11 posts tagged “london”
Nothing like a brawly atmosphere in Parliament to get the blood flowing. Brown says most developed countries heading for recession.
Earlier this evening, on Old Brompton Road - close to South Ken
station - in London, I noticed a big TV screen displaying a live news
channel. There were clips of Barack Obama striding on to a stage,
then of him giving a speech, then there was a series of pictures of
his grandmother and grandfather. The news item's caption was
"Decision Time USA". I had come to a complete halt and was watching
from across the road. I thought there was something new.
The TV screen hung on the wall inside the Foxton's Estate Agents
office that was across the road. I noticed I was standing next to a
bus stop, and that two young women were standing there. We had all
been focussing on the Obama clip. Obviously, the estate agents office
was closed, and we had no idea what the clip was saying. Then, I
noticed they were also looking at me; laden as I was with rucksack
and various other bags, I had stopped to watch the news clip.
The editors of the clip had picked only those shots that flattered
Obama; he looked dynamic and utterly presidential. One shot had him
framed between two US flags. It hit me: this man really does not fit
with the usual image of a US president. Had he been running for
president of Brazil or South Africa, there would have been no
surprise. And we would have seen very little of him on TV,
presidential as he may look.
The young women at the bus stop were probably white English folk. We
were all united in finding something eye-catching about Obama. We are
preparing ourselves to getting used to seeing him on television all
the time. Had he been running for the presidency of Brazil or South
Africa, I doubt they would have looked up. I doubt I would have
stopped dead in my tracks.
In my first Judo training session, I had dropped out of some of the
exercises. Using the "my first class ever" excuse, or the "can't find
a partner" excuse, I watched. So I never quite managed to work a
sweat. But earlier tonight, in my second ever session, I sure did
work a sweat.
Ten minutes into the class, I was panting so hard, I had to bend over
and drop out of proceedings for a few seconds. I was not the only
one. Fit 19-year-olds who have come to many classes were equally
spent in under ten minutes.
Our first exercise was to carry a random partner over our shoulders
and run around the dojo (the exercise hall) a few times.
(Fortunately, I did not have to carry the 100 kilos guy.) Then, we
tried to slap each other in the face for a few minutes: I hold my
partner's right wrist with my left hand to try to stop his hand from
touching my face, and he does the same to me. Resist and attack, at
the same time.
Then we were on to hitting each other's knees (and then ankles) -
again you have to avoid getting hit and at the same time try to score
a hit.
But all of this just was exercise. Stuff to warm you up and get the
blood circulating. It was down to the mat next: your partner is on
all fours and your job is to try to topple him. I was allocated an
experienced partner. He was well nigh impossible to topple. He taught
me how to do it.
When it was my turn, he toppled me over, flat on my back, in a
second. He locked my arms around my chest, then plopped his full
weight on my chest. It did not feel nice. My arms were bound in an
extremely tight position under his weight. What most concerned me was
hearing one of my arms click underneath his weight.
He had done what orthopedists do: they stretch your limbs in awkward
positions and then apply pressure to release tension. On this
occasion, I could not complain, but what if the next guy is not so
smooth?
I raised this with one of our instructors, who is a woman - the only
woman instructor in the club, and she replied: "It's a full contact
sport, you _are_ going to get bashed."
The philosophy of Judo as far as I can make out, is to attempt to
create imbalance in your opponent, but also it is about speedy
execution. For example, today we were taught a move that uses choking
to create temporary immobilisation in your opponent, which then
allows you to fling him very quickly and lock him down.
When you execute it, your partner seems heavy and the whole thing
does not work as the instructor demonstrated. But when the partner
executes it on you correctly, he grips you around your neck (both
hands clutching bits of your robe) and the rest follows easily. His
grip is very uncomfortable; it makes you instinctively feel that you
may start choking. Your body freezes.
Your partner is not just trying to choke you. You are on all fours,
if one of your arms is shoved into your body, you lose your balance.
Combined with the choking, this creates a very short-lived sensation
of collapse of control. He executes the rest of his moves during this
one-two seconds of temporary incapacitation - when you do not offer
any resistance. He comes in underneath you, and pulling you by the
neck, rolls you over and then headlocks you. That's why he has to do
it quickly, because otherwise you're back to resisting him.
Another Judo principle is to not attempt to overwhelm with strength.
This invites your opponent to instinctively resist, which makes it
harder for you. One good strategy as soon as he matches strength with
strength is to give in to him, to go along with him: pull him down
with you. Use his strength against him. Much easier said than done!
I wish our instructors would talk to us about judo principles and
philosophy. But there is very little high-minded talk, mostly a lot
of action. The guys are eager to learn moves and execute them, not
listen to lectures. I have seen a few young guys show exemplary
dedication to executing moves exactly as taught. It's great.
After the session, I brought up the topic of injury with the
instructor. "Listen," she told me, "everything that happens to you in
a car accident in one minute, happens to you here in an hour. That's
why you're going to wake up tomorrow feeling like you were in a car
crash."
Bring on the doomsday talk. British tabloid News of the World reports
on what happens when over-priced, river-side flats collapse in value:
remortgaging, repossessions, and 'councilification' (US equivalent:
'projectification').
Clearly, talk of impending economic doom sells. The News of the World
muses (elsewhere in the paper) whether a year from now, three million
people will be out of a job. Scary!
As expected, talk of immigration and its curbing has begun, with both
government and opposition representatives outlining immediate curbs
and limits to immigration. In particular, I expect it will become
more common to find talk radio and tabloid papers saying the
immigrants should bugger off and free up some of the jobs for the
locals.
Still, it is not anywhere near there yet, and we do not know what
will happen in the next few months. In fact, if things really do go
downhill, I expect many of the recent immigrants _will_ leave of
their own accord.
And so it was that we stood in a line and took turns to throw each
other onto the floor. You grab the guy by the lapel, yank at his
sleeve, pull him towards you, step with your right foot and place
next to his, lock your arm around his armpit, transport your left
foot next to his, bend your knees, stick your hip into his, and
whack, flick him over your shoulder. You do this with a dozen guys;
the instructor is yelling out: "quicker, white belts, quicker, we are
not doing it in slow-motion here."
There's something appealing about flicking someone over your shoulder
- until you experience it and fall like a sack of bones a few times.
You land on your arm and it hurts. Some guys are so inexperienced and
so pushy, they execute the moves so badly you know it is a matter of
time before they cause you injury. They're sweating like pigs,
they're not looking you in the eye, they're panting like they've been
running for miles.
You get paired with a brown belt: a man in his forties, very muscular
and fit, he could be a bouncer. He looks you in the eye. He puts
himself at your disposal. His eyes are kind and his voice is husky.
"Don't worry about me, do anything, I will handle it." You're at a
loss: how do people fight? Where do you begin? You clutch on to his
robe, trying to figure out a way to do something to this guy - an
observer may think you are his tailor, fitting his judo jacket. You
get a feel for his centre of gravity: it is low.
You suggest trying to throw him, to practise the move you just
learnt. "Yeah, go." You execute it clumsily. You try again, and
again. Then he shows it to you. And by God, it's a world of a
difference. He doesn't have to do anything almost: you're yanked one
side, then another, you lose your balance slightly, his bum juts into
your body, almost breaking it in two, and the next thing you know you
are flying in the air. You try that on him, and it is not the same.
"Don't worry, I've got experience," he says.
Next you're wrestling on the floor. Purpose: pin your opponent and
immobilise him for 25 seconds. You're paired with a brown belt again.
He is coated in sweat, his hair is like a mop, and he smells of
coconut - the shower gel he uses, probably. The mixture of coconut
and sweat is odd; but perfectly fitting for a nice middle class
Chelsea lad. He shows you how to yank at his lapel, grab a hold of
his arm, then the other arm, and roll him over . You feel you might
damage his spine. He lets you do it a few times, then bows and shakes
your hand and tells you to come back and not give up.
You're paired for some more floor-wrestling with an 17-18 year old
kid who you kind of feel sorry for. He's totally at loss like you and
you feel you can crush him. But the bastard's strong and he resists
valiantly: it is a question of who lifts more weight in the gym
(answer: he does). You think smart, you think Judo, you think
"balance": you try to swing him around.
But he is wise to it and never weakens. He tries his hand at your
game, and now it is you who's resisting and trying not to lose your
balance. Then you pull back a little, just to give yourself more
space, and unwittingly you've opened a new line of attack for him. He
pushes you backwards. You instantly lose your balance. He's on top of
you, pinning your arms down and fixing himself over you. The
instructor is delighted: "excellent, try to get him off you". You
can't, you tap him, he's won. It is on to another fight.
The Queen is visiting the Westminster (London) offices of Google
today - so www.google.co.uk have marked the occasion.
I am on a southbound flight path low over Central London heading in
the direction of Gatwick. Heathrow is to starboard and I am passing
over Chelsea. I am travelling at an altitude of some twenty-two feet
above one of the many tributaries of Fulham Road, in the main dojo on
the first fooor of the Budokwai Judo Club. I am flying over someone's
shoulder. I am somersaulting in the air and am about to crash. It is
at around this time that I find myself concurring with the
proposition that it is better to travel hopefully than to arrive.
The Pyjama Game - A journey into Judo, by Mark Law.
*
I was at the Budokwai Judo Club in Chelsea earlier this evening. It
is the oldest Judo club in England, founded almost a hundred years
ago by Japanese masters. It runs courses in only Judo, and other
related martial arts. From the outside, it looks relatively big, a
bit like a community centre, or a church.
Inside, on the first floor, I sat crouching in a corner watching one
of the three weekly training sessions available for "seniors" (over
16s). As soon as I sat down, I could almost smell the 'manliness'
filling the air of the well-lit, mat-covered hall. Men of all ages
and sizes were clutching each other by the lapel or sleeve and really
going at each other. It was serious stuff. The thought of me getting
stuck in one of these full-body-contact games is almost scary.
I was planning to take part; but because I arrived just before class
and the club did not have a spare uniform handy, reception suggested
I just watch tonight. After watching a bunch of men sweat, throw each
other about, and hurl themselves into each other's ribcages, I wanted
to talk to somebody. The lad sitting next to me had pulled a muscle
and was resting. He said one of the great advantages of this game is
that you can train with a black belt. In fact, the next scheduled
session will be led by a UK Olympic silver medalist.
The colour of your belt shows your station. I will start with a white
belt, then there's blue, yellow, brown, and black. But people of all
standards train in the same hall and do the same exercises. The pros
always need target practice anyway, so they do not mind playing with
a total novice. In fact, the masters tend to be far more protective
of you than the guys your level. The sport forbids overtly violent
moves (for example, you are supposed to break your opponent's fall,
help him land softer); but the wannabes can over-excitedly smash your
hand or twist your ankle - without meaning to, of course.
I have always been interested in martial arts and yet never taken any
step in their direction. Over the years, I gathered that Judo was a
particularly special form of martial art: the only one you are
allowed to throw people around and whose explicit goal is to
immobilise and subdue your opponent. Kickboxing and Karate tend to
teach you fighting techniques but not to let you fight. Judo is a
fight - a Judo (meaning 'gentle') fight. I thought its philosophy of
respect for your opponent, and using his strength against him, worth
exploring.
Am I cut out for this? Can I handle it? There's only one way to find
out!
For now, I leave you with a modestly respectful bow. Rei!
Only a couple of hours ago I was in Fulham Road, Chelsea, London.
I found an intense appreciation for the area creeping up on me. I left
Fulham Road for the Clapham Junction area. Clapham Junction was
cemented in my mind as a busy, functional area. Some parts of London
can fill you with monotony, while others can recharge you, especially
when you have not been there for a while.
This in celebration of Fulham Road, Chelsea. These are pictures I took
at 8pm with my mobile. Not very high-res, not very clear, but they convey
the atmosphere, I hope.
Chelsea has the wonderful independent library Daunt Books. I loved
being inside Daunt Books; it was very well lit, the selection of
books made my mouth water (or is it mind?). I crave the day when a
similar bookshop opens in Cairo. (Whether it would be profitable is a
different story.)
Fulham Road's Cineworld cinema is still a key landmark, along with
the antique shops. The restaurants change, but always fashionable.
Sainsbury's and Marks & Spencers - a must. And the estate agents.
No economic downturn here!
The life I led while on holiday in Egypt was virtually insulated from
the financial-crisis-news that is covering London wall-to-wall. In
Egypt, things are sufficiently absorbing as to render the rest of the
world's news feel remote and pointless.
In London, I learn that Iceland has been virtually wiped out as a
modern economy, with the prospect of Russia 'bailing it out' being
given very serious consideration by the government in Reykjavik.
Commentators here see this Russian 'expansion' as a classic cold war
move.
The UK government is going to force people like me to 'bail out' the
banks to the tune of £50 billion. I hate this. They gave themselves
massive profits and did not share a penny, now they have failed, we
the taxpayers have to step in and cover their losses.
My day of travel began at 6am and involved possibly the worst lines
at Cairo airport I have ever experienced. Except they were not lines.
It was the usual Cairo jostle. The jostling was done through airport
trolleys - it was like driving in Cairo streets, but with trolleys in
the airport hall.
Normally, after you've checked-in with the airline, you get the
security check-in. But in Cairo, they screen everything first, before
you can go through to the airline counters. The screening process was
controlled by two officers and it was bizarrely slow. When I finally
pushed through, I was highly irritated to find a very long line,
twisting four-fold, for the airline check-in counters.
At one point, I was going to 'call the cops' on some guy who had
brazenly cut the queue, jumped about fifty people, and stood right
behind me. I told him off. But no one else said anything, and the
tourists kept silent too (I suppose they thought it typical in
Egypt). When I did finally get to talk to an official, he smiled at
me like I was naive and said "absolutely, that's so wrong" and did
nothing.
Things were sped-up, thank God, when they announced that London
boarders should be prioritised. So, we all scrambled forward, cutting
through the lines to get to the check-in counters. A European-looking
female tourist on her own had an anxious reaction when I hit her
trolley in my scramble. "EXCUSE ME. DO NOT GET IN MY WAY," she yelled
in one of those "I am an assertive American woman" voices. Sorry
lady, just cos you're not a native, don't mean you should not get
jostled like everybody else.
As ever in these situations, tension is discharged through an extreme
reaction, someone cathartically expresses our anxiety. And so,
without any visible reason, a gentleman yelled: "You do not have
manners" (in Arabic) to a young man. He did so ad nauseam - more than
twenty times. (May be I should have tried doing the same thing with
my queue-cutter.) The younger guy, being a tour guide, constrained
his reaction and kept his mouth shut.
Check-in was followed by another wait at passport control. Then
another passport check, then another security check. Then another
passport check. I moaned to the security officer "how many more
passport checks?" "Cheer up," he said, "I am the last one." I wanted
to tell him: "Normally, my friend, I am cheered by news of 15
visitors to my blog. I am not normally cheered by news that someone
will be the last officer out of 5389 to check my passport today", but
I didn't.
On the bus, I asked an English couple what they thought of Cairo. The
wife was not in a good place: "It's a dump!" she said. I instantly
yelled out to the driver: "Stop the bus, we have an ungrateful
tourist on board". I also stopped hearing anything, regretted asking
her in the first place, and felt all Cairenes in the bus egging me on
to avenge our pride. Some Cairenes flashed their gritted teeth to me,
an agreed-on way of saying "I am ready to bite hard".
No, none of that stuff happened.
"Whoo!" was all I said, showing some displeasure.
She moaned about all the passport checks, the chaos of check-in, how
the passport officer told them to queue for another 45 minutes just
because they had not filled in a form, etc. Her husband tried to
soften her mood: "It was beautiful weather though, and we had a great
time in Hurghada". I felt I was doing Cairo a favour: by getting her
to vent her frustrations with me, she was hopefully going to ease up
on the criticisms when she gets home. I took her "Goodbye, sun!" just
before she set foot in the plane as a good sign.
On the plane, I sat next to a poised, quiet guy from Yemen who works
as a software engineer for the UK transport service. We lamented the
state of the Arab countries; he named tribalism, bad education, and
corruption as his top three reasons for Yemen's backwardness, I named
corruption, apathy, and disrespect for others as Egypt's. We shared our
international experiences. He told me about Malaysia, Indonesia, and
Mexico. I told him about South Africa, the US, and Canada.
I arrived in London to find my landlord had still not put up my bed
as he had promised. Luckily, he was at home and we spent an hour or
two putting it up. Now, I have to face the chaos of my room - which I
had left virtually boxed-up after moving-in and then flying out. I
also need to unpack the new bits of 'things to handle' that arose out
of my time in Egypt.
This integration of 'things that came about from a particular trip'
is very hard. My instinct is to 'freeze' one life and 'unthaw' the
previous one. But, somehow, stuff needs to be transferred from one
life to the other.
Leafing through the Starbucks copy of The Times (old habits die
hard), I was struck by the repetitiveness of the UK worldview.
Nations have certain 'scripts' (like the subconscious scripts people
have) that they constantly play. So it was that I found the headline
"The Cane: a brutal, barbaric practice". And the witticism that it
has kept generations of Brits not run down a corridor, or play tag in
an empty pool.
One of the more stimulating things about London is the quality of
people you may run into in a mundane setting. Married to a husband
who works in Google, and working herself as an IT consultant to some
of the biggest corporations, the Moscovite who sat next to me was
very smiley, effortlessly intelligent, and quite pretty to boot. Our
conversation ranged over the financial melt-down, her savings,
Iceland, Putin, Judo, Georgia, James Bond, and a bit of IT geekery.
Moments like these make you wonder what London might be if they
sucked out those Brits who are shy, reticent, and banal!
"Whoo!"
News: the room next door evaporated. (I decided not to take the one
next door to my address seven years ago.) I had gone to see it one
more time before finalising the deal. An Italian waitress who lives
there shook my faith in the room: it's very cold in the winter, there
is no wi-fi signal in the room, and the kitchen is a box. Plus, I noticed
that she smoked. The next day, the flat's manager, another Italian
woman, called to get the deposit. I told her my concerns, she said
she will put the modem in my room. I said I am not sure, give me
a few hours. "I need to know please, because people are calling."
I took two hours of deliberation. A call to a friend firmed me up;
what the hell am I waiting for, sounds perfect he said. A £20
heater will keep me nice and warm, the modem will now be in my
room, and who cares about the kitchen, I can eat quickly or eat out.
I called the flat manager; she motor-mouthed that the room's now
gone and hung up. I called my friend and we shared a good laugh.
But this leaves me hanging in the air. No matter what I tell myself
about compromising and just finding any old room, I reject places and
refuse to broaden my search too much. If a room is too far from my
preferred area, or too far from a tube station, it is out. If the WC
is separate from the bathroom, out. If I don't like the look of the
housemates, out. If a woman tells me to take off my shoes before
stepping into the flat, I politely go through five minutes I will
never be able to claim back. Two guys sharing the room next door,
"erm, uh, okay, great, I will call you".
*
It has struck me (not having a business-savvy mind) that keeping my
stuff in storage actually adds costs to money already sunk. Any item
that I keep in storage had better be worth the extra money that I am
investing in it. I am effectively adding to the cost of that item. A
£10 book, winds up costing me £10.60 after six months of storage. If
I sold it on ebay, I _might_ get a £1 for it. (Books depreciate
crashingly.) So, if I choose to keep a book, I'd better use it,
because I am losing money on it otherwise.
A £500 futon, for example, adds £350 to its cost in 12 months of
storage, I worked out. To continue with the example of the futon,
keeping it in storage for 18 months would be mad, because you could
buy a brand new one for the cost of storage.
I am probably going to end up spending £720 on storage for six
months. I am thinking: if I actually dump half of this stuff, that's
not too bad: I can spend £360 on re-purchasing the books that I
_really_ want to keep.
You might say: well, keep the £40 book in storage. Nope. If I sold a
£40 book on ebay, I'd probably get £5-10 for it. If I kept in
storage, I'd get nothing. You really have to use the thing you keep
in storage, or else it's best to sell/dump. (But how do you _really
use_ something that is in storage, i.e., out of your reach?)
At the risk of sounding very cliched (even to myself, for I have
have had this quote in my quotations file for years):
Tyler Durden: The things you own end up owning you.
