It could only be viewed from the air — which was not a problem since every flight heading south from Heathrow went directly over it.
(Potentially Not Safe For Work Warning: Linked article contains swear words (which is rather bizarre, given that the subject matter is Hello Kitty.))
Via BoingBoing

For years, I have complained about the inability of any awards show to properly choose the best films of the year. I have attributed this failure to an inexplicable unwillingness on the part of awards-granting bodies to ask me what I think, and then do exactly what I say. I am pleased to announce that, this year, one such body actually is asking me what I think, although they still persist in asking their other members as well. In other words, I am now a voting member of BAFTA–the British Academy of Film and Television Arts and Sciences. And now that I’m doing it myself, I have stopped thinking of awards show voters as “those fools”, and started thinking of them as “those poor bastards.” This voting thing is hard–much harder than any awards voting I’ve done.

As every American knows, Christmas in London is a magical winter wonderland, with carolers on every corner singing in perfect harmony to a steady but manageable stream of cheerful shoppers. Everybody’s hands are tucked safely into large fluffy muffs, except for a sprinkling of coal-blackened orphans wearing fingerless gloves, the better to clutch their chimney-sweeping equipment, and as the day wears on, everybody hurries home to eat a fat, perfectly roast goose, leaving the snow-dusted streets empty but for twinkling lights and the occasional ghost.
In real life, Christmas in London can be divided into two parts: the painfully crowded shopping period before, and the utterly lifeless dead zone during.

There are only two times when people have a hard time understanding what I’m saying. When I’m excited or happy about the subject at hand, I tend to speak too fast. When I’m unhappy or not excited, I tend to mumble and swallow my words. Other than that, I’m a regular Demosthenes (by which I mean, I speak like my mouth is full of marbles. (That last joke was included so that those of you who took Roman history can actually get some use out of it. Everybody else, feel free to ignore it and move on.)

Two years ago, the BBC hit on a clever format for a reality show. First, they did a survey to find out the 100 Greatest Britons as chosen by modern-day residents of the UK. They then presented an hour-long show about each of the the top ten vote-getters, and, at the end, invited the audience to choose the absolute greatest Briton of all time.

We’ve noticed that the British seem to find Thanksgiving more puzzling than any other holiday. And so I’ve written the following, which will (I hope) explain Thanksgiving to my friends and neighbors here in the UK.
Briefly, Thanksgiving is the day when Americans eat way too much and then sit around and talk about how great it is to be American. In short, it’s just like every other day of the year, except this time, we get the day off from work to do it.

As a general rule, British actors are better at sounding American than American actors are at sounding British. Compare, for example, Anthony Hopkins in Silence of the Lambs and Bob Hoskins in Who Framed Roger Rabbit? with Kevin Costner in Robin Hood or Dick van Dyke in Mary Poppins. There’s simply no contest.

For me, watching the presidential elections from the vantage point of another country has felt like a certain kind of recurring dream that everybody has had; I know something very important is happening very far away, but I can’t quite perceive it directly, or get close enough to influence it.

I’m riding on the Tube when a woman who looks to be about 20, with her blond hair tied in Heidi ringlets, enters the car and addresses the crowd. “I’m a medical student,” she says, “and I’m collecting for Guy’s and St. Thomas Hospital.” She’s wearing blue hospital scrubs, and holding a large bucket that says “GSTH” on it, with a slot for coins. But other than that, there is no way of verifying that she is who she says she is. She’s just as likely to be raising money for her drug habit or cult leader as for medical research. In fact, given that London underground regulations forbid solicitation on the trains, she is almost certainly a scammer.

About a year ago, Lauren and I went to a cricket match. It was so thrilling that it was another year before we felt able to go to another one.
Many Americans view cricket as only slightly less impenetrable than your average income tax form, and marginally less fun. In fact, the sport couldn’t be simpler. A pitcher is called a “bowler,” and a pitch is called a “pitch.” The field is called the “pitch” (except for the part outside the pitch, which is called the “field”) and when a pitch bounces on the pitch, that bounce is called a “pitch.” To “bowl” is to throw a pitch, to “bowl” is to engage in a period of several bowls, and to “bowl” is to get out. By contrast, a “bowl” is a turn at bat. Now that you have the basic terminology, explaining the game is simplicity itself. The bowlers bowl pitches which pitch on the pitch until the batter is bowled, and when that happens enough, the over is over. (Oh, I forgot to mention: an “over” is six pitches. No, not that kind of pitch. The other kind.)