Wednesday 21 December 2011

Norwegian Wood

I think part of me was hoping to discover something magical on my little excursion to London. I am not opposed to Christmas. I like it. But I find it hard to find. I thought I might find it in London. I remembered learning about The King of Norway buying London a Christmas tree every year when I was a wee bairn at primary school. The Norwegians, specifically the city of Oslo sends it every year as a thanks for us being right brave and bombing the Nazis out of their fair country back in the bad old days when Mr Hitler thought he’d have a pop at running the world (in case you missed it, we stopped him: the Allies won the Second World War by submission).

Anyway..I always had in my troubled head a vision of a tree reaching in to the heavens dressed like the Christmas trees of Dickensian fantasy. It must be fucking brilliant that tree, I used to think when I was little. Well I don’t know what it used to be like but it was disappointing [1] when I finally came face-to-face to the tree this year. Stupid fucking childish dreams being shattered by twatting reality. Not sure there are any left though (childish dreams to be shattered), this may have been the last one. No – Santa. I still want to meet Santa.

Also on Trafalgar Square was a nativity – I have never seen Joseph look so relaxed on a nativity scene [6]. There weren’t any chairs though and I hear it’s tiring as fuck having a newborn. Fair play to the big man – and for the cracking job he did raising someone else’s child. Well done Joe.

Buck’s Jizz

I have never been to Buckingham Palace on my previous sojourns to London. In search of a good Christmas tree to breath some life in to the dying inner child…er in me. This metaphor is getting a bit dark.

[3] and [5] prove that I went there though. Well [5] does. [3] could have been taken by anyone. I did take it though – let’s put this rumour to bed.

My girlfriend talked me out of going and having a chat with the Queen though. My plan was to go up to the door and knock on. I’m not stupid, I know she wouldn’t answer: I know it would be a butler. I would say to him, “I want to speak to the lady of the house”.

“I’m afraid she’s not taking unexpected guests, Sir,” he would say sternly.

“Cut the bullshit Jeeves – tell her Philip Bridgehouse is here and I want to give her a ruddy good piece of my mind.” He would disappear for a bit, I would lean in the door a bit and try and nosey. I would overhear Jeeves saying “I told him to go away but he hasn’t – I don’t know what to do”. Then I would hear a posh old woman’s voice say “for fuck’s sake, if you want something doing properly do it yourself”.

Then the Queen would come storming up to the door looking a bit annoyed. “Mr Brighouse?”

“It’s Bridgehouse. Like the thing you cross water with and the thing you live in…well us proles live in.” *sneers*

“Cut the working class hero shit, it was boring when Lennon did it so I couldn’t begin to estimate how boring it is when you did it.”

“Alright..alright..listen, I’m here to tell say I want you to let me put a wreath on your Christmas tree for Diana, the People’s Princess. She understood us normal people – she wasn’t like you. She knew the pain of the upper-middle classes, ski lifts being slow; servants looking to use your name to make money after your death; too many swans in your summer home et cetera”

“Mr Brighouse,” she would say – empaphising the ‘g’ – before shining her fingernails on her chestbone, “I have no idea what you are talking about-”

“Diana, the People’s Princess,” I would interject. “She was the Queen of our hearts.”

“Whatevs,” Queen Elizabeth II would say, slamming the door in my face. Then I would hear her behind the door saying “it’s been my catchphrase for at least 4 months so get your fucking own.”

But I didn’t do any of that. Wish I bloody had now.

Convent Garden 1 Rest of London 0

We kept looking for Christmas. It wasn’t at Big Ben [2]. Though while walking there I did get an email saying the theatre had botched up and they didn’t have the tickets we had booked to see Tim Key’s Masterslut. It turned out the booking system hadn’t worked properly. Which as far as reasons go is a bit like telling someone they are wet because they are in the rain (which only Andie MacDowell’s character in Four Weddings And A Funeral wouldn’t notice). They apologised and said we could have some standing tickets tomorrow instead (we had seats for tonight) but that was fair because Thursdays are technically weekend  so that standing on Thursday was as good as a seat on a Wednesday – which we had booked and received confirmation for but been denied. [I know everyone is gutted for me reading this right now, something tells me there might be a happy end to this tragedy…*winks*]

Finally we gave Covent Garden a try. I don’t know how it gets that name – I didn’t see one nun…[that’s the brilliant joke from this blog by the way, if you normally just read it for the one amazing joke I drop then you can stop reading today’s now: that was it].

We did find Christmas, though. There was a good tree [4], a market hall with Christmas stalls and massive baubles hanging from the roof [8], best of all though..The fucking Coca-Cola ‘Holidays Are Coming’ truck was there [7]. Boom! Christmas in the form of a massive transport vehicle. And they gave me two tiny cans of Coke. [Perversely enough I got a massive can of Coke (Zero) later – how crazy is life?]

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