Nick Griffin on Question Time

Before seeing Question Time last night I had thought that allowing BNP leader Nick Griffin onto the political discussion programme was a thoroughly bad idea. I didn't agree that the BBC absolutely had to invite him on in order to fulfil their charter, instead I thought that the move was more about securing publicity and ratings. I also shared the concerns of those such as Ken Livingstone who worried that giving racists a platform would lead to a spike in violence against Muslims and black people.

However, having seen the programme last night I have changed my mind, and think that it was probably a good move. This is because Nick Griffin was just so utterly pathetic. I would be extremely surprised if any undecided voters were to turn to the BNP as a result of his wretched performance, and would hope that those who supported him in the European elections are now regretting their choice.

Nick Griffin is one of the most hated people in the whole of the UK. He has put himself into this position, which cannot be pleasant, because of his fascist and racist beliefs. If he believes these things to be true so strongly that he is willing to be the target of so much venom in order to support them, then one would have expected him to defend them passionately. Instead, he attempted to deny he had ever said pretty much everything he's been recorded as saying.

Griffin complained that he was one of the most misquoted people in the British media. However, when asked by the chair David Dimbleby to give an example of one of the things that he'd been reported to have said that he hadn't actually said, he couldn't come up with anything. When questioned about his views on the Holocaust he claimed that they had changed, but that he couldn't explain the reasons why. His bizarre excuse for this was European legislation preventing such things being discussed. The rest of the panel nonetheless tried to draw something out of him, with Jack Straw pointing out that he was the Justice Secretary and so could guarantee that Griffin wouldn't be prosecuted. Still the BNP leader was evasive, giving the impression that he was simply clueless.

Why wasn't he just honest? Who was he trying to appeal to? By denying everything he stands for he alienates his core membership, and to everyone else he just looks like a bumbling fool. Sat next to Griffin was Bonnie Greer, playwright and Deputy Chairman of the British Museum, who seemed to be on the show as the voice of reason. She spoke in a very matter of fact fashion, and treated Griffin like a misguided little schoolboy, which is exactly how he behaved.

Griffin floundered for the rest of the programme. He appeared completely out of his depth, not really understanding what was going on around him. He smiled and laughed when people made jokes at his expense, applauded and nodded in agreement with those who suggested that people only voted for the BNP out of disillusionment rather than due to any engagement with their policies. If he truly thinks that, why isn't he hanging his head in shame? Surely a political party has failed if no one really agrees with its principles.

BNP supporters are today saying that the programme was completely unfair, that the audience and other panellists were overly hostile and didn't allow Nick Griffin to get his points across. Yes, the prevailing mood was against him, but I don't think someone who incites hatred based on ethnicity can complain about this. And yes, he didn't get his point across, but this was not due to others preventing him from doing so; rather it was because he did not have any coherent points to make. It is very sad that such a spineless, incapable man is present on the political stage in this country.

Man in wheelchair abandoned on Snowdon

On Saturday a group of six martial arts enthusiasts attempted to walk up Snowdon carrying their wheelchair-bound friend. This was apparently as part of a record attempt for charity. They got partway up the Llanberis path, decided they were getting a bit tired and so left their friend sat in his wheelchair on the path whilst they went up to bag the summit. They then descended, and instead of taking their friend back with them they decided it would be a better idea to save themselves the effort and to call mountain rescue who would, they figured, get him back down quickly in a helicopter.

The mountain rescue team was, unsurprisingly, less than impressed. Fifteen people carried the by then rather cold man to the railway and the train took him down to the valley bottom.

The first entry in the catalogue of stupidity demonstrated by this group is the fact that none of them had even been all the way up the Llanberis path before. Common sense would dictate that if you are set on performing such a ridiculous deed as carrying a wheelchair up a mountain, you would check first to see if the terrain is going to be okay for this. If the rocky reality of the mountain landscape had failed to dissuade you it would then be sensible to consider whether a mere six people were sufficient for such an undertaking. To which the answer would be no.

If, once embarked upon this fool's errand, the group started to get tired, you would have to consider the best course of action. Would it be to all descend together, using your last vestiges of energy to carry your friend down, or would it be to indulge the desires of the able-bodied group members to get to the top, hoping that somehow you would have enough juice left to carry your friend afterwards? Any person with half an ounce of consideration would go for the first option, and so of course this sorry lot plumped for the second.

I admit that I have only heard about this from news websites, and so there may be extenuating circumstances of which I am not aware. I doubt it though. It would seem to be yet another example of people treating mountains as toys, as tourist attractions, not as vast and often-dangerous masses of rock which demand respect. When I first started properly going out into the hills, a mere seven years ago, the sight of a mountain rescue helicopter was a rarity. Now they seem to be out and about every weekend in the Lake District and the north of Snowdonia.

People seem to think that they have a right to summit the mountains (especially if it's for charity) and so go tramping up pitifully ill-equipped. Sometimes it works out okay; the weather is good, the path is easy. But often the weather is foul, the way is unclear, and that clown costume which seemed such a good idea down at sea level is suddenly not quite so funny. An accident happens, the good people of mountain rescue are called out and yet again they risk their lives in order to help those too naive to help themselves. The hills in the UK may not be especially big, but that doesn't mean they can't pack a considerable bite. Give them the consideration they deserve.

Too many snails?

A resident frog

The garden pond has been a source of much entertainment for me over the past year. One of the few advantages of being in too much pain to work is that I have been able to take the time to simply sit back and watch as nature has gone about its business. Our pond is only about 6 m² large and is not very deep, but there is so much going on. It has been simply teeming with life, from the alien-looking larvae and diving beetles to the much larger visiting frogs and dragonflies. Best of all has been watching the newts, from their first appearance in spring, through the frantic breeding season to their departure in early autumn.

Back in the spring the pond was in a sorry state. It was still full of creatures, but these were scarcely visible due to the suffocating swathes of blanket weed and duckweed clogging up the water. The pond was also choked by a proliferation of decaying leaves, deposited there by a nearby tree the previous autumn. Drastic action was required.

We decided that the best way to clean up the pond was to remove huge clumps of the leaves and weed by hand, sorting through the noxious-looking mess to ensure that no living things were discarded. Before long we had a whole menagerie of weird and wonderful creatures collected in a bucket: beetles, bugs, and boatmen mixed in with the occasional amphibian. It was tiring but fascinating work. When we were done the pond was by no means perfect, but looked significantly better. We returned the creatures to their home and waited for things to settle out.

One of the newts I found in the mess of leaves

The duckweed had been conquered and the bulk of the leaves removed, but things were still not right. Despite our best efforts, the blanket weed was still there. The problem with blanket weed is that it grows, and it grows fast, expanding at a quite frankly terrifying pace on hot days. It had to be removed, but how? Luckily, inspiration struck and I devised a cunning approach to this: using a broom to simply sweep out the weed. Its green fibrous tendrils stick readily to bristles, meaning that with just a few minutes work the pond could be made much clearer. However, if even the smallest bit was left this would expand rapidly and the next day the pond would need to be 'broomed' again.

We had discovered one good weapon, but we needed to open up another front on which to attack the masses of blanket weed. The broom was a mechanical approach, and so perhaps it was time to attempt something a little more biological. We headed off to the garden centre and returned proudly wielding a water-filled bag containing seven snails. We crossed our fingers and hoped that these would be hungry molluscs, eager to chomp down every last vestige of weed.

At first not a lot happened. The pond still required regular brooming, and we rarely clapped eyes on its newest inhabitants. But then, one day, the blanket weed was gone. The water was crystal clear; we could see everything. And everything included one hell of a lot of snails. They were everywhere, not a single patch had been left uncolonised. They came in all sizes, from the barely perceptible to those several centimetres long. It was a remarkable transformation.

It is of course good to be rid of the blanket weed, but we are now wondering if we have simply substituted one bane for another. Can such a huge number of snails be healthy? Will they naturally regulate their numbers in a sensible fashion, or will there be a population explosion followed by a mass death as the pond is drained of resources? Will their excrement make the pond too toxic for other creatures? Troubling questions indeed.

Friend or foe?

Deciding that no harm, and potentially some good, would be done by a little intervention, I decided to remove some of the snails. Just working from one corner I scooped out about fifty and put them in a bucket along with some weed and sediment for them to munch on. The places these had occupied were quickly filled by others, and when I returned a mere quarter of an hour later it was impossible to tell that I had taken any out.

And now I have a new dilemma. What do I do with a bucket full of snails? I could try to sell them back to the garden centre, thus making a huge profit, but I'm not sure they'd be accepted. I could try and fob them off on neighbours with ponds, but they probably have plenty of snails of their own. I can't put them in the river as we can't tell for certain what type of snails they are, and we don't want to risk harming the ecosystem there. I need a plan, and I need one fast as I doubt snails enjoy living in a bucket. Any ideas?

That's a lot of leg!

I found this creature on the outside wall of the house yesterday and thought 'surely that amount of leg can't be necessary?'! The little critter is a harvestman, a type of arachnid that differs from spiders as its body comprises only one segment; the head, thorax and abdomen being melded together. It also possesses a mere two eyes as opposed to the spider's eight, and can't produce the silk needed to make webs. Birds are one of the harvestman's main predators, but to help deter them it can secrete a substance from the base of each front leg that smells really bad (if you happen to be a sparrow or a blue tit). It also relies on raw speed to help avoid becoming another creature's next meal - enormous legs and minimal body weight come in handy for this! Interestingly, it sheds its exoskeleton every ten days or so, like a snake shedding its skin. Harvestmen are normally nocturnal, but nonetheless it is still quite possible to see them out and about during the day. If you do spot one, try to resist picking it up as if you do, one of its legs will probably fall off.

A soggy weekend in the Rhinogs

Ah, the Rhinogs. One of the few groups of hills in Wales that you can visit with the guarantee that you will hardly see another soul. This is due to two main factors: firstly, the hills are too gnarly to appeal to your average hill walker; secondly, the visibility will almost certainly be such that unless a fellow human being comes within five metres of you, you will have no idea that they are there.

My friend Murray has a perverse fascination with the kind of hills that nobody else likes; the more obscure and unwelcoming the better. He therefore schemed a plan that would see us start in the seaside town of Barmouth, catch a train to the rarely-frequented village of Talsarnau, hack our way inland and then walk back south across the mountains over two days. Linear walks incorporating a wild camp are always appealing, and so four of us endeavoured to put the plan into action...

Day one

Everything started well; we caught the train with no problems and our pronunciation of 'Talsarnau' was sufficiently good that the guard understood where we wanted to go. Before long we had left the (limited) signs of civilisation behind and were surrounded by craggy wilderness. Leaving our heavy packs hidden in the remains of a small ruined hut, we headed north to bag the first two peaks of the weekend, Moel Ysgyfarnogod and Foel Penolau. Both of these are very satisfying tops, with the second requiring some minor scrambling in order to reach the summit, and are well worth a visit. We were fortunate in that the cloud was quite high at that point, and so we had some stunning views, with the Llyn Peninsula to the west and a vast valley to the east.

Soon afterwards we were in a slight quandary: the next peak on our list, Rhinog Fawr, was some way to the south. Did we embrace Pythagoras’ theorem and take the direct route, or did we stick to the path, which would mean walking further and required considerable re-ascent? Given the trickiness of the terrain, the rapidly-lowering clag and the fact that Murray had just become intimately acquainted with a bog, we plumped for the latter.

By the time we reached the ‘Roman Steps’ path that skirts the side of Rhinog Fawr we were all beginning to feel fatigued, and started looking around for a possible campsite. As all around us was steep, rocky and heather-infested things didn't seem too promising. Fortunately we did manage to find a place that was fairly flat and wasn't too squelchy, and before long we had all three tents set up. Dinner was pasta tarted up with ground pepper from sachets 'acquired' from a workplace canteen, followed by hearty slices of Yorkshire Tea Cake. This tastes good anywhere, but in a cold tent after a hard day's walk it is elevated to the divine. The evening’s entertainment consisted of an unsuccessful game of 'mind snap' (i.e. the card game but with no cards), a rather more rewarding session of tent-bound ‘I Spy’ and a great quantity of borderline-amusing jokes.

Day two

The next day we awoke to much more typical Welsh weather: cold, wet and windy. Before setting out on the trip we had scoffed at a weather forecast which had promised a cloud base at a mere 49 m - far too low even for the Rhinogs, we thought; unfortunately that prediction appeared to be coming true. Despite many and prolonged protestations – ‘You expect me to come out in that?!’ - we eventually got everyone out of their sleeping bags and packed up ready to go.

We followed a reasonable (for the Rhinogs) path up to the summit of Rhinog Fawr, where we hunkered down to eat some snacks and wonder what the view might look like in the absence of cloud. This is one of life's great mysteries, and I am not sure anyone truly knows the answer. The way down Rhinog Fawr is rather less distinct than the way up, lacking any real paths, leading Murray to comment that it is never possible to descend by the same way twice. Our chosen route was perhaps the worst of all the possible options, and I take comfort in the fact that I am very unlikely to repeat it. We unsteadily picked our way down a steep, unstable pile of boulders, unpleasant at the best of times but made worse by the rain which had made them incredibly slippery. With these conquered, the terrain turned more heathery; equally steep and even less reliable.

A typical Rhinogs view

It was a grumpy group who finally reached the bottom. Soaked through, with strained knees and sore wrists we contemplated the shadow of Rhinog Fach in front of us and thought 'no thanks'. Not liking to bail the walk, but at the same time having no desire to continue hacking through the heather, we decided to head west down the valley, hoping to catch a train from the station about 10 km away at Llanbedr. A couple of hours later a much happier gang were mere minutes away from the station when we heard a train approach. We tried to speed up, but to no avail. There was no chance that we could get there in time, and so the train trundled past without us.

It turned out that we had just missed the only train running that day - such is the nature of public transport in rural Wales on a Sunday. Somehow, being late by such a short amount of time felt much worse than if we had missed the train by a good few hours. Dejected, we slumped on the station bench and consoled ourselves with Bournville. Then it was back to the village to inspect the bus timetable, which was similarly sparse. Luckily, however, a helpful soul at one of the pubs provided us with taxi numbers and for the princely sum of £12 a friendly driver allowed the four of us and our gear, all damp and smelly, into his nice clean car.

Barmouth is a seaside town which still has character and, despite the tackiness of some of the establishments, I like it. It also has a very good chip shop, the Harbour Fish Bar, which we were very happy to make use of. Alas, time was getting on, and so after finishing our meals we got back in the car and began the long drive south. All in all, it was a good weekend despite the unforgiving nature of the hills, although it may be some time before any of us attempt to the Rhinogs again.

Sir John Soane's Museum

Sir John Soane (1753 - 1837) was the architect who designed, amongst many other buildings, the Bank of England. Strongly influenced by what he saw on an early study tour to Italy, he decided to specialise in the neoclassical style, bringing the majesty and elegance of Greece and Rome to his own country. He did not allow his humble beginnings as the youngest son of a bricklayer to impede him; thanks to his inclination to work hard and his natural talent he soon found success and was able to thrive. A few years after winning the Bank of England commission he purchased number 12, Lincoln's Inn Fields, eventually acquiring numbers 13 and 14 as well. It is in these houses that the museum now lies.

Soane was passionate about his favourite branch of architecture and sought to pass this enthusiasm on to students. He therefore transformed his house into a museum showcasing the best of classical design, not only by displaying ancient objects but by manipulating the rooms themselves. He hoped that young architects would come into the house and find inspiration, encouraging them to incorporate some of what they saw into their own plans. Every nook and corner is filled with another treasure: a piece of fresco here, a cast of a statue there. As the rooms themselves are mostly quite small this proliferation of objects could easily feel claustrophobic, however Soane’s canny use of light, often entering the interior through coloured glass, alleviates any sense of enclosure.

It is difficult to pick out highlights in a museum so full of interest, and where the building itself is such an attraction, but there are nonetheless a few things which truly stand out. One of these is the sarcophagus of King Seti the first, residing in the catacomb-like basement. Although the London air has unfortunately corroded away much of its former glory, this find, one of the most important relics ever found of ancient Egypt, is hugely impressive, being entirely covered in skilfully-etched hieroglyphics. The catacombs also contain a grave, supposedly that of the invented monk Padre Giovanni, but actually containing the remains of Mrs Soane’s beloved lap dog Fanny.

The picture room is truly a marvel. Faced with a large number of paintings and not enough space in which to hang them, Soane devised a novel solution: what appear initially to be static walls loaded with artwork are in fact hinged screens which can open out to reveal yet more pictures behind. The paintings themselves are more than worthy of note. Perhaps most striking are those by William Hogarth, of which there are two series: 'An Election' and 'A Rake’s Progress', highly satirical works whose messages are just as relevant today as they were in the 1700s. In addition to these are drawings of Italian buildings by Piranesi and watercolours of several of Soane's designs by Joseph Gandy. Had all of these latter actually been built, London today would be a very different place indeed. One view of the city is particularly far-fetched, having grand mountains as its backdrop, so perhaps these ideas were based more in Romanticism than in reality.

Soane's museum is not on the standard tourist itinerary, and so is often one of the last museums that people get round to visiting. Once they have done so however, it becomes a firm favourite. The house is not that large, and so it does not take long to wander around it, and it is definitely time well spent. The staff are friendly and knowledgeable; it is obvious that they are passionate about the place and enjoy showing it off. An extra bonus is that the museum is completely free, although it is so good that it feels rude to leave without giving a donation. After all, there are few places in London as interesting or as atmospheric.

The museum's website

Lincoln's Inn Fields is an attractive London square located just east of Kinsgway. Sir John Soane's Museum is on the northern edge. The southern edge is home to the Royal College of Surgeons and Lincoln's Inn itself lies on the east side. The closest tube station, just two minutes walk away, is Holborn (Central and Piccadilly lines).

Ode to the LDV Convoy

I make no pretensions to being a poet, but as today is National Poetry Day in the UK I thought I would give it a go:

Alas, poor LDV Convoy,
Murdered by credit crunch cruelty,
Will we ever see your like again?

Your struggling diesel engine,
Sputtering along the highway,
Letting out a roar with each gear change.

With walls thin as tissue paper,
In the event of a collision
We knew you would always come off worse.

Never a comfortable journey
For any sort of passenger,
‘specially not for those with quite long legs.

I once got you up to 90
Driving downhill on the M6,
You shook so hard I thought you might burst.

But I need not have worried as
You always got there in the end,
The wonderful, incomparable, irreplaceable, quite phenomenal LDV Convoy.

Ok, so it's probably not an ode, but I'm not particularly au fait with poetry classification. I challenge you to come up with your own poem!

Show the government your appreciation of LDV
National Poetry Day

A brief guide to snooker referees

The snooker season is now well and truly underway, with the Grand Prix taking place in Glasgow right now. I therefore thought it would be timely to provide a brief guide to the people wearing the white gloves.

Appearance	Well done! You've spotted...
Tall, Dutch and friendly. The kind of guy you'd employ to be your butler if you were stinking rich and owned a castle.	Jan Verhaas. He performs the initial toss using a half guilder coin.
Welsh, balding, glasses-wearing. Bears more than a passing resemblance to the fat controller.	Eirian Williams. Apparently enjoys a spot of karaoke outside of work.
Female. Killer heels.	Michaela Tabb. Used to be a professional eight ball pool player.
Old and smiley with a cheeky streak. Could easily be a grandad from a Werther's Original advert.	Alan Chamberlain. Before he was a referee he sold ladies underwear.
Looks like his suit might burst. Kind of like Mr Blobby, but without the spots.	Peter Williamson. Has officiated six 147s.
Small, hesitant, slightly Transylvanian.	Terry Camilleri. Comes from Malta, not Romania.
Round face, glasses. Fairly unremarkable but nonetheless naggingly familiar.	Colin Humphries A poker-playing Liverpudlian.

Picture from Maciej Jaros on Wikimedia Commons

Moctezuma at the British Museum

I had never been to an exhibition at the British Museum before last week, mostly due to the fact that there are a staggering number of interesting things that you can see there for free. Handing over at least £10 for a ticket has therefore never seemed necessary, and, if the current Moctezuma display is representative of these exhibitions, is not something that I will be doing again in a hurry.

It doesn't help that they have taken over the reading room in order to stage this exhibition. I love the reading room. With its multiple storeys of heaving bookshelves running around the outer wall, all in good old-fashioned heavy dark wood, and its desks protruding in a star-like fashion from the centre, it is my idea of heaven. Having all its glory hidden away behind screens irks me. Especially when the reason for it is so underwhelming.

The major failing of Moctezuma is that it doesn't have a coherent story to tell. There are indeed some nice objects to look at (although the masks that were my favourites are normally available to see in the Museum anyway), but many of the descriptions are repetitive and failed to provide any useful insight. The exhibition is supposedly divided up into sections on such things as religion and warfare, although if it weren't for the signs it would be difficult to tell this. Little is truly engaging, which is a huge disappointment as it wouldn't have taken much extra effort to make this a must-see event.

For example, there was a diagram comprising of three gears showing how the Aztec’s, or rather the Mexica’s, (the refusal to call people by their commonly known names was another annoyance) calendar worked. Why not make actual gears rather than just drawing them, so that people could move them and hence understand better how the whole system slotted together? Instead of just having small models of temple buildings why not make a mock-up of the interior of one of them that people could walk through? The Aztec way of drawing is highly stylised and figures are often difficult to pick out on the un-painted stonework, so why not give an explanation as to why their artists worked in this way?

I came away not really knowing what Moctezuma was like as a king, what society was like in the Aztec civilisation, or how the ordinary people went about their days, all things that I had hoped that the exhibition would shed light on. I could probably now sketch out a map of the centre of Tenochtitlan, or tell you the outline of the myths surrounding its creation, but I didn't feel in immersed in the culture. I appreciate that there are many things that we just don't know due to the Spanish invasion, but even if it wasn't completely accurate a bit of speculation could have added much needed colour, and the points we can be more certain on could have been fleshed out. The exhibition has received rave reviews, and so maybe I just didn't 'get' it, but I would still caution those thinking of spending a lot of money on a ticket.

Montezuma: Aztec Ruler

Inherit the Wind at the Old Vic

Showing at London's Old Vic until 20th December, Inherit the Wind is a 1955 play by Jerome Lawrence and Robert Edwin Lee based on the famous Scopes monkey trial of 1925. The play's revival is timely given both the bicentenary of Charles Darwin's birth and the rising tide of Christian fundamentalism in places such as the USA; indeed one wonders what kind of reception it would receive in that country at present. However, the main aim of the authors was not to specifically espouse evolution but rather to champion the rights of people to think for themselves, a pertinent issue in the fifties due to the scaremongering of McCarthyism.

In the first half of the play the scene is set: we are in a small town in Tennessee, populated by inherently good-natured but easily led Christians who are stirred up with a mixture of excitement and revulsion. They are thrilled that the famous politician Matthew Harrison Brady is coming to town and greet him with cheers and a picnic, but the reason for his visit - the fact that a local teacher, Bertram Cates, has given lessons on evolution, and is to be prosecuted by the state - has them fuming. They are even more riled to discover that Cates is to be defended by the famous agnostic lawyer Henry Drummond, thought by some to be the devil himself. The bulk of the action takes place in the courtroom, where these two legal titans battle it out; one using his conviction that every word in the Bible is literally true, the other by appealing to common sense and rational thought.

The play has a large cast of 41 (and one monkey) which is used to great effect to create the early 1900s small town atmosphere. One scene, in which an eager audience hums the tune to ‘Amazing Grace’ whilst the preacher bays his message of damnation and hellfire, is particularly chilling. Best though, is the acting of the two leads. David Troughton is utterly convincing as Brady, a man desperate to return to the political spotlight who is well-meaning but blinkered by his narrow religious viewpoints. In stark contrast is an almost unrecognisable Kevin Spacey, whose sharp comic timing and stage presence are ideal for the quick-witted Drummond. The play's ending is perhaps a little forced, with one event in particular seeming unnecessary, but everything up until that point more than makes up for it. In short, ‘Inherit the Wind’ is both entertaining and thought-provoking, and so is well worth going to see.

The Old Vic

Scopes Monkey Trial

The Monument

A good way to get a panoramic view of London is to climb the Monument. Erected from 1671 to 1677, it was designed (as were great swathes of the City) by Sir Christopher Wren and commemorates the Great Fire of London in 1666. The height of the Monument, at 61 m, is equal to the distance between its base and the site of the bakery in Pudding Lane where the conflagration started. A towering Doric pillar of white Portland limestone, the Monument is the tallest freestanding stone column in the world, and yet nowadays it is barely visible, its dominance having been usurped by the numerous high-rise buildings that have sprung up around it. It is hence something to be stumbled upon, rather than to be admired in awe from afar.

Despite this, the view from the top is surprisingly good, and well worth the meagre £3 entry charge. The towering skyscrapers of the City, such as the famous Gherkin, and the vast dome of St Paul's Cathedral dominate the view to the north, but to the south the view opens out over the river. Tower Bridge lies a little way to the east, and to the west it is possible to make out the London Eye, carrying round in its pods the tourists who have paid far more for their panorama.

One of the best things to see, however, lies within the Monument itself. To reach the viewing platform it is necessary to climb 311 steps, which ascend their way heavenwards in a tight spiral. Once at the top it is mesmerising to stare downwards into the pillar’s core, looking at the stairs as they go round and round and round...

If you visit, do spare a thought for those who work in this place. As I descended the steps with a friend we were stopped by a terrified woman going in the opposite direction. Her eyes glued to her feet the whole time, she hastily thrust a couple of certificates in our direction. We thanked her, and she explained that she had to go up to the top to make sure everyone got this memento of their visit. Unfortunately, this simple task was made rather daunting due to the fact that she was petrified of heights...

Picture from Wikimedia Commons user Artybrad

The Monument's website