New job approaches and I need to change my work status which means applying for a new work permit and Leave To Stay. The new form is a bit simpler than the previous one but still has its wee hurdles (mostly gathering documentation, but I’m on top of all that).
A sad comment on society (or sad comments, as it were) is the series of questions about past illegal activities (the “have you ever been a member of or supported” kind of thing). First off, if someone had been involved in genocide it isn’t likely to be something they were going to admit. Secondly, the definitions page (attached with the “Rehabilitation of Offenders” notice redacted for brevity but all available by tracking down the Tier 2 application at the UK Border Agency) is somewhat surreal and seems to implicate many of my elected (more-or-less) leaders in the past:
Well, my forms are filled in honestly and ready to go as soon as our passports are returned by the DVLA (verification of our identies for new drivers’ licenses). Fortunately, public nudity is neither against the law here (some stipulations apply) nor is considered the sort of evidence of moral turpitude that concerns the Home Office.
The Ozzy is now open days. The Christmas shoppers and seasonal office drinkers were too tempting and the bar has decided to tap this market. I stopped in with a half mile remaining to return to work from a cold and dreary run and was cheered to find the place open before 6 and even more cheered to find that it is as divey as it has always appeared. Only lagers and fizzy cider on tap that day but I spotted at least one ale pump and besides the Flying Pig is less than 5 meters away if you really want the ale.
On this visit, there was a pole and a fenny shooting snooker and the hungover bartender (from Essex or London, maybe) keeping the place tidy. A suit walked in with a Nigerian accent and downed a Stella in a little less than two minutes and still seemed to slip in some chat about the 2010 World Cup brackets.
I took a bit longer with my Fosters to let my body temperature cool a bit so my glasses would stop fogging up while reading the many humourous ‘Proud to be British’ flyers (“because it’s the only country where you can get a pizza delivered faster than an ambulance will arrive” was one of the reasons; I pointed this out and mentioned that while cabdriving in Atlanta I occasionally got calls to pick someone up going to the Emergency Room (that’s A&E, for you brits) at Grady Hospital because they lived in shitty neighbourhoods that ambulances normally would take their time to go to (and that about half the time these folks had severe lacerations or gunshot wounds). “Ah, yeah, but that’s America, innit?”
We came out of the Stepney Green tube station onto Mile End Road near the campus of Queen Mary University and were looking for something to eat besides kebabs and curry when we spotted the Half moon, built into the former Young People’s Theatre which also appears to have been a church at some point in the past. It is a Wetherspoons pub which means the food won’t be anything special but it will be edible and reasonably (even cheaply) priced.
Front bar, taken from Wetherspoon's page
There was a front bar that appeared to be packed with old timers and professional drinkers all shooting the shit and a larger area where there were mostly diners. I had a really lovely pint of licorice stout from the seasonal beer lines but didn’t note the name and now it eludes me. It was well tasty, but as a seasonal it will be gone by the end of the Xmas holidays so it doesn’t really matter.
Floor to ceiling windows on outdoor seating
We needed directions to an address that was down a couple of alleyways in the byzantine streetscape of this part of the East End and the floor staff didn’t know where it was, but the bartender overheard and between the endless pints she seemed to be working was able to direct us to within a few feet of the door we were looking for. Say what you want about Wetherspoon’s pubs, but the staff tends to be helpful and competent, the beer varied and properly served and the prices much more palatable than most other pubs you might find.
The London Santa Run was Saturday, was fun, the weather was great and it is now over. Most of us were slowed by the uncomfortable racing attire so my slow performance was still not too bad (72 out of 1743 overall):
During the run, an old favourite Xmas song popped into my head (probably as this was the first race in years in which I hadn’t partied to the wee hours and had to run hungover). I incorporated it into the video, below, without consulting the Drive-by Truckers but I hope it sells them some copies of it (or, better, copies of the Flagpole Christmas Album from 1996, copies still floating around on Ghostmeat Records):
The Rose looks like a roadhouse and I’ve passed it by on the bus and on runs a few times thinking it was close enough that I could just run down sometime at my leisure and have lunch. Now that I am close to relocating out of the area I decided to go ahead and tick this one off the list. I left the Tally Ho and nearly sprinted the remaing 3 miles in the waning sunlight to the Rose.
Sweaty, disheveled (as is my way) and out of breath, I was confronted by two doors; to the left was one marked Lounge and to the right Lounge and Restaurant. Not wanting to cause offense at what appeared on close inspection to be an upscale gastro pub, I opted for the Lounge, only, and found all the tables grouped to sit two parties of 6 women each. “Are you the stripper?” at least two of them shouted as I started to leave and try my luck on the other side. “I can be,” I answered to hoots but no serious offers of cash…hey, 20 quid is 20 quid, but I only wander around naked for free on my own terms.
The other side was huge and there were some actual drinkers in the bar, talking about diabetes treatment. I opted to enjoy an Aspall’s Cyder and read the local “what’s on” magazine. One of the drunks at the bar started hitting on the 19-year-old chef, and the former eastern block waitresses came to his rescue, telling the woman that he was young enough to be her son. I finished up and headed back out, stopping to tap on the window and wave to my fans.
I tried the Tally Ho in March while nursing a broken bone in my foot, but they wouldn’t let me bring in a sandwich even though the kitchen was closed down for repairs so I left for the Unicorn. Several times since I’ve tried to drink there on the return trip from a run but the door was locked (before 3pm, but maybe they close at 2?).
So I was happy and surprised to find the place open on the fine sunny afternoon we had Friday. I had some particularly long days this week and decided to cut out early for a run and found the place not only open but hopping, with 6 guys crowded around the bar, the cook wandering in and out (they have reopened the kitchen), and with a bunch of chinese snapping pictures and taking measurements (hopefully this doesn’t mean a conversion from bar to restaurant).
I enjoyed a Greene King 1209, a limited time brew celebrating the 800th anniversary of the founding of University of Cambridge and which tasted very similar to IPA. The bartender said they were trying to rid themselves of it as they had a seasonal ale for Christmas ready to go in the basement, hence the £2.00 price tag. Not one to complain, I relaxed near the jukebox and debated whether I should help the guy out who was searching for a Gwen Steffani song but getting no search results because he was spelling it Staffani. I split the difference and waited until I was ready to take up the trail again and only then tipped him off to his spelling problem.
In the event it is taken off, and since I’m sure there are many who would be interested in just what sort of educational and research opportunities are available in the UK I took the initiative to take a screen shot of the advert:
I’m sure research related expenses are fully covered, such as field research in Soho and travel to meet fellow researchers in Amsterdam. (The image isn’t really high resolution, but you can zoom in on the advert on another page if you click on it.)
The day started with a three hour drive to Oxford, then continuous work (well, an hour break to attend a lecture) until 7pm. Hungry but tired of so much continuous inactivity (most of the work was diagnosing some electronics problems with a mass spectrometer), I decided to stop and take a short running tour of Brackley and find a place for some food.
Brackley is pretty, at least when lit by Christmas lights, and seems rich with pubs and restaurants but as the Red Lion is always a sentimental favourite I loped into the local one…plus, it was pie night and the game pie on offer came with a complimentary pint!
It was a slow night in the pub, but it was a Tuesday and still early at that. The pub was pretty modern inside and has the feel that it serves a younger drinking crowd but a more esteemed set of diners. Regardless, everyone seemed friendly which is not so unusual the further west I travel; back in Cambridgeshire and Sussex the level of casual rudeness and the air of self-importance even the lowliest little dirtbag attaches to themselves and to their (and your, should you be sharing the road or pavement) personal space is mindboggling but I’ve noticed, at least superficially, a greater level of courteous behaviour and warmth to strangers in Oxfordshire and Northamps. Granted, they aren’t subected to as many American military types outside of East Anglia, so maybe that has something to do with the welcome put on; but, the eastern level of rudeness extends just as much to each other as to known foreigners here to nick their jobs. Oh well.
The food finally arrived and it was well worth the wait. The pie was rich and had a light pastry entirely around it (and not just floating on top of a watery souplike filling as is usually the case). The veg was fresh and crisp, not cooked to mush. And everything tastes good with a pint of Courage Director’s Bitter. Alas, there was still an hour and a half of driving ahead of me and it was getting late.
Nostalgia night continued as I approached the Crown in the center of Littleport from the Black Horse by the river. There was the old beaten down car with the great bit of art deco design incorporated, like in almost every backyard at home in mid-Georgia:
There was the large strings of rudimentary Chistmas decor around town like Atlanta before the real estate boom. And, there were the butch-and-fem, large-and-skinny lesbian couple shooting pool like just about every bar in Virginia-Highlands (Atlanta).
Okay, the fat one might have been the skinny one’s little brother and they might both have been straight but I wanted to use the “rule of three’s” for a second post and continue the theme and if it means crowbarring those kids ambiguous genders into a sexuality that suits my purposes I think it wouldn’t be the first time.
I blame the furnishings. The bar has a real community vibe to it and the folks I met were very friendly. The furniture, though, seemed out of place. Mind you, it was nice enough and probably pretty expensive (it was sturdier than it looks), but it seemed more Ikea than the block walls and deep windows seemed to demand.
Now, this was strange. I wanted to put in 9 miles or so and decided to end up in Littleport because the bus from there stops about 50 meters from my house on its way south. The run was a bit tougher than I thought with the section from Prickwillow to Littleport over fairly uneven ground, and I was very thirsty and tired when I crossed the bridge at Sandhill and spotted the Black Horse.
Quite a bit of nostalgia in this run and the Black Horse provided a bit. First, the band they have scheduled puts me in the mind of home (that is, Athens Georgia circa 1990 or so), with their retro rocker looks and Confederate flag. The canal tie-up reminded me of home (that is, Amsterdam and the Dutch pubs along the canals that as many boaters frequented as cyclists). Then, the beer selection put me in the mind of home (that is, Tucson) and I couldn’t resist the temptation of a pint of Coors Light.
The pub is actually pretty nice and large enough to have a good turnout for the band. For me, though, it is a little out of the way and not necessarily what I hope to find for conversation and ale.
The Ozzy is now open days. The Christmas shoppers and seasonal office drinkers were too tempting and the bar has decided to tap this market. I stopped in with a half mile remaining to return to work from a cold and dreary run and was cheered to find the place open before 6 and even more cheered to find that it is as divey as it has always appeared. Only lagers and fizzy cider on tap that day but I spotted at least one ale pump and besides the Flying Pig is less than 5 meters away if you really want the ale.
Posted by 1pumplane 
Posted by 1pumplane 
Posted by 1pumplane 
Genocide, terrorism, war crimes or crimes against humanity…nope to all
2009/12/13New job approaches and I need to change my work status which means applying for a new work permit and Leave To Stay. The new form is a bit simpler than the previous one but still has its wee hurdles (mostly gathering documentation, but I’m on top of all that).
A sad comment on society (or sad comments, as it were) is the series of questions about past illegal activities (the “have you ever been a member of or supported” kind of thing). First off, if someone had been involved in genocide it isn’t likely to be something they were going to admit. Secondly, the definitions page (attached with the “Rehabilitation of Offenders” notice redacted for brevity but all available by tracking down the Tier 2 application at the UK Border Agency) is somewhat surreal and seems to implicate many of my elected (more-or-less) leaders in the past: