NEWSPEAK Blog

Anus and testicles!

Above is Sacha Baron Cohen's acceptance speech from the Golden Globes last night, perhaps the filthiest address ever given at an awards ceremony. Do watch. (Thanks to Slog.)

Last pictures. I promise.

After charging my camera battery, these are the lovely remainders I felt I should include from my Sweet European Holiday. But first, the highlights from the trip:

Churches.
Color me Jesusy, but I love some old, old churches. It's amazing to me that such great architecture was constructed in the pre-science days and that all of it—along with other great art forms like, say, classical music and Renaissance painting—were all constructed in the name of God. I dunno; maybe their God was cooler. (Or maybe nobody could read the Bible pre-Gutenberg. Your call.) In any case, Westminster Abbey, Saint-Sulpice, Bassingthorpe Church, Sacre Coeur, and every other church we toured was shocking in their history, edifice and overall addition to the culture. With few exceptions, America has nothing like them.

Language
I love language, and even in the country most similar to the U.S. I found quite a few interesting linguistic differences. English folks have diffidence and inoffensive ambivalence built into their language, which is most certainly part of living on a tiny island with a lot of other people. Your every exchange is packed with politeness. The separation comes when people are drinking and become a little more honest and a lot more crass. I always felt an undercurrent of very slight hostility with most English people, which I found emerges when they're drunk. (This doesn't mean they're violent or awful or anything, just to clarify.) The American equivalent would be the Deep South, where manners reign with strangers but where machismo and outright loathing lurk beneath the surface.

France is somewhat similar, but much more formal. As a manners geek and one of only people I know who has read and enjoyed Emily Post, I adore this; every exchange is coded, begins with, "Bonjour, monsieur/madame," contains countless "S'il vous plait"s and "D'accord"s, and ends with "Merci, monsieur/madame," and "Au revoir" while backing out the door and thanking profusely again. As a crappy French speaker, it's nice to have touchstones with an unfamiliar and difficult language. It's also nice to know that in modern Paris, a lot of the people are speaking French as a second language, too; many shop owners are Asian, Northern African or Arabic. They also all speak English better than most Americans.

Wee cultural differences.
The British speak French with English accents. They queue formally, except when they don't. They shove and push on the Tube but apologize habitually. They talk on cell phones all the time. Every Londoner has an iPod but tuck the earpieces inside scarves. Parisians walk on the right like Americans but scatter on sidewalks, which are entirely coated in dog shit. The British hate the French and the French hate the British. There are more SUVs in northern France than in Colorado Springs. The class system is alive and well in Britain, only they call them chavs, and for the life of me I can't tell a chav from a regular Briton, but for the track suits. The English eat more hamburgers than most Americans, consume more beer, and somehow stay skinnier. If a French waiter recognizes you as American, you will get your meal twenty minutes before the people around you, even though you ordered much later.

The pictures:

The tomb of Muzio Clemente in Westminster Abbey. Clemente invented the piano forte, which made post-Baroque classical musical possible. Also appreciated but not pictured: tombs for Isaac Newton, Handel, dozens of writers, Edmond Halley and many others that made me cream my jeans.

Big street posters for an exhibit on World War II propaganda posters at a museum whose name I never caught.

My sister and me in front of the Rosetta Stone at the British Museum. Despite the silly pose (which is a reference to the way my sister took photographs when she was young, probably derived from either Barbie or the Bible, and nothing you need to worry about), how cool is seeing the actual Rosetta Stone? Very.

A primate (Bettina) on the Seine. Bettina as a child used to crawl in a cupboard and pretend she was flying a spaceship to Paris. This was a very big deal for her, although during our lovely walk that day I kept pretending I was Lestat.

Okay, no more pictures, I promise, and hereby swear by freedom and liberty and stuff. But damn, what a good time. Ask Noel about the hat I bought him in London.

Yeah, but no, but yeah, but no, but yeah: seriously, my last London post.

Hey, you guys. I'm like so drunk and stuff and junk and stuff and junk and shit. No, really. I've been drinking since about 1 pm, yet am blogging. How is this? It's the magic of blogging. Tremble before its boozy, digital ferocity.

And also, the Planet Earth marathon on TV is still going. I lurve me some Attenborough and thusly plan on passing out to his soothing voice. Ooh, tell me about the giraffes. Ungh. Yes. Giraffes. No, don't stop. Giraffes. Yesssss. Their necks are so adapted to their environment of acacia leaves. You're getting me so hot right now. Ungh.

So, the bad news is that there was no pub quiz tonight. As the retardedly conservative Evening Standard (motto: "We Simply Replace 'Pakis' with 'Yobs' in our Editorials, and Also, What Ever Happened to the Caste System? That Was Awesome") pointed out, today was the biggest sick day in the history of Britain, so everything was deserted tonight and all pub quizzes were cancelled. Schlecht. This meant that we hung out with an expectant crowd of well-wishers who wanted to see us excel at quiz but instead had to contend with me calling them Tories because they were Australian. Explaining corporate welfare is hard. It requires math.

You know what is awesome? Having your high-school homecoming dance date unexpectantly show up at your sister's flat! I love that!

No. Way. Buffy on BBC right now. Must go. See you in America.

Probably my last London post.

So it's early evening here and our last night. The wife and I had a relaxing day, all things considered, eschewing Harrod's and shopping for a lazy walking tour of Soho, stopping every ten minutes or so for a pint. The highlights:

—Soho Spice, a gay fine-dining curry joint whose review in the Times was headed "Swish Kebab." Great food, amazing specialty drinks like the Elderflower Pop (Cucumber-infused vodka, elderflower vodka and champagne), all backed by the gayest techno that ever did gay. Wonderful nan.

—Edge, a gay bar that we stumbled into that for some reason serves a fairly traditional English lunch menu in a space designed by Saatchi & Saatchi. I suspect that the place is the center of the London gay scene, since we spotted a few tourists in there reading London Gay Guides while drinking Cobra. Suh et weet. Bettina and I pretended we were on a first date, which was hilarious for us since I talked about Braveheart, Wal-Mart, and the Great Redneck Hope singer's stepdad Ron Campbell, who called U-Haul dealerships, thinking he'd get a better deal by saying, "Hello, this is Ron Campbell ... Can you cut my boys a deal?" Gay bar? Check. Mel Gibson movie? Check. Commercial America? Check. Ron Campbell? Check and mate: worst date ever.

—Had yet another pint at Hole in the Wall, literally a hole in the wall just off the Waterloo Station. There were people there deciding aloud when to take their drugs. I punched them and stole said drugs, stealing into the south London night.

We're now eating Thai, then pub-quizzing, then flying home tomorrow. See alls ya'll on the flipside, hopefully with pictures. Can't blog—must paaaarty.

Photos from Paris

Here are the promised photos. I should mention that my sister took all these and she's a dual citizen, so it might be wise to consider the famous Continental maxim, "British copyright law ain't nothin' to fuck with." Actually, I don't care, but you should visit her at www.calledmadeleine.blogspot.com or she'll tell Mom.

This totally looks familiar and stuff and junk! Actually, this was the nearest Métro entrance to our flat and was designed by somebody famous (Tom? Do you know?). The best part on the train were all these signs advertising an upcoming album by a rapper named Booba, called "Ouest Side!" I thusly walked around all weekend shouting "Ouest siiiiiiide!" It was great for me.

The high-water markings for the Seine on the Right Bank. It's amazing how high this went. (And how high I was, wink wink. Bortion!)

Dans les catacombes. Like I said before, awesome and humbling and altogether amazing. You could NEVER get away with as sepulchral a tourist attraction in the States.

The enormous pile of mussels I ate for lunch one day. Paris is obviously famous for its cafe life, and we lucked out on numerous occasions, had some amazing meals and essentially gorged ourselves on food and drink. While I was eating these, a guy at the bar was throwing up all over himself. It was roughly 1 in the afternoon. That guy is my hero.

The Pyramide at the Louvre. It's pretty sweet.

And New Years Eve on the Trocadero, one of the best times I've ever had that didn't involve 'Ludes. Behold! the sparkly Tower! Yesss!

Well, it's our last full day here; we fly home tomorrow afternoon and then, because of an awesome trick of time-travel, land in Colorado tomorrow afternoon.

Have you seen or heard of the BBC series Planet Earth? It is simply the most astounding bit of nature programming ever done. They use all sorts of new cinematographical technology to get the most amazing shots. It's like nothing I've ever seen. Here's a link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dQsXo7UdvRo

(If Noel is nice, he'll embed this for me.)

Okay. We're going to try to brave Harrod's today, since we have a voucher to use. We're using it to buy presents for you, Reader! Yes, you! Then, tonight, pub quiz at the Wibbly. Look out, England—the quizmaster cometh.

Wait for the end of the post. Waaaait for it ...

We're off to the movies (or "cinema," if you will) in a moment, but here's some photos from our adventures today. We went to the British Museum, which houses like every artifact ever and which looks like this:

It'd be completely impossible to show everything they have, which includes mummies, the Bayeaux Tapestry, and pretty much every historical piece from the age of the Rule Britannia, but here's a sampling of some coolness.

A period bust of Augustus.

A pre-Dynasty Egyptian wicker casket and its sweet skeleton.

And an enormous icon from a temporary exhibit on Pacific island religious symbols.

And finally, a picture of the most exciting experience I've had while here.

Wait for it.

Waaaaaaiiit fooooor it ...

Yes! (Do notice the trolley disappearing into the wall. I made that happen, for I am a wizard.)

Little Britain is the New Mr. Show ...

... except it's exceedingly popular and has won a lot of awards. Witness the funny:

(And, to relate to an earlier post, Buffy's Anthony Stewart Head plays the Prime Minister, which is excellent.)

Some Boxing Day photos.

Back in London after a lovely few days up north. Stopped in Cambridge this afternoon, which is old and amazing and crammed full of colleges. Is nice!

Here are some photos from the past few days, none of which I can take credit for.

Us on a walk in Greetham, showing off the crazy fog. I am apparently vomiting as my sister-in-law Pippa looks on.

Both are photos from Bassingthorpe Manor. You can see me above, ruminating on how great it is to own land.

Christmas Day and the Queen's speech, which was also released as a podcast this year. I was getting drunk with my father-in-law Robin, but she apparently spoke of the need for generations to come together to kick Tony Blair in the testicles.

All of the below are of the very old, verrrry traditional Boxing Day Meet in Oakham & Cottesmore, which is a foxhunt. Apparently, foxhunting has become a subject of major controversy over the past few years, with all the sane people viewing it as what it is, which is a terribly inhumane bloodsport, and all the bluebloods and semi-royals looking at it as a way of differentiating themselves from commoners, since they have horses and hounds and stables and people to look after all of them. Therefore, there're signs everywhere yelling to End Rural Predjudice, which is basically the same as Con-Agra lobbying to Keep Small Farms Alive. It's way gay, brah. On the pluss side, it's also a really neat little look into the class divisions in Britain's past. Hello, class divisions! The foxhunters aren't allowed to kill the fox any more; they bring along a dead goose or something for the dogs to tear apart, which doesn't strike me as a whole lot more humane, but whatevs. These are all photos from the rallying point. They blew some bugles and all trotted off. It was so great for me and stuff.

Well, we're staying in tonight watching Little Britain, which is a pretty amazing show. Tee tee why ell.

How I became lord of the manor.

We're up in the tiny village of Greesham, in Rutland County, staying at my sister's husband's father's house. It's twee and cute and very adorable here. We arrived the night before last after driving up the A1 in heavy heavy fog to find a crazily historic house situated along a stream.

Yesterday, we had reservations at a place called the Olive Branch, a place a few towns over which is one of two Michelin-starred gastropubs in England. Had a late lunch which was very English yet very haute cuisine: braised lamb with ratatouille, an antipasti plate with soft-boiled quail egg, etc., and all wonderful and well worth the money. The greatest thing is that the Olive Branch is much part of the slow food movement and therefore everything it serves is grown, raised or butchered within a few surrounding miles; the menu contains a map that shows you exactly where everything comes from. Neat-o.

After a loooooong lunch, we headed to see Rich, a friend of ours we met earlier this year. Rich lives, literally, in a house called Bassingthorpe Manor, a house and surrounding property that dates to the 1530s. There is a topiary maze out in the garden, and their ground-floor windows look directly onto a graveyard for the Bassingthorpe Church, which they for some reason have keys to. The church is roughly 900 years old, with the original archway. In-fucking-sane.

So Rich showed up around his house, which is a castle in all senses of the word. In the winter, the family stays most of the time in the two rooms with fireplaces, since the house is impossible to heat in its entirety. And the best part: Rich's dad bought the house with the tons of money he made being a gypsy lawyer. Bwhaa?

Yeah, so we ended up back in Greesham at the village pub, singing karaoke. Needless to say, I was quite drunk, and stumbling home late and seeing the Greesham church loom out of the fog, I realized that were I in an Agatha Christie novel, I would be the first one to die.

I left my camera in London, but my professional-photographer sister was taking pictures of all of this. They'll be a-comin'.

A few more pictures before heading north.

Just finished dinner on the raclette after another few drinks at the Wibbly, which is quick becoming our regular pub here, so much that the bartendrix remembered what I was drinking.

We also just exchanged gifts with my sister and her husband, who were far too generous being that we just gave them a few homemade candles and some salsa. But hey, I'll accept bricks of hash just about anytime. The pics:

An ad seen on the tube. No comment.

At first glance, these crisp flavors look like the best thing ever. Then you realize that the first ingredient after potatoes is MSG. But still, steak. Fucking steak. Yes.

Fairy liquid. Tee-hee.

Off to the countryside in the heavy, heavy fog. More to follow soon. Oh, and I saw Hugh Laurie today. He said to say, "Tard."