The Britain Trip--Part Three: The British Museum and Covent Garden

*Just a note to mouse over the photos, as I often include additional captions that you may find amusing/informative/stupid*

The day following the epic birthday party was intended for recovery, and we used it as such. Mostly, we cleaned up the mess in the back yard, put away all the booze and contended with beer shits. It was the only time I felt under the weather during the trip and it was my own damn fault. I regret nothing!

Monday, we visited the British Museum. We caught the train into London and made our way along busy, noisy streets replete with Londoners going about their business and Victorian and Edwardian era buildings. En route to the museum, we saw scenes like this:

It was my first day in London--I took pictures of everything!

And also this:

British grafitti--same level of stupidity as at home.

There was initially some concern that we were lost, but the Fragrant Missus is like a homing pigeon in terms of knowing where she's going, so eventually, we (and several thousands [I may be exaggerating somewhat] of other people) arrived at the British Museum. It has an imposing edifice, like many buildings in London.

A detail from the front elevation of the British Museum

The museum itself is free, although donations are gladly accepted. I chose to support the Museum by giving myself backstrain with the many books and curios I purchased at the gift shop. I think of it as the "Exit Fee".

Anyway, I had thought that we would go in, see the Medieval stuff and call it a morning. What an idiot. Bitches, this is the British friggin' Museum!!! One does not merely "see the Medieval stuff and call it a morning". NO! One is drawn deeper and deeper into each exhibit, tempted and teased by some of the most incredible works of art this planet has produced since our forebears learned how to hold a chisel or a brush. 

And it was a deeply moving experience for me, as an amateur historian and scholar, to see some of the items that I had heretofore only read about in books or seen online. These things had, up until now, been abstract, mythical, almost theoretical. But now, they were right there in front of me, almost close enough to touch. Here was the Dunstable Swan "in person".

The Dunstable Swan, English 14th C., enamel and gilt

Here also was the Sutton Hoo helmet, both the original and a restored reproduction. Here were the Lewis Chessmen, and, in other exhibits, statues of Pharoahs and giant scarab beetles and the most exquisitely carved Japanese netsuke, and yes, even a big, honkin', sonafabitchin' Moai from Easter Island.

I will forever be haunted by this image of the emaciated Buddha from the Asian exhibit:

Emaciated Buddha Punjab, 2nd-3rd C.

But yanno, when not rhapsodizing about my adventures in other locales, this blog is actually dedicated to douchebaggery. And we had been very fortunate in that we had not really been exposed to any so far. But at the Museum, this was to change.

Whenever anyone asks me what I did not like about my trip, I am stuck for an answer until I remember the fucking tourists. Fuckin' tourists. I hate 'em. I hate 'em when they come to my hometown, and I hate 'em in other places. There's too many of them and they wander around aimlessly, like cattle on a Mumbai street. Or they stop abruptly to look at their fucking phones at the top of the crowded escalator. And they scuff their feet along the marble floors so that their soles squeak and a supposedly quiet day at the Museum ends up sounding like gym class. 

It was an interesting juxtaposition, however, looking at these dull, shuffling pinheads and wondering how the fuck we ever managed to create said works of art, given the obvious lack of talent in the represented genetic pool. Most of these people had no discernible comprehension or appreciation for the magnificence they were viewing. And it's not because I didn't see anyone else weeping over the Dunstable Swan like me. Still, they were doing their thing (usually in my fucking way) and I was doing mine and that was that. It was tolerable, even for an elitist snob like me.

But then there was this fucking tosser who decided he was going to be funny while I was trying to take a picture of this remarkable work:

Life and Death Gallery Room 24

I can't recall any of the details about this carving. I usually make notes or snap a shot of the exhibit card, but while I was trying to get this shot, I had to back up a few times to make sure I had the proper angle and that it would all fit in the way I wanted. And because I realize that I am not the only person who might be looking at the object, I try to be situationally aware and look around to make sure I'm not stepping into anyone else's shot or view. I'm not one of *those* tourists.

And that's when I noted the fucking wanker behind me putting his foot out to trip me.

I straightened immediately and looked directly at him. He appeared startled to be caught, as did his Essex Girl companion. 

"Really fuckin' funny," I said to him, and the both of them moved off quickly. I waited to see if he was going to respond with anything more than a smirk, because I already had my rejoinder loaded in the breech ("Nice choice, darlin'--your friend here has had the clap so often, it's more like applause"), but they left the gallery and I was free to pursue my obsessive picture-taking.

We spent roughly five hours at the British Museum, really only scratching the surface, and then we decided to walk over to Covent Garden (no "s", there's only one garden. Well, actually, there isn't any garden at all anymore, but there used to be only one. Only tourists say "Gardens", and we've already established how I feel about tourists. Fucking tourists). 

On the way we saw this:

The Happy-Go-Lucky Funeral Parlour

Covent Garden was okay. I mean, there was lots to see, if you're really into shopping of a certain kind (i.e. flashy, chunky drag queen jewelry, handpainted silk ties featuring London landmarks, etc), and I thoroughly enjoyed the street musicians! But mostly I was interested in eating at this point. We got a seat in the basement of the Punch and Judy, which had come highly recommended by a friend of my sister's. I loved the atmosphere! Sadly, our experience was less than stellar--they didn't have any of the beers that I wanted to sample, and The Fragrant Missus's food arrived at the table cold. It needed to be sent back to the kitchen for re-warming, and the busy staff was resentful of her request. Maybe they thought we were American, I dunno. It's still no excuse.

But it was food, anyway, which was much needed before we headed off to the tube to find Hamley's on Oxford. I was on the hunt for marbles, of which I have a small collection. And Hamley's carries a selection of marbles by the U.K.'s only remaining marble producer, House of Marbles, located in Devon. Beautiful work. 

Our trek along Oxford street was arduous--we were footsore and weary, I was weighted down by my purchases from the British Museum ("My treasures, Precious!"), and although we were surrounded on all sides by opulence and prosperity, we also saw people covered in newspapers, sleeping on the doorsteps of shops like Louis Vuitton. It was a sobering view, just as it is as home.

Anyway, Hamley's did, in fact, have marbles (or "mibs", as we say in the marble collecting game), and I made a few purchases. Most of you know that I am an ardent fan of The Queen, but I was not prepared for this full-on creepfest:

What the actual fuck???

Yeesh. Creepy Lego Queen. By this time it was 9:00 p.m. and we'd been on our feet since before 9:00 that morning. We hopped the train back to the station at Brentwood, where we caught a cab to Kelvedon Hatch. The setting was eerily familiar though--the cab driver was a man of colour and some education who, upon hearing where we wanted to go, said, "Where is that?"

My response, in an obvious Canadian accent, "We're not from around here."

Next Episode: Gay Paree!