Kebab, Cake, Full English, Goat Curry, Chinese, Pain Chocolat, Sarnies
1,296 wordsOooh, where shall I start? (”Near the end?”)
I took a half-day on Friday so that Laura, Debbie and I could train down to London to see Cake at the Shepherds Bush Empire. Meeting up and catching the train was all hassle-free, and when we arrived in Marylebone navigation to our hotel — a short walk to Edgeware Road followed by a tube to Hammersmith — went without a hitch.
There were some issues on our arrival at the Novotel London West, since our LastMinute.com booking had been lost, but after a short wait, and some expression of our urgent need to be somewhere (Shepherds Bush), we were checked in and sweetened up with a promise of some breakfasts we’d not paid for. Well done Debbie.
More by accident than design, the venue was a shortish walk from the hotel, although we passed many, many affordable looking independent hotels on Shepherds Bush Road, which may warrant investigation one day. Debbie is idealogically opposed to any hotel you can’t book on the Internet, however.
On Shepherds Bush Green, we were greeted by an awe inspiring selection of fast foods, and we settled on the Diner Express, serving dazzling array of kebabs. Laura and I both had a doner with a posh name, while Debbie had falafels. It was just what the doctor ordered, and it wasn’t long before we were on our way to the venue.
Pleasingly, there were plenty of touts offering to buy tickets, but none offering tickets for sale. Indeed, so popular was the show that Cake will return in February (to the Astoria this time).
The Empire is a nice venue: a classic tall, balconied, ornate old theatre, converted into a music venue. We were surprised at how small it felt, since we had standing tickets, although there was clearly a lot of capacity above our heads.
In support, The Decemberists put on a good show, building up to an extremely entertaining climax with a rendition of “Chimbley Sweep” which broke down into a “duelling banjos” scenario between Colin Meloy (on acoustic guitar) and Chris Funk (on electric guitar), involving full-on rock’n'roll guitars behind the head showing off. Laura was somewhat underwhelmed — I think she’d have been more impressed if she’d known some of the material, if she’d been a wee bit taller and therefore seen more, and if The Decemberists had had time to do their whole set, which I’d love to see.
Incidentally, The Decemberists are performing at the LSE on Monday 15th November. We can’t get there. If you can, do.
During the interval I spotted and briefly conversed with Ant Chapman. This would be a coincidence, if it weren’t for the fact I knew he’d be there.
It was astonishing to be in a room full of people who had not only heard of Cake, but loved them like we do. My early enjoyment of the set was marred by the presence, in front of me, of a man who was not only the tallest man in history, but also was in possession of the most voluminous
haircut in history. If I ran a music venue I would ban him.
Some shuffling around afforded Debbie and I an adequate view, but Laura’s situation was hopeless, and she went in search of some higher ground.
Cake did an uptempo set, and entertained us for at least two hours, including two encores, predictably (demonstrably so, since I predicted it) ending with “No Phone”, “The Distance” and “I Will Survive”. “I Will Survive” is a song about hope — but “Cake’s official position is that there is absolultely no hope”.
It’s a little sad that bands feel the need to finish their shows with ten year old past glories (I love that Radiohead don’t play “Creep”) — but the whole room loved it, including me.
Alas, XL Cake T-Shirts were sold out, but I got a nice Decemberists shirt and their CD-single “Billy Liar” (I didn’t have two of the four tracks… they turn out to be average).
We accompanied Laura to the tube station, where her chauffeur duly collected her, and walked back to the hotel, where there was nothing on TV, so we slept.
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Flinging open the curtains in the morning, it was incredibly bright and sunny, and we took in our view across the city. With our limited knowledge of the London skyline, we could make out the London Eye, the BT Tower and the Gherkin. After our free breakfast, we set off without hats, gloves or jumpers. We did take coats. It is, after all, mid November.
Our destination: Woolwich, to see Ajay and Iciar and their fancy new flat. Despite tube surprises (the train slowed, but did not stop, at Cannon St.) we got there in excellent time; indeed we were exiting Woolwich Arsenal station just as Ajay arrived to meet us.
Their flat — apartment — is bijou, but very fancy. We approve. Some of Iciar’s Spanish friends had also come to visit, and after a while accepting hospitality and admiring wedding photos, we all set off for Camden Market.
After some market browsing (the Spaniards fascinated by magic mushrooms on open sale) we paused in one of the food areas and all bought our preferred form of street food. Ajay and I both bought West Indian goat curry, Debbie had a Chinese assortment, etc.
We had arranged to meet Sean and Karen by the river to watch some fireworks that we’d only heard about that very day. It was beginning to feel cold. We regretted our wardrobe decisions of the morning. We made our farewells and made a circuitous route back to the station,
looking for a cheap extra layer for myself, and some gloves and a scarf for Debbie.
These we found, on the high street. When we arrived at Embankment, the exit route from the tube was crammed with crowds and it was a relief to emerge at the surface and meet Sean and Karen.
The fireworks were spectacular but a little distant. We could have done with being a little further East. Nonetheless, it was a great show. It must have brought tens of thousands of Londoners into town to spend money, who might otherwise have had a CSI Saturday night in.
A Chinese meal and a chat led to a Hagen Daaz and a chat, which led to a sugar crash, and a mutual decision to set off home. We stayed together as far as Hammersmith tube, where we bade farewell to Sean and Karen, bought a couple of cans from an off-license (quite a trek!), then watched Match of the Day in bed.
After another free breakfast, Sunday’s activity was a trip to the Whitechapel Gallery, where an exhibition of Paul Noble’s extraordinarily ornate, large, and frankly filthy in places, pencil drawings is just approaching the end of its stay. There was an incredible amount of detail to take in, and to be honest I’ve no idea what it’s about at all (”autobiography through the
medium of town planning” apparently), but it was all entertaining, which is something that’s often missing from art on show.
I talked Debbie out of going shoe shopping (she’ll enjoy it more if she goes alone), so instead we made our way to Marylebone for the journey back, only to find that all trains would be going from Paddington due to works. Bah. However, a bus got us to Paddington with enough time to
get sandwiches and magazines before boarding, and we were soon on table seats on a train taking us back to Leamington and the opportunity to rest at home.
That or write an unnecessarily long “what I did on my holidays” essay, of course…
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Afterthought: we bumped into Rich Headworth on the way home from Leamington station, suitcases in tow. “Been anywhere nice?”, he asked. “We’ve been to London.” “Oh, no then.”