European Invasion II

Southampton

Our four quid flight to Bournemouth International Airport (I still giggle when I hear this) took off pretty much on time, hit a bird, shut down an engine, turned around and promptly landed again. For the guy with the obviously morbid fear of flying that was sitting opposite me, this was obviously a somewhat stressful experience.

What could have happened, but didn't.
(OK, so I didn't have a proper pic to
put here and I had a space to fill.)

Because this was more of a "flying bus" than a plane, Greig and I managed to get separated. I was sitting right up the front with my friend with white knuckles and breathing difficulties, and Greig was sitting down the back with the families with the matching sombreros and screaming kids. Greig took the opportunity to lose the screaming kids and came up and visited me while we waited to get the feathers and KFC cleared out of the engine.

We were eventually given the all-clear to fly again and were on our way. This time the flight was uneventful and in no time we were in Bournemouth.

As I was up the front, I got off the plane first. I wanted to wait for Greig, but they were hurrying us into the Bournemouth International Airport Terminal Building (tee hee). Fine, I'll wait inside then. As soon as I walked in the door I was being hurried through Immigration. Fine, I'll wait for him at the luggage carousel. The bags came through, but no sign of Greig. I decided not to go through customs just yet.

A lady that we'd chatted to in the queue in Girona came through immigration and found me. Apparently I have Greig's passport. No way! He told me he was keeping it in his pocket when we boarded the plane. I wandered back through immigration (try doing that at Heathrow) and found him standing at the counter. Apparently he'd put his passport back in the bag I was carrying when we re-landed at Girona.

I gave him the bag, he gave the immigration guy the passport, the immigration guy gave him some cheek about the Aussies losing the rugby, and Greig gave him some cheek about it never happening again and ran away. Try doing that at Heathrow!

We walked through the gates marked "customs" into the waiting arms of Will and Mikey. No customs. No checks. No dogs. No internal cavity examinations. Damn.

Southampton (no, really this time)

Will and Mikey whisked us in style to their home in Southampton. Our arrival was immediately toasted with a glass or two bottle or two of Champagne.

We then headed out to dinner in one of the fine local establishments accompanied by a glass or two bottle or two of fine wine. After dinner we were invited to be after hours guests at another restaurant, run by a friend of Wills. Here we enjoyed a glass or two bottle or two of fine wine. Then it was off to the local gay pub where I believe spirits were consumed.

For some reason I have very little recollection of the exact details of the evening.

The next day (Saturday) was the day of Will and Mikey's Housewarming party. They had actually held the party off for a couple of weeks so that we could attend. How very sweet of them!

We spent the morning running errands in preparation for the party, including buying very butch things at B&Q Warehouse. (Think "Bunnings", for those back in Oz.)

For lunch we hopped on a ferry out to the Isle of Wight and had a traditional English Pub lunch. For some reason, despite being in a pub, I didn't feel like drinking any alcohol.

We also did all the major tourist attractions that Southampton has to offer - the dock that the Titanic sailed before it did its big thing, the factory where every Ford Transit van in the world comes from and something to do with Spitfire aeroplanes.

The rest of the day was spent preparing for the party that night.

A pause in the "dance space".

That evening, guests started arriving, including a rather large contingent of ex-pat Aussies. Bottles of wine were opened and

I'm sorry. It's all a bit of a blur from there. There may have been pharmaceuticals and there may have been a number of naked men cavorting in a bed. I can neither confirm nor deny any of this.

The next morning, bleary eyed people crawled out from under great piles of empty bottles and assembled in the lounge room. After several unsuccessful attempts to make a cup of tea (it kept on coming back as another bottle of beer) we decided to go out and hunt for breakfast.

About half a dozen of us staggered down to a local café, sat down and promptly ordered Bloody Marys. We also had eggs apparently. The rest of the day was spent watching old movies with Clint Eastwood and an orang-utan on TV.

No-one was feeling particularly energetic that evening so we ordered take-away Thai and consumed it sitting around the television, accompanied by a glass or two bottle or two of wine.

Fuck those Poms can drink!

On Monday morning we jumped on a train heading to London town.

Luckily you can buy alcohol on British trains so we were able to have some more Bloody Marys.

London

Mikey & Will on the train to London.
Note the "Bloody Mary's"
to get us through the trip.

We only had a few days in London, staying in a boutique hotel in Soho. "Boutique" is an English word meaning small rooms and overpriced. You find lots of these places in Australia as well. "Soho" is another English word meaning add an extra 50% extra to the price please.

Upon arriving we headed out to pre-show drinkies at "The Box". There we met up with others who were joining us for the evenings entertainment. "The Box" is an English word for little umbrellas in drinks - even beer.

Then it was off for THE SHOW.

Now, if you're a Londoner then you may not quite understand the significance of this event. But coming from the colonies where you only hear of these places, usually associated with very famous people, actually being there is a very special thing.

THE SHOW was in Drury Lane. Drury Lane Theatre in the West End. Drury Lane where classic events that have since gone into folklore, like "The Secret Policeman's Other Ball" was staged. Drury Lane, where the Queen goes when she wants to be noticed.

We went to see The Producers. Mel Brooks' The Producers. Mel Brooks' The Producers, live at Drury Lane.

Actually, in a round about way, The Producers was a big part of the reason we did this trip in the first place. You see, when it was on in Melbourne we wanted to go and see it. Unfortunately we didn't get our shit together and missed it. Then the show moved to Brisbane. We tried to get along to see it there, but time was against us. Then the show moved to Sydney. Unfortunately it was on at Star City Casino, which is just plain tacky, so we didn't want to see it there. The only logical thing that we could do was fly half way around the world to see it.

Greig, very happy with himself.
(Note the mad-man behind,
waving his arms about.)

As it turned out, our seats at Drury Lane turned out to be somewhat questionable. It was fine when we first arrived, but once the show started, this mad man (actually, I believe that the correct term is "geezer") right in front of us stood up and started waving his hands about wildly. He did this through the entire show. It took all my self control not to lean forward and whack him.

Some of the more civilised people we know pointed out that the mad man was the conductor, and he was in fact supposed to be there.

Thankyou sooooo much to Mikey and Will for getting us front row centre seats in the famous Drury Lane Theatre to see Mel Brooks' "The Producers". Seeing a show in Drury Lane was such a buzz for us. Sitting front row centre was just wonderful. We'd been so many wonderful places during our month away, but for some reason this seems to be the highlight.

After the show we headed out to dinner in one of the fine local establishments accompanied by a glass or two bottle or two of fine wine.

We did very little else in London. We caught up with Rat for dinner and a few drinks. We did some shopping. We attempted to eat a caramel slice that tasted like glazier's putty. We visited a nice little shop called "Fetted Pleasures" and made some purchases that were likely to disturb customs officials. We stood in a queue for ages at Heathrow.

Singapore and Home

As is our want, we always like to stop off in Singapore on the way home and explore the very cheap technology shopping centres. We didn't spend a huge amount this time, mainly because our luggage was already stuffed to the gills with new clothes. (We arrived back in Australia with roughly twice as many clothes as we left with.) We did manage to cram a few extra trinkets into side pockets though.

After Singapore it was just another eight hours on the plane and we touched down in Sydney. In almost no time we were through customs, said hello to the nice little beagle puppies and headed out the door into the loving care of a Sydney cab driver.

There's no place like home. There's no place like home. There's no place like home.