 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| Letters From London |
| Humorous Views on London Culture, Royals, Gossip and Politics |
On the Beach - 1 August 2008
I returned from my holiday to be greeted by photos of the PM-in-waiting and the PM-in-waiting-
to-be-dumped at leisure in their respective leisure wear, on the beach on the hottest day of the
year: Chameleon-Cameron shoeless in bright, floral, look-at-me shorts and Good-bye-Gordon in
an almost brownish suit jacket and belted black trousers, heavy shoes, woolly socks – on their
respective British-spun hols…Cornwall, Dorset. Cameron’s wife, Samantha, was photographed
all ‘Oh Dave’ dewy-eyed with hugs while Gordon’s wife in her flesh-coloured tights, Sarah, simply
looked lost – in space, in Britain. “Oh GB. We’re not in Scotland any more.” “What are flip
flops?” Shorts, cuddles, delight, jolly, fun vs suit, confusion, dour, joyless, frumpy. Now who has
the best spin-doctor here?
They surely know something I don’t know. Perhaps it’s travelling with an entourage, local
newspapers and press photographers, a radio station, the BBC and ITV, plus ten police officers
and staff from Number 10.
For me it was queuing, queuing, queuing to finally board TAP – Portugal’s airline - to Lisbon.
Clearly they share the same BA (Gate Gourmet) caterers that illicit the identical “exactly what is
this I just put in my mouth?” query. Seriously. What was it? Grey, mushy, scary between two
pieces of a mock whole wheat roll; the kind that is really bleached white bread with sprinkles of
‘convincing’ cardboard. I spit it into my napkin out of sheer repulsion – and fear.
A twenty-minute taxi ride from the airport to the city should cost 10 euros including tip. Our taxi
journey came to 24 euros and a tip: eat at the restaurant across the plaza. So the food was
good? Our helpful driver didn’t know. Was it expensive? Our helpful driver didn’t know. Had he
ever eaten there? Our helpful driver didn’t know. And then our helpful driver disappeared.
I ate fish and three veg everyday until I eventually discovered an Italian restaurant tucked away
on a side street where I grabbed the corner of the waiter’s apron and left a distinct lipstick kiss
after I spied rocket being served. The ubiquitous three vegetables are served in every kind of
restaurant, except Italian. Thank you god. Three large, peeled, white potato chunks - hard in the
middle - appearing disturbingly naked on the plate, suspiciously Day-Glo orange carrots and
limp, grey, seriously sad broad beans hanging over the edge of the plate (trying to escape?).
The same in every cafe, ethnic/ tourist/up-market restaurant. No salt, no pepper, no herbs, no
spices, no sauce, no butter, no sprinkled parsley. I am guessing that the entire populous has no
knowledge of spinach, leeks, broccoli, yams, courgettes, onions, asparagus, cabbage, peas, ad
inf. Oh yes. I did spy several heads of cauliflower growing mould in one of the popular (and only)
supermarkets where I did buy the only jar of gelatinous mustard on offer. The ice cream flavours
are indistinguishable; chocolate, lemon…only the colour offers variety. I had dreams of Marks
and Spencer’s food hall on Kensington High Street.
It’s hot, it’s sunny, it has really lovely museums, rather peculiar churches, crap food. Now if I had
my own personal PR guru, stylist, was rich, greedy for personal power, self-deluded, self-
serving, lacking in imagination and resourcefulness, a bit thick, had no forward thinking, I’d have
taken my political holiday in the UK. Now where can I buy those flesh-coloured tights?
I returned from my holiday to be greeted by photos of the PM-in-waiting and the PM-in-waiting-
to-be-dumped at leisure in their respective leisure wear, on the beach on the hottest day of the
year: Chameleon-Cameron shoeless in bright, floral, look-at-me shorts and Good-bye-Gordon in
an almost brownish suit jacket and belted black trousers, heavy shoes, woolly socks – on their
respective British-spun hols…Cornwall, Dorset. Cameron’s wife, Samantha, was photographed
all ‘Oh Dave’ dewy-eyed with hugs while Gordon’s wife in her flesh-coloured tights, Sarah, simply
looked lost – in space, in Britain. “Oh GB. We’re not in Scotland any more.” “What are flip
flops?” Shorts, cuddles, delight, jolly, fun vs suit, confusion, dour, joyless, frumpy. Now who has
the best spin-doctor here?
They surely know something I don’t know. Perhaps it’s travelling with an entourage, local
newspapers and press photographers, a radio station, the BBC and ITV, plus ten police officers
and staff from Number 10.
For me it was queuing, queuing, queuing to finally board TAP – Portugal’s airline - to Lisbon.
Clearly they share the same BA (Gate Gourmet) caterers that illicit the identical “exactly what is
this I just put in my mouth?” query. Seriously. What was it? Grey, mushy, scary between two
pieces of a mock whole wheat roll; the kind that is really bleached white bread with sprinkles of
‘convincing’ cardboard. I spit it into my napkin out of sheer repulsion – and fear.
A twenty-minute taxi ride from the airport to the city should cost 10 euros including tip. Our taxi
journey came to 24 euros and a tip: eat at the restaurant across the plaza. So the food was
good? Our helpful driver didn’t know. Was it expensive? Our helpful driver didn’t know. Had he
ever eaten there? Our helpful driver didn’t know. And then our helpful driver disappeared.
I ate fish and three veg everyday until I eventually discovered an Italian restaurant tucked away
on a side street where I grabbed the corner of the waiter’s apron and left a distinct lipstick kiss
after I spied rocket being served. The ubiquitous three vegetables are served in every kind of
restaurant, except Italian. Thank you god. Three large, peeled, white potato chunks - hard in the
middle - appearing disturbingly naked on the plate, suspiciously Day-Glo orange carrots and
limp, grey, seriously sad broad beans hanging over the edge of the plate (trying to escape?).
The same in every cafe, ethnic/ tourist/up-market restaurant. No salt, no pepper, no herbs, no
spices, no sauce, no butter, no sprinkled parsley. I am guessing that the entire populous has no
knowledge of spinach, leeks, broccoli, yams, courgettes, onions, asparagus, cabbage, peas, ad
inf. Oh yes. I did spy several heads of cauliflower growing mould in one of the popular (and only)
supermarkets where I did buy the only jar of gelatinous mustard on offer. The ice cream flavours
are indistinguishable; chocolate, lemon…only the colour offers variety. I had dreams of Marks
and Spencer’s food hall on Kensington High Street.
It’s hot, it’s sunny, it has really lovely museums, rather peculiar churches, crap food. Now if I had
my own personal PR guru, stylist, was rich, greedy for personal power, self-deluded, self-
serving, lacking in imagination and resourcefulness, a bit thick, had no forward thinking, I’d have
taken my political holiday in the UK. Now where can I buy those flesh-coloured tights?
