I've had a fairly busy weekend, so I thought I might post some of it here. Despite the title, I'll begin on Thursday:

Thursday, 19th July

George W Bush's official visit. At lunchtime, I wander around the corner to see the security along Horseguards. There's a lot of it: Armed Response Police Officers by the dozen; at least 3 police marksmen that I can see, and a few cars marked as belonging to Section 6. Police and Army helicopters circle overhead. Already this is security orders of magnitude tighter than any British politician would get, and I'm not even close yet. I wander into St. James's Park (the closest point that hasn't been cordoned off), where about 30 or 40 people were waving US flags. About 2 thirds of them have American accents, the remainder British.

By some fluke of timing, Bush comes out of Admiralty House within the few minutes I'm watching, and drives off. I notice that the Americans watch Bush, and the Brits watch the crowd. So they're either the invisible arm of the security force, or they're amateur security watchers like me. I must admit I was glad I don't have my Cabinet Office security pass yet, or I'd have been far too tempted to chance a closer look. And that just wouldn't have been smart.

That evening is a D&D game I'm in. Little worth mentioning, except for some memorable scenes between myself (a half-orc, brought up as an orc) and Jon (a barbarian). At one point we manage to sell half the party's horses to bandits, only to realise that we should have agreed a story ahead of time. Nonetheless, it was fun.

Friday, 20th July

Nothing special happened during the morning, and after the traditional Friday liquid lunch, nothing at all happened in the afternoon.

That evening I go to see Jurassic Park 3. I know the reviews are bad, but it's the kind of FX blockbuster you need to see in the cinema, and anyhing with dinosaurs tends to be worth watching. I have to say, I though it was great. I'm very certain that rather than use CGI'd dinosaurs, they used the real thing. Well, except for the pterodactyls which anyone who's read Jack Vance's Dying Earth novels (and if you haven't, you really should). The only difference is that while the pterodaactyls have many opportunities to engage in witty badinage, but never say a word. While parts of the plot are absurd (but then, it is a JP movie), overall, it hangs together well enough. Not the finest film I've ever seen, but an enjoyable way to pass a few hours.

Saturday, 21st July

I spend the morning in town, doing bits and pieces. I get a haircut, and pick up my next few months supply of contact lenses. I wander around the shops for a while, not planning to buy anything, but just to kill time. I listen to the buskers on North End playing Peruvian Nose Flutes and Chinese One-stringed Finger Harps. I wander past the Nation of Islam recruiting post, and the rip-off merchants selling unbelievably tacky copies of whatever the latest smash-hit toy is, and the vaguely scary "fruit-smelling balls".

About 1 or 2 o'clock, I get a phone call from a friend saying he's in a pub, and would I care to join him? So I do. Not that it's common for me to start drinking this early, but it's not unheard of, either. A few more phone calls get made, and by 4, there's perhaps a dozen of us in the Dog & Bull garden. This is the oldest pub in Croydon (and, I would guess, probably one of the 50 oldest in Britain), having been there since the 12th Century. The current building is no more than a couple of hundred years old, but it has a resonance that makes it my favourite watering hole.The conversation wanders (as it always will when beer's involved), but begins with an update on people's work situations and love lives before veering towards the relative merits of The Italian Job and Get Carter, Drew's rebuild of the Mage: The Ascention rules, and anticipation for many of the movies being released this season.

Various people have agreed to meet various other people in various other pubs, so this turns into a staggered pub crall through the evening. We go to the Royal Standard (15th Century) so Dave the Postman can join in the farewell drinks for one of his colleagues who is going to Ghana to become a water quality inspector for the UN. Which sound like an interesting job, so I feign sobriety long enough to chat to him. I quickly find out that it probably won't be as exciting as I imagine. Jon finds out about (in his own words) "a bad Aerosmith cover band" playing at the Cartoon that evening. We're drunk enough to think that this could be worth a laugh, so we go down there.

The Cartoon is one of the few remaining real rock clubs in London (along with The Red Eye in Islington, The Underworld in Camden and The Robert Peel in Kinsgton*), and as such it's small, dark, hot, sweaty and noisy. I pay £6 to get in, and take advantage of the club license to drink until 2. I don't remember the band. I couldn't even tell you if they turned up.

I got hame about 3:00, fell into bed and immediatly fell asleep. A couple of hours later, I wake up to realise that not only am I fully dressed, but I still have my contact lenses in. I remedy this and go back to sleep. About an hour after that, I wake up again to discover that I still have my watch on, and the metal strap seems to have done some damage to the skin of my wrist. I take it off and go back to sleep.

Sunday, 22nd July

I wake up about 9am with a stinking hangover. Everyone has their own method of curing a hangover, but most people seem to think I'm mad: there is nothing going to settle my head and my stomach faster than a full English, double everything. Not being up to cooking myself, I go into town to one of the few cafés that does a full English properly, as far many miss out the fried bread, or the black pudding, or whatever.

Once I have been suitably fortified, and am feeling much refreshed, I spend a few hours lazing around in Lloyd Park reading (Neal Stephenson's "Cryptonomicon" - somewhere between novel and strong-crypto advocacy document) and just generally watch the world go by. On and off, it's threatening to rain, so the place is remarkably quiet for a summer Sunday. Across the road, I can see a cricket match baing played in the grounds of Trinity School. I'm too far away to see anything other than a vague inpression of people wearing white running around occasionally, but judging by that, the batting team are doing significantly better than England have been in the Ashes recently.

A group playing football at one corner of the park look far too well-equipped (shin pads, tabards) for me to believe that it's anything other than a school-league or U-21's game. A helicopter based in the park gives rides around the borough, which I keep meaning to take, but is a rather expensive frivolity. Maybe one of these days.

It starts to rain seriously, so I head further into town, and wander around the shops again. Since the Sunday Trading Laws were relaxed, Croydon is as busy on a Sunday as it is on a Saturday. I buy myself a couple of books (Iain M. Banks' "Against A Dark Background" and Robert Reed's "Marrow"), and some CD's (Anti-Nowhere League's "Anthology", Iron Maiden's "No Prayer For The Dying", The Plunkett & McLeane soundtrack, and the Spaced soundtrack (For those who don't know, Spaced is the finest British comedy since Fawlty Towers)).

It's about 3 or 4 o'clock when I retire to the Dog & Bull for a couple of hours to kill time, and down a couple more beers. Some friends of mine are playing The Cartoon this evening, and I can't be bothered to go home in between.

Throne of Nails are apparently one of the best Death Metal bands with out a contract. I'm not a great fan of the style (my ear is just about good enough to tell that it's more than just noise), but I do try to support my friends, and they're a good bunch of lads. At various times in that past, I've served as web-tech, roadie, drum-tech and merchandiser for the band. The two core members of the band are both professonal music teachers, and have Musician's Institute-accredited degrees from University College, London. They get consistantly good reviews in the press, and have a dedicated fanbase, and are apparently on the verge of getting signed. So I guess they're good. I just could never tell, myself. Anyway, all of this is enough to get me to go down there, especially as the door is only £3.

Anyway, I get Darth Vader stamped on the back of my hand, and go in. ToN are the third band up, so I spend a bit of time watching the crowd. A metal crowd tends to look like a homogenous mass from a distance - all black t-shirts and jeans, with more long hair than short. But up close there's a lot of room for individuality; from piercings and tattoos to the choice between boots and trainers. I think there is a lot more difference between members of the crowd than similarities.

The first band come on. They're a punk outfit called Campground H. I had seen them earlier in town, and had pegged them as being people I would see here, even though 3 of them looked nothing like the average person here, and the 4th was the spitting image of a friend of mine, if you ignore the blonde mohawk, and the prominant tattoos. They aren't a good band, all said and done. Not bad, just not too good.

After a short break, Stuntface come on. I'm not entirely sure what they would classify themselves as, but I would guess they're somewhere between speed metal and NWOBHM. Talented, and quite an interesting band, but nothing reall special. They spend a lot of time plugging their EP, that was on sale at the back of the club.

After a longer break (due to them having complex equipment to set up), Throne of Nails hit the stage. Mark's brought about half of his drum kit down, so that's about a 20-piece he's playing. The gituars are differten from the last time I saw them play: the bass is now a 6-string, the lead and rhythm are both 8-strings. The music is loud, fast and utterly beyond my comprehension, but the crowd is certainly enjoying itself. About 11 o'clock, the gig comes to an end (because the laws on serving alcohol are far too restrictive on a sunday), and I stumble off home, getting to sleep about midnight.

winter"well, that's what I got up to. Fun, but not exactly productive"mute

* Sam: When we were discussing the relative locations of Croydon and Kingston, it was remembering gigs I'd been to here that convinced me I was confusing Kingston with somewhere else.