Wet Bath & Soppy Puns

"Bath: Where the water is best - because it stinks of sulphur!"
- Bath city motto


The pungent city of Bath is known for their baths of the Roman variety which were famed in ancient times for their holy association with the goddess Minerva and their healing powers.

The baths are now famous for their incredible variety of puffy moulds and number of hilarious tourists falling down dead after failing to read the "Do not drink or touch - Untreated water" signs.


The Romans/Early Britons/Some Unwashed Guys/King Arthur and Knights of Camelot, etc. who first discovered this steaming, stinking reddish swampy stream of smelly goo, immediately flung off their togas and began to worship it.

I somehow managed to remain calm and clothed.


They were a number of creepy tombstones in the baths (which just goes to show you the brilliance of the Romans: "Let us bathe where we bury our dead! Surely nothing can go wrong and - oh sweet thundering Zeus! All my limbs appear to be rotting. I think I should go take another communal bath!").

This one appears to be of a man being trampled by some horses. At least, I hope he's being trampled by horses.

... ew.


At no point in my self-guided journey through the baths, did I ever feel a need to immerse myself in the water and smother myself with its healing goo.

However, I did go back to my hostel and take an erratically cold shower in the dark to cleanse myself of the ancient spores and fungi clinging to me after my trip to the baths. And then I burned my clothes.


Those in the audience wishing to see some naked Roman torso will be gravely disappointed by the Victorian use of strategic facecloths.



So, what have the Roman ever done for us?

Nothing except rob me of £11.50.

And the aqueducts.


But Bath is not all about their titular cleansing facilities.



There's also Bath Abbey where I assume a number of priestly high jinx occurs. This is the only reason I can fathom as to why they are continually ringing their church bells.

"Brother Fred! Brother Fred! I've just seen Jesus descending from the Heavens and onto High Street and he looks pissed!"

"It's the Second Coming, Brother Bob! I must go ring the bells to tell the righteous that our Lord and Saviour has finally reappeared."

After several minutes of impassioned early morning bell ringing:

"...Tee hee! I was pulling your cassock Brother Fred. Jesus hasn't come. What a lark!"

"Oh I see. What a jape Brother Bob! I'll stop ringing the bells then, shall I?"

"Yes I think so, Brother Fred... Because Jesus isn't on High Street.... He's on Union Street!"

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

*Bell ringing*

And this continues ad nauseum until Brother Bob runs out of streets for the Lord and Saviour to descend onto.


They have Cornish pasty and bridges. One of which changed my outlook on life.


They have picturesque views. This one was taken from some footballer's private soccer pitch before I was chased off the grounds by a pack of angry Spaniels.


They have lovely canals with suspicious boaters who shook their paddles at me as they went by. Hopefully, they drowned.


Bath also has glorious, glorious sopping wet rain.


There is also the Jane Austen Centre. However kitchy you think this will be, times it by a packet of Mr. Bennett biscuits and then multiply it by a couple of Jane Austen aprons and divide by a Northanger Abbey thimble and a Colin Firth cross stitch and then you will truly understand how goofy this was.


There was a very nice display of the costumes from the recent ITV production of Persuasion which was lovely. But then the creepy mannequins came alive and fed us to their pagan god under London Eye.

Or maybe that was an episode of Doctor Who.


Either way, neither of these incidences was more traumatic than the Jane Austen dress up doll.


I walked outside and in the park next door, rival Jane Austen societies were having a dance off to see whose interpretation of Mansfield Park was more in keeping with the Austen aesthetic.


The pro-Persuasion faction maintained a strong hold in the north under the elms and shouted accusations at the Mansfield Park front that they supported incest between cousins and that Edward was the lamest Austen hero ever. The Northanger Abbey gang insinuated that he couldn't even pick out a proper muslin.


The ladies, through various flicks of their fans, threw down that Mr. Crawford was a victim of character assassination and had been judged unfairly. Also that Edmund was symptomatic of Austen's satire towards the Anglican church.


Then they all agreed that Fanny was a twat and went in for some Mr. Darcy's Delicious Dreamy Chocolate Cake.

I am no longer the only person in Oxford not tripping into canals and shouting: "I say there Peregrine! Look here! I seem to have regurgitated this morning's breakfast on the sidewalk. How continental of me!


Oxford, cleared of the riff-raff, is the most beautiful city in all of England (Total of cities seen 2. But Oxford wins by default for not smelling of urine).


It is stacked with colleges where really famous people lounged around clutching teddy bears and exchanging long, sexually charged glances with each other. *

* Source: Brideshead Revisited miniseries. The one with the young, smouldering Jeremy Irons.


Being a pleb without a cape, I was merely allowed to walk around the colleges and not enter into their secret gardens where I assume they were having a Cambridge University Press book burning.


I wondered why I felt so tall walking around Oxford and then I realized that no one was wearing high heels. And then I stumbled on the shiny, smooth rock sidewalk and when my face met walkway, I realized why.


The cover of every single local interest book written about Oxford ever.


Apparently a very posh college where rich people go. This was close as I dared approach. I feared they'd be able to smell my eau de colonial.


Some sort of learning dome. Very Kubla Khan.


Oxford Castle with their new "tourist attraction" which was, as far as I could fathom without paying 5 pounds to find out, is a big hill. A big hill with grass on it.

Oooo... I cannot reach for my wallet fast enough to experience the bottomless pleasures of the big grassy hill.


The castle whose effect was slightly diminished by the "Pizza Express" store built into the left turret.


Here are the "famous dreaming spires of Oxford" that my guide book would not shut up about.


Play the man, Master Ridley; we shall this day light such a candle, by God's grace, in England, as I trust shall never be put out. - Hugh Latimer

My favourite Protestant martyrs (Ridley and Latimer of course. Cranmer was like the sequel that was okay but they got some other cheaper actor to replace the original lead and he wasn't nearly as good looking. Cranmer is the Speed II of the Protestant martyr collection) were fried to crisp here by Mary I for not liking the pope as much as they should have.

I ate a really decent chicken salad sanwhich on their memorial.



More of those spires. If you're a really spire fanatic, I cannot recommend Oxford enough to you. There are some choice spires on the High Street.


Bodleian Library which was completely book-free on the outside.


Canals for the drunks to drown in.


Punts for drunken to punt.


The most hardcore lamppost.


$120 for missing the trashcan. Someone should tell the Chewing Gum Action Group that 1984 is not actually a guidebook on how to run your shire.

I am the only sober person in Oxford right now.

My Bottom 5 Hostel Moments of London (So far)
or
Just because you are awake, it doesn't mean that everyone else has to be awake too.

1. Being woken up at 7 o'clock in the morning, after a long, hard night of staring at the ceiling, by a warbling soprano belting out "Angel of Music" from Phantom of the Opera while folding her facecloths.

There is no need for Andrew Lloyd Webber at seven o'clock in the morning.

There is no need for Andrew Lloyd Webber at all.

2. If you speak a language that carries really well and is impossible to whisper (I.E Cantonese and German) and you come back to a hostel late (around 2:30) and everyone is sleeping, take the long, involved conversation about how Jenny collects bottle caps, outside. Because we don't care about Jenny. And we don't care about you.

3. The girl who suffered from what I can't only term as night terrors (because I dropped out of psychology after one class) who would, whenever a door would shut or open, sit straight up from sleeping and yell: "What? Nigel? Why now?"

4. The most violent offender of peaceful sleep in communal living? Flip-flops would be a good guess. Zippers would probably come second. But the most annoying sound in the light sleeper's repertoire is the crinkling of a plastic bag.

The crinkle of a plastic bag is like a sonic boom in an empty room. A nuclear blast of noise guaranteed to shudder you awake.

To the charming young lass who played with her plastic bag for fifteen minutes at 6:30 in the morning (And by play, I mean she just sat there crinkling it. She didn't get anything out. She didn't put anything it. She just smushed it together and then smoothed it out. And then slapped it against her suitcase. As I was now completely awake and homicidal, I watched the entire performance. I think she was doing some sort of recycling protest on a local scale), I thank you.

5. If you're going to have an conversation about how "like, it's so, like, annoying to be at, like, a hostel, like, because people keep talking, when, like, you're trying to, like, sleep" make sure that you're not having it while someone in the room is trying to sleep.

The irony (or the person trying to sleep) might suffocate you.

Late Night, Maudlin Street

And now it's time for another zany edition of:

Boroughs of London I've Gotten Lost In!

Featuring:


Croydon (London's 'hood where fathers of two regularly get shot in parks)

I was the last person on a bus that was rapidly travelling in exactly the wrong direction I need to go when suddenly the bus driver stopped in front of the above church where, displayed prominently, was a large sign requesting that residents stop pissing on it.

"This bus is terminated. You have to go."

"Terminated? But... Where am I? This is the land of baggy-pants people. I wanted bankers and Beef Eaters! I'm sorry, I seem to be temporarily lost."

And then he laughed in my face.

I calmly vacated the bus, walked around the churchyard having a Thomas Gray moment, mused about the disappearance of the English countryside and the existential doom that hangs over us all, and then I went back to the bus, and lit it on fire.


Islington (Where there are canals.)

I was trying to find a yarn store. Instead, I discovered a canal. And no yarn.



I'm like bloody Christopher Columbus bloody-well reborn.

London calling, will you accept the charges?

Dear London -

1. Breakfast toast doesn't need to deep fried. There is no need for waking up in the morning to a big mouthful of flour covered in dripping cooking grease. Same goes with tomatoes. Stop molesting your vegetables.

In fact, your deep frying privileges have been revoked until further notice.



2. I know that during WWII you cleverly removed all your street signs for fear of giving the eminent Nazi ground invasion any advantage, but IT'S TIME TO PUT THEM BACK. The Germans have already invaded and they've brought their printed floral shirts and their twee blond children. Is it so dangerous now to give them proper directions to the Diana Memorial?

3. Soap dispensers in hostel washrooms are clearly meant as a cruel joke among the staff.

4. Consider that yelling isn't the only conversational volume.



5. After traversing the streets of your fine city, I have now become an unwilling amateur scatologist.

6. The Tube map is a lie.



7. Re: Customer service.
Consider hiring front line service people who do not act as if they'd just escape from a group of rough and tumble kidnappers who'd kept them in the dark basement and beat them on the head repeatedly with frying pans and they have only just escaped by drugging themselves and their captors and then stumbling out to safety of the check-in desk of their nearest hostel.



8. Flushable toilets. There's really no point to an unflushable toilet. Consider.



9. Where is the rain? I was promised big buckets of misery and so far it has been nothing but hot, clear and sunny days. You have failed me London. Failed.

Love an ardent admirer,
Miss Brown




Now, the pretty:


The view from Trafalgar Square looking out to the West End where theatre comes from. From studying the statues in the square, I think I can safely assume that Nelson fought the battle of Trafalgar in a toga and laurel wreath. And he was ugly.



The other side of Trafalgar Square with the National Gallery and the most disturbing statue they could have considered putting in a public space.

... I cannot believe that I am agreeing with Prince Charles about something.



Buckingham Palace. Shame they don't sell t-shirts saying: "I almost got run over trying to take a proper picture of Buckingham Palace" as I know about forty-five German tourists who'd be interested.



To keep the plebs out. There are also a number of security cameras dotting the premises. All of which swiveled towards me as I took this picture.



The job of these poor saps is to go round the flower beds outside the Palace pulling off all the dead flowers from plants. And you thought your job was redundant and soul-destroying.



Around the Palace, there are delightfully imperialist towers with all of Britain's colonies engraved on the front and topped by naked babies. Newfoundland has its own column because they were too lazy to join Confederation on time.



From the Victoria statue outside of Buckingham Palace: This hammer and sickle imagery must have been really embarrassing after 1917.



Parliament and that clock tower that was destroyed in Doctor Who.



The scariest part of England isn't the phone booths which smells like unwashed library patrons, but the policemen trolling Parliament and all the tourist attractions with loaded machine guns.



You say you want a revolution?
Well, I've got a revolution right here, baby.
Babies on spikes, civil war, regicide and frilly collars?
All check.

-Free stylin' poet, Olly "Roundhead" Cromwell



I swear to god I could have just rolled up in my pickup truck and drove away with Rodin's Burghers of Calais. It was just sitting there in a park full of tourists who were just as amazed as I was that the Burghers of Calais was just sitting there in a park full of tourists.



The globe theatre!
The Globe Theatre!
THE GLOBE THEATRE!!!
... it's only a model. :(



Regent's Park where only happy people are allowed to walk. There was not a single unhappy or grim face in the entire enclosure. Only happy old people in love or necking teenagers or cheerful parents with curly haired moppets. It was unbearable.



A very happy fountain in Regent's Park.



And then out of nowhere, there was the Creepy Carousel of Death!



The British Museum whose motto through the years appears to have been adapted from Pirates of the Caribbean: "Take what you can! Give nothing back!"



The Flying Monkeys of Doom. Apparently these were made by shamans to scare away illness and disease and impressionable young tourists.



Wellington's Arch. Which is an arch. Dedicated to Wellington.



The Captain Jack Harkness of the the battle of Waterloo.



The Victoria and Albert museum which is my favourite museum with beds that I can't sleep in.



If you can't see it clearly, this guy is merrily slicing off the leg of the topsy-turvey gentleman while the chubby cherubs hopes for barbecue.



Un-unionized labour is so pretty.



Baroque interiors.



Extremely phallic garden statues.



Westminster Abbey where I refused to pay ₤8.50 to see a load of plaques.



St. Paul's Cathedral was worth the ₤9.00 and the fifteen minutes it took me to find the "₤" symbol on my character map.



You'd better appreciate the 520 steps I had to lumber up to get to the top of the Cathedral and take this pictures.

145 of those on the most rickety staircase in creation.



530 steps people. Christopher Wren is not a nice person.

In conclusion:



Evil demon cow gives London two thumbs up.