OXFORD

Montague Withnail: Laissez-moi respirer longtemps, longtemps, l'odeur de tes cheveux!
Ahhh, Baudelaire. Brings back such memories of Oxford! Ooohh, Oxford!!

I: [Voice-over] Followed by yet another anecdote about his sensitive crimes in a punt with a chap called Norman, who had red hair and a book of poetry stained with the butter drips from crumpets.

So much mythology surrounds Oxford, from the whimsical mutterings of Montague Withnail to Evelyn Waugh's glorious betwixt-the-wars tome Brideshead Revisited. Battling my way this summer through the multitude of international students and goggle-eyed tourists, I was lucky enough to spend one (admittedly draughty) night in the halls of the impressive Magdalen College (above).

Magdalen remains one of the wealthiest and most traditional of Oxford colleges, where black tie is still worn in the great hall for dinner and each student retains the services of their own personal tutor for the duration of their scholarship. Alumni includes the likes of Oscar Wilde and Louis Theroux as well as the doppelganger of *a certain notorious child killer who shall remain namelss for fear of a defamation suit* (just Google it, he looks exactly like him) and equally evil current Tory Chancellor George Osborne. Just jokes Georgie, old chap. No need to sue, I'm afraid I've not got thruppence to spare what with all your austerity measures, you privileged ponce.

George....love's young dream?


The perfectly manicured quadrangles of Magdalen college were spectacular, as was the ancient stone architecture punctuated by medieval gargoyles and decaying golden archways (below). The easel randomly perched among the shadows seemed to just appear oasis-like in the middle of a production designer's wet dream. Whatsmore, the fine high-ceilinged room I kipped in (where students of Osborne and Wilde's ilk presumably 'slummed it') was at least four times the square footage of my entire London flat. Oh George! Why has thou forsaken me?

The infamous open-topped tourist buses pootle about Oxford's impressive town centre, the great unwashed masses admiring all the history, tradition and privilege they could never experience on a ticket they can barely afford. Not that we're bitter George.

The sweetest irony of all had to be seeing these right-on political posters (below) once so integral to the student experience in that antiquated pre-social networking fairytale world of yore. Presumably its all Tory Totty facebook groups these days, along with Spencer and Charles' real-time mad ketamine bender tweets. I mean...Marxism 2012!! George must really be tittering about that one.       

BATTLE

The final destination in my triumvirate of delightful East Sussexness was the quaint village of Battle. Keane fans will of course recognise the above lanes name checked on Strangeland, the album Mr Tim Rice-Oxley titled after reading Tracey Emin's biography of the same name detailing her formative years growing up in the decaying seaside town of Margate. Word around the campfire suggests Mr Rice-Oxley senior was the local doctor in the village of Battle, now retired and no doubt living in English countryside splendour.

Battle itself was a stereotypically lovely English village, lined with pretty shops, friendly local people and idiosyncratic little scarecrow-installations celebrating British Olympic pride along the high street (below). When the sunny days seem to last forever in the summertime, a place like Battle, surrounded by incredible ancient architecture and the beautiful rolling hills of the South Downs really is one of the most idyllic places on earth. Virginia Woolf, Rudyard Kipling and Jane Austen to name a few have all resided in or written of the area's intoxicating ambience.

The main attraction in Battle and the village's namesake is of course it's famous 1066 battle grounds. Duke William of Normandy came, saw and conquered King Harold's English army on 14th October 1066 on these grounds, the Anglo-Saxons already spent, though victorious after defeating the Norwegian Viking invaders oop north near York.

Wandering the fertile green battle fields, soundtracked by an audio guide I would normally forego, I became utterly entranced by the emotive tales of the gargantuan clash between the Norman and Anglo Saxon armies. After several hours of intensive battle axe, crossbow, chainmail and shield combat in which Harold's army had initially maintained the upper hand with their shield wall, William eventually emerged the victor, Harold reputedly being felled by an arrow to the eye. What truly struck me as amazing was the fact that the actual sovereigns themselves were on the ground fighting - engaged in a physical battle which could only end in the actual death of both themselves and their empires. Can't imagine Prince Charles doing the same.  

The wonderful Battle Abbey (below) dominates the village, built by William of Normandy as penance for the wanton destruction his army waged on the battlefield. Its ancient relics have historically constituted both monastic buildings and private residences and Keane played a few Strangeland tunes in the abbey which you can see here.

No jaunt to a village like Battle would be complete without a visit to the local tea rooms and The Pilgrim's Rest opposite the Abbey did not disappoint. Housed in a Grade II listed building, the restaurant encapsulated the typical English tea room experience, with ancient, rural timber architecture, an enormous central fireplace and beautiful historic fittings and furniture. The bespoke ice cream parlour in a rickety back room proved a real treat in the languid afternoon haze, as did the atmospheric front garden, overflowing with fragrant English roses and large succulent bumble bees. As they say with heroin, if the lord made anything greater, he kept it for himself.  

HOLLYWOOD LONDON

Some parts of London are just so pretty they look like you've just stumbled onto some Hollywood backlot. These East End snaps below (round Shoreditch way innit) were taken after a day's wandering around Brick Lane, scoffing noodles and visiting hipster gallery spaces. The cool thing about the east is it is quite conceivable that you'll spot Gilbert & George in full suit regalia, poncing down towards home on Fournier Street, maybe stopping off at Tracey Emin's gaff for an Earl Grey on the way. (Emin would have 'a proper drink', of course). I was discussing G&G once after a Brick Lane curry with a friend visiting from the Antipodes as we walked down Fournier St and who should we see but the very same in person. Their early stuff was tres bien but the recent output is a bit too obsessed with bum holes for my delicate sensibilities. Of course it just wouldn't be cricket to say so, old boy. Stiff upper lip and all that.

G&G on Fournier Street (Google)

The notoriously over-exposed bum holes (Google)

DAYS OF YORE IN KENSINGTON

Back in The Land Of Hope And Glory where I now reside (as opposed to The Land That Style Forgot where I was born), the sun is shining and we have a long, hot Diamond Jubilee summer on the horizon. I've been known to doze away many a pleasant hour lazing on a sunny afternoon in Kensington Gardens. Kensington is such a beautiful part of London and its narrow back alleys still remind me of a more innocent era, sadly now confined to the nostalgic mists of history books. On one of my many charity shoppe pilgrimages (a big shout out to the ladies at the Hammersmith Amnesty Bookshoppe, purveyors of the finest second-hand books at very reasonable prices) I came across a delightful old book illustrating some lovely parts of west London. A couple of Kensington back streets (below) were included and I wanted to find out how much had actually changed since the original photographs were taken. I reshot the following images in 2010, and as you can see the basic architecture remains unchanged, only the vintage signage, clothing and the notorious London grime have been 'disappeared' by money and progress's inevitable, odious onslaught. Its interesting to note too how the Dukes Lane top windows have been reconstructed and the exterior minimalised with the removal of the shutters and the posh white paint job. My guess is the original shots were taken sometime around the 1940s. How brilliant it would be to step back in time for a day, pause for a natter in the street about hats with the local ladies and poke around this long forgotten world...

Kensington Church Walk original photograph below :

My modern reshoot :

Dukes Lane original photograph below :

My modern reshoot :

PUSHKINSKAYA 10 ART CENTRE, ST PETERSBURG

One of the grittier artistic sights of Olde Petersburge was the Pushkinskaya 10 Art Centre. Housed in one of the grim apartment complexes south west of Nevsky Prospekt, the organisation's front entrance (below) appeared not unlike a Soviet gentleman's cottaging establishment.

The centre, established in 1989 is an artists' collective combining studios, residential flats, a bar/niteklub called Fish Fabrique and various other outlets for unbridled local creativity. Unfortunately, most of the galleries were either closed on account of their haphazard, non-conformist opening hours or too intimidating for a couple of piss-weak gaijin chancers like ourselves to actually enter. However, the residents' comings and goings (complete with the Soviet Death Stare directed as us two clowns) gave us license to slip in uninvited to the apartments' communal areas and have a right old sticky beak. Heres what we found...

SAVIOR ON THE SPILLED BLOOD CATHEDRAL, ST PETERSBURG

Without wanting to turn this blog into a full blown Russian extravaganza...the Savior on the Spilled Blood Cathedral was positively jaw dropping in its golden mosaic-tiled beauty, undoubtedly one of the highlights of St. Petersburg.

As if the wildly ornate exterior with its jagged domes and spiky, textured surfaces weren't enough, its the cathedral's incredible interior which really leaves the visitor in awe of what humankind is capable of achieving in the celebration of Christianity. Every conceivable space inside the church is a tribute to the power of religion, reflected in stunningly intricate mosaic designs representing 68 biblical and evangelical scenes.

Built on the site of Tsar Alexander II's assassination along the Griboedov Canal, surprisingly the church is just over a century old, though its design is a tribute to 17th century structures found in the Russian city of Yaroslavl and similar to Moscow's St Basil's Cathedral. Its enormous, elongated arches and magnificent dome interiors contain the country's largest mosaic collection, also one of the largest in Europe.

The church interior radiates with an intense sunlit golden hue, reminiscent of the spectacular St. Mark's Basilica in Venice. The main colour palette of the Spilled Blood's design is limited to this rich gold, offset by vibrant blue tones which created a sense of pleasing harmony and a calming, hypnotic ambience. The buzzing hoards of visitors, coach-loads of Russian cronks plus the usual suspects found at any international tourist site seemed to exit the church mesmerised, stumbling around in a trance-like state, awaiting the sensory-overload comedown while lining up to stuff their gobs with ice cream outside. Definitely worth a peep if ever you find yourself visiting Russia's great European city.