August 10, 2008
Usually I don’t mind not living in London. I mean, I never have, so why miss it?
Gillian took me on a journalist’s tour of London in 48 hours that started with Fleet Street, long after the media had departed.
We visited a traditional journalist’s pub where, she said, ink ran in the beer, there were old chaps who’d stood their ground against Murdoch’s men and who hadn’t worked since and where I could get a real English pint without any of the fuss.
However, it was Waitangi Day in New Zealand and all the ex-pat Kiwis on their big OE were charging round on the tube wearing t-shirts with the map of the Underground but with the place names crossed out and places like Johnsonville, Geraldine, Te Awamutu, Cambridge etched on instead.
The pub was showing Classic All Blacks’ matches and serving Steinlager and was full youths in black shirts “talking loud in a Kiwi accent” including, but not limited to, a couple of guys I’m sure I remember from Waikato.
It was quite surreal and perhaps the best way to visit London.
But I would like to see Tennant’s Hamlet. I very much would.