One one things

The other day I was in the tube reading the Metro over somebody else’s shoulder as i am wont to do when I’ve forgotten to bring my book du jour in my customary absent mindedness. I was pleasantly surprised to read that the manic street preacher in Oxford Circus had been given an ASBO (Anti-social behaviour order, I think). I find him particularly annoying, specially bc he uses a loudspeaker, and his voice has this mind-numbing quality. There are several MSPs in London, but the old man who usually sets up camp near the Camden town tube station is my favourite. He engages in discussion with ppl and rips them apart (verbally) when they try to take the piss. I’ve always wanted to have a word with him, and the other day I had my chance.

I was leaning against the wall waiting for a friend at Marble Arch tube station exit when I saw the familiar face with his white kurthaesque shirt, beard, cap and “Jesus is alive” board. Ppl stare, a few Americans take pictures and this tiny Asian guy sees him and screams “Jeeeesus is aliiiiive!” pumping his fists in the air as if Jesus was his favourite sports team as opposed to a major religious figure. I think he was stoned. But he goes on to chat with our MSP proclaiming his faith and looking like an obediant puppy, nodding his head eagerly. MSP had stopped just next to me and my friend with his back turned to us, and several ppl stopped to talk to him. First two more Asian dudes, a young European kid and a couple of black guys took turns to see what he had to say. MSP asked each of them why they are alive, and there were some interesting answers drawing from biology and Cartesian philosophy among others. In between this MSP had a yell at an Eastern European shop keeper who had asked him to leave, MSP was furious and claimed to have fought in WWII for their liberation and that he has no right to tell him to leave. Several minutes passed and the little stoner was still with MSP and was now repeating the key words that MSP said to others;

MSP: “You are alive bc Jesus is in you”
Stoner: “Yes, Jesus, Jesus”
MSP: “I don’t believe in religion, Satan is religion”
Stoner: “Satan, Satan”

Finally a Muslim chap (probably from Edgware road) came along and started arguing that Islam is the only true faith resulting in a shouting match which was largely incoherent and in a multitude of languages and dialects. The stoner had to go and he hugged MSP in pure devotion, and MSP turned around, saw the two of us and said something in Hindi. I shrugged my shoulders and said “No Hindi”. He then tries Punjabi, and draws the same response. He must have thought i’m a BBCD (British Born Confused Desi) so I said that I’m from Sri Lanka. MSP then said “Ahh Eppadi sugama? nallam?” I was grinning now, thoroughly impressed with his linguistic talents, but had to say that Tamil is beyond me as well. How incompetent I must have appeared. He scratched his head as if conjuring memories from the nether regions of his cerebellum. Finally he said “Ah mahaththaya! Bath kaawada? Aayubowan! Kohamada?” It was a brilliant performance, I delightedly put my palms together and said “Aayubowan, ow mama bath kaawa, hondin innawa.” I asked him how he knows Sinhalese and he said that he was in Carey College in 1948. Why someone would go to school after fighting the War was beyond me, but then maybe they had child soldiers even then. Finally he gave me a tired smile of satisfaction and said that he has stayed on this road enough and that he should go, I smiled as he walked passed a KFC where more ppl stopped to talk to him, and a drunk white man began to immitate a chicken.

I woke up very feeling very antsy this morning. It probably has something to do with my dream that there were bears outside the house and the windows were open. I also dreamt that I was a five year old boy working in a street shop with my ex-military father who was paranoid that ppl were out to get us. One day he saw a hidden camera on the tree in front of our shop and said, “putha, get my shotgun, they’ve been filming us all along”. Thankfully I woke up and didn’t have to find out the outcome of that one. The building has stopped next door and our new neighbours have moved in. I know this bc their baby started shouting early morning. The father’s warning was ominous, “The noise from the building will stop in a couple of weeks, but once we move in I can’t guarantee silence from the baby”. He obviously hasn’t heard of gags.

Anyway I’m trying to lead a balanced life from now. Splitting my time between doing some useful revision and ploughing my way through the big bad essay (dissertation) whilst leaving room for some London fun. I’ve had a deficiency of testosterone of late. Well not exactly my own testosterone but that of others. That sounds terrible. Anyway, point is i’ve not had much male company over the last few months and there were some worrying signs developing. I’ve begun to notice things like girls’ shoes, accessories and make up including the finer points of mascara, to such an extent that my opinion is sought on the compatibility between attire and accessories on certain occassions. I once caught myself saying “Good lord no, not that handbag with that lipstick!” All very butch of course. So it was not with a small amount of joy that I discovered that a school friend of mine was back in London looking for employment.

Last weekend a couple of other school friends were in town so we all met up for some fun and frolic. First things first so we went to some Arabic place in Edgware road for some lunch and shisha. Edgware Road is another example of London’s variety. This part of town is very Middle East/ North African with lots of restaurants serving food from that part of the world. In the night the cafes spill on to the road and groups of men dressed in Arab attire sit around a Hookah puffing away with tea or coffee in a glass waiting to be sipped. The shops are also generally brighter and shinier in typical Middle Eastern style, Arab music drifts across the road and the wonderful aroma of shisha wafts into your nostrils beckoning you to the closest hookah. The population haunting Edgware rd is primarily of Middle Eastern origin so you get a lot more women in full Hijab and men in Arab clothing too, and they all appear to be quite laid back in their approach to most things. Service is no exception here, the mandatory wait for a shawarma is about 35 mins, regardless of whether it has been pre-cooked. But I never really mind bc it’s hard not to be relaxed with some shisha, a comfy couch and leisurely conversation. That’s pretty much the theme for the entire length of the main road and then you turn the corner and you’re in Marble Arch, a different world in the same City, that’s London for you.

Today there was an amusing incident with a waiter, a yoghurt drink and mistaken FOB identity. On the menu card there was something called yoghurt drink with it’s arabic name printed next to it. The following ensued.

Me: Turkish coffee please
Friend: I’ll have the yoghurt drink
Friend (pointing to arabic name): How do you say the word?
Waiter: Yo-gh-urt dr-ink, you pronounced it quite well actually.

Hilarity of course. Both Turkish coffee and yoghurt drink were quite terrible. The coffee was like a double espresso with lots of spices in it and the yoghurt drink, well the less said the better. It was much like the liquidy layer that forms over a pot of curd. It reminds of another day when my friend tried to order a Lamb Liver Shawarma, the waiter didn’t understand him so my friend pointed at the menu, and the waiter goes “ahh chicken?”, my friend just shrugged and agreed to the deal. Food is food after all. But the food on Edgware road is a secondary attraction, the main event is shisha. It is possibly the nicest thing to smoke. Whenever I have shisha it feels like my nose has developed taste buds and that I can smell the sweet taste. It’s incredibly relaxing and soothing, except rose water flavour which is crap. Grape, apple and Strawberry are the solid bets. That cafe was strange though, they had hip Arabic music but the music video playing on the big screen was a soft-pornesque Danni Minogue flick. Worryingly there was a shotgun attached to the wall, but reassuringly it looked like it hadn’t been used since a 12th Century Jihaad.

We decided to watch The Producers in Covent Garden so had to kill time till around 6.30 so we walked around the West End and thought it’s about the right time to see what this Soho place is really like, with no ulterior motives, purely explorational. I always see signs pointing in its direction but have never gone there. The signs were rather misleading, and it took a good half hour of meandering between dodge alleys to see the first indication that we had arrived, Licensed Sex Shop. As my friend pointed out, it was a classic case of Parangaya Soho giya. Whilst keeping a weary eye out for the upstairs windows, where there are rumoured to be scantily clad females beckoning customers to join them, we walked around trying not to look too suspicious. Soho isn’t all its made out to be, at least not at 5 in the evening, and we ambled off. We decided to muck about in a pub until it was time for the show, but after going in we discovered that it wasn’t really a pub but a restaurant disguised as a pub. And a pricey one at that. We split a bottle of the house white, ate the carrots that had been laid out as a nibble and when they asked if we’re ready to order we said we’ll just step out and come back, which naturally we never did. Oh but we did pay. That said, the restaurant looked very good, it was designed for pre and post show goers and the decor was made to resemble a stage set. It could potentially have been very tacky but they had managed to pull it off very well indeed. It’s on Drury Lane just next to the Producers.

Unfortunately the Producers wasn’t doing student discount that day so we decided to watch an average stand up comedy in Leicester Sq. instead. I was coerced into having a couple of pints of beer despite my lifelong contempt of what I call glorified cowpiss. But one must give everything a fair trial, and unfortunately for brewers the world over, the beer failed to give me anything apart from a bloated stomach and very unpleasant burps. We got home late that night and fell asleep half way through The 40 year old virgin. But a good day of much needed testosterone.

P.s. Happy birthday Murali!!

I spent the better part of my Sunday at a sikh parade in Southall. A friend of mine, who’s into photographing all sorts of events, called me up last night and asked if i’d like to tag along. Sundays are traditionally dull and bluesy so I thought what the hell, woke up an hour early and met him at Paddington station by 10.30. I’ve never been to Southall and have only heard that it’s very Asian, Indian in particular. This was confirmed by the welcome notice at the station written in both English and Hindi. It was quite nice and sunny so a fairly decent day was in prospect. I nicked my housemate’s camera for the occassion but it was no match for my friend’s hardcore Nikkon which had about 8 appendages, all of which barely fitted in his rucksack. We reached Southall around 11.15 giving us plenty of time before the scheduled start of the parade at noon.

The Vaisakhi festival is a celebration of several different events. All over India, and in the North in particular, it is a celebration of the new harvest. In the Punjab it is a commemaration of the creation of the Order of the Khalsa by Guru Gobind Singh, making the day of special relevance to Sikhs. In the South the festival is a celebration of the Tamil new year. Just like the Sinhalese and Tamil new year the festival falls on the 13th and 14th of April. I was also happy to hear that like the Dhansel in the Sinhala and Tamil new year, the Vaisakhi festival is famous for the free distribution of food and drink.

The festival in Southall leans heavily towards the Sikhs’ celebrations. According to the map that my friend had acquired, the parade was to start from a temple quite close to the railway station and then meander along a 5 hour rectangular trek around the city before returning. The crowd was thin at 11.30 and we worried that it might be quite an anti-climax. Some lukewarm masala cha lifted our spirits as we wandered around the town while the atmosphere and crowd quietly began to build around us. We finally reached the temple and the floats appeared to be warming up, the cops had gathered to ensure smooth progress of the parade, and important looking sikhs were buzzing around making final arrangements. My friend’s very pro looking camera allowed us to get very close to the action without being told to shoo away, I guess they assumed we were press, and that worked well for us. Soon after 12 the parade took off, led by a slight old man in orange with a long white beard and a sword that was almost his height. In front of the parade there was a small army of ppl with brooms who sweep the ground immediately before the floats, it looked exactly like curling, though I think the purpose was more spiritual than frictional. The first vehicle was an open backed truck housing a massive drum that different ppl took turns to beat. The next vehicle was a large orange truck with loud speakers blaring prayers, chants and songs. It carried the main religious figures of the parade and as soon as it started moving the devotees lining the streets swept towards it, touching the sides, offering prayers and making donations to the holy men within the truck before neatly filing behind the vehicle to join in what would become a mass of fervour and devotion.

After taking some pictures of the start of the parade we decided to stay ahead of it since the crowds around the main vehicles made it impossible to move independently. The parade moved at the pace of a Hippo with a hernia, so it gave us plenty of time to locate an appropriate vantage point. We ran into some other ppl who had been photographing the festival in the previous year and they suggested an elevated fork in the main road, so we made our way there. On the way I stopped to have some more masala cha and some form of roti like thing with chick peas. Naturally the food wasn’t particularly flash, but somehow things that are free taste better than they really are. The fork in the road is marked by a flower bed, or should I say was marked by a flower bed. Within minutes it was full of ppl clammering on top of one another to get a decent view. Naturally the flowers drew the wrong end of the stick. But it was worth it. From that point the whole road is visible and as the parade reaches its crescendo the road transforms from black tar to a riot of vibrant colours and faces. From the young in prams to the old with walking sticks, the Sikhs made their way slowly along the road.

The parade is a feast to the senses. The men and women dress in vibrant colours and don their best saris, salwars, turbans and pointed shoes. There is a great deal of chanting, shouting and singing admist the beat of drums, the ringing of bells and the tooting of horns. Incense is burned and talcum powder appears abundant, clashing with the harsher smells of food preparation in the many stalls that line the road. These food stalls combine an odd mix of Eastern and Western cuisine. Some hand out masala cha and different curries of chick peas or lentils with rice or some form of chapati, whilst others hand out Pepsi and chips with Heinz tomato sauce. Handing out is probably not the best terminology. The distribution of food varies from having gulab jamun forced upon you by insistent old men to having to prize out a particularly tasty looking dish from a chap who is obviously more keen on chatting up the salwar clad female in the next stall. Whatever said and done there was a lot of food, and I probably ate more than I should have. So much ghee, so little time.

Another interesting aspect of the parade is the variety of the ppl. Now a parade 50,000 sikhs, 2 Sri Lankans, a white guy with a Muslim cap (BNP in a cunning disguise?) and a few bored English coppers doesn’t sound like the most diverse of communities. But the variety among the Sikhs was fascinating. You had the old first generation guys who were senior enough to carry massive Punjabi swords and look particularly regal, but you also had the young guys in their Nike hoodies and Reebok trainers walking around with their Ipods and mobile phones, whilst taking the Queen’s English for a trip through the gutters (Long live the Queen). What was nice was to see them all flush with pride in their heritage despite living so far away from home. One of the nice photographs I got was of 2 guys waving St. George’s flag admist the parade, it symbolized how it’s possible to have a multicultural society within one nation. To be a Sikh and to be English. That is certainly one of the good things about living in England, and I should say London in particular.

Being part of the crowd and part of a parade is a wonderful feeling. For a few moments you lose your identity as an individual and take on the single identity of one large mass of ppl. I just felt happy and proud, I don’t know of what. Unfortunately towards the end of the day it began to rain, a British Sunday would not be the same without rain would it? It also became absolutely freezing, and my hands abandoned the camera for the safety of my pockets. We stayed ahead of the float most of the way and took short cuts and by-roads to get past the crowds. Because of the rain the crowd thinned towards the end of the parade and we decided to take shelter under the porch of one Mr. Khan until the rain called it a day. We took our time bc judging by the broken glass near the door handle, Mr. Khan had made haste following what was apparently an untimely break in. Southall seems a dodge neighbourhood. But the town itself is endearing, if nothing else for its similarity to Pettah, full of shops blaring Hindi music, selling Salwars, Saris, sweet meats and CDs of dubious origin. All that walking left me quite tired, and on the tube back my stomach was making its first complaints about all that ghee. I hope the Immodium isn’t expired.

I was rudely awoken this morning by the drilling and hammering next door. We seem to have bad luck with houses this year, first dead boilers (I dreamt last night that the boiler in our new place had broken, I am truly scarred) and now building next door. The unfortunate thing is the guy who owns the place seems a lovely fellow and is so apologetic that I don’t have the heart to show him my wrath. The builders themselves are Eastern European so it’s a bit tough to get through to them. My sign language skills have been tested and by the looks on their faces i don’t think i’m getting too far with it. Might have to resort to a single finger extended vertically. It’s funny how when speaking to ppl whose command of English is less than perfect, your own use of language also deteriorates. I catch myself saying things like “drilling lot of noise, sleep very difficult, drilling stop”. Sounds like a telegram.

So this goes on between nine and five, and that is fair enough as these are regular working hours and most ppl are out of the house. Only slacker students like me will be bumming around at home. But come 5 O clock the drilling stops, and there’s an uneasy silence. And then it starts. Europop. I tried to decide which I prefer, pre-pubescent Latvian girls doing a dodgy imitation of the vengaboys or post-pubescent Polish men drilling to the tune of she’ll be coming round the mountain, and i couldn’t so i just left the house for most of the day.

With this very invalid excuse for not working I did a bunch of touristy things in London. I spent ages in Covent Garden watching the street theater which is really good. I particularly liked the crazy Jamaican limbo dancer who managed to limbo under a stick balanced on just two bottles side by side. I’m sure he was inspired by “Feeling hot hot hot” playing on his little radio. The crazy tattooed guy who juggled the apple with two machetes was also a hit. More than what he did it was the whole act and his witty banter that made it really entertaining. The two middle aged guys in suits who did a double act were probably the most amusing bc they have an excellent sense of humour and despite some of the jokes being rehearsed it was quite apparent that a lot of it was adlib. The shows are free but you are expected to drop in a quid or two into the performers hat at the end of the show, and they make sure that the cheap skates who try to free ride are ridiculed sufficiently. The finishing line of the tattooed guy is “Drop in one or two quid, if you’re rich 20 quid, if you’re a tourist 50 quid, if you’re Australian..I understand”.

I also dropped into some of the nice markets in London. Portobello market in Notting hill is very nice despite the crowds on a Saturday. After crawling through a mass of American and European accents I managed to get a glimpse of some of the shops. These line the street and sell mainly “antiques”, the authenticity of many of which I can’t guarantee. I could have sworn that I saw a sign saying “antiques made to order” but then that may have been a figment of my imagination. There are also some amazingly cheap CD shops. They sell 4 for a tenner and they appear very authentic. I got myself a copy of the Lion King London musical soundtrack and have now taken to singing it aloud to scare the tourists. My favourite part of Notting hill is the farmer’s market where they have loads of fresh veggies, fish and butchers. Few things give me more pleasure than fish shopping. After much fussing about, sniffing and head scratching we decided to get some French Sea Bass and Sea Brine. The former was steamed after being marinated in lemmon, fish sauce, french dressing and vinegar. It was divine. The latter was baked but I think it’ll be better curried. We got some squid too which we had as a snack, beautifully batter fried by my housemate, another experiment that turned out very well. A different stall was selling splendid looking Italiany stuff. Too much choice can be bad for you, specially on menus and in food stalls. It took at least ten minutes to decide which 4 things to buy and finally decided on some artichokes bathed in olive oil, an excellent pesto of black olives, anchovies and capers, a variety of mushrooms marinated in olive oil and spices and some feta cheese, topped off with some fresh ciabatta bread. Santa Maria.

On another day I quite randomly walked into a massive second hand book market in Southbank. Book markets are another source of endless joy for me, I tend to spend hours and hours at them. As one would expect the quality of book varies greatly, you get some very ordinary stuff like “How to get rid of worms: fast” but if you can be bothered and have the time, there are bound to be some excellent finds. I was lucky enough to find a book that i’ve been looking for for ages, “In Xanadu” by William Dalrymple. Some time ago I wrote very briefly about “The Age of Kali” by the same writer, “In Xanadu” is his first book. The guy was a student in Cambridge when he decided to mimic the journey of Marco Polo from Jerusalem to Xanadu, the summer palace of Kubla Khan. I’m only a few pages into the book but it’s tremendously interesting and rich so far and I’m looking forward to reading the rest of it. This sort of book frustrates me bc I can barely organize a trip to one or two countries in Europe let alone a trip across one or two continents. I need to get my act together before the academic year, and my student life ends.

Our boiler Henry has been dead for a while now, and that has meant a distinctly colder house and very distinctly colder showers. Though cold showers have their merits on some occassions, British winters are not among them. But you get used to it, I’ve got used to carrying the big basin of kettle heated water up and down the stairs, and though I fear for the safety of my skin, it’s been so good, so far. That said, I’d be thrilled when we eventually leave this place for the greener pastures of a different house. There are two things i’ll miss about our current place, the Italian shop, Amici Delicatessan, down the road and the proximity to Camden town.

There are few better things to do on a Sunday afternoon than to stroll around Camden market. Camden town has several markets, the best of which is the main camden lock market just beyond the bridge on your left (from the tube station). The canal market (on your right) is a smaller less impressive version of the lock. Camden market is amazing. It comprises of hundreds of stalls selling all sorts of nonsense from World War II newspaper clippings to Didgeridoos. It’s the sort of place you want to go if you haven’t been to places like Africa, Asia and South America, and yet want to see what sort of stuff tourist shops in those places might have. If you want to make your uni dorm that much cooler by adding a set of Indian tablas, a South American dream catcher, a persian carpet, a carribbean voodoo mask or some Himalayan incense, Camden market is the place to go. Most of these things are fake, which is reflected in the dirt cheap prices, but they’re still very very cool. You get a good range of CD shops selling non-mainstream music that you won’t find in your local HMV, excellent second hand book shops, vintage clothing and even furniture.

Besides these touristy things, the market is also a showcase of creativity. Some very clever and entrepreneurial ppl have made camden their home. For instance there is a shop which has all sorts of things made out of old circuit boards, from key tags to note books to wall clocks, it’s amazing and unique. This afternoon I saw a stall with some remarkable computer generated art work, the artist depicts the character traits of ppl born under different star signs by using colours and form. You also find more mainstream art like photography and painting on sale. Throw in an excellent photo gallery currently displaying a fantastic collection by David Rubinger, a historical photo essay of the life of Isreal, and Camden has it all. There’s a good collection of witty T-Shirts, mugs etc. available too, the “Dolphins are gay sharks” T shirt being a personal favourite. The majority of creative stuff in camden is the result of doing clever and pretty things with simple elements and good ideas, and that’s certainly worth seeing.

More than what you can buy in camden, what I love is the atmosphere and vibrancy of the place. From the time you leave the underground station it feels like you’re walking towards a carnival, the streets are packed with ppl, there are vendors everywhere, music screaming from the high street shops and general mayhem. As you enter the market everything becomes even more intense. There is variety in everything in the market, be it the ppl, the music, the food, the stalls, it’s like its own little world. On any given Sunday you can find goths, punks, rasthas, hippies, Germans, the works really. Every store has its own little music set going, contributing to its own unique identity. You could find a shop selling Indian meditation products with Hare Krishna chants right next to a Jamaican stall selling assorted herbs and cannabis lollipops with a big dreadlocked Rastha swaying to some classic Bob Marley. The food is awesome too, not in terms of quality but in terms of variety. Not that the quality is bad, but it’s not gourmet by any stretch. Today I had curried goat with vegetable rice, apparently a West African favourite. It was all cooked in these big steaming pots which gave the whole thing a quite authentic feel.

One slightly dodgy thing about Camden is the extent of thieving and pick pockets, though I haven’t had anything lifted i’ve seen it happen to ppl. Happily enough there are plenty of Market coppers to beat up the thieves. That’s not the only reason to avoid taking loads of cash. The first time I went I busted almost £40 on all sorts of stuff from Dali prints to a mass produced wooden statue of an African woman. If you take cash you end up busting it. I also tend to attract the attention of the weed peddlars, usually when i’m walking off back home I hear the hushed call of “grass man, 10 quid for a nice big pack”. Naturally I walk away with my head held high.

I think I saw Sean Paul today, there was a familiar looking dude on the road and I thought hmm, and I looked again and there were two body guards next to him. I still didn’t take much notice until I heard this tourist ask one of the body guards “hey that’s sean paul isn’t it?” and then i looked more carefully and what do you know, it was him. I think. But yeah, camden market, go there, do that.

For all the joys London has to offer, the best is the Westend. One of the few shortcomings of Colombo is the lack of regular high quality theatrical and musical productions. You get the odd good show from time to time, but nowhere enough to do justice to the talent that I am confident is abundant in Sri Lanka. So the Westend to me was a whole new world. I got my first taste of it in July last year when I watched Phantom at her Majesty’s theater when I was here on holiday. I spent much of the time gaping like a goldfish at the splendor of the set. I was hooked. I knew that one thing I had to do over the course of this academic year was to catch as many of the Westend shows as budget and time allowed. I’ve done a fairly good job so far, the following is a taste of what I’ve seen.

Phantom of the Opera - I saw this last year with my mother before I started university. Phantom is a classic. It combines an amazing set (make that several amazing sets, starting with the breathtaking elephant scene, the falling chandelier, the sublime boat scene, the amazing costumes in the masquerade and many many others), top notch opera and a quite decent story. Everything about Phantom is larger than life, everything is so glamorous. I’m not a big fan of Opera myself, but unlike most operas i’ve been to, the story in Phantom is easy to follow. The musical score is excellent, and the musicians did it justice on the night. Songs like Angel of Music, Music of the Night and the Phantom of the Opera are brilliant. I can’t think of too many criticisms, except that it possibly ran 15 mins too long. Phantom is one of those must sees, I’m really glad it was the first of the Westends that I saw, bc it’s a great introduction.

Stomp - My westend partner in crime is my housemate, and our first target was Guys and Dolls, which she really wanted to see. Unfortunately the show was sold out so we hopped a tube from Picadilly circus to the Strand to see if Chicago had any vacant seats. Apparently not. Close by another show called Stomp was showing, and I had heard it was unique and fun so we thought what the hell. The trick with the Westend is to go an hour before the show and in most theaters they will give you the best seats available for under half the usual price, if you are a student (or particularly old). This is a good thing bc otherwise tickets are fairly pricey, the decent seats are upward of 35 quid. So Stomp, managed to get ok seats and settled down to expect the unexpected. It’s difficult to classify Stomp, it’s certainly not a musical, it’s not a play and it’s not comedy. I guess the only way to describe it is performance. There’s no story in Stomp, what they try to do is to make music out of everyday objects from brooms to pencils to dustbins to sinks, and throw in some athletic dancing and drama. There’s a group of about 8 performers who do this over several scenes from the work place. Some of them are real characters who without speech manage to create humour using mime, a bit of slapstick (not too much) and general comic timing. Timing. That’s the key to Stomp, everything is beautifully choreographed, the performers work together beautifully and all in all pull off a show out of pretty much nothing. That’s what is most impressive about Stomp, they use very limited props and create “music”, rhythm, dance and a show. The most memorable scenes were the emptying sinks and the massive drum fest at the end. The only criticism is that sometimes the noise gets slightly too loud and you might get a bit of a headache. But in general great fun, great rhythm and great entertainment. And utterly unique.

Lion King - We caught Lion King on another failed attempt to see Guys and Dolls. This time hopped the tube to Covent Garden at 7.20 to catch the 7.30 show, we got £45 tickets for £17.50, a superb deal in any book. Squeezed in at 7.30 for the opening scene, The Circle of life. I don’t think i stopped smiling from that moment. The stage and the set is massive and elaborately done, the music excellent (loved the drummers on the sides) the costumes are brilliant, the little baby elephant is probably the cutest thing you’d see at the Westend (the hyena costumes were slightly dodge though).The nice thing about Lion king is that most ppl know the music already so you can sing along to yourself (if like me your voice is best limited to the shower) and the music is really really nice. I was a bit apprehensive about it at first bc I had a feeling it might be slightly kiddish. And though much of it would appeal to kids, there’s plenty in there for the older ppl too. The one thing that was not too flash about Lion king was some of the acting, not to say that it was bad, but it wasn’t stand out as such. In summary, Lion King: Costumes, set, music and fun.

The Woman in Black - Went to watch this pretty much bc of a deal on lastminute.com. Got £30 tickets for a tenner. The web is another ok place to buy tickets, specially lastminute’s website has good stuff and some decent deals on something or the other at some point. Another way to get tickets cheap is to go to Leicester sq or Covent garden on the day of the show and buy from one of the many places selling theater tickets (it’s hard to miss, they’re well advertised). (But then I know ppl who’ve lived in London for 1.5 years but don’t know how to find China Town in Leicester sq). That said, Women in Black was a real dark horse (pardon the pun), very pleasantly surprised at the end of the show. The story is a quite basic ghost story, and one would expect a rather elaborate set and special effects in order to pull off an appropriately chilling theatrical horror. But no, Woman in Black was probably the most minimalist production of the ones I saw. It involves very basic props, just 2 actors who play all the roles, and one ghost. The story is chilling enough, but what really makes the show tick is the acting. It’s quite simply very high class suspense acting and good use of sound effects. It isn’t as scary as they make it out to be, but it’s scary enough. It would however have been even better if the final twist was a bit more subtle, most ppl guessed it half way through the show.

The Producers - An outstanding musical comedy. Again went to this based on some good reviews and recommendations without knowing what it’s all about. It’s a Mel Brookes production and originally starred Matthew Broderick and Nathan Lane (found this out yesterday). A very brief synopsis is as follows. A fallen from grace Broadway producer realises that productions that flop can be used to quietly embezzle cash since the money boys don’t pay much attention to them. So he goes about trying to assemble the worst possible production, the worst play (Springtime for Hitler), the worst actors and the worst director. The story follows this production process and culminates in the actual play itself which is simply hilarious. There’s a bit of slapstick (again not too much), a bit of profanity, a lot of potentially insulting innuendos but all very classily amalgamated into a fine performance. I laughed pretty much non-stop, though the second half dragged ever so slightly (the prison scenes were out of place). My favourites were within the performace of Springtime for Hitler, including the Swastika scene, the girls in the tanks and Hitler’s brilliant emergence. The score is witty and original, the set is again impressive and plenty of humourous detail obviously went into the costumes. Overall, extremely funny, and a must see for anyone with a sense of humour.

Chicago - Chicago is all about the music. They have a quite brilliant band which takes an unusual position on the stage itself reflecting their critical role in the production. The conductor himself is quite a character, he jumps around, and really knows how to work the crowd. The story isn’t remarkable, nor are the costumes, the set isn’t elaborate but they make excellent use of the available space and props. But I can’t reiterate enough the significance of the music. I strongly recommend having a listen to the songs prior to watching it bc you can then sing-a-long and enjoy it all the more. I particularly loved the songs All that Jazz, Mr. Cellophane, Razzle Dazzle, The Cell Block Tango and We Both Reached for the Gun. The voice of the guy playing Mr. Flynn is amazing, Roxie and Velma are both impressive singers though they didn’t quite look the part. But maybe I’m expecting too much after Mrs. Zeta-Jones. For me the jazz band stole the show comprehensively, they really bring the performance to life, helped by a brilliantly written score in most places. It’s also a really good idea to buy the CD of the official London recordings, though it’s a bit pricey at £15, it’s certainly worth it. Anybody who likes jazz, big bands, swing music, or just girls in tight see through clothes, go watch Chicago at the Strand.

That’s all I’ve seen so far. I’m very keen on watching Les Miserables and Guys and Dolls, and I’m likely to end up watching Mamma Mia, Sinatra (coming Tuesday if all goes according to plan) and maybe Billy Elliot. Will post on these in due time. Until then, check out The London Theater Guide for a gateway to the Westend.

It’s incredibly hard to wake up in the morning in England bc of the cold and gloom, and the better part of the tube journey towards central London is in that zone between being awake and being asleep. Rush hour tube journeys are not fun, almost always a tight squeeze, much like Colombo buses, minus the dust. But, when the tube stops at my station the voice recording says “This is Holborn” and everyone steps off the tube and walks in unison down the corridors, earplugs in place, Metro’s under arms, I feel awake and alive. It’s as if we’re the blood flowing through the veins of London as she wakes up and begins another day. There’s this irresistable pulse of the city, everyone has a place to be, someone to meet and something to do. I’m quite a chill person but even when there’s nothing to do i’m automatically drawn into this rhythm and end up running up and down escalators and walking real fast. As night falls the same rhythm and buzz can be felt as London gets ready to let her hair down. Walking around Leicester square or Covent Garden you again feel part of a greater picture, a piece in a puzzle. There’s an incessant buzz of hundreds of ppl talking, music playing, laughter and ladies’ heals clicking.

I never thought i’d like the “rush” of a big city, in fact the first time I came to London was an utter nightmare. In my first year of undergrad I was due to meet a friend at Clapham junction station, and my coach got late by a couple of hours due to some motorway incident. Unfortunately I didn’t have a mobile phone at the time, and nor did my friend. So when I got to Victoria I was quite lost, it was around 9pm and I had no idea how to make my way to clapham junc. Completely disorientated and struggling to find my way through the mad rush of the crowd, I finally found a ticket counter. I got to Clapham almost 3 hours late and was certain my friend wouldn’t have waited. I planned to sleep in some shop in the station bc I had no idea where he or anyone else in London was staying. After walking around the station a bit, and gradually losing my grip on things, I saw someone sitting on the staircase, head in hands, looking almost as despondant as myself. Happily enough it was my friend, and to this day I’ve not been happier to see him. We celebrated with some String hoppers and kottu at some Sri Lankan joint in that area. Made it all better. This other time I had to get to London to do some graduate entrance exam somewhere in Oxford street. I didnt know where the exact by-road was so I kept asking ppl but nobody knew, which was very surprising bc I knew Colombo like the back of my hand (btw, that is a strange phrase, if the back of my hand was in a parade with other backs of hands I would have no chance of picking it) and expected ppl to know their own city too. Obviously underestimated the vastness of London at the time. I felt lost and intimidated by the size of London, and I far preferred the smaller cities and towns I had lived and studied in.

The early experiences made me weary of London and it took a good deal convincing to make me apply here for postgrad. Having lived here for 5 months now, my opinion has completely changed. I’ve learned to love the buzz and the big city feel. I love the fact that at almost every tube stop you can find a different experience. There’s an incredible array of food, theater, music, markets, galleries, museums and other forms of entertainment. Also there’s an amazing variety of ppl in this city. I mean, just on one tube carriage alone you can hear so many different languages spoken. To take an example, in my trade class out of the 12 ppl there’s just one Englishman; there are South Africans, Aussies, Kiwis, Brazilians, Spaniards, an American Lankan, Nigerian, Chinese, American Indian (not red indian) and more. Most of all I love the fact that the city seems to have a life of its own, it’s always on the go, always awake, always buzzing. Despite being a very temporary resident in this city I feel like i have become part of it, as the ads on the tube say, 7 Million Londoners, One London.