Day Two - Part Two: London (A Big Red Tour and The Phantom of The Opera) 12:15pm: The Big Bus Company - Bus Number 23 "Hello There, what's your name and where do you come from?" A microphone is shoved into my face as I appear, blinking, onto the upper deck of my newly acquired tour transportation. “My Name is Mike, I'm from Warrington and I like candlelight and running barefoot through grass after thunderstorms” "Well welcome aboard Mike, we're glad to have you on this magical tour with us" It's obvious that the guide hasn't met me, she's being too nice. “We now turn onto Trafalgar Square in which sits Nelson's Column, Admiral Nelson is one of our greatest maritime heroes but when he died his last wish was not to be buried at sea..." Our guide, who later reveals herself to be named Lynn, actually turns out to be a knowledgeable and witty young lady and I begin to fall into tourist mode despite myself. Within 5 minutes I am taking pictures of buildings purely on Lynn 's say so. Places that look like student accommodation suddenly become the resting place of Shabba Ranks. A Coffee house is the building where Emiline Pankhurst had tea before changing the face of British democracy. Shortly after I get on, everyone else on the top deck decides that they need to leave. Apart from causing me to check my deodorant, this leaves just me and a handful of others to get quite a personal tour. Questions are asked and answered which seems impossible on some of the other tour buses which are crammed to the point where tourists are virtually hanging out of their open sides. Some Things I learnt on the Magical Tour Bus of Big Bus Company Fun. It's a good job the bell in Big Ben was named after Sir Benjamin Hall and not his older brother. The Thames is cleaner than it looks... (Sorry love I'm married). The City of London is protected by Dragons... albeit stone ones. American Tourists will invariably fall into traps laid by witty tour guides. ".. Downing Street where our Prime Minister lives at number eleven..." Slight Pause... "Err, Doll, I think you'll find he live's at number 10" A knowing smile is exchanged between Lynn and I. "Actually, this Prime Minister lives in number 11 as his family is too large for number 10." Who's your tour guide! I'm starting to think Lynn is the best tour guide in the world, (probably). I imagine that she has a diploma from the London Tour Guide School which states that she excels in "Describing the Glamour of London to Simple Outsiders" We laugh, we nod sagely when the plague is mentioned, and we weep when she tells the story of a dead hero horse. Oh Lynn , they were happy times; we toured around the City for 2 and a half hours. Until we arrived at Hyde Park Corner.... “Well folks, I'm afraid this is where our bus stops. You can continue on one of the other buses with the same ticket but we're done for the day...” Lynn , how can you do this to me...? I thought we had something special. You smiled and winked at me.. You made jokes about Richard Hall's name. I walked to the front of the bus; people were smiling at Lynn , thanking her, offering her tips. No-one realized that she'd deliberately torn out my tourist heart and trampled on it singing, "Ding, Dong, Your Stupid Tourist Heart is Dead".. I stopped in front of her. She was smiling. The heartless witch. "Have you enjoyed the tour today Mike?" Oh that's right, rub it in. I thought we had something special. I thought it would never end. "Yes thank you it was a most informative and enjoyable tour. You are to be commended for your knowledge and wit." I wanted to scream at her that we were throwing away a perfect tour, that neither of us may ever find that kind of chemistry again. But I didn't cry, I didn't make a scene. I'm too big a man for that, but as I walked away I cast a glance backwards. There she stood wrapping up the microphone cable and sorting the leaflets like nothing ever happened. As if we had never spent those crazy 2 hours and 32 minutes in our nations great capital. You might try to forget Lynn , but we'll always have Hyde Park Corner. 3:00pm: Marble Arch Knowing that my last tour could not be equalled, and certainly never bettered, I decide to walk back towards my hotel. It all seemed simple enough from the Map, put my back to Hyde Park and go straight on. Nothing could possibly go wrong... Unless I put my back to the wrong edge of Hyde Park, then I could find myself heading out towards Regents Park , which is some distance... Many miles in fact from where I need to be. But I'd have to be really stupid to do that. 3:45pm: Regents Park Damn Well never mind. If I put my back to Regent's Park and go straight… 4:30pm: Unknown Central London Location Don't panic Mike. You have 3 hours to get back to your hotel, shower, change, walk to the theatre and get seated. No problem Easy Peasy Lemon Squeesy. With sugar on top. If I knew where I was, and wasn't hobbling because of the blisters on my feet. I could have taken the underground but I've never trusted it and I was stubbornly sure that I could make it back to my hotel by using my Hunter Gatherer instincts. 4:15pm: Oxford Circus Oxford Circus, not as entertaining as it sounds. The only clown in sight is clutching his map and hobbling as quickly as possible whilst chanting, "I know where I am, I know where I am". Damn you Lynn and your expert knowledge of London , I could see you laughing as you sat in your secret CCTV lair, high above the city, watching my pathetic attempts at navigation. One Day Lynn ... One Day... Still, I manage to keep hobbling and eventually turn onto the Strand . It seems like I might finally make it. But at that moment I go a bit Paula Radcliffe. I've come this far but my legs won't carry me any further. I'm virtually crawling forward; a few people mistake me for street theatre. One of those guys who "Rock Climbs" up the high street. This has the strange bonus of making be £3.23 richer by the time I get to the hotel. But get there I do, more or less exactly on schedule. 5:00pm: The Strand Palace Hotel I like getting the lift to myself and looking the way I do, people seem afraid to join me in a confined space. My room is welcoming and the shower is like a spring of eternal life. I flip on the television and am greeted by images from the Olympics. Amateurs. After strapping up my feet with the plasters I cunningly purchased on the slog home, I slip into my clean crisp suit. Looking into the mirror I remember why Cheryl married me. Some might say I had a spring in my step as I left the hotel, I insist that it was a slight limp, but I felt relaxed and ready for a sterling evening. The sun was getting low in the sky, the streets were a little quieter and the Jameson's I drank in the hotel bar was kicking in. Strike me down and call me Old Ben if I wasn't enjoying myself. 7:00pm: Her Majesty's Theatre. Her Majesty's Theatre is situated on Haymarket in the centre of London 's “Theatreland”. The current building was constructed in the mid 19 th century and it still retains the grandeur of the age. In short it is a fabulous theatre steeped in operatic history. There can surely be no better West End home for The Phantom of the Opera. You know, I'd have made a great Phantom, I auditioned once but I went too far with it. I explained that I thought the part had always been missing something and in an attempt to bring the show into a more happening place, I played it Jewish. I was aiming for Music of the Night meets Fiddler on the Roof. “Fiddler on the Chandelier”, if you will. I also tried for the part of Christine, but apparently I don't have the legs… but I digress. I arrived at the theatre with time to spare and was therefore able to have a good read of the programme before the show began. It's times like this that make you realize how little talent you have. I remarked on this to the American gentleman to my left... He told me that he's a coronary surgeon and is widely acknowledged as one of the best in his state. I was therefore glad when the lights went down and the show began. Now, I've seen Claire perform in the past and I expected nothing less than her performance to be good, but I was blown away by how good. There is a common misconception within my family that we're all great singers, largely down to the Jameson's, but the truth is that we can hold a tune about as well as an eel that has been dipped in lard. However, here is my cousin singing beautifully and quite frankly blowing everyone else off the stage. I think the story was about some bloke in a mask and a girl that he fancied but honestly, they were being outshone. Before long the interval comes around and the heart surgeon comments on how good the show is. I agree and shamelessly name-drop, That's my cousin playing Meg... Yep, the whole family is just as talented... Taught her everything she knows... except the splits.... I'm not built for the splits. Mr I-Saved-30-Lives-Last-Week-What-Did-You-Do laughs at my claims to performing excellence and tells me that I should maybe try my hand at stand-up comedy. When his wife returns she asks if I know where he's gone. I advise her to check the orchestra pit. Retreating to the foyer, I pickup a bottle of water and a packet of Wine Gums but I become suspicious of the prices when I see the sign that says "Banker's Draft's Accepted". As my father would say, “At least Dick Turpin had the decency to wear a mask". At least I know that my money's going to a good cause, I'm keeping Cameron Macintosh off the streets. The toilets are, as is usual in theatres of this age, not huge. Matters are not helped by 500 male theatregoers all attempting to rush the same cubicle at once. I comment on this to the chap who is queuing next to me, only to receive a very strange look, I suppose that this is the last place that blokes want to make conversation. With that said I have particularly noted that we have become a very suspicious nation, strangers who meet in airports, theatres, men's toilets, etc are hardly ever willing to engage you in conversation. I suppose that this grows out of high crime rates and “nutters” (that's the Daily Mail writer in me) on every corner. This goes unnoticed in most areas but in London this is starkly contrasted against the American visitors. God bless them, I take the Mickey and I pretend that Piccadilly Circus was once a fully working carnival, but it's amazing how they will spend 5 minutes chatting to you about anything in particular just because you happen to be sat in the same space. Admittedly they invariably say some very amusing things, but at least they're making the effort. So next time that you're sat in a public place next to a stranger, why not strike up a conversation… unless they're muttering and holding themselves, in that case it might be best to find another seat. Back at the theatre, I return to my seat and the second act begins, it does nothing to dispel my admiration for Claire. After the bows I walk out into the warm London night thoroughly impressed. 10:30pm: Her Majesty's Stage Door. I had arranged to meet Claire by the stage door following the show. I did this without considering the type of person that you get at a West End stage door. They hunt either alone or in packs… Programme and pen in hand they wait in the shadows and pounce on the stars as they emerge, stage blind, into the night. I try my best to look like I'm there for a reason other than the initial stages of stalking, I hide my programme in it's bag I don't make eye contact with the girl who played Carlotta. In front of me however is a young man who seems to have a certain fixation. "Is this girl coming out soon?” he cries, pointing at a picture in his programme. A member of the stage crew mumbles an affirmative and runs off into the night. The hunter continues his questioning time after time, asking for the autographs of every female member of the cast. I suspect that he's waiting for one of them to say something along the lines of, "Thank you for coming to the show, it's great that you've asked for my autograph, maybe we should go for a drink and then later... have babies." This doesn't happen… I'm as puzzled as he is. I eventually take pity and say hello. It turns out that he's waiting for one particular cast member. I don't have the heart to tell him that she's left the production. It's the girl that Claire has replaced in the role of Meg. I explain that I too am waiting for one particular member of the cast, "For an autograph?” Erm... Yeah, sure. Suddenly I am knocked sideways by a figure in a long coat and with a faintly familiar face. I struggle to register who this is as he mutters and pushes on. A companion of my assailant runs along behind and catches his attention. ""Peter... Oh Peter.... I'm really sorry, are you ok.... Peter.... Apologize to this man." "Erm, I'm really very sorry." Peter Mandleson, Peter Mandleson has just apologized to me. “No problem" I reply. Just the rest of the country to apologize to now. He disappears into the night. I turn back to the stage door where Claire is emerging. She spots me, runs over, hugs me and says, "Do you fancy a drink?" I look back at The Autograph Hunter.... he's staring wide mouthed at me and virtually shaking his head in disbelief. I give him a wink and turn away. The rest of the evening was spent in a little pub not too far from the theatre and we had the best chat we've had since we were kids. We taunted the family; (I passed comment that our mothers are both entering the "Guess Who's Dead" phase of phone calls), and basically attempted to catch-up on 12 months worth of life in an hour and a half. I also think that I manage to embarrass her with my praise for her performance… still, it's a change from embarrassing myself. But, a few beers later, and far too soon, closing time rolled around and we were kicked out. Rather unceremoniously as it goes, I am greatful that they stopped just short of physically pushing me into the street… small mercies and all that. They couldn't ruin the night though, after walking to the bus and waving goodbye I wandered back across Trafalgar Square towards my hotel. I found myself to be immensely happy and relaxed, I'd had a great day's sightseeing, Regent's Park and all, followed by a great show and afterwards I'd rediscovered a friend. If you can't call that a decent day you've got issues. I have issues... Make no mistake... but it was still a great day. All in all, as I sauntered back along the Strand, I wished I could spend more time in London , even just to relive some of this day's experiences. With that said, I had Edinburgh to look forward to and Helen's hospitality. This week was turning out to be something really special. To Be Continued...

This site and it's contents are the intellectual property of Mike Keenan and will be until he's long dead... and even then, he'll haunt you if you tell one of his jokes out of context... or if you even vaguely displease him... his afterlife is going to be rather busy.