Real Men Go Tomorrow

In celebration of passing the halfway mark on Our Mutual Friend (leaving me with less than a hundred pages to read per day for the next four days!), I decided to bus into Brighton and see Superman Returns, since it's getting such great press. I was also just curious to experience a British movie theater for myself, since I've heard there are differences. On the way to the bus stop, though, I got totally distracted by some kites in the distance, and remembered that the Brighton Kite Festival is this weekend. I took a detour to check it out and came across a never-ending line of children clad in costumes of some kind streaming into the Gardner Arts Center. I think it was for a play, but they looked like a bunch of gentle cultists.

Anyway, past that is the athletics complex, and past that is Stanmer Park, which is where the festival was being held. It's also, apparently, huge. One minute I'm on a sidewalk bordered by trees and buildings, and the next thing I know I'm in an enormous meadow.

The sky was thick with kites. The smaller ones don't show up very well, unfortunately, and even with the bigger ones, the pictures don't convey just how big they were.

There was one, however, that caught my attention as soon as I entered the park. In the first kite picture, it's just barely visible in the center of the shot, but trust me, even from several hundred feet away it was a presence. I didn't think I was going to really investigate the festival, since I'm "officially" going tomorrow with a group of students, but I had to check out that one kite and get a shot of it.

Again, there's no real sense of size, but just to give you an idea of how massive it is, it had its own kite to help keep it aloft. That's a big kite.

Eventually, I stopped all this screwing around and caught the bus into town. I neglected to mention last week that the gypsies had moved on, but... they gypsies had moved on. I was pretty intrigued by this. There were so many questions to answer. Where did they go? And so on. There were other questions, I assure you. I was a bit disappointed that I'd never gotten a picture of their encampment before they migrated, but as luck would have it, today they were back! So I got this rather bad picture from my seat on the bus across the street. At long last, I can make that Borat reference I promised days ago. Get ready for it! Here it comes!

Man, that was so worth the wait.

So, the British movie theater. I have a list of weird things I noticed.

1. There are "premium" and "standard" seats. As all the premium seats were sold, I couldn't tell you what the difference is, apart from the fact that premium seats are more expensive.
2. Assigned seating. I got to pick my seat (J18), but it was still odd. I don't know what to make of it, really. I can see it from both sides. I have to admit the selfish side of me likes the idea of not being asked if I could move down a seat.
3. The box office is inside the theater, and the ticket sellers aren't behind bulletproof plexiglass.
4. Showtimes are a little more sporadic. The new Jet Li movie Fearless has only one showing a day, Sunday through Thursday, at 8:15. Superman Returns only plays for a week. And so on.
5. Two Pingu movies. Two? We wouldn't even have one. Who does this Pingu think he is?
6. Self-serve concessions. It's more like a 7-11 than the movie theater concessions I'm used to. You can even get your own popcorn from a dispenser. Crazy.
7. I guess you can bring in outside food and nobody cares, because I saw a few patrons with Haägen Dazs ice cream that was definitely purchased outside the theater.
8. There's no "going in early." It's much more like stage theater. At this particular Odeon, everyone waits around for an attendant to open a door which leads to five separate screens, and he doesn't open it until 15 minutes before showtime.
9. There are ushers. Ushers in the conventional sense, with flashlights, even, who show people to their seats instead of just walking up and down the aisles for no apparent reason.
10. Lots of commercials, but they're honest about it. No "The Twenty" or "First Look" here. Also, the commercials are better.
11. After the trailers, the curtains close on the screen again and the lights come back up for about five minutes before dimming for the feature presentation. I have no idea why. Trailers-to-feature presentation is such a nice, smooth transition -- why interrupt it? I don't get it.

I must've misunderstood the movie listings I read online, because Superman Returns doesn't open until next week here. However, I'd made the commitment and was determined to see something, despite my disappointment. First choice was Fearless, but like I said, it only plays five days a week, and Saturday ain't one of 'em. So I went with Pirates, which had a ton of showings. I think it must have opened here the same day it opened in the States, because the theater was jam-packed.

The capsule review of Pirates: it was pretty good. Not without its flaws, certainly, but entertaining and worth your £6.50 (no student discounts after 2 pm!). Johnny Depp does his Dudley-Moore's-Arthur-as-a-pirate thing again, naturally. Where would we be without his effeminate mincing? It drags at times, and I found myself wondering what the point of "this" was, but there's a set piece near the end on a water wheel that's worth at least the price of admission. So go see it, but have the first one fresh in your mind when you do, because the film operates on that assumption (the consequences of not being well-versed in The Curse of the Black Pearl can range from not noticing that you just missed an inside joke to asking your neighbor "What just happened?"). And stay through the credits.

Afterwards, I got a tasty Cornish pasty at Churchill Square and wandered over to the downtown branch of Sainsbury's to buy some groceries. I had to go to the bathroom the whole time, but I couldn't find a public toilet. And the local linguistic idiosyncrasies weren't helping matters any.

But then, like a man, I forgot all about it once I got into Sainsbury's. I've been home for well over an hour and I still haven't gone. Whatever. I'll go tomorrow.

Druid Death Plot

At the last minute, I managed to score a ticket to tonight's Twenty20 cricket match in Brighton. If you're not familiar with it, Twenty20 cricket differs from regular or first-class cricket in that a Twenty20 game consists of 20 overs per each side, a free-hit after a no-ball is bowled, short boundaries, and batting-friendly pitches. In other words, I have no idea. It's supposed to be a "faster" version of the sport, which I take to mean that the game should be over by Sunday. In ay event, I'll take the camera so I can make jokes about it later. Keep watching this space.

---- [Note: This is rather long.] ----

So then. Just what is cricket?

Despite the world-wide popularity of cricket, enthusiasm for it in the U.S. varies from nonexistent to... well, "nonexistent" is probably the only applicable word, really. Not even the four-hour Indian cricket epic Lagaan was able to get Americans excited about this sport. And while Shaun of the Dead went a long way towards giving the tools of the game increased exposure in the States, its subversive depiction of their operation left many viewers, myself included, confused about how, for example, the cricket bat is properly used. Contrary to what Pegg (left) et al. would have you believe, overhand swings just don't exist, and there is a marked lack of aiming for any body part, let alone the head, in an actual cricket game. I attended the match knowing as much about cricket as the average American, which is to say none, although I did consult Wikipedia for guidance. No dice.

Counting Adele, our guide, there were 11 of us, including one of my classmates, Charles, who showed up more or less on a whim. Luckily, someone who'd reserved a spot didn't show up, and he was in. We took the train from Falmer Station, right across the A27 from campus, to Brighton and then to Hove.

From Hove Station, it was maybe a ten minute walk to the... what, stadium? Cricketing grounds? Whatever you want to call it (suggestions welcome!), as we approached it became clear that this was going to be well-attended. In fact, we got there a scant 15 minutes before the game was scheduled to begin.

"Food or seats first?" Adele asked, and we all voted for seats. Good thing, too, because seating was at a premium. She clearly thought we'd be able to get the "good" seats, but we were all quickly disabused of that notion as we made our way around the field. The "good" seats, in this case, would be the only ones with any elevation. Near the entrance were actual bleachers, maybe six rows high, and what looked like some box seats.

Naturally, these were all full of hardcore fans who'd shown up right at 5:30 to get the best seats possible, but opposite the entrance was a bunch of temporary seating -- wooden benches and folding chairs -- expressly designed for latecomers like us. Adele spent a good deal of time trying to find 11 seats together, but there was just no way that was going to happen, so we ended up sitting in two disconnected groups. Plenty of spectators didn't bother sitting at all, though. A few catering trucks, not to mention a makeshift bar, had set up in the open field behind us, which was plenty of incentive for several dozen cricket and/or alcohol enthusiasts to mill around in the background, close to the refreshments.

Our seats were all right, although I didn't have the easiest time seeing. Right in front of us were four or five hulking, thick-necked "blokes," I guess you'd call them, with distinctive "working class" accents. Talked like Andy Capp. Seeing wasn't a priority, though, as I pointed out to my fellow Americans. The more we saw of the game, the more confused we'd be, and who needs that?

The match was between the Sussex Sharks and the Kent Spitfires, although only the home team had a mascot in attendance (and I suppose the odds of Kent having a guy who dresses up like an airplane are pretty slim). I don't know if mascots are a regular thing in England, or if they're confined to Twenty20 cricket games. I'd be willing to believe the latter, since even the bare-knuckled boxers in front of us commented on some things, like music, that would be taken for granted at most American sporting events. Also, the idea of a mascot just seems so... un-British, in a way. I feel like they caught it from us.

The Twenty20 cricket game's limit of 20 overs per team means that it only takes about three hours to play a game. That's about how long a baseball game lasts, so it may seem hypocritical to mock cricket for taking so long, but we're talking about a typical baseball game, not some crazy Canadian-rules baseball where there are only seven innings and two home plates or something. So their "fast" game is the same length as our famously slow game. "And don't forget the halftime show," I reminded my school chums.

Adele came over early in the game to try to explain the rules to us, but even she had to call her boyfriend for clarification. At first, the rules made about as much sense as blernsball, and for the first hour or so my neighbors and I kept asking each other if what had just happened was good or bad for the Sharks. Following the crowd was no guarantee; for all we knew, we were surrounded by Kent fans.

After a while, though, we started to piece together the rules of the game enough to follow the action and even predict the outcome. Let me see if I can explain cricket to you by comparing it with a popular American sport.

So, as you can see, in both sports it's possible to wear a sweater. Hopefully that clears a few things up.

Near the end of the Spitfires' inning, Charles and I had the bright idea to get something to eat before the interval to avoid the rush. I had my stomach set on fish and chips, hoping to erase the memory of the fish and chips I ate on the pier, and so had to wait in quite a long line, but Charles opted for the less-popular jacket potato, which was probably a good call. He was back within two minutes to taunt me with his food before returning to our seats while I "queued" for another ten or fifteen. It was moving unbearably slow, especially since the crowd behind us kept erupting into cheers. Every time they did so, we'd all turn around to see what was happening despite the fact that there was absolutely no way we could catch even a glimpse of the pitch from our vantage point. The two guys in front of me were especially anxious.

Of course, with only four people ahead of me in line, one of the women behind the counter calls out "Out of fish!" which kind of negates my whole raison d'attender, but I stuck with it and made the mistake of getting a hamburger instead. Take my advice. Don't eat the hamburgers at the Sussex County Cricket Grounds.

I got back right when the interval began, and was surprised to find I hadn't been kidding about that halftime show. A small percussion ensemble was trooping the stands. I was pretty jazzed about this. The last thing I'd expected to see was anything resembling a drumline. Luckily, I remembered that my camera also records audio. Is there anything it can't do?

When the Sharks were up in the second half (in skiing terms, each team only gets one "run," as it were), it was looking pretty bleak at first, but then they started to get some four- and six-run hits and the tide began to turn. Because there's no foul zone, the front of the seating area meets the edge of the playing field, and some Kent "outfielders" ended up just on the other side of the low partition from us. This made things awfully convenient for a spirited group of hecklers only a few rows away, who took a particular interest in a player named Dexter. They constantly harangued him with everything from a sing-song Daryl Strawberry-like "Dex-ter, Dex-ter" to an inquiry as to whether the number on his jersey (21) referred to his mother's dress size. Eventually, he was replaced with number 41, van Jaarsveld, much to their disappointment. Some of them took up a little song: "Where's your Dexter gone? Where's your Dexter gone? Far, far away." Van Jaarsveld pointed to his right, which was, indeed, where their Dexter had gone.

The audience participation didn't stop there. At the gate, each of us had been issued a red cardboard sign with a big "6" on one side and a "4" on the other, which, Adele told us, we were to hold up whenever one of our batsmen scored a six- or four-run hit, respectively. It seemed kind of odd to me, but given the complexity of the scoreboard, which was about as easy to understand as the Mayan calendar, I was willing to accept that we were actually helping the referees keep track of things.

Suddenly, it was over. Kent won by 11 runs. No sooner had the game ended than the pitch was full of spectators with their own cricket bats and balls. It's tradition, apparently, for the fans to get a little cricket in after the game, which I think is pretty cool. Adele led us onto the field as well get some pictures taken, but it soon became apparent that standing around on a field surrounded by children wildly swinging cricket bats was a dangerous proposition. "Let's get the hell out of here," I said, "before one of us gets hit in the head with a cricket ball!" And then one of us was, but she's all right. Apart from the blurred vision.

All in all, a good time. I'd go again. Unfortunately, this was something like the penultimate game of the season, so it doesn't look like I'll get the opportunity to repeat the experience (on this trip, anyway). As if all that weren't excitement enough, on the train back Charles came across a truly shocking article in the newspaper. It seemed a fitting end to the night's outing, in that it was completely irrelevant.

You Gotta Eat

First of all, before I get into my nigh-daily funny, how about those Bluecoats? Crazy! They're going to be in the Top Four come August, if not Top Three (although that's admittedly a stretch). Below are the most recent July scores in descending order. Check this out:

1. 83.05 - Blue Devils
2. 82.60 - The Cavaliers
3. 82.20 - The Cadets
4. 81.90 - Bluecoats
5. 80.45 - Phantom Regiment
6. 78.15 - Carolina Crown
7. 78.10 - Madison Scouts
8. 77.60 - Santa Clara Vanguard
9. 77.15 - Boston Crusaders
10. 75.40 - Blue Knights
11. 73.40 - Colts
12. 72.40 - Crossmen

Now, I realize that these are from at least four different shows, some separated by one or two days, and that this is pretty early in the season, but look at that. Bluecoats .3 behind the Cadets? And 1.5 ahead of Phantom? Amazing. And to think that as recently as 1999, Bluecoats weren't even in Finals! Now here they are knocking on the Top Four door. Also, it's worth noting that Crown's in 6th, Vanguard seems to be having another tough year, and the Blue Devils will win.

(I've only included the current Top 12 corps here, but right in the thick of the fight for 12th right now are the Blue Stars, back in Division I competition after over 20 years as a lower-division corps, so congrats to them.)

OK, enough of that for now. I'm missing the whole drum corps season over here, so I have to make do with cold, impersonal numbers.

You hear a lot about how bad British food is, apart from the fish and chips, of course, although it seems to be generally accepted around here that the fish and chips on the pier, which ought to be the best place to get it, is pretty nasty. One of England's delicacies is the packaged sandwich. Ah, the packaged sandwich. Restaurants like Pret A Manger and Eat predicate their businesses largely on this plastic-wrapped treat. They're not like the packaged sandwiches you get back home. I mean, they can't be. These cost more.

Food's a big deal around here, then, for us students, and I'm willing to bet that nowhere is it a bigger deal than here in Park Village 10. One of the girls who lives on my floor, My (that's her name, My), is from UCLA, and was apparently brought here by four or five other girls to serve as their cook. Our freezer and two refrigerators are packed to the gills with bottles, jars, cartons, boxes, bags, and packages labeled "My 10D," so much so that finding room for my one-liter jug of milk can take a few minutes of searching and rearranging. My cooks every meal for these girls, some of whom don't even live in our house, morning, noon, and night. Our kitchen isn't a bad size, but it isn't huge either, so I've learned to eiter anticipate their mealtimes and beat them to it or go hungry for thirty minutes or so while she works her magic.

"I don't really know how to cook," she told me, "but I'll try new things."

So... if she doesn't know how to cook, how'd she get stuck cooking for her friends?

"Because they won't cook for themselves!"

Ah. See, this is where some people just plan better than others. I was so preoccupied getting ready for this trip that I neglected to pack a personal chef. Seriously, I don't mean to sound like a student of nontraditional age, but this is ridiculous. They don't feel like cooking, so she does it for them? What, they can't bother to fix their own meals? I'm not saying they should all eat separately, or avoid pooling their resources to make genuine meals together, but putting it all on one thick girl... I don't get it. Is this a function of coddling at home? Are they so used to living in a dorm or with their parents that they just haven't had enough cooking experience to toast some bread when the occasion calls for it?

Incidentally, I say she's thick because of a conversation we had last week. My asked me what I wanted to do with my degree, and I said I wanted to be an editor because (stock answer) "I enjoy correcting people, and I want to get paid for it." She replied to this with no recognition whatsoever of the obvious joke (or at least facetiousness) of my remark by saying, "That's good. I don't really like correcting people. But it's cool that you do." Even given the existence of people out there who legitimately enjoy correcting others, who among them would be so brazen as to say so? Isn't there the implication that when you say something like that, you must be kidding on some level? Wouldn't you assume that whoever said that would be kidding? Why--?

As a final note, My's cooking generates a lot of trash, so much so that our kitchen "bin" is full every day. Today I noticed a bunch of ants around it, and followed the line out of the kitchen, into the little hall, past Diane in 10C, and under the door to 10D, which, if you've been paying attention, is My's room. I put up a note in the kitchen saying "Hey! Let's not have ants," but I'd like to think that My will have a special motivation for throwing her garbage out from now own.

So nobody cooks for me but me, which is as it should be. There has been some concern among some parties that perhaps I'm not eating. This couldn't be farther from the truth. I do occasionally tithe to the birds, true, but most of it I keep for myself. I think I eat pretty well, actually.

Weetabix

Many cereals brag about how they stay crunchy in milk, or that they taste "great," but Weetabix is above all that. The Weetabix people have taken a different tack and created a cereal that's determined to get as soggy as possible as quickly as possible. Pour milk onto a Weetabix cake and it's as certain to disappear as if you'd poured it into a stage magcian's hat. I'm not exaggerating when I say that once the milk enters into the equation, you only have about ten seconds before your tidy little sponge-like Weetabix cakes are broken down into a bowful of undifferentiated brown sludge. And it tastes like it looks, more or less. So why eat it? I don't know if you can see this in the picture, but it's rather low in things I shouldn't eat and high in others I should. At least, I assume so. I don't see why they'd brag about the lowness or highness of an ingredient unless it were to my advantage that it be low or high. Besides, with a spoonful of sugar, it's like eating a bowl of sweet, wet cardboard.

Tea

I drink tea a la mode de l'Angleterre quite a bit at home, and it's no different here. The teacups that came with the place, though, are ridiculously small. I regularly found myself making two cups of tea at once, which was a bunch of nonsense, so I went out and bought the last decent-sized mug on campus for a scant 99p. Happy times! I frequently supplement my tea with honest-to-God crumpets (not pictured), as well. In Sainsbury's I saw a package of "extra-strength" tea. I've never really thought of tea as having "strength," let along the capacity for having an "extra" supply of it, so I'm intrigued. I think I'm man enough to drink extra-strength tea.

Hobnobs

This is where it's at. Like Weetabix, Hobnobs are high in some things and low in others, but unlike Weetabix they're great with tea. I guess they have a lot in common with oatmeal cookies, but they're not quite the same. The package describes them as "Nobbly, Oaty Biscuits," and I guess I can't argue with that (although I hesitate to investigate what "nobbly" actually means). They make chocolate-covered Hobnobs, too, but I steer clear of those. It gives me the illusion that I'm being healthy.

Peanut Butter

It may seem unnecessary to tell you what peanut butter is, or even that I eat it on a regular basis, but this isn't the same as American peanut butter. American peanut butter has an American flag on the label and is all red and white. This peanut butter, as you can see, has nothing of the kind. It's liberal, un-American peanut butter. It doesn't support the war in Iraq, drive an SUV, or agree with the government's wiretapping policies. It voted for Kerry and, before that, Gore. If I'm eating this peanut butter, the terrorists have already won. But how can I resist when it's so peanut buttery?

Super Noodle

None of your ordinary noodles here. No, this is Super Noodle. In terms of superness, it's probably the closest I'll get to seeing Superman Returns for a while. These are more or less ramen noodles, except that... all right, they're ramen noodles. But as you can see, even this is low in something in that it's 98% fat free. It doesn't have as much sodium as you'd think, either. At least, I don't think it does. It looks good on paper, at any rate. It's all moot, though, because I already gobbled it up, and may do so again.

Sainsbury's Cannelloni (frozen)

Two for £3! How could I pass that up? I'm amused by the cooking instructions on the package. Only 40 minutes in an oven! Wow, to think that we live in an age when your frozen cannelloni can be ready to eat in just 40 minutes. What a time to be alive! There are directions for microwaving it from a "chilled" state, which is presumably achieved by putting on an Orbs CD and placing the cannelloni next to the speakers, but no real thought has been given to microwaving it while frozen. I took my best guess, and it worked out fine. I had high hopes for this until I slopped it out onto the plate, where it resembled nothing so much as the Blob in reds and yellows. Still, it was surprisingly good. Regular purchase.

(The "B," incidentally, stands for "Bargain.")

Twiglets

I only got these because they were cheap and had been mentioned in one of my favorite British TV series, but the truth is they're pretty terrible. But I'm not supposed to eat them, anyway; they make me violent.

None of these are really on the menu for tonight, though, because we had a July 4th barbecue. I think there might be fireworks later, but I'm not sure. If so, it'll have to wait until 10:00 or so when it finally gets dark around here. They really went through some effort to give us Americans what they must feel is the genuine July 4th experience, complete with hamburgers and hot dog-like sausages and everywhere flags, flags, flags, but at this point in our nation's history, I can't see a bunch of American flags without thinking of David Cross' entreaty to eat flags, and to have tiny American flags sewn onto the underside of one's eyelids, and so on.

Paper due tomorrow-- only 1,500 words, so I'm not especially concerned. Finished Volume I of Our Mutual Friend, so yay for that. One down, three to go.

One Week

Well, it's been a week since I arrived here, almost to the hour. In some ways I'm already acclimated to the place; in others, not so much. For example, I still can't seem to look the right way to spot oncoming traffic when crossing the street, but I'm sure I'll get the hang of it a week or two before my departure.

More heavy reading this weekend. I'm enjoying Our Mutual Friend more now. It's been a while since I've read Dickens, and I sorely wish my re-introduction to him wasn't also his longest work, but it's all good. It takes some getting used to, that's all, although I still think some of these characters, like Riderhood, deserve to be slapped around a bit. I don't know how the other characters are able to restrain themselves. Braddon's Lady Audley's Secret is not only significantly shorter, but in a larger typeface as well, so take it all around its 350 pages probably equal only 200 of the Dickens. Also, I don't feel like slapping anyone in it, which is a plus. It's a faster read, too, and one of the first "sensational novels" of the Victorian era. All of this formal Victorian writing is having a definite effect on my own writing, I've noticed, so be prepared for three more weeks of that.

I meant to go down to the pier today for "Paddle Round the Pier," some annual festival thing or other that no one here had mentioned for some reason, but it's twenty to four and I'm still on campus, so that's probably not going to happen. I did go yesterday, though, to read there. It was a scorcher yesterday: 81 degrees! That's a scorcher around here, and it meant that everything was that much more crowded. Of some interest is the fact that while this isn't France, nor is this advertised as a topless beach, that apparently doesn't stop that sort of thing from happening. Not a lot, but I was surprised as I looked down from the pier to see... well, how does one put it? A lack of tan lines here and there.

It's not just the women, either. As far as body image is concerned, nearly anything goes. I've never seen so many guys walking around shirtless. I'm not talking on the beach, because that's not unusual at all, but on the pier itself, or on the street. And not guys who probably should be walking around shirtless, either. I'm secure enough in my masculinity to say that there are some guys who can pull that off, and some who can't, and those who can't certainly shouldn't be walking around in nothing but a Speedo, either.

I didn't get a picture of that, for obvious reasons.

Ever since that seagull stole half my sandwich last week I've held a sort of grudge against the species. On campus, I see them menace anyone who dares eat outside, and the locals put up with it in a sort of "This-is-the-way-we-live-now" way. On the pier, two (hairy shirtless) guys were eating chips by the railing near a sign reading "Please Don't Feed the Birds" and doing just the opposite. At the height of the feeding frenzy, a dozen or more of the things flocked around them, snatching chips from their fingers or catching them when thrown. These guys... these idiot guys weren't really mindful of just where they were throwing them, either, and sometimes five or six seagulls would go frantically chasing a single chip right into the throng of passers-by on the pier, prompting a brief and localized panic. But the seagulls didn't care. When they weren't getting chips, they'd either hover over the two in anticipation or perch on the railing and screech for attention. Even when the two guys had grown weary of this activity and left, quite a few seagulls stuck around to harrass likely victims, because for them, humans = chips.

I had my own cod and chips which I guarded like the One Ring. They really weren't that good (well, the cod wasn't), but there was no way one of those jerk birds was getting any of my food.

England "are" out of the World Cup as of yesterday, as I'm sure you know by now (the World Cup being so huge in the U.S.!), largely because one of their players, Rooney, was ejected from the game after he stomped a downed Portugese player in the crotch. Come on, England! I'm no football fan, but I was hoping England would stay in it longer, just because it would've been cool to have had this World Cup energy continue for another week. The East Slope Bar on campus is the local hub of World Cup energy, as it has one of the only TV sets I've seen in the past week. When there's a match on, I can hear the roar of the crowd from my open window. Every pub in town, too, has had its own supply of TVs and jerseyed World Cup fans (even a toy store at Churchill Square had a TV set up and three employees slack-jawed around it), but I suspect that will largely come to an end now that England's World Cup hopes have died.

Ah well. At least we still have the World Stare-Out Championships to look forward to.