and whether they added the ‘First’ because ‘The London Bead Shop’ had opened around the corner in a much better plot and they felt the need to re-assert their authenticity, but then I got to Covent Garden, and all such silliness melted away. To be replaced by a whole different kind.

There are some places I’ve been to where I could happily spend a whole day just sitting and watching people, and Covent Garden reminded me why it’s one of them today. There’s such an odd blend of outrageous street entertainers, crazed evangelicals, tourists, posers, locals, and, well, everyone really, in an absolutely fantastic location. I’m sure the same could be said about a lot of places, and you probably have one in mind at the moment. But this isn’t your blog, is it…

Photographing a particularly animated man with a Bible and clipboard was a mistake, because I was the followed by his sidekick who offered me a pamphlet. The usual response about my degree flew from my lips, and I have to admit that I was a little taken aback, to say nothing of being impressed, when rather than run away screaming in the face of rational debate, he asked me if I was at peace with God. I told him that I most likely wasn’t, but that I don’t think many people are, even those who claim to be. He told me he was. and a smug grin appeared on his face. A swift ‘I’m happy for you’, and I moved on.

I’m going to be honest here. I’ve never before seen a man deep throat a one metre balloon, and while I have a fairly good idea how the trick is carried out, it was still very much a sight to behold.

It was nothing, though, compared with his balls-under-the-cups-trick. I thought he was going to leave it at the mediocre ‘which cup is the ball under’ game, and sadly he rushed the ending because it started to rain, but by then he was already producing orange after orange from underneath the cups WHERE NONE HAD BEEN BEFORE. The melon, though, was the real kicker. No photo because I was applauding. Something tells me if he strolled a few metres up the road a lot more people would start to believe in God.

After giving him a whole round pound coin and photographing some human statues, I made my way through Leicester Square back to Trafalgar and more street entertainers. What I didn’t like here was the rudeness. I know it’s their job, and cries of ‘boring’ are certainly unnecessary, but so is telling people to fuck off if they don’t like your act, and making them pay money before they’ve even seen what you’re going to do. Surely it would be better to listen, make the act less boring, and earn more money as a result. It’s got to be better than press-ganging foreign school children. One of them did nearly get his come-uppance though. A language barrier led to a boy pulling a plank from under him whilst he was balanced on a small barrel, as opposed to letting go as he had been told. Sword juggling man was angry. I laughed. Everybody left without paying.

There was a diamond in the rough, though: a young fellow with a lop-sided mouth by the name of Sam Willoughby.

Amongst other songs, he threw in a heartfelt cover of Hallelujah which had me singing along right there in the street. He has music on iTunes and CDBaby. Buy it, because I can’t right now. What I really liked about him is that he came across as just being a normal guy playing a guitar, even if making a phone call in the middle of the set did seem a little bit odd. He was very eager to talk to people and told me I had to visit the Gibson and Martin factories over in the States. As if this trip wasn’t going to be expensive enough already…

After a while I found myself drifting back towards Whitehall. I was in a bit of a hurry to grab my camera so it’s not a great shot, but wouldn’t this man be better suited to swanning about the streets of London in a horse-drawn carriage rather than hailing a cab?

I was also a little confused to see this…

I guess I can cross Washington D.C. off the list!

I walked back to Victoria to catch the Tube out to Heathrow and stopped at Westminster Cathedral on the way. I know the Abbey is a work of art, but considering it costs about £16 to get in and the cathedral’s free, I’m surprised it wasn’t busier. Maybe Harry should get married here and even things up a bit. At the very least his hair would match the brick work outside. In all seriousness I felt a little out of place strolling in with my luggage, camera in hand, as Catholic after Catholic knelt and made the sign of the cross as they entered and left. To me it didn’t feel any more spiritual than any other building I entered (you could argue less so, because McDonalds has the cloud), but it was obviously deeply important to most of the people there. While it would have made for some brilliant photos, I decided against taking pictures of people who were praying.

After that, I avoided the incredibly inebriated man outside who was clearly very amused by his own attempts to photobomb two (presumably) Japanese tourists, nipped back to McDonalds for the toilet on the way to Victoria and bought my ticket to Heathrow. Then it was onto the Tube, the old line switcheroo a couple of stations down, and the fun game of overheating musical chairs over and over again until there are finally more people getting off than on and everyone gets a seat just in time to get off again.

A short bus-ride later, and I arrived at the Travelodge. Observations other than it being, as expected, a bit shit, are that the staff are fairly rude, they don’t do alarm calls so I’ll probably over-sleep tomorrow morning and miss my flight, and only one of the plug sockets works. At least the TV worked, so I got to see Chuck and Larry’s one redeeming feature: Jessica Biel in her underwear.

With that, it’s time to love you and leave you. I need to eat and pack ready for the morning. Tomorrow is going to be LONG.

So how am I doing? Do I need more jokes? Fewer pictures? More of what I did and less of what I thought, vice versa, or none of the above? I’m going to keep writing even if you all stop reading, but in the meantime I’d like to keep you interested!

Next time: I complain incessantly about long waits, tired legs, and getting lost in New York.

*Across it diagonally and on my front/side with my lower legs dangling off the end, not on my back with my head on the pillow. THIS IS IMPORTANT.

**In the interests of maintaining what readership I have, I must add the proviso that the bit about Exeter Bus Station is complete bollocks, as anyone who has had the misfortune to go there will know.