NORMAL LIFE: Partying, Audiologists, Dentists, Snow, Bingo, Sushi & In Manchester For One Night Only!

I land at midday on February 2nd, after the warmest January in the UK since 1916. The doors to the aircraft open, and I step out onto the tarmac, welcomed by an inviting clear blue sky very unlike the funereal grey one I had left in Tampere. I follow the swarm of tourists who have no doubt come for a fun-filled weekend in the city of London, only to be greeted by a 50metre-long immigration queue which succeeds in making me feel unwelcome in my own country.

It took an hour to get out of Stansted Airport - I quickly booked my ticket onboard the Stansted Express to Tottenham Hale. It was just unfortunate that, having waited so long to clear immigration, I needed to use the toilet. I was absolutely amazed by the filth in the toilets, with piss all over the floor and graffiti splattered all over the walls. My first thought wasn't for my own comfort, although I would be forgiven for being selfish considering I had paid an exboritent amount of money for the train fare, but one of embarrassment: just imagine, this is one of the first experience tourists are greeted with, and that's before the congestion.

At Tottenham Hale, I got onto the Victoria Line, where freedom of expression takes on a new meaning with punks, music loving i-pod dudes and foreign people in abundance. The drama-loving Brits and their love of reading tabloids hasn't changed with baseless headlines screaming LABOUR IN MELTDOWN, while the recent Big Brother race row still seems to be selling newspapers. The closer my train get to Victoria Station, the fuller the train carriage gets and one thing strikes me: people in Britain look tired!

My great friend Nick meets me at Victoria station and, as usual, the time that has passed falls away; the last time I saw him was at the beginning of October last year. Nick had been shopping for software for his Mac and I was highly amused by some software he had bought called StuffIt! At his place in South London, we guzzled down most of a bottle of wine before heading to Strada, a modest Italian restaurant in Clapham High Street. Afterwards, we went to the nearby KazBar, a pre-clubbing meeting point for the area's gays. With a down to earth clientele, the DJ plays hard music while TV screens smaller than the black and white portables of the olden days senslessly showcase unrelated music videos. We whiled away the evening there with Nick buying endless doubles of Bacardi and coke. All the while, I was getting merrier and merrier, but we decide to call it a night around midnight.

The next morning, we made that all-time British favourite breakfast of Bacon Sandwiches doused in tomato sauce. With a cafetière of coffee, we chatted for most of the morning around the breakfast table, before deciding to head into town. By town, I mean London's West End; over a period of two to three hours, we walked through Leicester Square, Soho, Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street. By this time, I had spent enough money which meant that getting back to Finland on the budget airline would be a hell of a challenge now that they were monitoring the weight of passenger's luggage. Knowing this, I put my wallet away and told Nick to get me away from stores!

We headed back home, ordering a Chinese. As we ate, we watched Madonna's most recent tour on DVD, Confessions. I've been a bit hard on Madge for some time, but I have to say that she gave one hell of a performance on the night in which the DVD is based. We watched the concert, together with Nick's flatmate Gina and his landlord, Herman the German who was sitting next to his new partner from the Czech republic; between you and me, they are made for eachother - they are both miserable, uptight and downright bloody rude. To give you an example, I have put on something like half a stone since the last time I saw them in October (you try staying slim when it's -10°C on a good day) and they did nothing but point it out again and again and then they claim that Englishmen are rude. I'm like, what are you on?!

As the evening wore on, we decided to go out. All of us! So, we literally ran down to the bottom of the road where the train station was and made our way to Vauxhall. In BarCode, a trendy and hip new gay bar situated under one of the Vauxhall Arches, Nick, Gina and I danced the night away. Of course, Herman the German and the Czech were too preoccupied with eachother to contribute in any meaningful way to the winding up we get up to on the dancefloor! I enjoyed the venue, but I should point out that the highlight of my evening was when a guy dressed in a tight PVC shirt and shorts shouted at me on the dancefloor: "your dimples are sexy!" At least he wasn't talking about my fadoobas! Given his attire, I was speechless, unable to formulate a suitable complement in return. If it had been one of the countless muscular dudes in the place, then my reaction would probably have been quite different!

Later, Nick, Gina and I waited for our bus at Vauxhall bus station. It was 3am, and the alcohol was now wearing off. It had been a good night, but tiredness was quickly setting in. When I woke up the next morning, it was about 10am. I felt groggy and woke myself up with a long shower while the rest of house slept on. For perhaps the first time, the Sunday morning gathering around the table had been a pleasant affair, which I attribute to two things; first of all, I've made an effort not to take things too literally with Herman the German. Secondly, I think Herman has equally lightened up, given that his affections are now focussed on the new man in his life.

Just after midday, I set off for Brixton, taking the Victoria Line to Kings Cross from where I would take the train to North Hertfordshire. I rummaged through my many bags of purchases, and settled down to the hilarious to-the-point prologue of Bill Bryson's Notes from a Small Island. To my left, I couldn't help but notice the Indian couple engaging in what can only be descrided as 'foreplay with clothes on'. The guy admired her fingers, regularly kissing her furiously before giving her breasts a series of not-so-light slaps. The first time I witnessed this, I blushed, shocked by this very behaviour. By now, the train was speeding through the countryside - blue skies in London had turned to grey on the capital's outskirts, giving way to a dense fog in Hertfordshire. The Indan guy is up to no good again!

I arrive in town and, 100 metres away, I can see my father smiling at me. We hug and the rest of the day is spent drinking endless cups of tea (as you do in England) and catching up on all the goings-on of the last five months. Mum told of how Bree had made it easier to digest my homosexualily, indicating that he is decent man who genuinely cares. Yes, I said, he does. After a long soak in the bathtub, I head to bed at 10.30pm, gushìng with pride to have parents who love and accept me for who I am.

On the Monday, I wake up to a bowl of cornflakes and a cup of milky tea and realise I am truly back with the people who raised me. My niece arrives (my parents take care of her during the day) and for her 3 years amazes me as to how well she can articulate her speech and formulate sentences. We drop her off at nursery, easily the best looking child with red curly hair and a clear complexion, dressed in a cute, pink Addidas tracksuit. Dad dropped me off at the station, and my deep rooted dislike of the trains resurfaces when I realise that I had misunderstood the information given to me by the offshore British Rail representative over the phone last night; I waited 30 minutes, and spent a further 40 minutes on a journey that shouldn't have taken longer than 15. I'm remind that nothing ever changes on this island.

The day went quickly and I nearly fainted when my warm train back home arrives two minutes early. The fact that it also left two minutes early made me realise the trains will either always be annoyingly late or will leave annoyingly early, leaving travellers perpetually flabbergasted! When I got home, I got into tracksuit trousers, a shirt and drank tea in the kitchen. Tonight's Weightwatchers meeting showed that Mum and Dad have lost 17 and 21lbs respectively since starting their diets in the New Year; what a fantastic start! Dinner consisted of an all-time traditional Shepherds Pie with baked beans, downed while watching an epside of British soap, Coronation Street. After, we watched Flightplan with Jodie Foster, a great movie. I was in bed by 11pm.

The next morning wasn't without problems, either. Two trains were due southbound; one at 9.39, which would stop at Finsbury and Kings Cross, the other at 9.41 to Kings Cross. I thought I would take 9:41 as it would probably gather speed, arriving earlier. The minute the 9:39 had arrived and departed, however, the information for the 9:41 train changed, indicating that the train would actually be stopping at eight stations along the way. Well and truly pissed off by this, you can imagine that my mood wasn't changed when I read the Daily Mail with the front page screaming: 'Britain: Europe's Burglary Capital'. Truth be told, my nation had somewhat depressed me since my arrival: the trains were filthy, never on time, crime was rife and Bird Flu had arrived the same day as me. In the press, there were reports of paedophilia, rape, racism, child abuse.

All that was quickly forgotten, however, when I arrived just in time for my Audiology appointment. My regular audiologist wasn't available, but I spent an hour with a charming trainee audiologist from South Africa. Having noticed a decline in my hearing, we - with a woman from IT assisting the trainee - 're-mapped' my hearing device. This involves setting high and low T-values (tolerance) for each of the eight frequency channels used to stimulate the nerves in my Cochlear. These levels, based on my perception of the quietest and the loudest beeps across the various frequencies, are used to create a unique algorithm for my hearing device. It is truly amazing - when I was switched on again, I could hear them, but it sounded like they were talking into a tin can and that I was somehow receiving their voices second-hand. Afterwards, I had an audiogram (a normal hearing test where you indicate if you can hear a series of beeps), to ensure I didn't leave the hospital without a programe that was no good. It turned out that the audiogram hadn't changed much since 2001, which was a relief.

I headed back to Kings Cross with a black coffee; I tucked into the ham, cheese and coleslaw sandwich lovingly prepared by my Dad. As I started on my buttered hot cross bun, the imposing Alexander Palace, opened as "The People's Palace" in 1873, hovered past. Serving as a recreation centre for the Victorians, the original palace burnt down after just 16 days of operation. On 1st May, 1875, a new palace opened covering an area of some seven acres.

It wasn’t long before I was in the office, sharing files and endless bytes of information with my American and Finnish colleagues via cyberspace. It was a short day in the office, since I had arrived during off-peak hours and would need to leave early to keep a 4pm dentist appointment. On the train back home, I called Bree; we chatted, catching up on the news until my train arrived at my destination. I made my way for the nearby dentist, apprehensive as to what he might uncover; I hadn’t been to the dentist for nearly two years and, in that time, a lot can change. My teeth were very clean, the dentist said, but an impacted molar to be removed, which would involve surgery. Yikes! The good news is it is free on the National Health Service, but I need to pay £100 for general anaesthetic. Bizarre, I thought to myself, thinking that we were slowly regressing to the standards of an Eastern-European country. In the meantime, the dentist – who sported a turban - said I would need a filling. I made the necessary appointment (for the coming Thursday) as I left the dentist, before whizzing through some of my favorite stores: WHSmiths, Virgin, Marks & Spencers and Clarks.

I manged to restrain myself, and called my Dad to come and collect me. By surprise, my eldest sister who I had not yet seen because she had been ill, pulled up. We chatted non-stop during the ten-minute journey to our parents. Relations with my other sister are a bit stressed at the moment so it was reassuring to know one of my kin cared. When we got back to the house, I presented some presents to my niece, which included a black beach towel featuring the outline of countless reindeer in the colours of the Northern Lights. As my mother and I sipped tea, my niece sat quietly on the sofa adjacent to us. My mother asked “Why are you so beautiful?” to which my niece responded in a matter-of-fact way: “Because I am!” Awww! The rest of the evening was whiled away with a visit to the gym and watching some telly.


The next day was Wednesday, and a fine frost had given the land a fine frosting, as if lot's of icing powder had been scattered overnight. After dropping off my niece at daycare, my father returned to the house and we set about making poached eggs and toast for breakfast. As a result, I got into work a bit later than usual, but it was a very productive day.

When I left work at 5.30pm, I got back onto the train with the idea of meeting my Mum in town – I had offered to take her to bingo, one of her lifelong passions. After a while, I could understand why my Mum raved about it. While it’s not the pastime that a twenty-nine year old male would boast about partaking in, it is surprisingly addictive as the numbers get ticked off and the countless times when you nearly won was oh-so-close! The real stress came when, during the national game where players stand to win £100,000, I waited on just two numbers for what felt like an eternity. At least ten numbers had been called and during that whole time, neither of the two numbers were called. With each number, I could feel a tension in my bladder and when somebody finally claimed the prize – some bitch from Aberdeen, apparently – I felt robbed!

Thursday was the day when I woke up, and the UK had been paralysed from a minimal fall of snow (read here). Surprisingly, though, the trains worked on time and, with meetings organized Stateside and in Helsinki, it was yet another productive day. I was a bit annoyed, however, to discover that my dentist had lied to my mother claiming that, because of the weather, there were no staff to undertake the appointments of the day. Later in the morning, I called the dentist myself, and someone answered. I was told that the dentists would be doing a half day today, although they had told my mother that the dentist wasn’t actually open at all. A white lie, perhaps, but when I asked what the rationale for canceling the afternoon appointments was, I was told that it was so that staff didn’t spend hours getting home during rush hour. In the back of my mind, I was struggling to understand how exactly this was my problem? Without realizing it, I had actually voiced what I was thinking, to which the receptionist suggested I book another appointment. I explained that I had flown into the country to get my teeth checked and that today was the only day I was in town. She said she couldn’t help it. Without helping myself, I said I hope the dentist gets home in time to watch Neighbours.

When I returned from work that afternoon, I met my parents in town and explained to my parents what had actually happened. I was shocked when they somehow sympathized with the dentist. Suddenly, I realized that it was me who had the attitude problem, and that I was trying to impose the Finnish love of efficiency onto my own countrymen. I was failing miserably, and just let it go. Yet another reason to stay away from this country, I thought to myself! I was shocked even further, due to my own misinterpration, when my father suggested I shouldn't come back to the UK anymore because it stresses me out so much; this echoed a similar suggestion that my sister made when she visited Finland at Christmas. I must be becoming unbearable, I thought to myself. I went to the gym in the evening, before picking up a Chinese takeaway for my parents and I; it would be out last evening together for a while, and I wanted us to have a little treat.

The Friday came whereby I would travel to Liverpool, to meet my friends Fred and Sweetpea. Due to a fault that had developed with my hearing device, I would take an earlier train, traveling to Kings Cross before heading to Euston to catch the lunchtime train to Crewe. I arrived at Euston, with a new hearing device in my possession, with plenty of time to buy a filling Marks & Spencers lunch and to settle down into my Virgin Pendolino train seat.

Next to me sat 62-year old Angela, who was traveling with Max, her very social eight-year old Yorkshire Terrier. Angela liked to talk; her loneliness had me listening to her life story, which proved eventful. She bore no bitterness, even though her husband succumbed to cancer after just two years of marriage. Happily remarried and enjoying her retirement after many years as a cancer researcher, she kept me engaged with her funny stories and similar points of view; we share the same birthday, and had bought the same Newspaper. In a short space of time, although 33 years separated us, it was bizarre how much we had in common.

From time to time, Max would jump from Angela’s lap to mine, and I didn’t mind. She was great company and, before we parted, I gave her my business card. The train pulled into Crewe, ten minutes later. As the train slowed to the platform, another one was pulling in which just happened to be my connection train to Liverpool! Dashing from platform to platform, I made it just in time. For some reason, tiredness overcame me and I dozed throughout the 40 minute journey. It was just after 2pm when I arrived - I made my way to Liverpool's Central Library and whiled away some time in the IT department, checking my email and updating this blog.

I received a text message just after 4pm that my friend, Fred, was waiting outside so I packed away my things and dragged my luggage and laptop bag from the second floor back to the ground floor. On my way, I saw a group of youths, foreign in origin strolling through the library seemingly devoid of purpose; what drew my attention to them was that they were clad in gloves, wooly hats and jumpers with hoods and, yet again, I was thinking to myself what has this country come to?! Half of the group must have been in their early teens yet their very demeanour bore signs of resentment and I wondered if they would mug me for my laptop bag. I hurried down to the ground floor, where Fred was waiting for me in the pouring rain! We hurried to a nearby cafe, taking time to catch up before I turned up on Sweetpea's doorstep just after 6pm.

No chocolate, no cheese, no fun (but one night off)!

Sweetpea and I opened a bottle of Rose wine as we catched up. Apparently, Sweetpea has high cholesterol so no chocolate or cheese. In fact, no fun at all by the sound of it, but she's prepared for a 'night off' as we take a black cab into town to Sapporo Teppanyaki restaurant, a sushi and noodle bar set in the centre of town. Strikingly original with immaculate seating and wooden floors granting the venue a seal of authenticity, the interior reflects the Japanese taste of minimalism. The packed-out venue on this Friday night, however, casts away any feeling of minimalism with each arriving diner.

Before long, a chef arrived at a cooking station, around which diners anxiously awaited each portion of their succulent food. Despite the fact that the previous helping of food may have cooled considerably, there was plenty of wine and chatter to engage in to pass the time, rendering the chef's slightly casual approach acceptable. By surprise, the chef flamed the grill, bathing the walls in a swathe of glowing orange. Simultaneously, patron's faces glowed from the sudden change in room temperature, resulting in whoops of and cheers from diners. While it's debatable whether or not this is truly a Japanese restaurant, the group feel combined with the relaxed atmosphere make it a restaurant truly worth a visit.

With set seating times, the experience feels a bit rushed, but we had been there for two hours and it was time for the chefs to do it all over again, but with different guests. We left the restaurant and made our way to the nearby Tea Factory; I had been to this bar before, but at that time it was packed. I suspected that the chilly night had deterred many regulars from heading into town. After a couple of drinks, we were actually both tired and headed back to Sweetpea's place. In a way, I was relieved that we had decided to go home reasonably early because I knew that Fred had a wild night out planned for me.

Manchester - One Night Only!

When Sweetpea drove me to Fred's place the next day, I felt like I had arrived! It was time for Fred and I to go to Manchester for our groovy night out. As Fred put it, the city should prepare for my arrival in Manchester - for one night only! Makes me sound like some international pop star!

We drove to Manchester, an hour away, bound for the Merchants Hotel, off Oldham Street. This is the bit where I get on my soapbox. I admit I paid only £55 for the night for this backstreet hotel, but I honestly didn't know that hotels like this still existed. I have stayed in hostels that had better heating, better bedding AND hot water; this hotel had none of those. It was SO basic that I am prepared to send a letter of complaint to the Manchester Tourist Board, warning them not to promote this hotel to prospective visitors.

We checked in, stared disapprovingly for a while at the room and then headed down to Canal Street, the main street of Manchester's Gay Village. We had a late lunch at Via Fossa, followed by a dessert in the not-so-nicely named bar, Queer. Afterwards, we went back to the hotel; I needed to rest my eyes so I dozed for 30 minutes, waking up about 6pm. Before long, we were dressed up and back in town. Already, the streets were swarming with people looking for somewhere to go, but we knew where we were headed.

Our first stop was Queer and, once again, I was surrounded by the I'm so up myself crew. Apart from nearly being set on fire by an overactive lesbian dancing with a cigarette in one hand and a plastic cup of booze in the other and risking further a burst eardrum from the unecessarilyy loud music, the drink was starting to lighten me up. The music in this place is very original with no repetition of basic Radio Edits being showcased, but I couldn't but wonder: what am I doing here? Nearly five years into a relationship, I think I'm reaching my limit with these places - do people really meet other people in these places? When I met Bree (see here), we were really in the right place at the right time. I haven't heard of anyone else who had the same fortunate circumstances to kick off such a relatonship.

After several hours in Queer and, by this time, quite merry on the sauce, we headed to Essential, a nightclub over three floors with different music being played on each floor. Around midnight, the shirts started coming off! Not mine, of course, but those of guys who think quite highly of themselves. The minute a guy takes his shirt off in public, no matter how attractive he might be, I lose respect for that person. I think it's rather sad that, in February, people take off their shirts in nightclubs and bars; fair enough, you're in a nightclub and it's hot, but it's February.. hello! Duh!

It was Fred's turn to take his shirt off and I called him a tart! We laughed! If I had a body like his, maybe my opinion of taking your clothes off would change. Despite the mass of unclothed upper bodies around me, I closed my eyes, raising my Bacardi and coke in the air, moving to the beat of the music in a trance-like state. In the back of my mind, however, I was conscious that I would soon be thirty and that behaving like this would naturally come to an end. Anyway, we got back to the hotel about 3am, totally knackerred. I fell into a light sleep and, as if only 10 minutes had passed, 11am had arrived. It was time to check out of our hotel. Aware that there was no hot water, there was nothing to shock my face into looking half decent. We grabbed a cooked breakfast, before we drove back to Liverpool. After a couple of hours at Fred's place, we were on our way to Liverpool airport where I would encounter my latest dispute with budget airline, Ryanair.

As I entered the airport terminal, I found an un-used check in desk to measure the weight of my suitcase: I was relieved to notice that my suitcase weighed only 19.4 kilos. The allowance was 20 kilos, or so I thought. After waiting in the check-in queue for more than half an hour, the check-in girl beckoned me forward and I placed my suitcase on the weighing belt, confident that all would go well. When asked if I had hand luggage, I lied, saying 'no' because my laptop bag must have weighed something like 15 kilos. The check-in girl pointed out, that with effect from December 1st, 2006, all luggage was limited to 15 kilos. I was like oh for gods sake, not again! I explained that I wasn't aware of this. She explained that the weight allowance was detailed in the Terms and Conditions of Carriage. I explained that everytime I fly with Ryanair, there's another change in the Terms & Conditions, asking how can customers keep up with all the changes???

She apologised, but she said that she needed to charge me £36 (~€52) for the excess baggage. "What if I take out the books, and carry these onboard?" I suggested. That would work, she said, if I had no hand luggage. So I did precisely that - I removed three hardbark novels I bought, a box of teabags and my Finnish study books. After check-in was completed, I stumbled away from the desk with an already heavy laptop back and a pile of books laden across my chest. Despite the burden of carrying this weight through Security, I felt like I had got one over Ryanair. When I settled down into my seat on the plane, I was sweating - security clearance had taken ninety minutes and I had just ten minutes to locate my Gate and board the plane. All the passengers looked at eachother in congratulatory glances since we had been glancing at eachother nervously through the slow-moving security queue. Before the plane even took off, I had already fallen asleep.

Once the seatbelt signs were switched off, light filled the cabin. My eyes opened and I felt refreshed, although I must have been asleep for less than 15-20 minutes. I looked out of the window, reviewing the week that had just passed. It was great to see Nick in London, my family during the week and my friends in the north, Fred and Sweetpea. But I was amazed at how much had actually gone wrong. Perhaps I would heed my sister's and my father's advice to stay away from the UK for a while. If anything, my living in Finland proved that ignorance really is bliss when I can't understand what is going on where I do live and I don't need to understand what is going on in the UK because it doesn't affect my everyday life. With that thought running around in my brain, I realised that I was the lucky one!