Dawn

It was still dark when I went for my run this morning. The mist that had settled for the night was slowly waking and rising from the grass as if the Earth was breathing frosty breaths. Some people enjoy sunsets, and who can blame them, but I have a thing for sunrises.

The air outside is sharp, and each time I inhale I feel a stab of chill enter my lungs. It's half past six and the world around me is in limbo. Night has not yet given up its grip and seeks to hold tighter as the days grow shorter, but dawn valiantly fights to break through the darkness.

My hands shake with the cold and I ball my fists to ignore the pain. Although my legs are stiff they lumber forward in rhythm. The dance is simple and they know their pattern without prompting. I glide along the pavement and cut through to the path beside the river. My legs guide me as my mind travels elsewhere. I too am in that place between dream and wake. Ghosts of friends miles and years apart visit me here, and while I am still entranced I entertain them.

Most of my morning runs have an otherworldly feel about it. The potholed path, overhanging branches of a tree, all become silhouettes of black on black. Soon the sky turns from its inky black to a profusion of violets and oranges as the world begins to wake. The explosion of colour to the east creeps across the sky and soon it is a freshly washed blue. A miracle each day.

The world of people and houses and trains now appear. Planes cut thin white scars in the sky overhead. No matter when you look, there's always a plane arcing across the sky. Suddenly I'm back in London.

It's half hour on when I turn the corner, and my terrace house is a block away. In hundreds of thousands of homes kettles will be boiling and showers showering. Soon the tubes will be awash with coats and jackets, limbs and torsos, clambering for their square foot of standing room. And as London winds into another day there is a glow in me that I can't help but feel. For just thirty minutes I had escaped and made it into another world.

The other game

My ears were ringing after leaving the Sports Cafe Saturday arvo. If nothing else the Brits are passionate about their team, but I’m not sure if they put a lot of faith in their boys.

On opening they drunkenly sang “God save the Queen” in unison with the telly. The swell of voices rose in the air until you were swimming in baritone. I never really understood the passion about a song requesting divine intervention for an already spoilt granny. I have my own Gran to look after who needs a little more help than Elizabeth R.

Still it was rousing to hear. This was monarchic hegemony at work but no-one seemed to care; it’s the way these things slip through unnoticed unless you’re looking in from the outside. Dan and I however were standing in the middle of the throng of white and red and couldn’t have had a louder spot in the bar. We stood our ground.

These English wore their hearts on their sleeves. Each time an English boot sent the ball into the Australian twenty-two the Brits would go wild, as though their boys had hit a milestone. Then would come the choruses of ‘Swing Low’ which drowned out the Australian heckling.

Of course in eighty minutes they didn’t make it across the line once, and unsurprisingly they played the Northern hemisphere game making their boot do the talking. Toward the end the heckling from the aussies became fevered. The whistle blew for full time and a bomb went off in the bar. The crowd erupted, and I mean that literally, in joy. Screams of ecstasy and jubilation filled the four walls. Arms were raised in victory, and groups of hardy men were crying and hugging and then crying some more. It was gaudy and superficial and joyous to watch.

And like turning off a switch we walked out the Sports Cafe and into Piccadilly to see the England of busses and commuters rushing from one deadline to the next. It was a London that went along with its humdrum, oblivious to the microcosm of happiness just meters inside.

Take your queue

England has been one of the world's greatest empires, and what does it have to show for itself? I'll tell you; it's the queue.

If you go by the numbers you'll find it's the most popular pastime in Alton Towers, England's largest theme park. Of the six hours spent in the park, about five and a half were spent as part of a giant human snake on the way to some or other ride. For the record, twenty minutes were spent at lunch, leaving about ten on the rides; something they don't exactly tell you on the brochures.

In fact most of your Alton Towers experience will be spent staring at the hairdo of the guy in front. The wrinkled lady with husband and two kids on the way to Oblivion sported a kitsch post-punk black and blonde number, and all I could do was think to myself if only I were that hip. My favourite of the day, however, was the ginger Goth with trademark black dyed hair and about two inches of orange regrowth. It was as if joy was sprouting from his body in defiance of his self-imposed gloom.

There were signs posted to remind patrons of the rules of the queue. It's quite unnecessary, queuing is quite the thing to do in Britain, and once you’ve spent any time in this country you resign yourself to it. On the way to the Electric Ballroom in Camden Town a few months ago a group of kids tried hustling into the middle of the line. They were initially met with dirty looks and a few sneers. "They've gone and pushed in!" said one lot of queuers. "Oh how rude!" another remarked and so on. But in the way of British sensibilities it took several minutes for anyone to actually confront these guys and tell them where to go.

Before Kiwis can make judgement, I'm constantly reminded that England is a different beast. At a tenth of the population, New Zealand can't scrabble enough souls together to form a decent queue. In New Zealand if you get more than a dozen folk waiting for something we call it a buzz. It’s a novelty. Oxford Street on a Saturday afternoon on the other hand is a ten thousand person scrum.

I blame immigration. Everyone else does too. They complain about the Indians and Jamaicans, then of the Nigerians and Eastern Europeans and thanks to their recent entry into the EU, the Poles have invaded. I've heard this talk in every country I've lived in so it's a matter of winding up the cracked record yet again. Most of these complainers, like their counterparts in New Zealand, South Africa, and Australia, suffer from short term memory.

Where else would you go if you were a part of an empire settled by the pasty white guys from an Island nation, ruled by a foreign monarchy who has never bothered to visit? When your chips are down and for generations you've been told about the exploits of the glorious British Empire, is it any surprise that its overseas subjects are now flocking to the motherland?

So you get immigrants. Lots of 'em, heading to England in an Aesop's fable of sowing and reaping. After a while you get crowds. And when you get crowds, along comes rules and rule-makers and rule-enforcers. To allow for so many, a sense of order needs to be created and this doesn't happen naturally. You have taxes to take from the former in order to support the latter, and when the dust has settled you discover that between the pyramids and the towers, the pinnacle of measurement of any great society has become the humble queue.

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More pics of Alton Towers can be found on my Flickr account. Also there may be some news concerning this blog. Don't get all tizzy just yet but in the spirit of community I may be joining forces with a few other like-minded folk online. More later.