Exit a London Underground station in a seedier part of town and you’ll here classical music played at a decent volume. If you think its for the pleasure of music connoisseurs, I’m afraid your wrong. It’s to keep away the riff-raff and chavs. Apparently young trouble makers hate it while older tax-payers are pleased by the music and absence of loitering youth.

Well, when I was in the library in Barcelona last week, trying to eek out every last minute of opening hours and the free wifi, I was surprised and amused to hear heavy punk rock blasted fifteen minutes before the library shut. People began leaving in droves as their ears were assaulted, and the librarians presumably had no trouble shooing out the one or two remaining stragglers.

What an odd, odd world we live in.

We have had some fun thunderstorms, which is nice. A friend snapped this photo while we waited out a squall under the footbridge on the South Bank, and later added some photo-wizardry. I’m not normally a big fan of photos starring myself, and certainly not profiles, but I really like this one.

Anyway, there are also a lot of wholesale clothes stores in the areas, and they have without a doubt the most revolting looking mannequins. Most are dented or cracked, and some look like they are cast out of a Steven King novel where evil mannequins come to life. But today I saw what might be the winner – a Shrek inspired child mannequin. Really, who designs these things?

We met at 8 AM Saturday morning, which is not usually my best hour, but I did manage to look decent. Walking to the hotel lobby where we were to meet was comical, as I saw two other stylishly dressed guys, and given the hour and the neighborhood, guessed correctly we were going to the same place.

The organizational skills of the TV show were a bit lacking. We waited around in the lobby for 45 minutes before walking half a mile to the ‘studio’ which doubles as a brewery, waited outside another 45 minutes, before we finally went inside, viewed a video of the two girls and criticized their appearance, before finally leaving.

In summary, I got up painfully early so I could wait around forever and then criticize someone. I’m a wonderful person, really!

Like all British residents, I’m eligible for the National Health Service, the free single-payer government run health service. So I selected and registered with a local GP (equivalent to family medicine), and after the annoyance of trying to register at two doctors’ offices that were either closer or prettier, I had to select between just two, which were a shocking half-mile away. I’ll survive.

When I signed up, they told me to come back next week for a checkup, which I did. The attendant took my blood pressure, weight, height, and checked my urine. After getting the readout from the machine, he exclaimed excitedly that I had perfect urine! Apparently, this meant less paperwork for him, hence his happiness. My PH was balanced, i had no Nitrates, and a few other wonderful things.

The most surprising thing about this is the comparison with the American system. I can’t think of the last time a Doctor volunteered to investigate me to this level. They just aren’t interested (unless you are dating one who demands you get tested for Tuberculosis after a trip to Turkey, but that’s another story).

The whole process was, go in with proof of address, sign up using half of a single page, and voila, that’s it. No more paperwork, no multipage forms, and amazingly, no waiting around for hours in the waiting room. I didn’t wait either time I went for my checkup or when I went back a few days later to see the Doctor.

All this talk in America about how awful socialized medicine is? Let me tell you – I’ll take it any day over the shouting matches with insurance companies and doctors who diagnosed me without entering the room (he was busy in the corridor, but did stick his head in). I’d rather trust a disinterested bureaucrat than a determined insurance rep (determined not to spend a dime, that is).

But mostly, I like the British system because of all the flattery – let’s remember, I have perfect pee.

This gets really frustrating when you want to open a bank account, because you often need a bank account statement to open a bank account. That would be the Catch-22.

Today I faced the ultimate in idiocy and irony. I opened a business bank account at HSBC (our business is registered and incorporated as of two days ago). To prove my residence, HSBC requires a utility bill (I have none as I’m a tenant) or a bank statement (the bank I have my personal account with is HSBC). So the only statement I can bring to HSBC is what they mailed to me. And they still insist on it!

Rather than just looking in their computer, and seeing that I indeed live where I claim, they need a piece of paper. The lady smiled apologetically, acknoledging this was a bit ludicrus, but rules are rules, so Friday I will be bringing HSBC the very statement they’ve mailed to me so they can photocopy it and file it. That would be the Catch-23.

But it was great nonetheless. I was sitting in the front row, close enough to be almost spat on by the actors. And they did a lot of spitting. The light really caught it all.

Best, we had famous actors! It would have been a Trekkies dream – getting spat on by Patrick Stewart (who played John-Luc Picard, commander of the USS Enterprise, on Star Trek). The whole play I kept expecting him to say something to Lt. Crusher, or fight Klingons. Sadly not. Waiting for the Wrath of Kahn would have been soooo much more captivating.

Patrick Stewart as Vladamir, and as Picard

After the play finished, they left the boots, a prop central to the play, on the front of the stage. Perhaps I’m too goody-two-shoes nowadays, but I resisted the urge to just take them. What a tourist souvenir! The authentic shoes from a famous production! I settled for taking a picture on the sly instead, (both photography and shoe-theft were forbidden). One shoe, one hat, and the stage are in the background.

Update, June 10, 2009: According to my learned friend Diana Pittet, this play about essentially nothing could be seen as an influence on shows like Seinfeld or even the opening scene of Pulp Fiction, in which the two characters discuss apparently trivial matters like french friend, Royal with Cheeses, and taking a proper glass, not-no-dixie-cup, of beer into the movie theatre.

I was surprised and joyously amused to learn this, as I had discussed this very scene to my fellow theatre-goer when trying to re-enter the theatre after intermission with a glass of wine. While Quentin Tarantino might have been influence by Waiting for Godot, the staff at the theatre were clearly not influenced by Quentin Tarantino. I and my wine could enter, but only in a dixie cup.

Somehow, hearing the play explained through pop culture and container restrictions, it all began to make sense. Kindof.

Why can’t the US get it’s act together? American’s really shouldn’t drive across interstate bridges only to find them collapsing without warning (see Minnesota I-35W, 2007). Why is it the US can send a man to the moon but not build a fast train network?

It was pretty good. And, being Germany, they sold beer to drink during the performance. I had a Pils.