I hate the Jam. As in the band - I like the fruity stuff, but not those obnoxious lefties fronted by Paul "Arrogant Tw*t" Weller. To be fair, 'Going Underground' was a classic, as was 'Eaton Rifles', but that's as far as I'm prepared to go. As a youth, I was already listening to Genesis & therefore a Tory pig. I admit it. Weller would never admit to being a tw*t, which makes me a better man.
Anyway, as always, I digress.
Today, we went to the Lama Buddhist Temple which was genuinely interesting. I wondered why they were flogging loads of incense sticks outside, and it reminded me of home & Mrs G lighting the things in the kitchen to mask the continuous stream of deadly gases that stream from Ozzie's (The Dog of Darkness) arse like north sea gas. Once inside, it became obvious - people light them as part of the ritual of praying. It was rather calming and I confess I lit one and knelt, too (I didn't wave my arms about) and said a few private words, much to the amusement of my chums, but when I told them why, and who I was thinking of, they felt bad and later paid for my lunch.
One of the temples had a massive statue of Buddha that was 18 metres high, and went a further 8 metres underground, and was carved from a single piece of white sandal wood. It was breathtaking. I wish I could have taken a photo, but was one of the few who respected the request not to. When the family come over to visit, I'm certainly taking the kids there.
Round the corner was the resting place of Confucius (a great Chinese teacher & philosopher for anyone from Buxton) and his temple, which was equally interesting. Strange, I'd used one of his teachings - "He who would perfect his work must first sharpen his tools" in a presentation this week (naturally, I provide the tools). Again, all very humbling and it's funny, in those environments, one's perspective changes and I spent a few moments alone, thinking...
Thoughts soon turned to lunch, though, and after more walking, there was a debate about how we got home. A chum (wisely, on reflection) suggested a taxi (about £1) but I thought it might be fun to try the underground. Bad move. I suspect Confucius himself may well have advised "He who takes the underground instead of a taxi is a man with a very small brain".
I volunteered myself as project manager, just like on 'The Apprentice' but now fully admit I should have got fired, although we did (eventually) get home (after walking the last mile because we got off at the wrong stop).
You can travel as far as you want for 20p, but the saving of 80p over the taxi is as well spent as buying Lurpak over Tesco value margarine. We studied the large map of the underground network for some considerable time and couldn't make head nor tail of it, so I thought I'd ask the nice man at the ticket kiosk as I paid. This is a fair record of the conversation....
"My good man, could you tell me how to get to Sanlitun?"
(Stare & silence in return)
"Sorry, I'm aware my Mancunian, James Bond accent makes it hard for you to understand, so I'll repeat myself slowly - "CAN YOU TELL ME HOW TO GET TO SANLITUN PLEASE"
(Stare & silence in return)
A man behind me leant over:
"$%^&^%%£"£^****+£$$!^&&"(That's Chinese writing)
The man in the kiosk stabbed a finger to the map, and - I assume - my required destination.
The man behind said "Line 10"
Me: "But I assume line 10 - which I must say is not easily identifiable, despite our friend's finger, must go in both directions - up & down, or left & right, or north & south or east & west - which one do I get & where do I go?"
The queue was getting longer, and I could start to hear the usual jabbering.
My pal ; "Let's just get the bloody taxi"
The man behind - "I'll show you - just buy your tickets"
Me: "Thank you very much".
The man bought his tickets and ran off. I suspect he was French. I know he was a tw*t. Bet he likes The Jam.
Some considerable time later, and after much shoving & pushing ( see photo - and that's at a quiet time on a Saturday afternoon - during the week, at rush hour, it's 10 times worse) and after changing lines 3 times, we emerged into daylight and - I admit - still some considerable distance from our apartment block. My pal took over as project manager, and after using the compass in his shoe heel (remember those? Clark's Commandos!) and droning on about being in the scouts, we found Sanlitun, home of the dodgy dvd shop. By now, he wasn't talking to me ("all for 80p you tight bastard") and said "you go look at the same dvd's you looked at last night, I'll go to the bar I went to last night". I bought him 'Bridge on the River Kwai' as an apology, and reminded him it had cost me a quid, so 20p more than the 80p we'd argued about, and he forgave me.
We walked home, and I've just had a shower, there's a brew beside me, and now I'll have my toast. With Lurpak. Cost me £4.50. I can't compromise on butter. Or as Confucius would say, "He who puts anything other than Lurpak on his toast shall have the brain of a maggot and spend his life as a goat herder listening to The Jam on his ipod"
Goodnight from Beijing.
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