Merry Ol' Eng-a-land

On Saturday night my partner Greg and I took a train from Stansted to Liverpool Station and then on the Tube to Victoria Station on Saturday. We were hoping to do a little shopping but empty stomachs and stores that close at 5 p.m. in London kept us from doing so.

Downtown London is different than it was when I was last here a decade ago. It’s no longer the land of Twiggy, The Beatles and Monty Python and has turned into The Ali G Show, lots of men named Ali and ethnic restaurants – which is a good thing since it introduced what has been a foreign substance to UK cooking: spices.

We ultimately met up with a deposed leader of a group in opposition to the president of a Central Asian country. There was a lot of passionate discussion about bad people doing bad things to good people, unfair elections and plenty of profiteering by the leaders of the regime. You know, the typical stuff of dictators and the typical complaints from those on the outside. It’s an old story but, as an ironic example, the only significant change in Ukraine following the Orange Revolution was the transfer of titles on black Mercedes S500s from those who lost power to those who gained it through mob rule and plenty of Western help. Like I said, an old story.

Anyway, the opposition leader waxed poetically about taking down the dictator of his former country. He aimed to do it mostly with reason and debate. Well, reason and debate are wonderful things, but generally you need guns and knives to take out entrenched dictators. But he was a nice enough guy and we were happy enough to talk to him and I really believe in his cause. At least I wasn’t as cynical as Greg who suggested we offer the dictator millions or even billions to do the right thing, figuring it’s far cheaper than bombing the place to force the issue.

When we got to Victoria Station, we saw about 30 coppers beginning to surround a pub. We could hear singing and loud, drunken behavior coming from inside and we figured the police were there to keep soccer hooligans from getting out of control. It turns out they weren’t soccer hooligans at all, but cricket hooligans. Of all the kinds of hooliganism one could engage in, imagine choosing cricket! And what would rile a cricket hooligan to get the police involved? A fan from another team dirtying up their sweater vest, or perhaps accusing your opponent of spilling tea during tea time between innings? Needless to say we got out of that potentially dangerous situation in a hurry.

The last time I was in England, I was here with Mrs. Laz and we didn’t go into London; we just drove around the countryside. England was in the midst of a terrible drought and the country was parched and brown. It is just the opposite this time. The ground is soaked and very plush and green. I would love to have taken a photo for you all but the Girl stole my digital camera. And I didn’t know how to use it anyway.

On a sporting note, the Boy thought it would be a good idea to inform me of USC’s embarrassing loss to crosstown rival UCLA. It was great news as it may catapult Michigan to the BCS title game, but I am not sure I needed to know it at 1:20 in the morning here in England. But it was good news. Sorry USC fans, and you know who you are.