Mid-week London Photo #2

Wednesday, that means three days of sitting on an office chair, and a couple of million people with back pain ...

-- photo taken somewhere in London Chinatown --

Geeky Fun: Google Analytics

Looking at Google Analytics is one of my geeky pleasures. Today I am going to share some of the fun with you. Introducing: Top 10 strangest search engine queries that led people to my blog this month:

1. bars to pull older women in London
2. Is a colostomy bag wearer classed as disabled
3. I am looking for a Punjabi cook
4. Fat hookers
5. Southall boobs
6. Feeling middle aged and fat
7. I hate London boys
8. Most depressing council estates in London
9. Places for lonely people in London
10. Faux fur headband barts

Out with the new, in with the old

Was anyone else shocked to find that Borders on Oxford Street no longer is? It happened quite a few months ago, but what the heck -- does nobody in this town buy books any more? Where am I supposed to buy my Vogue India now? And all those other niche magazines, like Dazed & Confused? And where am I going to guiltlessly loiter on a slow weekend, reading the pictures in overpriced coffee-table books before returning them back to the shelf? I know I am not alone: hundreds of people before and after me had done the same, until those large-format volumes started to crease and tear, dying a slow death in between shelves, around them and underneath them. Too pretty not to look at, too useless to buy. And then the shop went bankrupt.

Ooooooh well, fuck new books and their shiny Oxford Street graves. To be honest, I sort of hated Borders -- it always got so stuffy and hot in there with all those other people competing for my oxygen, their hum-hum-humming laptops and steaming Starbucks lattes. Eventually, I would always rush down the escalators, elbow my way out like it was a matter of life and death, stand outside on the pavement hyperventilating and crying for some space while masses of shoppers threatened to flatten me if I don't move out of their way. No, no, no ... take me where books come to breathe. Take me to the second-hand book market under Waterloo Bridge, in front of the National Film Theatre on the south bank of the Thames. Saturdays & Sundays in all weather.

Is there anything better than the smell of old books? They should make perfume out of it; they should make incense sticks; they should make soap and washing-up liquid and toilet bleach, so that my whole world can smell of old books.

My TimeOut London guide claims that "In summer, it [the book market] helps the South Bank vaguely resemble Paris' Left Bank." Vaguely should be noted as the key word here -- our South Bank will always be a little more "60s decrepit concrete", and a little less "Notre Dame". But in the evening, with ugly details hidden in the darkness and pretty details glowing in the shine of London's old-fashioned street lamps, it's even more romantic than Paris.

Mid-week London Photo #1

I usually don't have time to write anything in the middle of the week, mainly for the following three reasons: work, work, work. So my brilliant new idea is to give you one photo of London each Wednesday to lift you out of the mid-week mood-slump.

Starting with ...

Cool Britannia of the 1990s: a young Tony Blair, Spice Girls before Beckham and babies, Vivienne Westwood with no knickers, Naked Chef Jamie Oliver, the classic Mini Cooper.
Little Britain of the 2000s: a tired Gordon Brown, Credit Crunch, Pregnant Teenagers, I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here, Cash for Clunkers.

Great Britain of 2010s: Time to get our street cred back.

-- photo taken somewhere near Picadilly Circus --

See you next Wednesday.

A very English way of saying I love you.

Am I the only one who adores the strange and wonderful English habit of dedicating benches to people? You sit down in a pretty place, close your eyes and think about Peggy. Who was she? Was she a teacher or a nurse? What did her smile look like? Did she have silver hair and a blue cardigan? What did her voice sound like? How many grandchildren did she have? Soon you forget all that was on your mind, and it's just you and Peggy or William and a thousand other strangers who would have enjoyed it here ...

Trocadero: Welcome to the Palace of Crap

I've walked past Trocadero a million times on my way to Chinatown, to the cinemas in Leicester Square, to theatres and pubs and clubs. But I always passed it in a hurry and it never occurred to me to to go inside. Until last week. My friend R. was visiting for a few days -- his second time in London. The first time was 15 years ago and one of his memories was Trocadero. Nostalgically, he wanted to go back. So we did. When you enter the place, it starts with tacky souvenirs ranging from Union Jack g-string panties to life-philosophy proclaiming bumper stickers. It continues with booths where you can take a photo in a Tudor costume ... there's a cinema, junk food and cutesy-cute Hello Kitty shops. The architecture is not bad: it's a big open space with huge industrial-style pillars and neon lights. But what R. really wanted to see was the gaming machines. He's a big-time geek.

Can I just confess, seeing a man in his 30s shoot a gun at a screen, concentrating like it's the most important thing he's ever done in life ... is really, truly, madly, deeply disturbing. He was so completely immersed in the game that I dared not utter a word. It reminded me of my dad, when he used to sit in the living room sorting out his invoices and taxes, sweat running down his forehead. As a child, even when I wanted to play, I could sense from the look on his face that daddy was busy and needed to be left alone. I'd quietly tip-toe away, because I knew that he was trying feed the family, and that was more important than playtime. But now R. is standing in front of me with the same I-am-busy look, with a receding hairline, and it's his playtime. What the hell? I stood at a safe distance of about 5 metres, watched him and laughed on the inside. Being youthful and playful is wonderful and it's what keeps us happy and sane. But when you see someone who will probably never grow up, someone who has never learnt that there are bigger things than playtime, it's actually really sad.

And the whole place is full of these types -- people who are escaping reality to pursue an alternative success route of gaining points, shooting monsters and proceeding to the next level. It was a sunny weekend (very exceptional in London), so I just sat there thinking: Why are you zombies holed up in here, with no daylight at all? The world is so pretty with grass and flowers and birds singing, let's go out there and get high on vitamin D.

Like a child, I kept pulling R.'s sleeve, my sad eyes repeating: "Can we please leave now, daddy?" He bought me a pair of pink Hello Kitty earmuffs as a consolation prize.