600 Days in London

After 600 days in London (over a quarter spent elsewhere), it's time for this Antipodean to return to the Antipodes. That means the start of a new era for this blog - I'll have more time to write other kinds of travel content rather than focusing 99% on destination guides in order to keep up with the pace of my actual travels! Plus I'll be able to write more contributions for other cool websites and magazines.

As a parting gift, and to celebrate the launch of their new prepaid cards in the UK, Skype gave all my friends and readers in the UK the chance to win Skype Credit. Unfortunately, the game has now finished. Congratulations to everyone who played and won!

The Olympics Without a Ticket

Like most Londoners, I missed out on tickets to the Olympics. I tried dozens of times and fell flat. But where there’s a will there’s a way, and there are  still  loads of reasons it’s awesome to be in London during the Olympics - even if you can’t catch any of the events in person.

Reason #1: seeing the torch in your own neighbourhood
We got up early and met friends around the corner to see the torch pass down the end of our street. The whole area was buzzing and it was a joy to be part of. The next day, I was also fortunate enough to catch the torch near my work – by Vauxhall bridge on its way up the Thames to Olympic Park.

The torch passing through my 'hood.

Reason #2: the Red Arrows
The pre-show for the opening ceremony kicked off at 20:12 with an aerobatic flypast from the nine Red Arrows. It looked great on the tele, but even better when the deafening boom started to reach my own ears moments later – I quickly threw my head out the window in time to see them fly overhead in person.

Just before the Red Arrows flew over.

Reason #3: Olympic Fever
You can’t help but feel great in London at the moment. There are no roadworks, Leicester Square is open again, there’s public art everywhere, and everything has been tidied up like mum doing a quick spruce before the neighbours pop round. Regent Street has flags from every Olympic nation. You can’t cross the road without seeing an official vehicle or ten. And on the tube the other day I saw some Czech team members hugging in their official gumboots. It warmed my heart.

Reason #4: Hyde Park
Hyde Park has become a pumping village with huge screens showing every event. The best part of watching the road race on the first day of the competition was the roar of the helicopters drawing nearer as the cyclists approached the finish line at nearby Buckingham Palace.

Reason #5: Timezone
As an antipodean, I’m accustomed to watching the ceremonies over breakfast. Catching a daily highlights broadcast. Waking up in the morning to find out how we did overnight. It’s amazing the difference that something as simple as being in the same timezone can makes. Case in point: the other kiwi in the office and I sat in reception to watch the BBC broadcast of the big rowing race today. When Team NZ won, we went racing around the office shrieking with delight!

Reason #6: Kiwi House
On Tuesday, for the first time in nearly eighteen months, a stranger greeted me with “kia ora”. It felt fantastic. Kiwi House is the home away from home for supporters of the New Zealand Olympic Team. My accent instantly thickened and it within minutes I’d ordered a kiwi sauv and made myself at home. (And yes, I ran into someone I knew!)

A Very Soggy Jubilee

Convinced that London was the place to be over Jubilee weekend, I resisted the urge to book a trip elsewhere.

In my head, it was going to be the Summer Christmas I never got, complete with Pimm's in the park and a royal flotilla.

But unfortunately, the sun disagreed with me. So, the barbecue lunch became an indoor pot-luck, the flotilla watching from the banks of the Thames became BBC from the couch, and the concert too was reduced to a jolly indoor event.

Perhaps the most disappointing part of a washed out Jubilee weekend for me was the failure of our brilliant pre-prepared plan to enjoy the sun in seaside Brighton.

We still went, and we still enjoyed it, but the pier just isn't the same under violent storm clouds.

And unfortunately the over-stuffed museum/art gallery doesn't provide much respite.

But, thankfully, the Brighton Pavillion turned out to be far more wonderful than I had hoped.

The Brighton Pavillion

Every room of King George's palace is designed with the elaborate, exotic style one would expect at the Taj Mahal. It really is remarkable. There's no photography allowed in the Banqueting Hall... but this is what it looks like!



In the evening, we saw the UK tour of Avenue Q, then returned home before midnight.

Though we couldn't help but be disappointed with the turn of events, we were glad we'd made the effort to get out of the city, and actually still had a thoroughly enjoyable four day weekend.

Review: She Stoops to Conquer

She Stoops to Conquer was first performed in 1773, and yet something about it remains relevant and appealing to a modern audience.

Considering the pompous costumes this show demands, National Theatre have managed to produce a remarkably fresh interpretation. At times it’s so fresh that you forget the script is unaltered from the original.

Tonight is special because the National Theatre are filming this performance and beaming it live around the world. Before the lights go down, two television screens on the side of the stage, show us a presenter delivering a live introduction from the roof of the building. Throughout the show, these screens continue to show us what is being broadcast. I found it quite entertaining to watch them briefly during the live performance and imagine others at the exact same moment experiencing this performance with only the screens.

When the show begins, I’m captivating immediately. A catchy pub-like tune has been composed and an enormous chorus appear on stage singing it in the style of an A Cappella group – though in this case they are backed by an impressive band.

It’s quite riveting and reminds me of a version of the Threepenny Opera I once saw that opened with Mack the Knife. That was an equally genius opening but sadly the same zest didn’t infuse the rest of that show, and I was underwhelmed.

Thankfully, that didn’t happen this time around, and I found myself enjoying every moment.

Sophie Thompson as Mrs Hardcastle.

The main thrust of the story involves a rich girl pretending to be a barmaid in order to be seen as interesting (and not stuffy) by a visitor who is staying in her father’s house under the false pretence that it’s an inn.

This show is consistently clever and witty. Particular mention must be given to Sophie Thompson, whose hysterical Mrs Hardcastle steals the show.

But really, the people behind the scenes at the National must be given most of the credit. The direction is superb, the inclusion of bizarre chorus songs to bring pace is genius, and the staging is among the best I have ever seen.

If you’re in London, go see this show. If you’re not, try to find a copy of the BBC broadcast – and you can watch it knowing that I saw the exact same performance!

Review: Mamma Mia

I’ve been avoiding this show ever since I moved to London. That’s how much I despised the movie. I was even offered free tickets at one point. I already had tickets to something better that night (unfortunately).

When I decided to finally go and see Mamma Mia, I tried to shake off all my preconceptions about this show and just enjoy it. I reminded myself that it’s the original jukebox musical, and it’s a little unfair to hate it just because it spurred a decade of underwhelming musical theatre that continues to stifle originality on both sides of the Atlantic.

I can’t deny that it’s good fun. Who doesn’t love ABBA? That’s the whole premise behind the jukebox musical. The tagline on the Mamma Mia tube posters at the moment is – I kid you not – “you already know you’re going to love it”. With an audience preconditioned to love you, you can’t really go wrong!

Some credit has to be given to Judy Craymer, who conceived the whole idea, for creating a storyline that fits in most of the songs. But no matter how enjoyable the songs may be, the fundamental flaw with jukebox musicals is the difference between a concert and musical theatre. A good concert is a series of good songs. But a musical needs more than this: each and every song must add to the story. You can still have group dance numbers and big ballads, but ultimately each and every song furthers the narrative in some way.

A good writer can achieve this with a couple of the songs in a jukebox musical, but overall the majority of them can achieve only that whimsical satisfaction you get when you hear a song you like at a concert, and not the level of emotional connection and storyline momentum that a musical needs to be anything more than  bubblegum. Mamma Mia is full of songs that were written to make you smile for three minutes, and only a handful actually do anything for the plot.

The singing and dancing is very, very good, but the producers take absolutely no risks (why can’t Donna be  alone on an empty stage for the end of The Winner Takes it All?). And at the end of the day what little interesting character development there has been, is mostly thrown away for a happy ending; Donna, a woman who has shown herself to be proudly single and genuinely happy, is still a shrew to be tamed by a man with a ring.

If you already know you’re going to love Mamma Mia, then you probably will. If you need something with a bit of originality, substance or flair in order to get your money’s worth from a night at the theatre, then pick something else.

Legally Blonde Again

Legally Blonde is one of those shows that sounds average, but leaves you surprised as you leave the theatre at how much you've enjoy it. I saw it last year and loved it. So, when I heard that it was closing at Easter, I made sure I booked again while there was still a chance, bringing a bunch of friends along for the ride.

I have little to add to what I said last time. Most of the cast was unchanged, apart from Elle, who was equally fantastic to the girl I saw last year.

I’ll miss knowing that this show is on every night in my city. Although I’m mildly ashamed to admit that I can’t wait for the amateur rights to be released...

Life Lesson #43 – Mad Dash

You can call me Usain.

This is me. For real.

When you fly Ryanair on a non-EU passport, you have to get a visa-check stamp when you arrive at the airport, before going through security. Every other airline does it just before you board. This means that if you’re silly enough to forget to get one, you’re pretty much screwed unless you’re Usain Bolt.

Which I totally am.

This kind of rookie mistake should have cost us our trip. But, with lightening speed and a flash of a smile to the security people who aren’t supposed to let you back out, and the check-in people who aren’t meant to stamp a passport for a flight that’s leaving in 2 mins, we made it all the way through Gatwick airport and back to our gate in a flash.

The gate had already closed. But the guard was so shocked to see us again that he tipped his hat to us by reopening and allowing us to board!

I was puffing and panting the whole way to Stockholm. I haven’t felt so exhausted since Fourth Form cross country (after they foiled my plan to see the school counsellor at that exact time in order to get out of it).

I guess, unlike the other Usain, exercise doesn’t agree with me. Endorphins Schmendorphins.

Review: Sweeney Todd

Sweeney Todd is probably the most macabre successful musical in history. The gruesome plot revolves around a barber slicing the throats of his customers, who are promptly chopped up and stuffed into pies by his bakery owning accomplice.

I would speculate that it laid the foundation for other grime-fest (Les Mis) and sinister (Phantom) blockbuster musicals that followed over the next decade.

Sondheim’s score is, as always, genius. Demonstrating that he’s one of the few Americans who understands the British stiff upper lip, there are no big belt songs – just a series of gently simmering, discordant refrains that are established in the first act and crescendo into a riveting, perfect nightmare during the second.

An almost unrecognisable Michael Ball brings a much-needed likeability to the murderous protagonist, drawing a fresh ‘whimsical next-door-neighbour’ side from Sweeney. Originality is difficult to achieve with a role we’ve seen performed so well so many times before, and he must be credited for it.

Given she found fame as a film actress, I was initially sceptical about Imelda Staunton’s casting in the demanding role of Mrs Lovett. But I was completely wrong. Her comic timing was impeccable and her voice was excellent. She faltered once with a clumsy switch to head voice, but that’s the only unfavourable comment I can make about her performance. My favourite moments in the show all belonged to her – The Worst Pies in London was hysterically funny without being slapstick, and her Nothing’s Gonna Harm You brought out exactly the right degree of menacing undertones to make it the creepiest lullaby ever written.

The chorus is extraordinary – this is one of the few shows that doesn’t require them to dance, or look like supermodels. The result of this is that they have all been cast based on their vocal talent alone – and this shows in their ability to tackle even the most elaborate of Sondheim’s melodies without the slightest sign of strain.

In this tale, story is king. To date, no attempt to introduce avant-garde design, staging or effects (no matter how well-intentioned, such as the chorus doubling as the orchestra in the most recent Broadway revival), has quite pulled it off. Ultimately, any such endeavour is doomed to undermine the story by robbing attention. The artistic team behind this production must be applauded for understanding this, and opting for relatively simple, traditional set design, staging and lighting. No wonder Sondheim himself loved it so much.

The opportunity to experience a show of this strength with actors of this calibre doesn’t come along every day. If you are in London, do not let this one slip by.

Review: Singin' in the Rain

I often wish I loved old movies, but unfortunately I find most of them so trite that I have trouble paying attention. However, there are two classic films I can watch again and again: Some Like it Hot, and Singin’ in the Rain. Both have genuinely appealing storylines, are hysterically funny, and feature a trio of talented, deservedly famous actors.

The Palace Theatre is now host to a brand new production with not only a perfect cast but onstage rain too!

With The Artist coming out on top at the recent Academy Awards, 2012 is the year the silent film came back. So it’s a fitting time to revive this beloved classic based in the period of transition from silent films to ‘talkies’.

Singin’ in the Rain was first seen onstage in the 80s, but the volume of the falling rain and the ensuing mic trouble resulted in a disappointing reception. Thanks to the wonders of modern technology, the new West End production has overcome these obstacles.

The set is mainly a sound stage at ‘Monumental Pictures’. Everything is black and white, and the edges of set piece facades are visible, which reminds us that everything is paper thin in the movie business.

There is not a bad note in the entire cast. Considering that every one of them must be a triple threat, this is astounding. Daniel Crossley’s Cosmo wins early fans as he shows his cheeky side in ‘Fit as a Fiddle’, but it’s Scarlett Strallen as Kathy Selden who really owns the show.

Few people know that Debbie Reynolds’ singing voice for all the more difficult numbers in the original movie was actually subbed in by an uncredited Betty Noyes. Yet Reynolds, who was not a trained dancer, still famously said that “Singin’ in the Rain and childbirth were the two hardest things I ever had to do in my life”. So, the fact that Scarlett Strallen can pull it off live every single night is astonishing.

While the title song is a clear highlight, every single number in this show is brilliantly written and interpreted for the stage - particularly Moses Supposes, Make 'em Laugh, and Good Morning. In fact, the only negative point I can make about the entire show is that Cosmo doesn't do 'the wall flip thing'. This really is a fantastic evening at the theatre that manages to do the treasured film proud.

If you’re lucky enough to sit in the second row, like I did, you will leave the theatre saturated.

Saturated, but grinning. And humming that irresistible tune.

Life Lesson #42 - Close Shave

If you’ve had the misfortune of running into me this week, I’ll forgive you for thinking I got into an accident with a lawnmower.

I’ve been sort of growing my hair ever since I left New Zealand. Well, the top anyway. It got to the point where my fringe reached the bottom of my nose. This became so high maintenance that it only looked good for bursts of approximately 30 seconds. And my morning routine started to require over a minute of hair-related activity, which is just excessive. I’d make a useless female.

You can call me Rapunzel.  

So, I made up my mind to cut it around the one year anniversary of leaving home. But not just cut it a little; we’re talking radical departure.

Determined to surprise everyone, I didn’t mention my plans to anybody. I bought clippers on eBay, and for some unknown idiotic reason set about attacking my scalp in the half hour space I had at home between work and Norway.

It all went very smoothly. With a large mirror to help me, I clipped all my hair off using the longest setting on the clippers - 21mm.

I cleaned the clippers, then quickly checked to make sure I hadn’t missed anywhere. I had. There was a patch towards the middle of my scalp that was a few millimetres too long.

Zzzzzz... off it goes. (No that’s not sleeping, that’s clipper noise).

When cleaning the clippers I had bumped the length down to the lowest setting. 3mm.

I was too horrified to take a photo of the result. But it looked something like this.

So, I did the only thing I could do: made like a member of the KKK and introduced my entire scalp to the sunlight, or at least within a few millimetres of it.

Within ten minutes, I’d gone from the longest hair of my life to the shortest. I’m pretty sure I came out of the womb with more.

Then I did the only other thing I could do: put on a hat.

I didn’t take the hat off until hours later in our hotel room, when I scared Paul half to death by whipping it off.

But it got worse.

When I showed him the back, he laughed so hard he almost farted, then took a photo to show me what I’d done:

 

Yes, that’s right. I shaved a finger sized spot right in the middle of the back of my head completely bald. My head is doing the fingers.

When we got back to London he tried to touch it up. But there wasn’t much that could be done. I now look like a moth bitten fur coat. Only with shorter hair.

 

At least it will grow, I guess.

Review: Master Class

Famed opera diva Maria Callas was a troubled soul, known earlier in her career for a large range and perfect pitch, and later on for a deteriorating voice and narcissistic ramblings.

Between 1971 and 1972, Callas gave a series of master classes at the Juilliard School in New York. These form the basis of Terrence McNally’s Tony award winning play.

We are the audience at Juilliard, watching this once great diva rip students to shreds and harp on about how her talent is unparalleled. The thing with this particular egomaniac is that she has the talent to back it up. Tyne Daly brings her to life beautifully, demonstrating an acting range as wide as Callas' voice; from Opera diva to passionate Greek to miserable, childless wife.

We see her perfectionism come through in the way she lectures the students, as though none of them could possibly have worked so hard or sacrificed as much as she did. Although the script is occasionally overwritten, it does paint its picture beautifully, and the several scenes where Callas' slips back into her memory are delicious to watch if you're prepared to overlook the cheese factor.

Overall, it's a solid performance that provides a worthwhile behind the scenes look into the life of the greatest Diva in modern history. Highly recommended.

Life Lesson #41 - The Court Jester

Today I learned what not to wear to court.

It all started in June last year, when a rude official knocks on my door saying we haven’t paid our TV licence (who knew there was such a thing!?).

I explain that our landlords are responsible for it, to no avail. We automatically fail the test, because he can see a TV behind me. So, I show him that it doesn’t work. He barges past me into the bedroom and points at the TV in there. I turn it on to show him it has unbearable reception, which is why we’ve never watched it.

He disagrees; “it looks fine to me”.

“Would you really watch this?” I ask incredulously.

“Yes, of course”.

Not his first lie, and not his last. We throw him out.

Fast-forward seven months. I receive a letter from the West London County Magistrates’ Court. It says “FURTHER STEPS NOTICE” in big bold lettering, then goes on to tell me that I have been fined £250.

I call the next morning, the moment the office opens. It’s about the TV licence. Apparently because I moved house, I missed about a hundred demand letters telling me about my impending court date. Somehow, they tracked down my new address 7 days before obliterating my credit rating permanently.

Would I like to pay with MasterCard or Visa?

She sounds irritated when I tell her that there’s been a series of mistakes and I’ve never actually failed to pay a TV licence, telling me I need to call another court for that.

I call the other court. They have no idea what I’m talking about and abruptly tell me to call another department, then hang up.

I google the other department, but their phone number is disconnected. Luckily I discover there’s a government helpline for people in my pickle.

I am cut off immediately, and an automated American voice says “the other party has ended the call” on loop.

I try again several more times over the next few weeks with the same result.

Eventually, I write a letter outlining my plight. Before posting it, I decide to call one last time.

Finally, my call gets through. Someone very helpful tells me that I must make a statutory declaration to say that I was unaware of the proceedings against me. This will invalidate the previous case, overturning the conviction and withdrawing the fine. But it’s not all over – the TV Licence people are free to start all over again (and probably will).

To make this statutory declaration, I must show up to the court in person between 9:15 and 9:45 on any weekday. I’ll fill out a form and sign it, then be on my way.

Luckily I have a very understanding boss. She is happy for me to go the next morning, and tells me she was in a similar situation a few years ago. All I’ll have to do is fill out a form and swear on a bible.

The next morning, I head to the courthouse for 9:15 sharp. Being casual Friday, I’ve dressed down. I’m wearing brown corduroy trousers, scuffed grey shoes, bright aqua socks (which are visible), a pale grey jean jacket, and the loudest T-shirt I own. It’s bright orange. Basically I look like either a confused hippy or a colourful hipster.

I fill out the form. I sign my name. She hands me my paperwork back. Great, all to plan.

“Ok Mr Allen, you’re in courtroom one”.

The blood drains from my face. I feel faint. Say, what?

But she’s moved on to the rioter behind me.

I find my way to courtroom one and sit down by the door.

An hour later, I still have no idea what’s going on and nobody has gone in or out of the courtroom. I decide to seek help, and eventually find a security guard.

He offers to check to make sure that I’m on the courtroom schedule, and pops inside. When he comes out, he tells me to go into the courtroom. Apparently I’m up next.

To muffle noise from the corridor, there are two doors to get to the courtroom. In-between them, the guard pauses and says to me “I should probably tell you that this judge is a real bulldog. He’s the meanest one here. Just thought you should know”.

Super.

In the courtroom, the guy who was ahead of me in the statutory declaration queue over an hour ago is standing in the box, quivering before the magistrate. He’s wearing what I would assume is his only suit, and his white shirt is transparent with perspiration.

Bulldog was an inspired metaphor for this judge; both for looks and character.

After daydreaming about Law & Order for roughly five minutes, I am snapped back to reality by a nasal voice calling “Allen, Mr Andrew James”.

I assume this means I should approach the witness box. Is that what you call it? Am I walking too fast? How would an innocent person walk? Perhaps I should have left my bag on my seat. But someone might have nicked it. This is a courthouse, after all.

The magistrate is holding my entire file (both pages). He glares at my orange T-shirt and says nothing. He doesn’t have to.

After a pregnant pause, he starts barking questions about the form I completed downstairs. He makes fun of me for writing “February 2012” in the field ‘date learned of court proceedings (approx)’

“Awfully specific, aren’t we Mr Allen”. Why did it say approximate next to the question then!?

I explain that I don’t know the exact date I received the final notice letter off the top of my head, but I can find it if he’ll give me one moment to refer to my sent email folder.

I take his eyeroll as acceptance and start furiously scrolling through emails on my iPhone, looking for the one I sent my former landlord the day I found out (who of course denied all responsibility).

While I do so, he scans the paperwork in front of him.

“You’re lying.”

“Pardon me?”

“May I remind you, Mr Allen, that everything you say here will be checked out by the court, and I am empowered to charge you with perjury and hold you in contempt of court.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I have your court records in front of me. You rang on the 24th of January.”

Obviously the cow who hung up on me actually bothered to record the call.

“Oh, that must be the date I got the letter then!”

He doesn’t look amused, and just stares at my shirt.

I apologise for getting the date wrong by one week, and explain that I wasn’t aware I needed to supply the exact date – because the question said 'approximate'.

He still says nothing. I button up my jean jacket.

I point out that the case against me was several months ago. Whether I found out about it on the 24th of January or in the month of February doesn’t change the fact that I was unaware of its existence until after it had concluded.

He glares. Everyone else in the room is staring at me open-mouthed. I’m not sure if they were more shocked that I talked back to the judge, or that I wore orange to court.

“I’m going to sign it” the bulldog announces, abruptly.

“But if I find one word of your testimony was false, I will come down on you with the full force of the law”.

It wasn’t a question, but he seems to be waiting for an answer.

“It’s all true, your honour”.

“This removes your previous conviction. However, don’t think you’ve gotten away with it. You will receive another summons to a new court date. And may I suggest that you don’t rip it up and throw it away. This time.”

He should write a lecture on condescension.

I assure him I won’t, grab my bag, and hightail it out of there – orange shirt and all.

Review: The 39 Steps

Director Maria Aitken's interpretation of Alfred Hitchcock's classic spy farce is the most self-aware show I have ever seen.

And I mean that in the best possible way. The show has two layers of humour: one from Hitchcock's "dashingly good" show itself, the other from cheeky actors making light of absurd theatrical conventions. It's only natural to poke fun, considering four actors play 136 roles in 90 minutes.

I knew I was going to enjoy it from the moment two menacing Russian gangsters ran on stage right carrying a lamppost and quickly froze against it looking stern, just as the hero glances out his window. When he looks away, they run off as conspiciously as they arrived.

Another gem includes two actors playing both motel owners and policemen at the same time, each switching back and forth continually to further the conversation.

Throughout the play, the audience feels as though they're in on a secret. It's the theatrical equivalent of winking at the camera.

Under the wrong director, this would be played for laughs (a la Shrek), but Aitken's staging is classy enough to deliver this layer of theatre in-jokes without distracting from the heart of the original story.

By jove it's a thoroughly enjoyable night, and I shan't spoil it for you by giving away any more of the plot, I'll just say that it's jolly good fun.

Waitangi Snow

I hear Zoe shriek with excitement. Rushing into the living room, I realise she’s peering out the open window at a thick haze of spiralling snowflakes.

Horizontal snow fogging the lens on Westminster Bridge.

Like a true antipodean, I put on my warm clothes immediately. Before I’ve finished, I’ve had an excited txt from Kat (despite being sick in bed), seen countless facebook updates about the snow from fellow London based Kiwis, and noticed that ‘#uksnow’ is already trending on Twitter.

How interesting to watch modern communications reflect that most basic feeling of joy that every antipodean feels when they see flakes begin to fall. It’s like being nine years old again.

I’m soon on the bus, bundled up tight. I get off at Westminster, determined to see Big Ben under snow. Of course I’m a little premature... 20 minutes of snow isn’t really enough to whitewash parliament!

The central city is filled with rowdy Kiwis, all dressed as sheep or wearing marmite T-shirts. Today was the infamous Waitangi Circle Line Pub Crawl. They're all as obsessed with the snow as I am. I yell "kia ora" and a guy with a full face tattoo smearing across his cheeks grins and calls back "cheers, bro!"

I meet Paul at the National Gallery, where we have tickets to see the Leonardo da Vinci exhibition in an hour (see blog post here).

We fill in the time skidding along Trafalgar Square.

Trafalgar Square under a layer of snow.

One of the infamous Trafalgar Square Lions.

Snow continues to fall heavily the entire time we’re at the exhibition. By the time we leave, London is covered in a thick white blanket. It’s late, dark, and freezing, but people everywhere are running, shouting, and having snowfights.

The fountain in Trafalgar Square is icing over.

We're standing on a pedestrian island halfway across the road, walking towards our bus stop, when I see a an out of control van skidding towards us in what felt like slow motion.

The driver is tooting his horn and looks terrified. I realise he's skidding on the fresh ice, and dive out of the way. He smashes into another guy, and then Paul, then about half a metre later is stopped in his tracks by a traffic light.

Meanwhile, the momentum of being hit by a car has pushed Paul backwards. Spooked, and trying to keep his balance, he runs backwards. Across the road. I hate to think what could have happened if the lights hadn't been red at that precise moment.

On the other side of the road, he promptly slips and falls on his bum. Then stands up and yells at the driver. There's the Paul I know and love.



I go to comfort him. He's white as a sheet, cold, wet, and shaking. He didn't realise the van was skidding on ice until well after he'd been hit.

Our bus stops only halfway home and everyone has to get off. Apparently London transport isn't very well equipped for snow. We walk the rest of the way.

Paul is fine the next day and has barely more than a few bruises to show off, but we both have trouble sleeping from all the adrenaline pulsing through our veins.

Leo in London: Part II

I've heard about nothing but da Vinci all week. Ever since missing out on tickets on Saturday, Paul's been miserable.

But he's got a plan.

eBay. Where everyone's a winner.

We agree on a top price and only get into one argument during the bidding. I even pause Glee to find out if we've won.

I'm a little disappointed when we find out that we have. I’m sure my first car cost less than these tickets. A bargain at only three times face value.

eBay. Where winning isn't really winning.

But we go. And they let us in despite the fact that neither of us looks much like a 'Shahzad Malik'.

And, in the understatement of the century: it's great.

Review: Children of Eden

Stephen Schwartz’s lost musical.

All theatre geeks (especially those fond of that other show he wrote; Wicked) have heard of Children of Eden, but few have seen it. After all, a musical about the first few chapters of Genesis doesn’t sound immediately gripping.

This is a special one-night-only charity gala performance, and it’s brought together a killer cast of West End stars. The Prince of Wales Theatre is usually the home of Mamma Mia,  so the staging for this performance is pared back – a few large blocks on the stage and assorted lightbulbs dangling. This simple approach works a treat and allows the actors to really own the stage.

Opening the show are Oliver Thornton (Adam/Felicia in Priscilla) and Louise Dearman (Glinda in Wicked) as Adam and Eve. Thornton’s performance is good, but a little self-conscious. His voice, though excellent, is slightly too thin for the role. Dearman, on the other hand, proves herself capable far beyond the (already vocally demanding) role of cutesy Glinda. She effortlessly navigates through complicated Schwartzian melodies, bringing a caramel smooth Streisand sound to the role without losing that essential feeling of Eve’s humanity. She’s flawless, and by far the standout of the night.

The other conspicuously brilliant performance comes from Gareth Gates as Cain. I was sceptical when I read about his casting. Coming runner-up to Will Young in the first series of Pop Idol doesn’t exactly qualify someone to perform with the cream of London theatre. But I was wrong. Gareth is a theatre singer first, pop singer second. He approaches the role in Ramin Karimloo style: nimble, powerful, graceful, and impressive.

Gareth Gates as Cain.

I’m grateful when he kills his brother, because a woman I can only assume is Abel’s mum is sitting next to me and won’t stop snapping pictures of his every move on her very bright mobile phone. She leaves at half time, which I’m also grateful for because she isn’t exactly built like a ballerina and has been spilling over onto my seat for most of the first act.

Act II is less remarkable than Act I. There are some decent melodies and performers, but none so promising as Eve or Cain and their first act ballads. Still, the chorus sound wonderful together – voices fusing far more smoothly than you usually see when a group of soloists perform choral work.

The best moments in the second act come from Laura Samuels as servant girl Yonah, and Brenda Edwards (Killer Queen, We Will Rock You) as Mama Noah. Though she stole the second act with her gospel number, Edwards looked bored whenever she wasn’t singing. A shame.

After the performance, the director invites the writer of the show to the stage. I just about wet myself.

Unfortunately, it’s not Stephen Schwartz. It’s whatshisname who wrote the unremarkable book. But this disappointment is quickly forgotten when the reigning queen of London theatre, Kerry Ellis, takes the stage to finish the evening with an original song that’s been written for her; the somewhat unoriginally titled “Heal the World”. Her voice, of course, brings down the house.

Overall, a fantastic performance by true theatre stars who deserve every accolade they have heaped upon them.

Kerry Ellis.

Leo in London: Part I

They’re calling it the greatest exhibition in history. More Leonardo da Vinci works in one place than ever before - including during his lifetime.

Of course, it sells out in record time. The National Gallery opens extended hours for three months and still sells all the advance tickets in less than a week. We miss out.

But there’s a glimmer of hope aside from the scalpers on eBay.

800 tickets per day are still available. In America they’d have a lottery. They believe everyone should have a chance. In England, they believe whoever puts in the most effort should end up on top. So they sell these tickets on a first come, first served basis.

Which is why Paul arrives at 7am, three hours before the ticket office even opens.

By 7:30, he’s been informed that he’s in the ‘maybe’ zone. He prays that the several hundred people who arrived even earlier are all nuns and widowers who won’t use their plus one, leaving his own entry within reach.

He sets about making friends with those around him. There’s a couple from Manchester who caught the train down just for this exhibition. None expected that 7am would put them so far behind the crowd.

The line starts to leak as people give up in favour of a hot coffee or a toilet break. Paul and his posse soldier on, blinded to their inevitable failure by an attempt to show solidarity.

The gates close around 1:30pm. The tickets have sold out about 20 people ahead of Paul. The group have waited for six and a half hours together and can’t bear to leave so soon. So they keep waiting (for some unknown reason).

A guy approaches Paul.

“My friend can’t come anymore. My ticket is for right now. I know you’ve been waiting for ages, so I don’t want to make any money off you. Just give me face value and it’s yours”.

Paul has no cash.

He comes home.

Review: Matilda

From the moment you enter the Cambridge Theatre, you are entranced by the magic of Matilda. Rather than sport a traditional curtain, the entire proscenium is speckled with thousands of coloured books. In fact, most of the set pieces are constructed like intricate bookshelves.

The entire way through Matilda the Musical, I was thanking the universe that there are still some creative teams out there who are willing to bring children's theatre to life in a lateral way, rather than handing everything to the audience on a platter (Shrek, anyone?).

No musical can be respected without great music. And the real creative genius behind Matilda is Tim Minchin, who proves his syllable-squeezing musical comedy act is just as engaging without the potty humour he became famous for at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival.

Almost every song in Matilda the Musical is genius. Fitting for a story about a child prodigy. Minchin deftly handles Dahl's rough-edged style - like the musical equivalent of Quentin Blake's illustrations. He understands the way kids' minds work. He understands what makes Matilda special; both the character and the story.

Bertie Carvel's Miss Trunchbull is inspired. Rather than slip into to flamboyant pantomime drag, he simply inhabits the 50 year old headmistress in all her former-Olympian glory.

This is the best new show to come out of London since Billy Elliot. Actually, since before Billy Elliot.
The only slight disappointments are that Miss Honey's character isn't given any juicy songs, and that the big finale in the Trunchbull's house is traded off for a more Russian showdown.

That doesn't stop Matilda being the show to beat for this year's Olivier award. And, dare I say it, next year's Tony.

Review: Shrek

Shrek seems a more logical fit for the stage than other movie adaptations like The Lion King, Ghost or Legally Blonde.

Perhaps that's why the writers were so lazy? They were too comfortable? When a hermit character like Shrek starts to sing about his feelings, you know there's something wrong. When every single song is about his feelings... there's something very wrong!

It's like the old saying; "don't tell me you're funny, make me laugh!"

Unfortunately, this show didn't make many people laugh. The actors mostly had poor comic timing (particularly Donkey), and the only jokes that landed were half-baked regurgitations of one-liners from the movie.

Why, when the original movie is so genuinely humorous, would they add only fart jokes, while finding room for loads of faux-sentimental moments?

Unfortunately, this is the worst kind of lowest common denominator entertainment. I wouldn't recommend it to anyone. Sure, kids might enjoy it. But only because they don't know any better...

Ice Sculptures in London!

After missing the ice sculptures twice in Russia, Paul couldn't resist surprising me when he found out there was a day long competition and exhibition right here in London!

It was a great surprise, and I was amazed at the detail in the frozen water! My favourite was this downhill skier.