London 2012 Part III: Who, What and Wales.

We’re in the hire car for the first time in a few days – you can’t drive into central London because of congestion – and we’re on the road by just after 9am, good going. Speaking of going, we’re not entirely sure where we’re going, not do we have a map. As I said before, then, thank goodness for the GPS. We start to head in the general direction of Wales, and finally we’re on a motorway – their name for a highway. It is slightly confusing to say the least, that we have to monitor our speed and distance in miles instead of kilometers. Aren’t the Brits the ones who invented the metric system? We haven’t exactly eaten breakfast yet, and so we take advantage of the first sign saying ‘services’. That’s what we know as an Ultracity. I don’t know why this reminds me of Canada so much, but it does. There are fir trees everywhere and it’s slightly chilly, giving the whole place a bit of a creepy vibe. We attempt to track down a Proper English Breakfast, but end up settling for bacon rolls from McDonalds. Plus, McDonald’s has free wi-fi and I need to tweet.

We’re back in the car and I’m attempting to not spill my hot chocolate everywhere but Runaways has just come on XFM and I’m having a slight freakout session. We soon lose XFM signal though, and I start up a steady stream of The Gaslight Anthem and The Shins on my iPod.

But what are those strange rocks chilling at the side of the highway about an hour and a half later? The Shins are singing one of their melancholy laments… “another afternoon, with the goat-head tunes, and pilfered booze… we wonder through the mother’s house….” And could that be Stonehenge? No, surely not? They’re tiny! We stop and buy tickets to get closer to the structures, and I’m forcibly reminded of our stop at Cango Caves before the last time we saw The Killers. At least this time I get to stay above the ground. OK, the stones aren’t that small, but they hardly touch the sky the way they’re portrayed on TV and in books. I’ve seen more impressive rocks in my backyard – and I don’t even have a backyard. Also, there’s nothing creepy, powerful or mystical about them. But it’s pretty cool to take photos with them in the background. I get a lemonade from a stand outside, we take some photos with the Stonehenge sign, and then leave. Maybe we should go to Glastonbury, that sounds fun!

‘Fun’ is probably not the right work. ‘Freaky’ is more like it. The people all have dreadlocks, odd hats, printed clothes and interesting cigarettes hanging from their mouths. The shops are all mystical and full of crystals, magic books and who knows what else. I wander into a music shop and suddenly I feel very mainstream. I’ve never heard of any of these people, but finally I spot a rack of normal-ish CDs – I’ve never been so glad so see a U2 album in my life. I’m positively creeped out by this entire town. The food at the local pub is great though, even though the place looks like it would fit perfectly into any number of horror films. A few photos of the Glastobury ruins and then we decide to get out of town ASAP, but not before another photo opportunity in the form of a structure called the Tor. It’s on top of a hill, so we snake our way up the tiny lane, where we encounter many people lying on the grass alongside the road – they’re probably smoking the grass too. Turns out you can’t drive to the Tor and we’re way too lazy to walk, so we drive back to the ‘main road’ and consult the GPS again. Something called Cheddar Gorge is apparently not far from here (I seem to remember checking an actual map around this time, but we hadn’t bought one yet, so I assume it was pulled out of some travel brochure we’d picked up somewhere along the way). Anyway, the only result for ‘cheddar gorge’ on the GPS is ‘cheddar gorge cheeses’, so I select it and we drive as directed by the device. In retrospect, I realize how ridiculous this kind of unplanned travel sounds, it could have ended really badly. Also bear in mind that we’ve not booked into anywhere to sleep for the night, as we’re not sure where we’ll be. Wonder what the UK’s policy on sleeping in cars is?

At some point, the GPS directs us to turn towards something called Axebridge – I wonder if it’s got something to do with axe murderers. Oooh I see a Spar! Didn’t know they had those here. Maybe it’s some South African who opened it. Maybe he’s an axe murderer. About this Cheddar Gorge, though, I feel like we’re being led, quite literally, up the garden path. We’re back on tiny country lanes, and the motorway is nowhere in sight. It’s also afternoon by now, and we don’t really want to get lost at night if we can avoid it. Ha! Eventually we see signs for Cheddar Gorge. It’s a cute, quaint little village-type-place and the actual gorge offers hikes into caves – pass. We view the scenery from the comfort of the car before continuing on. It really is time to head to our final destination by now, and we decide Cardiff isn’t too far, that will be the place! Travelodge, Cardiff to be more precise. We’ve never slept at a Travelodge before, but that’s where we’ve booked in for our time in Leeds, so it can’t be too bad.

I squeal a bit driving over the Severn Bridge… the line form Wonderful Life is in my head… ‘on a bridge across the Severn on a Saturday night, Suzie meets the man of her dreams… she says don’t let go, never give up; it’s such a wonderful life…” it’s true. It really is.

Travelodge Cardiff doesn’t seem to exist though, and so we go driving again, this time looking for Travelodge Cardiff Bay. Aha, success! Yes, they have a vacancy for the night, yes they have free wi-fi in the lobby. Winning. But why does the window not open “for your own safety”? Odd.

We’re basically on the Cardiff waterfront, and it’s beautiful! We’ve found a flyer for something called the ‘Doctor Who Experience’, and my inner nerd is basically crying in anticipation. It’s also supposed to be ten minutes walk from here. I will find it!

There’s a fountain in the middle of the square near the waterfront, it’s tall and silver with strawberries painted on it – it makes me think of Coldplay. And then we walk the whole length of the waterfront, taking in the beauty of the scene. The sun is setting and the water is illuminated and everything is stunning. It’s also cold. Clouds are rolling it and it’s threatening to rain. We stop at the Sainsbury’s to grab some food for supper and I facetiously ask the guy behind the counter if they take Pounds in Wales. He smirks. Yes, they take Pounds. I’m so awkward. Time to get out of here.

[If you don’t know what Doctor Who is, it’s best to skip the next few paragraphs.]

Where is the Doctor Who experience, then? After walking around for a while, we find a sign and take a photo before following it. And then I totally spot The Doctor’s car! No, I’m not even lying, it says TARDIS on the back, and a photo of Matt Smith smiles at me from the license plate which reads S21 WHO. Fangirl spasm of note. AND THEN I SEE THE TARDIS! The blue police box is mounted on a jetty a few meters out into the water. An actual TARDIS. Never been so excited in my life. Of course, the actual exhibition is closed, only resuming tomorrow morning at 10am… so I know what we’re doing in the morning!

Back at the hotel, I attempt to watch TV, but don’t they have an equivalent of SABC here? Everything is news channels, and something called the One Show, which makes me giggle, because it’s kind of like an evening version of Expresso…

Wednesday dawns cold and rainy. I’ve got my jeans, coat and hat on, and we run squealing down to the DH experience, to be there by the time the tour starts. Most of those joining us look like they wouldn’t be out of place at auditions to play Harry Potter in a re-make of the movies: ten-year-old boys wearing glasses dominate the crowd. Aww. Nerds in training!

And then the magic begins. We step through a crack in time, and a video feed of Matt Smith gazes disparagingly at us. “Shoppers!” he admonishes. He then proceeds to urge us to pass through a door ‘into the TARDIS’. Hehehe. The floor of the TARDIS actually shakes! It’s a perfect replica of  the machine in the show. And it’s awesome. Next we’re hurried off the TARDIS and into the spaceships of the Daleks, whose mission is to exterminate The Doctor. I’m not sure how we escape them, but the next thing we have to look out for are weeping angels. When the is over and the lights finally come back on, I’m absolutely delighted! After that we’re invited to walk around the exhibition room and take photos of all of the props used in the show. There are several TARDISs, sonic screwdrivers and Doctors’ outfits, and the second level houses replicas of many of the creatures including Daleks and the Ood. Awesome. A million or so photos later, we move on to the souvenir shop, and I get Lauren and I each a TARDIS pen. Because I’m cool like that.

When we get back outside, the rain is absolutely pouring down, and we run for cover in the tourist info centre (free wi-fi, yay! But where’s that umbrella I’m sure we vowed to purchase?). We still don’t have a map, so we ask how long it will take to get to Leeds from here  - our Leeds adventure is due to begin tomorrow. The woman at the info center laughs a bit. “Leeds? But that’s not here, that’s on the other side of the country!” she says, in abject horror.  We know. How long will it take, though? She shakes her head. “At least 3, 3 and a half hours.” It’s our turn to laugh. In SA, it would take 20 hours to get to the ‘other side of the country’.

We pack up and move out of the Travelodge, intending to find another one to sleep at tonight. We end up in the nearby town of Barry, however, which does not have a Travelodge. In fact, a local tells us that we’d be better off not staying in the town at all. But it’s a pretty cute town and we walk around for ages, sincerely hoping we’ll remember where we parked the car. This is also the town in which we finally purchase a map! Yay, direction! The shops aren’t too bad here either, and I buy an item or two of clothing from a tiny but interesting shop. “Nsjnojfoergirejfjkadjlkfj?” Asks the lady behind the counter. Or at least, that’s what it sounds like to me. I have to ask her to repeat herself three times before I realize that she’s asking if I’d  like a packet. Oh. Yes, please.

There’s no Marks & Spencer here and we’re hungry and maybe we need to find somewhere to sleep… the nearest Travelodge is apparently near the Cardiff airport, so off we go. But they’re fully booked. Oh dear, now what? It’s around 2.30pm and…. Oh look, there’s a little pub called Toby Carvery, and the sign outside says something about proper English lunch! Don’t mind if I do. The young man serving the food has the same eyes as Chris Martin, I note, and five minutes later, when his boss shouts for him “HEY, CHRIS!” I nearly fall on the floor. Ha. Fangirling seeps into all facets of my life, doesn’t it.

After lunch we’re feeling ready to take on the world, and we get an idea into our head that’s so bad it’s good: it only gets dark after 9pm, let’s just drive straight to Leeds! We put Gaslight on pull blast, type ‘Travelodge Leeds Central” into the GPS and we’re off! Through the countryside, past farms, and farms, and, well, farms. It’s pretty and different to SA and it’s all so homogenous. And then we’re passing signs for Birmingham and Solihull and the signs are also telling us that Leeds is getting closer. Now I’m really getting excited – Killers, I’m comin’ for yuh!

It’s dark by the time we get to Leeds and the GPS is lost. We ask for directions from about 5 different people but somehow get progressively more and more lost, and by the time we finally find the damn place it’s 9pm and I’m not happy. Imagine if they don’t even have a room open for tonight! But luck is on our side, and they do have a room, even if it’s 50 Pounds for the night. I don’t even pause in the lobby to use the free wi-fi. It’s bedtime. 

London 2012 Part II: Tubes and Travels

If Gawick is such a hive of activity, I shudder to think what Heathrow must be like. It’s early afternoon, and the entire airport is knee-deep in people. Suddenly British accents are all around me, I’m peering out a window and staring at England, and there are unfamiliar shops and brands all around me. We left Cape Town approximately 20 hours ago and we’re absolutely exhausted. Now imagine having to board the Gatwick Express to somewhere in London, then hop on the tube and transverse the Northern, Central, Jubilee and who knows what other lines to finally terminate at Wimbledon – although the closest station to where we staying is actually called Collierswood. OK. Right now I’ve never even heard of the Northern/Central/Jubilee lines and I’m not exactly au fait with public transport, so this is where my genius hire car plan comes in.

But first… oooooh, is that cherry coke? Also, is 70p cheap or expensive for a colddrink? How much is that in Rands? Mathematics aren’t my strong suit, but I figure it’s pretty much what I’d pay at home for the same thing. Except we don’t have cherry coke at home. What a delight this country is!

Onto the hire car then. The lady behind the counter tells us that unfortunately the car we’ve ordered isn’t there, so can she give us a slightly larger car for the same price? Now, we’d ordered Ford Ka simply because it’s tiny and cheap on petrol. So we’re expecting to receive possibly… oh, I dunno, a Chevy Spark or an Atos as a replacement, but on arrival at the parking lot we’re in for quite a surprise: they’ve given us a gigantic monstrosity of a car that’s sure to chew through diesel as fast as a hungry American pre-teen chews through a helping of McDonald’s. Well, this is awkward.  None of the other car rental places have any cars available that day, and when we finally find one that does, they quote us twice what we were originally supposed to pay. We may as well suck it up and spend all our food money on petrol. After much arguing and me putting on my stern face, we’re eventually given a Honda Civic instead. It’s still a pretty big car, but at least it’s not that massive 4x4 they had threatened us with.

Time to hit the highway to Wimbledon! Wait. Did I just say ‘highway’? I meant it’s time to meander down the quaint country lanes to Wimbledon. Seriously. It’s kind of ridiculous. We’re relying on the directions I’d printed from google maps a few days ago, and we do get lost once or twice, but finally we make it. Hehe. How adorable is this suburb? It’s all tiny, old fashioned houses stuck on top of one another, just like something you’d see in Harry Potter. I soon discover that most of England looks just like this.

I can’t remember whether or not we ate supper that night, all I remember is that it was the day before the Olympic closing ceremony, and I was extremely tired around 7pm. So I set my alarm for 8pm so that I could wake….. up….. and …. watch…. Caster ….. Semenya’s ……… race.

Needless to say, the next time I was conscious was when the sun broke through the curtains the next morning. Is this real? Am I really awaking in LONDON? I thought it rained all the time in England. Clearly not. It’s beautiful outside.

This is the last day to take advantage of the Olympic vibe, and we simply must see the stadium! And, well, every other tourist attraction in the entire city is on the list too, so we’d better get a move on.

The London Underground is surprisingly easy to navigate once you get the hang of it. We purchase day travel cards, and then hop on board the Northern Line northbound to London Bridge. It’s all entirely unplanned, we just do it. London Bridge. London frikken Bridge. The one that was falling down in the song. It’s al so surreal! But hunger raises its head, and it seems most of the shops are closed. Granted, it’s around 9am on a Sunday morning, that could be why. The one place that is open is none other than Starbucks. Ahhhh that must be the best cup of hot chocolate I’ve ever had in my life, and it’s HUGE. The chocolate muffin is pretty awesome too. I feel so cosmopolitan walking around LONDON with my cup of Starbucks. Damn. I’m becoming a hipster.

London is remarkably beautiful, I’m completely in awe. We walk over London Bridge, see Tower Bridge with the Olympic rings, nearly get taken out by a couple of red buses… I’m in heaven. I’m walking the streets of London. Just like the song. They marathon of the London 2012 Olympics is being run today, and we follow the hoards of people in the general direction of the event. Olympic signs! Am I really here during the Olympics? This is ridiculous! Click, click, click. So many photos.

We go walking for absolute ages up the street towards, well, we’re not sure exactly. We’re just walking and it’s great. Eventually we end up in the worst kind of shop: one of those places where everything is branded with the Union Jack, and a tourist’s bank balance finds its final resting place. I acquire a London hoodie, a new pink purse with ‘City of London’ stamped on it, and a variety of other knick-knacks. I simply can’t help myself. I think I’m actually squealing.

What’s up with all the pay toilets though? A Pound to use the loo? That’s R13! This is about the time when I stop converting everything in my head. It’ll only lead to despair.

HOLD UP! Is that the Tower of London?! We pose for photos with the beef eater, who is the friendliest person we’ve met all day, and then continue on our merry way, towards Tower Bridge. Which promptly begins to fold as we walk over it. Cue squeals and a rapid walk to the other side, before the bridge parts to make way for a boat. It’s super cool. Let’s take more photos. And let’s have a convo with the policemen and tell them we’re in the country to see The Killers. They accuse us of being groupies. We don’t deny it.

How big is London anyway? We wonder if we can walk to the Olympic stadium. But that’s kind of like asking if you can walk from Table Mountain to Robben Island. No. No, we cannot. So we’re back on the Northern Line to Bank, and then the Central to Stratford. The disconcerting thing is how quickly this terminology is becoming part of my vocabulary. We can’t physically get to the stadium, but we can catch the occasional glimpse of it from outside. But then, who even cares about the stadium – SHOPS! Westfield shopping mall is huge, and I’m in and out of all the shops I’ve only ever read about in magazines. I manage to control myself, however, and my only purchases are a pair of lightning bolt-shaped earrings to Friday’s concert, and a few Gaslight Anthem CDs that I can’t even get at Look & Listen back home. The mall is absolutely bustling, and the queues in all the shops are horrendous, but I’m starving and Marks & Spencer is surely the place to buy lunch. I purchase the first of the many pasta salads that I’ll live on for the next two weeks. Oh, and might I add that the UK’s music taste is fantastic – every shop I’ve walked into so far has been playing either The Killers or Coldplay.

Olympic athletes are swarming everywhere, and we surreptitiously take a few photos of them. We also somehow end up engaged in convo with some guys form Uzbekistan who claim to have won a medal for rowing.

What a day! We’ve done more than some tourists do in a week in one day, and we’re exhausted, so it’s back to Wimbledon to pass out for eight or so hours before we do it all again…

But first, tonight is the closing ceremony of the Olympics, and once again ‘surreal’ is the only word I can think of to describe how it feels to watch this on TV knowing I was at the stadium mere hours again. I don’t think I’ve really taken in the fact that I’m really in England. England. Enlgand, England, England.

I only have one mission for Monday: to find the Royal Albert Hall. I’ve been told that if one walks around Hyde Park for long enough, the Royal Albert Hall will appear as though by magic. Fine. I’m on the case. Northern Line to Bank, then, followed by Central to Marble Arch, which is apparently the closest station to Hyde Park. Yes, I’ve gotten all of this from a map. An actual, physical map. I’m getting so good at this whole tourist thing.

Hyde Park is literally across the road from the Marble Arch station, and so we start walking. We stop to ask some security guards where the RAH is, and they giggle. It’s quite a walk from here, they inform us. How long? We demand. Like an hour? Yeah, maybe an hour’s walk. We think they’re joking. They’re not. An hour – and a thorough creep of the stunning Hyde Park – later, RAH is in front of my face, in all its glory. I touch it. (I should probably explain that my fascination with this building comes from the fact that The Killers filmed their dvd here a few years ago. But even disregarding that fact, it’s an absolutely beautiful building.)

Lacking the stamina to walk back to the station, we decide to hop aboard one of those cool-looking red London buses. “Do we have to swipe our tickets somewhere?” we ask the driver. He glares at us. “You show the driver.” So we hold up our tickets and show him. “YOU SHOW THE DRIVER!”. Okay then, buddy, we’ll just go sit down, make no noise and pretend that we don’t exist until our stop.

Also, what’s up with all this traffic we’re stuck in? The Brits don’t drive, what’s going on?!

We eventually get through the traffic and jump off the bus. I learned my lesson from the blisters on my feet, and today I’m in takkies rather than the ballet pumps I sported all day yesterday, so the walk down another one of London’s very long roads isn’t that bad. But hold up again, is that Harrods? It’s another of those ridiculously famous places that I’d never expected to actually visit. I know that even breathing in there is probably out of my price range, but I have to go in just for fun. Although when the doorman opens up for me, one unfortunate thought is clouding my mind “Oh shoot… I’m in Harrods wearing takkies.”

The shop is utterly spectacular… I spend far too long gazing longingly at the rows and rows and rows of handmade chocolates before I manage to rip myself away and move onto the clothing section. Sigh. If I had a lifestyle that required me to attend high-end events, I could definitely find an outfit or two here. But I don’t. plus, I’m hungry, and there’s a Marks & Spencer nearby. I get a sandwich and a lemonade (and if anyone can find me a South African brand of lemonade that tastes like this, I’ll be forever in your debt. Actually, maybe it was just normal lemonade and my memories are skewing my memories. But whatever.)

Not yet satisfied with our day’s travels, we get back on the tube and this time head for St James, on first the Jubilee and then the Circle line. Up the stairs and onto the street, and suddenly Big Ben is staring me in the face (okay, just the clock tower is staring me in the face, Big Ben – as I’m later told – is the bell inside). Photos photos photos! It’s starting to rain and we don’t have an umbrella, whoops. Oh well. What’s a little rain when you’re in England, right? We’re in awe of Big Ben and the parliament buildings but finally we move off to Westminster Abbey. I’m not sure I’m doing any of these sights justice, so let me take a moment to say THEY WERE BREATHTAKING.

It’s still drizzling a bit when we get back on the train to Collierswood, and takkies or no takkies, my feet have taken strain. I’m slowly getting used to the way the the rumbles and shakes and slides very narrowly avoids the walls… I’m not even slightly scared anymore.

We decide we’ve done a lot in two days, and perhaps we should take a break from town and head off into the countryside tomorrow. We need to be in Leeds on Thursday afternoon, but maybe we’ll go to Wales for two days. Thank goodness for that device known as a GPS. 

London 2012 Part I: Take-Off and Landing

Before visiting the UK, I was told many lies about the place. The one that sticks out in my mind is “The Brits don’t drive, no one in England has a car.” Alright then. It would clearly be entirely possible to navigate London on the underground, but after booking tickets to see a certain favourite band of mine in Leeds, I began to get a little bit worried. Especially when I checked google maps (after the tickets were paid for) and realized that it was a four hour car journey from London. I flew into a panic when I found out that train tickets were no les than 70 Pounds per person for the round trip, and I really didn’t fancy spending 7 hours on a coach to save some money. Call me a snob, but I’m not used to being without a car. And so the hire car plan was born, and I must say it was the best idea I had ever had. Because the truth is, the Brits do drive, but enough about that for now…

The day had finally arrived. I’d been planning this trip for absolute months, but I had never thought that it would all actually come together. I mean, who in their right mind flies to another country for the sake of their favourite band? I bet there are people who aren’t even keen to drive from the Northern Suburbs to Green Point for Linkin Park! I know people judged me heavily for flying to Joburg twice within three weeks last year for Coldplay and Kings of Leon, but they were some of the best weekends ever, and anyway, YOLO so haters gon’ hate, right?

By the morning of the 10^th of August, I was all packed and ready, and I headed off to work with a smile on my face. Just a few hours and I would be on my way to the airport to board a flight to Dubai and then another to London. Was this really happening? I’d checked and re-checked everything a couple of million times, had all my reference numbers, all my ID, the cards used to purchase the tickets, my passport, and everything else I might need for the next two weeks. My suitcase was only half full – although I would later find out that bringing back 16.4kg of shopping was slightly ambitious to say the least.

But things never quite go smoothly in my life, and so by 10pm I was to be found dashing from the office after the shuttle service called to say that the road to the airport was blocked and that if I wanted to make my flight at 6pm I’d better get there immediately. (Dear Paul, if you’re reading this, I really am sorry for leaving so early, thank you for not shouting at me.)

Madness ensues, but eventually we make it to the airport – with only 5 and a half hours to spare. Goodness me, what am I going to do in an airport for 5 and a half hours? We spend a few minutes taking photos to document the process, then head off to the check-in counter to try and get rid of our luggage – but the attendant looks at us like we’ve completely lost it and says we can only check in at 2pm. Fantastic. We’re left with no option but to drag out extremely heavy - and extremely colourful -  suitcases to Spur with us, where we sit for ages eating lunch.

I’m not sure how we managed to waste two and a half hours in Spur, but we did it, and eventually it was check-in time. I have a boarding pass! It has my name on it, and says CT à DBX. Ah yeah!

At passport control I feel like a criminal. I know I’m not doing anything wrong, but I hold my breath as the dude stamps my passport. There is still so much that could go wrong and result in me not being right in front of Brandon Flowers’ face exactly a week from now. But all goes smoothly and then I’m sitting in a rather uncomfortable chair in the departures lounge, attempting to read my new Stephen King novel and munching away on a chocolate. I’m also counting down the minutes and trying to speed them up using only my mind. Hey, it was worth a try, right?

Eventually it’s boarding time, but the flight’s been delayed twenty minutes, and it feels like 20 years. Also, I’m exhausted. The plane, as it turns out, is well worth the wait. I even have my own little screen where I can choose from a huge selection of movies, tv series and music. Last time I flew internationally, I’d had a tiny set of headphones, and a button on the arm rest of my chair which allowed me to listen to Britney Spears on a loop – sometimes ‘Crazy’ still haunts me at night. So after consuming a decent supper – Thai chicken green curry – I select The Hunger Games, but Katniss isn’t even on fire yet by the time I’ve fallen into a restless slumber. I think I sleep intermittently for around 5 out of the 9 hours, and when I put my seat back in the upright position, my neck feels like it’s about to cause my head to part company with the rest of my body. Ouch. Remind me to get one of those blow-up pillows next time.

The pilot is saying we’re landing shortly but all I can see outside my window is a vast expanse of …. Well…. Nothing at all. Dubai is apparently 100km ahead when I finally start seeing the rivers of lava that I know to be illuminated roads. Aha. Civillisation! A touchdown that I barely even feel, and then we’re walking into the airport, and although we’re in one of those covered tunnel things, the desert heat hits me like a ton of bricks. It’s just after 3am, and the temperature outside is a good 37 degrees. Coming from 12 degrees in Cape Town, it’s been a while since I’ve felt warmth. But warmth is one thing, this is another altogether.

*click* A photo of the sign that says ‘Welcome to Dubai’, another of the LCD board displaying connecting flights. The security process which follows is arduous but effective (I hope). I mean, they even make me take my shoes off!

If you’ve ever seen Shelly Centre on Christmas Eve, you know what ‘busy’ means… now take that and multiply it by at least, oh, say 1000. That’s what Dubai airport is like. At frikken 3am. It’s literally difficult to walk – there are just so many people. Plus I’m hearing languages I’ve never even heard in my life. I’m relieved to catch a snatch of Afrikaans. And there’s Burger King! I haven’t seen on of those in 11 years. And there’s a Starbucks! I giggle and think of Rob, The Killers’ drum tech and lover of Starbucks lattes. I should tweet him. I wonder if there’s free wi-fi here? That would become my standard question for the next 18 days, and luckily the answer was usually ‘yes’. I believe that Dubai airport was where I first started to get fit – we walked for at least two kilometers to get to our boarding gate. Fine… maybe it was slightly less, but it was 3am, OK?! People-watching at the boarding gate must have been the most interesting experience of my trip up to then. There were those who were unmistakably students, passed out fast asleep on and under chairs, there were business men on their laptops, and there was the guy covered in a blanket, who was laying so still that we assumed he was a piece of luggage until someone who may have been his girlfriend kicked him and he moved.

When we boarded, the sun had come up, and the temperature had probably risen again, but by this time I was so excited that it could have been snowing pink glitter and I probably wouldn’t have even noticed. Get. Me. To. England. Now. Thanks.

On this flight, I occupied myself by watching a seemingly endless stream of episodes of Downton Abbey, until the English Channel was visible beneath me, and I could see tiny white things which may have been windmills in the water, and we were coming in towards the coast and I had to listen to The Killers, because I was doing this for them, and then we were over England and I was listening to Smile Like You Mean It, and my heart rate was accelerating, and we were finally almost there! And then we were flying over the country side and the little farms below all looked so adorable and it was like a green patchwork quilt below me (but I didn’t see any towns, they all looked like tiny villages, what was up with that?) and then the pilot’s saying we’re about to land, but why the hell haven’t I seen the Tower of London or Buckingham Palace or the Olympic Stadium below me yet? Just when I’m starting to wonder if Gatwick airport is out on someone’s farm – or if the United Kingdom is some giant hoax and I’m really back home in KZN – a runway appears and we land quickly. That’s it then. I’ve just touched down in London Town. 

BattleBorn Ready!

No band is perfect, but The Killers come pretty close. That said, there is at least one song from each of their albums that I honestly don’t like. On Hot Fuss, it’s ‘Believe Me Natalie’, on Sam’s Town, it’s ‘My List’, on Day & Age, it’s ‘Goodnight, Travel Well’. What? Stop judging me. I bet there are tonnes of people out there who don’t like ‘A Dustland Fairytale.” No, wait, bad example.  Really bad example.

Anyway, BattleBorn isn’t exactly out yet, but I’m a terrible fan and I listened to it already. What? The fools wanted to put previews on their website and let iTunes stream the whole thing. It’s not my fault I’m not in the USA or Canada and couldn’t listen to the official iTunes stream. Anyway, I’ve listened to the album – YOLO, right? (Sorry for calling you ‘fools’, my babies, I didn’t mean it, I love you all kthanksbye).

I had some mixed feelings after listening to the short clips on the website. After hearing Miss Atomic Bomb live twice, I had expected it to be my favorite track on the album, but I was sorely disappointed with the studio version in the clip. Meh. Nothing can ever beat a live verison. The next disappointment was ‘The Rising Tide’. I didn’t expect it to be amazing, but the backing track is purely grating… it’s almost as bad as Princess of China. I realized it was going to be far too difficult to pass judgement on the album without hearing the songs in full.

Roll on the next day and… (I’m not reviewing track-by-track, these are just the ones I have an opinion on so far, I’ve only listened to the full album about three times, and I can’t even tell some of the tack apart yet, that will come.)

Goodness. Freaking. Gracious. Miss Atomic Bomb is suddenly up there with River and Dustland as one of my favourites! It’s amazing how much better it sounds when I’m hearing the full version instead of a 20 second clip. Basically, I want to put this song on repeat and listen to it for the rest of my life. “Racing shadows in the moonlight, through the desert on a hot night, and for a second there we’d won, yeah we were innocent and young.’ Oh that line destroys me! I’m in danger of becoming an incoherent mess on the floor everytime I hear it. Can I get it tattooed on me? Can I get it engraved into my brain? Painted on my wall (ooh, there’s an idea)? Can I name my mother’s newest adopted stray cat Miss Atomic Bomb?

Wait, what do you mean there are other tracks on the album? Oh. Okay then. I’ll move on if I must.

I stick by what I said about Flesh and Bone after seeing it live: it’s like something out of a horror movie, and that’s a good thing! That creepy intro, the almost-menacing shouts of “flesh and bo-one”… I’m assaulted by images of car chases, street fighters and general violence. It’s brilliant. Please, Killers, continue to assault my senses. I will not complain.

Runaways – storming, epic, a better set-opener than Human could ever wish to be.  Oh Brandon, if you must run away, can I come with?

A Matter of Time is another matter of pure perfection. I swear I hear some ‘50s/’60s influences… Brandon croons about Charleston Avenue and vacant starlight motels like he’s Danny Williams or something – that line wouldn’t be out of place in any song from that era, and yet it’s such an upbeat song that it might even make it onto the radio one day.

The Rising Tide is slightly better in full version than the clip. Thank goodness that horrible grating synth only kicks in during the chorus. I wish there was a bit more of a kick during the first verse: some extra drum and guitar bits when Brandon’s vocals pause, but I do like the lyrics. Everytime Brandon starts going on about neon lights I can’t help but giggle. So for that reason, I’ll stop hating on this poor song.

Deadlines and Commitments, however, is another story altogether. Oh, just make it go away! Can I scratch it off of my disc, when I get the CD? I know, I’m being melodramatic, it’s not that bad, and I’ll probably love it by tomorrow, but for now, it really gets on my damn nerves. So-so lyrics that sound like they’d fit in with a really bad 80’s comedy-drama about stressed people in an office.  Just my opinion. There’s that song that I don’t like, I told you there was one on every album.

From Here On Out makes my soul so unbelievably happy. Yes, The Killers are cowboys at heart! Go on then, boys, grab those hats, mount your horses and gallop off into the setting desert sun. Grab Johnny Cash while you’re on your way (I know he’s dead, I am just joking), because he’d fit this song perfectly. Yes! County! How often is it that a stadium rock band (as missy Lauren says, a commercial band) makes a country song – and makes it well? Not very often. Let’s just say that if The Killers brought out a country album, they’d become the darlings of the genre faster than Kanye West can say “Imma let you finish”.

Be Still is lovely, quiet, calm, unexpected and beautiful. This is the part of the album where the band makes all of the people with hearts cry their little eyes out before….

BattleBorn bludgeons us into submission (yeah, I stole that line from a review of the Leeds show, it’s appropriately descriptive). What a way to end an album! I’m reeling as though I’ve just been to a concert! What an epic song. It builds slowly and then attacks the listener in a crescendo of crashing drums, guitars and vocals. It’s perfect. Yes, they’ve channeled their inner-Springsteen, but I swear they could teach The Boss a thing or two.

It’s an album of power-rock, if that’s even a genre. And if it wasn’t, The Killers have just invented it. They are flawless in vocals and instruments. Mark, Dave and Ronnie’s instruments build on each other, to be overlayed by the most distinctive voice in rock… and Brandon’s vocals are utterly impeccable.

[Edit: after 24 hours:I should really calm down, listening to one album ten times in 24 hours is probably not entirely healthy, but I’m completely addicted!] Basically, no one can ever tell me that The Killers aren’t the best band in the world, because they’ve just gone and proved that they are. In a world where even Coldplay had to become more mainstream in order to sell records, these four Nevada natives put a country song on a rock album. Enough said. The Killers win at life.