All Filler, No Killer: Lookalikes

Peter Crouch (left) and Dr Zitbag (right)

Alan Pardew (left) and Hume Cronyn (right)

Joe Cornish (left) and Mike Williamson (right)

Bobby Zamora (left) and Andrew Whitelaw (right)

Driving: Take One

Several laps of the car park; phantom clutch pressing minimal

Straight onto the left side of the road; quickly corrected, minor accident averted

Pottering Aboot

A successful foray into deepest, darkest downtown T.O., and one that will just about wrap up any big ticket expenditure this side of gainful employment: yesterday's four-hour saunter around the city produced a winter coat, a pair of hair clippers and a small bottle of Sunny D. A sufficiently interesting, exciting and revelatory subject for blogging? Too rights.

First stop from Union Station was King Street, southern border of Toronto's world-renowned (though not as renowned as the Grainger Market) Fashion District. What a splendid street: tattoo parlours, trendy bars, contemporary restaurants offering a different world beer for every dish. But clothes shops? Not a sausage, unless you want to pay $200 for a confusingly subversive t-shirt. I did, however, have cause to pause, seeing that FYEO has gone trans-Atlantic:

Amusing though it was, the hunt for a jacket had to continue (besides, FYEO looked closed; a few rasps on the door confirmed that this was indeed the case). I made my way towards the Fashion District's northern barrier - Queen Street - and headed centrewise. Still with me? It's exciting, I know. Anyways, I stopped in at some no-name shop only to find it was a thrift store (a trendy thrift store, where ironically moth-eaten jumpers commanded $30 price tags). I u-turned, crossing the street to Jeans West, which sounded as likely place as any to get a winter coat.

Ten minutes later my mission was accomplished; I don't mess about. The kindly Italian (or otherwise vaguely European-sounding) manager had bent my ear with his expert sales patter, and had me purchase the best of three nice coats he had practically forced me to try on. The winner: a smart, dark blue Jack & Jones parka, complete with furry hood and orange inner-lining. Granted, it's not the type of down-filled duvet I had been recommended to buy, but I've smiled so convincingly when showing off my parka that nobody has yet dared criticise my choice.

Fookin' mad fer it!

My shopping efficiency took a turn for the worse thereafter, my remaining three hours downtown producing only a pair of hair clippers ($22), a bottle of Sunny D ($1.99) and a bagel for lunch ($6.19!). A deeks around the LCBO for Glen Breton - Canada's only single malt whisky - was successful, but its $88 price put the brakes on. Still, it wasn't a complete waste of time: I took two additional photographs and spotted a decent (chain) restaurant for tonight's dinner: The Pickle Barrel (not pictured).

The Eaton Centre: Eldon Square with higher ceilings/fewer radgies

 

The corner of Queen Street and... *mumble* Street.

In addition to owning a coat with a furry hood, I further Canadianised myself by helping the Man Of The House clear the fallen leaves from the front "yard" (garden). Granted, I'd never handled a lawnmower before today - even if I'd had the inclination, I simply couldn't have been trusted - but I didn't let that hold me back: I mowed that lawn as if my name was Joe Canada, the golden leaves disappearing up into my mower-sack like so many lines up Daniella Westbrooke's shnoz.

Mr Neighbour, I've got two words for ya... LEAFY LAWN! (NB: Mr Neighbour tends to clear both yards; a courtesy not returned on this - or any - occasion)

TV Update: Remember that blonde lass from The Goonies? The one who was friends with the other lass, and ended up shnecking on with Corey Feldman? She's now in an admittedly pretty good sitcom. But she's also now twelvety years older than tea. Exhibit A:

She's making some crack about stealing coins from fountains. Pretty clever.

Music Update: Heavy D, off of Heavy D and the Boyz, has passed. He was more like Skinny D and no boyz in the last few years, but he'll always be heavy to me.

PICTURE SPECIAL: Toronto Zoo

Arse

Orang-utan: "Homeless man of the jungle"

Not captured: fish grinning at us

Traditional elephant shot

My personal favourite: the white-handed gibbon (primate Saruman?)

There's a man in the hyena den!

Giraffe in jail

Man-made stuff: better than nature?

Waiting to be fed tiny meatballs

I tastefully waited for the wee to stop

Graboid from Tremors. Sadly now extinct.

The poser bird

Heather's tiger photography: first attempt

Heather's tiger photography: second attempt

Heather's tiger photography: third attempt

...Success! (Does it look like I own a tiger?)

Warthog type things. Note: adolescent hog inside feeding cage

"Please, don't leave us here!"

Rowdy Roddy Piper

Day eight: have completely run out of things to say. No, not really. In fact, LOADS has been going on here in "Toronto The Good" (which, I'm told, is a legitimate nickname for the city; I'm not entirely convinced they're not pulling my leg, or "yanking my chain").

I've applied for at least seven (SEVEN) jobs for a collection of forward-thinking, innovative and future-proofed companies that will, apart from the Ontario Gaming Commission and the WWF (pandas, not spandex), remain nameless for fear of jinxing, hexing or otherwise knackering my already-slim chances. Still, it's been fairly satisfying to get up at the absolute crack of dawn (8.30am, sometimes 8.00am), put in a shift on the old joblessness front, and still have the rest of the day to a) go to the LCBO, 2) go for - and get lost on - a 10-minute jog, or D) settle in the basement for Serie A highlights.

Venturing bravely (i.e. without a winter coat) from the shelter of my new home, I've been right in the mixer. Dollarama? Been there, done that. By proxy. Future Shop? Of course, even if it is criminally misrepresenting itself. Mark's Work Clothing Warehouse? Well, only if he's happy to have me.

And though I'm yet to tick off most of my Canadian Eye-Spy checklist - maple syrup spillage, haphazardly organised street hockey game, moose riding another moose - I have seen more hot-rods than I've ever seen in my life (three) being taken out for what I am reliably informed is the last time before being temporarily mothballed for winter.

Not pictured: two additional hot-rods

What else? Well, as I type I am enjoying a wee dram of Johnnie Walker Blue. "A $180 CAN bottle of whisky, and you don't even have a job?" I hear you scoff. True, I should be on the Spectre White, Pulse or White Lightning given my budget, but the Blue (snifter thereof, not the entire bottle) was a gift from the Man Of The House. Very grateful I am too, and more than happy to bite my tongue about dropping that kind of dollar (I can say that now) on a blended whisky. Besides, I'm fairly sure I've raised the same objection in the past. Neither of us can remember the specifics now, so we'll just let sleeping dogs lie, aye?

The reason for the Blue is not just because I'm great company, the first new Geordie in the Man Of The House's life for more than 30 years, or the fact that I've leveled the gender ratio 2:2 (two male; two female; inbetweenies not considered). Rather, it is the fact that we have together researched, acquired and set up two sets of desktop speakers - one each, obviously - and are now sat in separate rooms enjoying our wares. In fact, separate floors: the basement for me, the first floor for him, the ground floor as a buffer between the deafening tones of Metronomy (mine) and Gordon Lightfoot (his). For the Man Of The House: M-Audio AV40. For me: the cheaper but far more Dalek-esque Altec Lansing FX3022.

Can't think of a good Dr Who pun for this

And so the day begins to draw to a satisfactory conclusion. At 3pm. On the agenda for tomorrow: Newcastle vs Everton at 8.45am, followed by most of the day at Toronto Zoo. Best... Saturday... ever? Potentially.

Getting Into The Swing Of Things

Dosser's log, day five: have made inroads into the Canadian lifestyle. On my first full day in Toronto I had to acquire a Social Insurance Number. Imagine, if you will, sitting in Wallsend Jobcentre for an hour or two on your first day as a British resident and you're somewhere near the truth. In fairness, I left the premises with number in hand, card to follow in 6-8 weeks (handcrafted from whalebone?), free to deal with other urgent issues.

Spending the rest of that day doing literally nothing (NB: not literally), on Saturday I was chomping at the bit for a bit of action, so we spent the day shopping. And again on Sunday. Item(s) acquired over the course of two days: shaving gel. Items sought but ultimately unobtainable: too many to list here.

But it wasn't for a lack of trying. In Loblaws (not quite as posh as Sainsbury's, slightly posher than Morrisons) I gamely tried to deposit strange, new and exciting items into the "shopping cart" (shopping trolley). "How about this?" I would silently mouth to Heather at the other end of the aisle, holding up a vacuum pack of rainbow trout jelly bites (or similar). In return she would simply shake her head, making a mental note not to trust me with "cart" (trolley) duties in future. Not to be discouraged, I headed to the cereal aisle. There I was confronted with more than 50 metres (estimated) of unbroken breakfast magic; far too many varieties, as it turned out, to peruse sensibly. "Most important choice of the day!" some passing lady commented, causing me to mumble a response and head to the magazine racks instead.

But this isn't just a funnier, more tender and more explosive Bridget Jones' Diary for Generation Z; more than merely recall day-to-day activites in a roughly chronological order, I can EXCLUSIVELY REVEAL, for example, that Canadian bank accounts are NOT FREE (re-read that statement if it didn't sink in first time around). So I am now the proud-ish owner of a TD Canada Trust account that'll set me back a mind-boggling $10.95 each and every month (disclaimer: unless my balance exceeds a certain amount... which it does).

But the the title of this post is 'Getting Into The Swing Of Things' - not 'David Bitches About Trivial Stuff' - so let me be the first to wish you a heartfelt, hearty and generic HAPPY HOLIDAYS! (It's Halloween). Though I pitched the idea of a traditional Wallsend Halloween night - lights off, curtains closed, TV on low - here we have instead opted for the local custom of buying, carving and displaying a pumpkin, which brings me nicely to the Great Pumpkin Controversy of 2010...

"David, could you please carve a 'Jack O'Lantern' (pumpkin) for the Halloween festivities at the National Trust's newest property, Seaton Delaval Hall?" Heather asked me one day. "Of course," I replied, seeing that she worked at the National Trust's newest property, Seaton Delaval Hall, and had face to lose should she (a) fail to turn up with a pumpkin or, worse, (b) turn up with a poorly conceived, poorly executed piece of crap. So I carve a pumpkin (for the very first time, might I add) and it ends up being entered into the pumpkin competition that night.

Wouldn't you just know it: relative unknown David only went and won the contest, as voted for - democratically - by the region's most accomplished Halloweeners. What a coup! But the blue riband (first prize, not the chocolate; though the first prize was chocolate, ironically) went to some young lass from Holywell whose entry was suspiciously well carved (help from daddy, perhaps?) and wasn't even a pumpkin - it was a frigging turnip. So why was my glory snatched away? Well, because of my relationship with a member of NT's SDH (National Trust's Seaton Delaval Hall), there was deemed to be a conflict of interest, and all voting beans placed next to my intricately-sculpted masterwork were disregarded. I felt like Al Gore - a clear winner, but robbed by the system I helped create - and no amount of media exposure could numb the pain... Not even a lingering shot on the closing titles of Inside Out North East and Cumbria:

The pride of the region/The region's hidden shame

Not one to hold a grudge, I have again mangled a winter squash for the delight of local pagans, ne'er-do-wells and young offenders. Scarred by last year's events, however, it was a slap-dash, last minute job - taking only two or three hours of planning and a further five carving - and I seem to have inadvertently taken some subconscious inspiration from one of my all-time favourite doctored photos of hairline-defying, granny-romancing legend, Wayne "Wazza" Rooney:

L-R: Good, Bad, Ugly

HAPPY HALLOROON, EVERYBODY! Wazza great holiday; hope it doesn't Wayne.

The Magpie Has Landed!

The unthinkable has happened. I've done something incredibly brave; something that will reverberate down the ages like a tossed sausage roll - unwanted, unloved, misunderstood - rippling the surface of a dingy farm path puddle. No, I've not rescued an heir to the throne (God save the Queen) from a house fire - I've moved from the warm northern bosom of Newcastle-upon-Tyne to the warm northern bosom of Toronto, Ontario. I told you all this day would come, and though I found it hard to believe myself at times - quiet sobs in the Corner House were, admittedly, a low - it has come to pass and here I am.

It's 8.07am and I've already been up long enough to scribble some words for musicOMH, configure my fancy internet radio, and redraft this old gubbins a few dozen times. Yesterday wasn't all that bad: a Newcastle departure spared the emotional breakdown I had feared; a relatively uneventful and problem-free journey; a surprisingly prompt ushering through immigration (if he walks like a Geordie, talks like a Geordie, let him pass). Granted, the in-flight movies were the worst I've ever encountered - Arthur and Meet Dave, for Christ's sake - but I had Alan Partridge's autobiography to read, an aircraft wing to look at, and a passable impression of pasta to eat. Mustn't grumble when my flight cost a mere quid (plus taxes and surcharges).

So here I am. Just me, Feisty and the bag handed to me to carry the dozen-plus immigrant advice booklets doled out at border control. Exhibit A:

Left: bag. Right: Feisty [note to self: post better pictures]

In the words of Wallsend's most revered/most reviled son Sting, I'm an alien, I'm a legal alien; I'm an Englishman in Toronto. But with great power comes great responsibility, and I'll endeavour not to be an unmitigated eff-up. First stop: getting a job (a task to be thrillingly documented in these pages!). Second job: buying a nice winter coat, because wearing two t-shirts - while sufficient for North Tyneside's cruel weather - will not suffice over here. Third job: as-yet-undetermined, but could include acquiring a social insurance number, opening a bank account, or asking somebody (a dental professional, hopefully) to remove my God-forsaken wisdom tooth.

But for now I will bask in the novelty of being a genuine newcomer, fetch myself a cup of tea (not Ringtons, unfortunately) and call to mind a sense of British pride I haven't felt since England consistently underperformed at the 2006 World Cup, Newcastle's Crows Nest pub reverberating to the sound of Peter Lowery accompanying his own anti-IRA slogans with deafening table percussion. I have no video evidence of that particular occasion, but this sums up how it felt to march proudly into Toronto Pearson arrivals to be met by... well, nobody, as it turned out, but you get the picture:

"My bite is worse than my bark!"