It’s well short of being the tallest building in the world though. We haven’t had a building to hold that honour since Lincoln Cathedral surpassed the Great Pyramid on Giza in Egypt. Although that cathedral did hold on to the record for longer than any other building has since.

The cost? A whopping half a billion British pounds. That’s some investment. The name? Apparently the name ‘Shard of Glass’ was originally thought up by a heritage organisation and used in a derogatory manner when objecting to it’s construction. But the name stuck, in a positive way, and so the insult rather backfired.

But yes. Anyway. I can’t quite make up my mind. A marvel or a monstrosity? A bit of both, perhaps. I guess we’ll have to wait till it’s finished. I suspect it’ll look stunning at night. Less so in daylight. But it will have an observation deck. An open air deck at that. Climbing up to which is one of the top things on my list of things to do before going back to Mexico.

It’s different in England. We once had thriving street markets. I have distant memories of going to the market in Greenford, London with my grandmother. But the bulk of my market experience came when I left London and settled in Dorset in the mid-90′s. My first job down here was picking strawberries. It got me out of the house. I got fed on the job. If I’d earned more than it cost to catch the bus there and back, I might have done more than just one day.

In the strawberry field I filled two types of punnet. All the freshest, biggest and tastiest strawberries were to go into the big punnets. The supermarkets would get these. The smaller punnet was for the small, discoloured or slightly rotten produce. They go to market. That’s how street markets work here. They sell substandard rubbish that a shop wouldn’t touch. That’s why most markets here have shrunk or disappeared all together. It’s a shame. But not a surprise.

There are still some good food markets here though. In rural areas you’ll find farmers markets where local producers sell their local produce to local people. For a premium. In urban areas there are also successful markets. I visited one in London last Saturday. I went with Mrs P to Borough Market near London Bridge. Borough Market is a real grand daddy of the market world. It can trace its roots back nearly a thousand years. One claim (that is promoted by the market itself)  would have the market celebrating it’s one thousandth birthday in 2014.

I’m sure the market has changed a lot since the first stalls were set up. And they continue to roll with the times and still do a roaring trade. The place was packed to the rafters when we got there. They’ve survived by adapting and doing something the supermarkets aren’t so good at. There’s an atmosphere there. There’s plenty of samples to taste. The sellers know their stock. And their stock is different. You’ll find all sorts of meats, from steak to kangaroo. Artisan cheeses. Hot curries cooking in enormous pans. Rabbit and pheasant. International stalls. And stalls with uniquem artistic kitchenware.

We did a little shopping. We sampled a couple of empanadas from an Argentine stall. And a steak sandwich from a stall next door. The former was nice, the latter not much so. I wish I’d had more time, money and stomach space to sample more. But there’ll be a next time, don;t you worry. I’m going back to get some fresh bread, cheese and pickles. Till then, here’s some photos. Click here for Flickr and here for Google+.

The monarchy is a thousand year old tradition. And ever since our kings and queens ceased to play a part in the political goings on in, they’ve been a largely harmless tradition. Although, rumour has it, there have been times they’d like to have been more involved. But it didn’t come to pass. Instead, they enable Britain to project a stable and (generally) dignified image to the international world that rises above the crises our government runs around creating.

But I’m really not that fussed either way. Monarchy or republican. Both camps are kidding themselves but fooling no one else when chatter on about the dangers of the other side. I am certain of this though. The queen has been a mighty fine monarch. Where do you start? Her job was to oversee the decline and dismantlement of the world’s largest empire. A daunting task. She’s done it with great dignity.

Yesterday was the 60th anniversary of her accession to the throne. Six decades. Impressive. But my favourite thing about the Queen? Whenever there’s a big anniversary we get an extra day holiday. This year it will be June 4th. I’ve booked our coach tickets and a hotel room and we will be there to take in the atmosphere. Maybe I’ll get a better photo of her than I did at the Royal Wedding last year.  Viva Lizzie!

In that reply I made a few suggestions about how I thought Wahaca, or any Mexican restaurant, should be. There should be Mexican music, for a start. Some Mexican staff would also be nice. But most of all there should be Mexican food. I pointed out that it would be great to see “enchiladas, tacos al pastor, nopales, chicharon de queso, tlayuda, barbacoa and carnitas on the menu”. 

Actually, how can someone call a Mexican restaurant a Mexican restaurant when none of those key meals is on offer? While the restaurants get a fair bit of praise, I’m not the only one who has noticed the downsides. I went through the menu with Paola – once we’d knocked off the Tex Mex dishes, there wasn’t an awful lot left to comment on. That was a big part in why I referred to the place as a ‘corporate sell-out’.

I also mentioned that my wife visited another Mexican restaurant in London, very near Charing Cross Station. It’s called Lupita. She took me there yesterday. It was everything a Mexican restaurant should be. And everything Wahaca isn’t.  We sat down in the corner underneath a photo of Torre Latinoamericana. We gave our order to a Mexican waiter, in Spanish. A former resident of DF, no less. And we forgave him the fact that he supports Club America. And we watched the chefs cooking in their open plan kitchen in the middle of the restaurant.

We listened to a mix of Mexican music. There was a little mariachi, a little Luis Miguel. We’ll also forgive the brief interlude courtesy of the Gypsy Kings. Then the food arrived. Paola had nopales. I had a generously proportioned chicharron de queso with a mound of guacamole. Both were perfect. We looked at dishes being served to other happy diners, many of whom were clearly regulars. They were the real deal.

Lupitas get’s an unreserved thumbs up from me. It was an excellent restaurant serving real Mexican food in a very Mexican environment. We’ll be back. Thomasina of Wahaca mentioned in her comment that she eats at her restaurants regularly. My suggestion today is that she not eat at one of her restaurants but eats at Lupita’s instead. She may have to wait for a table, because it gets busy in there, but it’s worth it. And it’s proof that there is a market for real, authentic Mexican grub in London.

For just a few minutes in that restaurant, I was taken back to the happy days I lived in Mexico City. The music was right, the smells delicious, the noises were recognisably unrecognisable, the pictures on the walls were perfect. I thought, as I sat staring out the window at the snow falling through the sky, that I was almost home.

A prize goes to the person who can put a name to this vehicle. A bonus prize goes to the person who can name the TV series that helped make it famous. I photographed it in the very upmarket and sophisticated Temple area of London, where the top barristers ply their trade. Need a clue? Well, I could tell you that it was originally made in England, but that would only make the quiz harder. Perhaps if I told you that a model from this line holds the Guinness World Record for having the highest mileage of any car – that might help.

I’ve met plenty of Argentines on my travels, but the touchy subject of island ownership doesn’t often come up. The stubborn notion of Argentine ownership can be seen in many Argentine restaurants in DF though. Maps of their home country will always describe the islands as Las Malvinas.  When I have spoken to Argentines about the islands though, I’ve often been amazed at their complete lack of knowledge about the islands. Almost all of them believe the islanders to be Argentine. Almost all have professed their belief that the islanders want to be ruled from Buenos Airies, or at least that they want independence from Britain.

Almost all of them have clearly been taught ‘facts’ that bear no resemblance to reality. Although this article in the Guardian suggest that might be changing. Albeit very slowly. I’ve read the arguments in favour of Argentine ownership. They are all tenuous. There really is little basis for the claim, other than proximity. But even then, it’s hardly a stones throw from the mainland. The latest Argentine tactics of rallying the support of neighbours is all rather meaningless too. The Falklands have long been supplied by ship direct from the UK.

I do have one idea that might benefit the Argentines in furthering their claim. Accept British ownership. Quit worrying about it. Take the pressure off the situation. Possession is nine-tenths of the law. Possession and a superior military is ten tenths of the law. Work on restoring normal relationships with both the British and the islanders. When all is said and done, the islanders are the ones who should have the final say in who, if anyone, is to govern them.

They stopped being colonial tenants a long time ago. They were born there, as were their parents, their grandparents, their great grandparents. It’s very clear that they currently want to be a British territory. It’s very clear that that is how they’ll think for the short to medium term. It’s very clear that current Argentine policy, together with previous Argentine policy, will only strengthen that feeling. Argentina is doing everything necessary to prevent their own aims. It’s self defeating.

How’s this for a radical idea. Once relationships have been normalised, set up increased trade programs. New tourism routes, working both ways. Sporting competitions. Work on being the islanders best friend. Work on being a beneficial neighbour, one they begin to depend upon. Work on embedding a relationship that eventually becomes more important to the islanders than their relationship to Britain.

And provide Argentines with the truth about the islands and islanders. Stop kidding them. I’m convinced it’ll work better than their current efforts. It’ll take a long time. It’s very much a case of playing the waiting game. Taking a longer view. But like I said, the short and medium term are decided already anyway.

Desert Island Discs is one of the best, although I’m an infrequent listener. The guest has to be someone who interests me. It’s also one of the longest running radio shows in the world. Second only to Grand Ole Opry, I believe. The show has just marked its seventieth anniversary. That’s quite some milestone. The concept is simple. Choose  eight pieces of music, a book and a luxury object. The last of which has to be inanimate, and not something which can aid escape from the island or allow communication beyond its borders. Each guest is provided with the Complete Works of Shakespeare and a bible. Which is handy. Even desert islands can get nippy at night, and a supply of kindling is no bad thing. I loathe Shakespeare.

It’s extremely unlikely that I will ever be invited to regale the Beeb’s listeners with my choices. But I hate being left out. I will enlighten you, my bloggists, with my choices. And please feel free to leave your own in the comments. I am interested. I’ll choice eight singles rather than albums. Singles tend to be more emotive. But maybe I’ll cheat with the book.

The first song is also the most recent. Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol. It was voted ‘Song of the Noughties’ by one major poll in the UK, and rightfully so. It, like all of my choices, has a timeless quality about it. Good thing too, because I’ll have just these eight songs to listen to till the end of my days on the desert island.

Second up is Cielito Lindo. Having lived in Mexico for all those years, it would be impossible not to have at least one very Mexican song in my collection. This one not only brings so many memories flooding back, but is also the most beautiful. If music can be beautiful, then this is the perfect example. Especially the version I’ve linked to.

Third place is, perhaps, a little cliche. Maybe all eight are. But the Doors filled a large musical void in my life in the late 80′s and early 90′s and shaped many of my musical tastes. They are one of two bands who have a whole bunch of songs I love and could have picked, but I decided only one song per artist or band. And for the Doors, it is The End. It’s a masterpiece. It’s so melancholic, so soulful and so meaningful. It was the soundtrack to many stoned and otherwise reality altered pleasant afternoons and evenings with my buddies. It’s the soundtrack of a life I had long ago, one that passed into history. I don’t live there any more. It’s a life I miss but have no intention of returning to.

I’d like to visit Jim Morrisons grave in Paris one day. It’d be photogenic. I can leave a momento to his death and the death of my teenage years. While I was flaked out listing to Jim Morrison, there was new music being created. I liked Nirvana, but I never quite got the hype. They were always a distant second to Pearl Jam. Distant. One has mood swings as a teenager, and Alive fulfilled the spots that the Doors couldn’t reach.

Cover songs are rarely a patch on the original. But there is one I think is far, far superior. Gary Jules remake of Mad World. Tears for Fears didn’t do this tune justice. But then they did once fire a girl for not being good enough. A girl who went on to gain fame as Madonna. Jules cover worked. One song which has been covered umpteen times without ever touching the original is the Man Who Sold the World. Along with the Doors, David Bowie is another artist from whom I could pick a bunch of songs. But this was his best. I dig melancholic tunes. But it has to have a tune. Something special. Something unique. Something that you can’t get out of your head, but don’t want it to leave anyway. Where is My Mind by the Pixies fits the bill just perfect.

On to the book. How can you take one book?! I have to confess, I don’t think I’ve ever read a book twice in my life. Don’t get me wrong, I do like to read, and get through plenty of books. But I’ve never felt the urge to pick up a book I’ve already read. There’s just too many books I haven’t read to get through first. But there’s one title I’d like to take with me, although I’m sure it breaks the rules. The Encylopedia Britannica. It’s very me. Jack of all trades, master of none. I’m interested in a wide variety of subjects, but never interested enough to want more than a 60 minute documentary can provide. Plus, it still uses British English. My native tongue has been corrupted by too much exposure to the American version. I regularly use both British and American spelling in the same paragraph. It must stop.

On to the luxury object. This is the tough one. Picking those songs was surprisingly easy. The book too. But what sort of inanimate luxury object can I take? A musical instrument is tempting. A guitar. It’d have longevity in the entertainment department. But I can’t play, and could see me  getting frustrated and placing it on top of the bible and Shakespeare books – aka the kindling. I know this because I did buy a guitar in Oaxaca once. It was a nice ornament, but nothing more.

Here’s my pick. A tennis ball. Or a tube of three, if I may. I’m that sort of person. I can entertain myself for hours on end bouncing a ball against a wall. Or bowling to a wicket. Or playing keepy-ups. Plus, the island is bound to have trees. I can fashion a bat and racquet. Yes, my luxury inanimate object would be a tennis ball. There may also be turtles coming up the beach on my desert island. I can throw the ball for them to fetch. They move slow, but I will have all day.

So that’s my list. Almost. The observant amongst you (or at least those who can count) will have noticed I picked just seven songs. Not eight, as is the rule. Tradition has it that the guest leaves their favourite piece of music till last. Mine is a Pink Floyd track. It had to be. There’s no other band I’ve listened to more. No band I could happily listen to more. And one track stands out above all others. Above even Mother, Wish You Were Here and Comfortably Numb.

My youth had a definitive point at which it ended. Technically, it dragged on a year more. But at a very specific point my wild years were checked. This song doesn’t represent that moment in any way. But it represented my way of life. Whatever your choice of poison, whether it be legal or not, has an effect on you. I was never really a jump up, raving, action type of person. Although I had my moments. I’d consume my poison and enjoy the feeling. Savour it. Make it last. Stare at the stars. Philosophise. Enjoy the wonder. This song brought all those into focus. And in hindsight, the lyrics are fitting when I listen to it today. It’s mellow. It builds up. It explodes. It’s mellow again. It’s wonderful.

Except, the wrap has been an ongoing source of controversy. It was originally one of the highlights of the stadium in the design stage. Then, a couple of years ago it was decided to scrap the wrap to cut costs. I couldn’t believe my ears. Without it, the stadium looks an eyesore. If costs must be cut then there must have been alternatives. And in the big twelve billion pound cost picture, the seven million pound wrap isn’t the most significant or extravagant part of the expenditure.

The wrap was brought back to life though, with Dow pledging to put up the cash and make it themselves. That has just brought more controversy though, with campaigners for the Bhopal tragedy slating the event organisers for allowing Dow to have anything to do with the Olympics. I am not personally swayed by their arguments. Although I do believe they have a campaign that needs and is worthy of the publicity.

But how’s this for an idea that kills two birds with one stone. Cut the ridiculous £7 million cost and the involvement of Dow and just wrap the stadium with a blank canvas. I mean, how much does a frigging roll of canvas cost anyway?! Then invite the graffiti artists of the world to come and do their worst. Graffiti is modern. It’s a community activity, in the best and worst senses of the word. It’s cutting edge. And, if you pick the best artists, they’d produce art well worth visiting the stadium for. Perhaps they could kick off the project by getting Banksy to do a strip or two.

It’d never happen of course. Besides all other considerations, Health and Safety officers would never let a bunch of civilians clamber 20 metres up in the air on ladders. And perhaps for reason. I bet not too many days would pass before one of the artists got stoned and fell. Such is life. For now, enjoy the animated video below that shows what the stadium might look like. Or view this time lapse video of the stadium being built. Or, if you like a bit of conspiracy theory, there’s always this…

In Iran there are plenty of people who believe the same, and that Washington does as its London masters bid. Unbelievably, there is a movement within the US itself which seems to believe that the US never did actually gain its independence. In Mexico, I was often questioned about the differences between the British and their northern neighbours.

I wouldn’t imagine that anyone reading this would believe in any of the above theories or concepts. But there are big differences between the two countries. There’s a shared language, many shared beliefs, but two distinct cultures. There are, of course, many sub-cultures within each country. But I have an excellent example of what makes Britain different from the US.

The video below is of a photographer standing up for his rights outside of crisp factory. All the key ingredients are there. Petty incident? Check. Indignant stubborness? Check. Use of the word ‘bloody’? Check. When really heated, use of the word ‘wanker’? Check. Complete lack of real aggression throughout? Check. Generally polite exchange? Check. Nothing really happens before all parties go their separate ways? Check. It’s all very, very ‘unAmerican’…