Scroll down or click here for a video of the afternoon.

Being Shrove Tuesday, St Luke’s held its first pancake party for years, as dozens of people arrived at the Community Hall for an hour of fun. There was no charge – not even a pot for donations – as we wanted to attract as many people as possible. A number of children came from the church primary school, and I spotted my friend Geoff passing on his way home from an after-school class, so invited him to pop in too.

Inside, a fresh pancake was leaving the kitchen every minute, ready for each ‘customer’ to fill with sugar, syrup, or lemon juice, and then eat at the tables. In addition to that, there was a crafts table set up, and pancake-tossing races from one end of the hall to the other to entertain the younger ones.

All it really lacked was a party atmosphere: perhaps a little music would have livened it up a bit. Nevertheless, all had an enjoyable afternoon, as we across the road prepared to begin the period of Lent.

Video

After waking for the last time in Germany’s capital city, we all washed and dressed, and then proceeded to unpack everything we’d packed last night in a bid to save time this morning, and repack our cases with all of that plus the things like pyjamas and wash-bags that we’d been unable to pack beforehand. We left our cases in our rooms while we ate breakfast downstairs, and then returned upstairs awaiting our rooms to be OK-ed for tidiness by the teachers. I was in one of the last dormitories to be checked, but I managed to get to the ground floor before most of my colleagues by taking the stairs as opposed to the lift. "You’re mad" they (rather oddly) told me, to which my reply was: "Six flights of stairs? Pftt. I ran up them with my case on Day One – why shouldn’t I run back down them now?"

Surprisingly, the "free luggage room", as boasted by the hostel’s website, where we would leave our valuables and luggage during the day, turned out to be the disabled loo. As we piled up cases around the sink, toilet, and hand-dryer, Mr Shire and I both had a horrible vision of a disabled person needing to use the room, and opening the door to reveal all our bags.

Travelling by train again, at 10:30am we arrived at Bernauer Straße, the location of one of the longest preserved sections of the Berlin Wall. One enters the memorial park (created on the former East Berlin side in 1999) through a missing section of the wall, where one’s greeted by an outdoor display of the faces of those who died trying to escape from East to West. Because the wall effectively went up overnight in August 1961, residents of the street who had, until that point, been able to pretty freely cross from one side to the other, were trapped on the East German side and unable to meet neighbours over-the-road. Like fifty other households, Ida Siekmann decided to jump out of her flat’s window, but she did so just before the West Berlin Fire Department had time to open the jumping-sheet, therefore becoming the first casualty of the Berlin Wall. Soon, the windows of all of the houses were (like the doorways) walled-up and occupants forced to leave, as the houses were demolished to make way for extra fortification to the wall.

We were shown a couple of very interesting films about the wall, including what led to its construction, what it symbolised during a very tense time across Europe, and how it eventually came down so quickly. In fact, all of us Year 11s already knew much of the content of the films, having studied the Cold War in recent History lessons, but it was great revision and a helpful footing for the Year 10s who’ll begin their studies on Germany in this period in the coming months.

After that, we were taken to a rooftop ‘viewing tower’, where we could look out over a reconstructed section of the border’s fortification: ploughed land, mines, barbed wire, and watchtowers.

Tour leader Chris led us on to Orabueburger Straße, home to the grand Neue Synagoge (the largest synagogue in Berlin, at the time of opening). During Kristallnacht (9 November 1938), the building was set on fire by the Nazis, its furniture smashed and its Torahs abused. The police officer on duty that night arrived in the early hours of the following day and ordered the mob to leave, while the fire brigade came to extinguish the flames.

Our final piece of history of the trip was a stop at the memorial sculpture on Große Hamburger Straße which is of a group of Jews being led to their deaths, just in front of the Jewish cemetery. The street had a strong Jewish community with shops and schools, but soon after the Nazi party came to power, it became a collection point for Jews to be sent to their deaths. As we walked to the Alexa Shopping Centre, all of us reflected for a brief period on everything we’d seen during the preceding days.

Alexa is very similar to Westfield in its range of retailers, with everything from the bowling alley we visited on Tuesday to The North Face. Lorna, Zeki, and Sophie went off to go and buy the presents for Chris and the trip-leading teachers, from funds we’d all voluntarily contributed towards, while the rest of us went off in groups of between four and six. The lack of real freedom is something that always irritates me with such trips, but is understandable given the responsibility of the staff. Consequently, after a Currywurst lunch, I browsed the three floors with Jake and Simon, before stopping at Starbucks and connecting to their Free Wi-Fi to check up on the day’s news.

At 3:20pm, we congregated at the pre-arranged rendezvous, where Jason and Sam presented Mr Shire with a bomber’s fur hat that they’d bought for a few euros. Sir seemed less than delighted, especially when they bullied him into wearing it for the rest of our time in Germany.

But that time was quickly diminishing, as our flight was just hours hours away. We took the train back to the hostel, and before collecting our cases from the disabled loo, Zeki and Sophie gave the gifts to the teachers who’d run the trip. Chris seemed very pleased with the card we’d all signed for him – despite the fact that, thanks to Huw’s abysmal German skills, he’d bought one with a pre-printed message which read: "On your First Communion…".

I assisted the coach driver with the loading of suitcases into the bus’s underneath storage area outside the hostel, and then the subsequent unloading once we got to Tegel Airport. After an hour or so, we completed the usual security check and border control formalities, and then boarded the flight which would take us back to Blighty.

Over the past four days, I’ve met a people who are friendly, warm, and welcoming, in a city that is young, edgy, and alive. Germany’s a country that does, of course, still bear the scars of the actions of both its predecessors in government, but also those whom that government was fighting – the Allies. Amid the impressive, new, glass Hauptbahnhof and reconstructed, historic, stone Reichstag are the memorials to those who died in shocking displays of inhumanity from both sides, all in the last hundred years. Unlike London, there’s a huge amount of undeveloped land, squares which have been left untouched as yet. That will, no doubt, change with time, as the reunited capital grows older (remember, it’s only been a single city in a single country for little over a score of years). But already it’s a great city, an exciting place to be, and a wonderful place to have spent time with my classmates and friends.

Goodbye Germany, and thank you.

The reason behind the push for time was because we would be spending a few hours at the Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp, 75 minutes away by coach. Though I’d brought my iPod dock along with me, in the event I didn’t actually get it out, partly because the majority of the rest of the group were using the time to have another forty winks, but mainly because I thought it inappropriate for us all to arrive merry and bubbly after a coach singalong to One Direction’s What Makes You Beautiful.

The memorial and former camp is spread over a large, flat site, and as we walked through the sickeningly ironic Arbeit Macht Frei iron wrought gates and assembled on the windy forecourt (Apelplatz), all of us were feeling the chill. But we were reminded that for the prisoners of the site seventy years ago, a few degrees below zero was average: it would often have been -25°C in the winter (as it was days before we arrived), and yet still the morning and evening roll-calls would take place. (The longest recorded roll-call lasted a gruelling eighteen hours.)

Few of the 200,000 who went to Sachsenhausen were sent especially to die. Of the 30,000 who didn’t make it out alive, many worked themselves to death, some threw themselves against the electric fence to end their misery, but by far and away the most were Russian Red Army soldiers. We were shown the remains of the crematorium, and the mass graves of those who were killed by the earlier method of a firing squad or hanging, though of course no-one knows how many bodies were laying beneath our feet.

I later found out that one of the biggest things that went on at Sachsenhausen was the largest counterfeiting operation in history, Operation Bernhard. The Nazis forced inmates to produce fake banknotes, in an effort to bring down the economies of the UK and the USA. For their toils, prisoners slept in overcrowded, dirty, smelling barracks, which were rife with disease and illness, and (without heating) cold in the winter, and (with so many other bodies) swelteringly hot in the summer.

“And I know one thing more – that the Europe of the future cannot exist without commemorating all those, regardless of their nationality, who were killed at that time with complete contempt and hate, who were tortured to death, starved, gassed, incinerated, and hanged.”

— Andrzej Szycypiorski, prisoner of the Sachsenhausen concentration camp, 1995

We ate lunch at the Remus Restaurant, a five-minute walk away from the camp. Though the time between the first and last plates being served was a little too long for my liking, the basic fried chicken and chips was tasty, even if the tomato and salad had a strange taste of fish. That said, I’ve eaten much, much worse, and have no real grounds for complaint.

At 1:30pm, we left the restaurant and set off on the road again, with Germany’s 20th-Century Olympic Stadium our next stop. I remember learning about the 1936 Olympics in a History lesson last year, and personally found everything about them fascinating: the optimism and then concerns of Goebbels at the world seeing what Germany was really like; the production of Olympia, a propaganda film by Leni Riefenstahl, which pioneered camera techniques now commonplace in the coverage of sport events; and the embarrassment of Hitler when the black American Jessie Owens beat an ‘Aryan‘ German.

Inevitably, our look around the stadium (still frequently used for football and track events, and home to a museum and national side fan shop) concluded with a stop at another coffee shop, for those who wished to take advantage of it. Many of us were still in awe of the building –even by today’s standards it’s amazing – and took a final few minutes to take it all in, before jumping back on board the coach for one more stop.

We pulled up outside a rather unremarkable path, following it up to a railway track, ginger with rust. Carriages no longer stop at the platform adjacent to it, and engines no longer pass up and down the line. At one end, tall trees are growing in the middle of the gage, while at the other, a signpost advises visitors not to walk any further due to the busy lines running parallel. “This,” tour guide Chris explained, “is Platform 17, a memorial to the Jews who here were loaded into carriages that would take them to their deaths. After a fortnight on a cramped cattle-train, feeling disoriented and lost, those who’d survived the journey would be hand-picked by the Nazi doctor, and sent to one of two lines of people: one to work, the other to die.”

Again, for many members of the group, keeping non-steamy eyes when looking at such a memorial, to those who suffered from this brutal act, was tough. For me, of all the atrocities committed on both sides during the war, it’s the images of Jews, homosexuals, and other ‘untermenschen‘ being taken away that hits me the hardest. Unlike the museums, there’s little to actually look at, save for the data on the destinations and number of people on board each of the trains that left Platform 17 – including one statistic for a train that left for Sachsenhausen towards the final months of the war.

Feeling a little emotionally drained, we were driven across the city and back to the hostel, after which roughly three quarters of the group went in search of some ‘retail therapy’, while the rest of us relaxed in the rooms and in the lounge. We were able to collect dinner from 7:00pm onwards, and it was at this stage when we started to talk about small gifts for the trip leaders. Zeki and Huw told us that they’d already bought a card, leaving Lorna, Sophie, and I to encourage everyone to sign the card when the boys went round with it later and to contribute to the ‘public subscription’ pot for the presents.

At 7:30pm, we met in the foyer and then walked the short distance to the Reichstag – the home of the German government. What we saw was, of course, not quite what Hitler would have seen – after a mysterious arson attack that brought down the building (the Nazis famously blamed the fire on the Communists, giving them reason to arrest and lock away their political enemies as ‘plotters’ and ‘conspirators’), the shell stood derelict for years, just on the Eastern side of the Berlin Wall during the latter half of the 20th-Century, until it was rebuilt under the reunification process. Nowadays, one can visit the glass dome at the top but, like other such attractions across the world, has to apparently be security-checked weeks before entry.

Out of trip funds, we were all treated to a hot drink from the nearby cafe, and then stopped for a group photograph in front of the world-famous facade.

Returning to the hostel, we all knew the challenge ahead: packing as much as possible, as quickly as possible, so as to allow as speedy a check-out as possible in the morning the following day. However, due to my haste, I forgot that one of the odd-looking table/stool/footrest objects made of plywood had cracked slightly prior to our arrival. Therefore, when I happened to lean on it to support myself, as I unplugged my mobile phone charger from the wall socket just above the skirting board, it snapped completely. In hysterics, we decided to not tell the teachers – who were, understandably, extremely stressed already – until the morning, especially as they’d already had to come and tell our room to quieten down on more than one occasion. And so, at 10:30pm, we lay down for our last sleep in Berlin.

I was one of only a few who’d chosen to get up early and, accompanied by Mr Boniface, “watch the sun rise”. Feeling like Willie Wonka in Roald Dahl’s Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator, we pushed the button in the lift marked ‘Rooftop’ and ascended to the top of the building again, as we’d done yesterday evening. There were no golden rays – we were too early – so I took a simple picture of the skyline and went downstairs.

The other members of my dorm were still laying in bed, as our designated time to collect cereals, cold meat, and bread from the self-service breakfast room was not for an hour. I filled the time with a little homework, which I’d taken with me to make up for the half-term revision time I would be missing, before heading up to the rooftop once again as the sun had made it over the horizon by this point.

At 9:30am, we congregated in the entrance foyer downstairs and, all wearing multiple layers in preparation for the sub-zero temperatures outside as we’d been advised (I say ‘all’, but Daniel had somehow managed to fail to wear his coat), we began to get rather hot in the warmth of the reception area. But we soon cooled down on walking outside, and after taking the short underground train to Brandenburger Tor station, we walked out in front of the Brandenburg Gate at 10:00am. It’s an expensive area, home to Berlin’s apparently most expensive hotel, Hotel Adlon, which is where the late Michael Jackson infamously once dangled his child out over the balcony. The area contains a number of embassies, including that of the United States, with its flag proudly flying behind the two security guards. Think of a rather bizarre cross between Kensington and the South Bank: the main square is littered with human statues and Berlin Bear costumed mascots (happy to be cuddled for a photograph, in return for several euros), but behind them, clean stonework reflecting on the reflective black bonnets of the Mercedes-Benz taxis awaiting their rich and famous customers. The gate itself was built in 1891, in neoclassical style, and is now probably the defining landmark of Germany. When the French leader Napoleon saw the chariot sculpture on the top, he ordered it to be seized by his soldiers, but was returned after English and Prussian forces won the Battle of Waterloo.

With Starbucks in hand, we continued walking in the groups, soon arriving at a Soviet memorial in Tiergarten Park to fallen Russian soldiers. Interestingly, the dates marked are ’1941′ and ’1945′: the years between which the Red Army were fighting on the side of the Allies. Parts of the marble and stone used to construct the impressive monument were in fact taken from the headquarters of the Third Reich, the New Reich Chancellery. The information board points out: “Using these materials helped Soviet architects not only to solve a supply problem but to vividly underscore the end of the Nationalist Socialist regime.” What’s more, there’s a an aerial photograph of the memorial soon after completion, standing amid a desolate surrounding.

After crossing the Unter Den Linden, the next memorial we came to was, at first glance, a simplistic-looking black box. But peering through the small glass window revealed the projection of a looping video, which was showing homosexual people embracing and kissing. It was clear that this was in memory of the gay people who are shockingly an often forgotten part of the Holocaust.

But it was a fraction of the size of the Jewish memorial site over the road, made up of a vast number of grey blocks. There’s 2,711 in total, actually, an arbitrary number representing the unknown number of Jews who died as a result of the actions of the Nazis (though it’s commonly estimated to have been over 6 million). From the street, the 19,000m² square is incredible, but it’s on looking more closely that one can appreciate each individual block. Each is a different height (representing the many individuals that make up the incomprehensibly large figure), with the gaps that separate the neat rows of semi-uniformity blending seamlessly between being a pathway or a corridor, as the blocks vary in depth as one walks through the ‘Field of Steale’. Designed by Peter Eisenman, construction took two years, beginning on 1 April 2003 and opening to the public on 12 May 2005.

Once at a busy shopping centre we were, like yesterday, given an hour to find and buy ourselves lunch. Jason, Will, and I took a seat at the Pomme De Terre, a restaurant on the top floor which, as its name suggests, serves all of its meals with potato sides. While my friends both went for the Currywurst with chips, I enjoyed a baked potato with chilli con carney filling. We paid the bill just minutes before having to meet at the other end and bottom floor of the complex, so had to run the last few metres to avoid the embarrassment of being late.

In the afternoon, we spent half an hour in the fascinating Topography Des Terrors museum, which is built on the site where the Gestapo’s interrogations centre once stood. The modern museum is devoted to the fear the Nazis struck into their people, and the consequences for those who failed to obey.

Our walking tour continued as we moved on to a later stage in history, the Cold War. For the Year 10s on the trip, who so far as I am aware haven’t yet completed their studies on Germany prior to the Second World War, I imagine this blurring of time period may be of confusion. But all understood the significance of the section of the Berlin Wall we saw, and many stopped to photograph it.

We arrived at the Checkpoint Charlie Museum in relatively short time. Outside, two men (also ready to smile for cameras in exchange for a few euros) are dressed as US soldier, ‘guarding’ the white booth branded ‘US Army Checkpoint’ in the middle of the road. Mr Shire commented on the surprising lack of road safety displayed by some fellow tourists, but also the poor planning by road landscapers who must’ve been oblivious to the fact people would want pictures from the middle of the road.

The museum was much less minimalist than the previous one; much more higgledy-piggledy, all-over-the-place and cluttered. However, it was of equal (if not greater) interest, thanks to its wider range of artefacts (including the supposedly original ‘You are now leaving the American sector’ sign, and ingenious devices used by people to try, not always successfully, to escape from East Berlin to West).

After browsing the museum, we crossed the road where, once again, we indulged in hot drinks and pastries, before walking back to the station. En-route, we stopped at an exclusive chocolatier’s shop called Fassbender & Rausch and looked at the German landmarks recreated in chocolate on display in their windows (though in fact, the ‘Do Not Touch’ signs were just to fool us – the ‘sculptures’ were in fact, of course, made out of plastic). Nearer to the train station, we also passed a flagship Volkswagon dealership, where a Bugatti Veyron was on display.

The final thing pointed out to us was the Bebelplatz where, in 1933, members of the SS, SA, Nazi students, and Hitler Youth burnt over 20,000 ‘anti-German’ books, including All Quiet On The Western Front. A simple memorial of a glass square on the floor, looking down onto empty bookshelves commemorates this event, alongside a prophesising quote from Heinrich Heine: “Dort, wo man Bücher verbrennt, verbrennt man am Ende auch Menschen” (“Where they burn books, they ultimately burn people”).

After dinner, we enjoyed an hour of bowling back in the heart of the city, where I won against my lane. It’d been another great day, noticeably more sobering than yesterday, but tomorrow’s visit to Sachsenhausen (a concentration camp) will be yet more sad.

I was a little surprised by the gullibility of some of my fellow GCSE German and History students. For example, I convinced my friend and Year 10 pupil Sarah Robbins that the coach which took us to Terminal 5 was to be loaded up onto a cargo plane and would meet us in the German capital city. That said, nobody was convinced by my suggestion that one had to pay a bus fare for the shuttle from the Air Gate to the plane.

At about 7:20am, the Airbus A319 (which was also carrying John Hurt in addition to business-workers and our party) left the runway at Heathrow, and began its 90 minute flight to Tegel. En-route, I enjoyed reading the day’s i, Financial Times, and Daily Mail, feeling suitably erudite in my long-sleeved blue shirt and navy jumper.

Flying in over Berlin, the landscape was much the same as that that we’d left behind: white blankets covering the surrounding fields, connected by the harshly contrasting black of the snow-cleared roads.

There was a fairly lengthy wait between stepping off the plane and collecting our luggage. Such is the small scale of Tegel Airport, that we could watch our bags being taken off the aircraft from a window metres away. And, unlike Heathrow, where one seems to walk miles through long, bland metallic-coloured corridors in a bid to locate the baggage conveyor belt, here, we simply stepped off our flight and lingered by the end of the walkway.

A rather smart coach took us through the rather shabby and dog-eared industrial zone that encompasses the airport, before arriving at the Meininger youth hostel that would be our home for the next three nights. As we approached the shiny, glass facade of the vast building, we were sure our every wish would be catered for. Sadly, we soon realised that the hostel was in fact the adjacent concrete tower block. Worse still, half of the rooms hadn’t yet been readied. But no matter, for we were merely dumping our bags ahead of an afternoon walking tour of the city. That said, I didn’t want to carry my netbook all the way around with me, neither did I want to leave it lying around in the rooms where security would be poor during the continuing cleaning. I’d noticed some compartments under the beds which appeared to have the ability to be padlocked, so I ran down the six flight of stairs to reception and inquired – in my mother tongue – where I may be able to purchase such a padlock. The lady spoke little English but pointed to the food and drink vending machine where, in addition to the usual cans of Coke and bags of crisps, there was indeed a selection of padlocks. After feeding the machine €4, I cut the protective plastic away, took the padlock upstairs, and placed my netbook in the drawer. With the rest of the party downstairs getting nearer and nearer to being ready to go, I knew I didn’t have time to waste. But the lock in my drawer just wouldn’t turn, so I had to try another drawer which, with a great deal of effort, finally slid into the locked position. I padlocked it secure, then ran back down the stairs, ready to go.

Our first stop was to the nearby train station I mentioned earlier. Our guide, supplied by the tour company, explained that it was built for the 2006 World Cup, and has multiple levels for internal, national, and international trains. We were given half an hour to find ourselves some food: being play-it-safe Brits, the majority of us simply headed for the row of global fast food chains (Burger King and Pizza Hut being the most popular). But, some of the braver amongst the group, including my History teacher and leader of my walking group, Mr Shire, tried the Currywurst – a sausage draped in curry sauce.

We hopped on the U-Bahn (like the London Overground) for one stop, which took us to an area of the city filled with monuments and grand buildings. One such building was Bellevue, the equivalent of Buckingham Palace where President Wulff resides, though he wasn’t in when we passed. We continued walking on through one of Berlin’s parks, past the Berlin Zoo, and alongside the frozen river, eventually ending up in a shopping district. Before being allowed to go off on our own, we were taken into the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church with beautiful blue stained-glass tiles, which formed an abstract background for the suspended gold-coloured figure of Christ above the altar.

We all headed to the McCafe, where the majority of us bought hot drinks and cakes, before heading back to the hostel to settle in. I was somewhat surprised by the lack of security precautions by the giant glass window; unlike in England, where it seems every hotel window opens a mere few centimetres (if at all), this three-foot-squared sheet of glass was easy to swing right open. It did, however, offer a great opportunity for some long-exposure shots of the city (rivalled only by the view from the top of the building, which we looked at after dinner).

Supper was a better-than-expected affair, with a chicken and mushroom sauce complementing the rice, and it refilled our bellies after a long day.

Read about the rehearsal process here.

Twenty songs, six months of rehearsals, and four performances to the paying public came to an end this evening, as my fellow Little Shop of Horrors cast members and I bowed out. Tonight’s show broke with tradition for last-night affairs, as we stuck pretty closely to the script (probably more so than any other night of LSoH, in fact). Tonight’s audience were really very warm – the best of all four – and seemed to immensely enjoy the entire show.

After headteacher Ms White made a short speech, we sang the theme chorus one last time before making our way into the adjacent Dance Studio (our green room for every night of the production) where we as a cast presented the teachers who’d made it happen with gifts and cards.

Within minutes of the last note being sung, cables were being thrown around, gaffer tape was being torn up, and the seats were being stacked. The stage management team on this show are one of the best I’ve ever worked with – efficient, hard-working, and (as ever) all for virtually no praise.

But how’s this for a great end to a great show: as we hung up our costumes for the last times, snow was falling outside, making for a beautiful walk to Tilly’s house for the after-show party.

All agreed that it’s sad Little Shop has come to an end, knowing – despite best intentions – it’s unlikely we’ll ever be as close to each other as we have been over the last couple of weeks. My thanks, of course, go to my fellow cast members, the crew, the band, and the front-of-house staff who, with the musical and dramatic direction of Mrs Armstrong, Miss Watson, Mrs Bradley, and Miss Satterthwaite, have contributed to the high success of our show.

A longer piece on my thoughts of the end of Little Shop of Horrors will be published in the next edition of the school magazine.

That Was The Week That Was

January came to a close and February began – and what a week it’s been. Certainly one of the most ‘juicy’ stories of the week has involved the Energy Secretary, Chris Huhne, who’s faced serious allegations that he charged driving licence points to the licence of his wife of the time. In Dominic Strauss-Kahn style, he’s resigned from his post to clear his name. What’s made this story yet more interesting is that the ex-wife who brought the case to the media attention (Vicky Pryce), will face the same charge of perverting the course of justice for agreeing to accept the points back in 2003. That’s an embarrassing backfire for her.

In other news, stories about Kodak’s bankruptcy has continued on into this week, as the company becomes desperate to save "a significant amount of money" by having its name taken off the Los Angeles theatre that hosts the Academy Awards.

John Terry lost his role as England’s national football team captain on Friday, ahead of his trial relating to charges that he racially abused Anton Ferdinand during a Chelsea-QPR match last October. But, for Egyptian football, Wednesday was a much worse day, as 74 supporters died after riots at the Port Said stadium – the most violent such clash in the country for decades.

For me, though, it’s been quite a good week, with yesterday’s (Saturday) snow providing a source of fun for the lunchbreak in today’s all-day rehearsal for Little Shop of Horrors. We did a dress-run of the show (which opens tomorrow evening) this afternoon, and it was only then that I realised what a great show we’ve got. All of us are now very excited about performing in front of sell-out audiences every night from Monday to Thursday.

Photo of the Week

As mentioned earlier, today saw me and my fellow LSoH cast members back at school for the second Sunday rehearsal in a row. However, as I do not appear in any of Act Two (except from the bows), I saw the perfect opportunity to take some photographs. This week’s Photo of the Week is from one scene of Act Two where Seymour (played by my friend and Furze Platt headboy Mark Janes) is reflecting on the terrible things he has done to keep his plant (the Audrey II) alive.

Quote of the Week

"She reigns but does not rule. She is powerless, but her influence is oceanic. Her weekly private audiences with prime ministers (she’s had twelve from Winston Churchill to David Cameron) offer "friendliness, not friendship" says one source, but they have a serious effect."

— John Walsh on HM Queen Elizabeth II reaching her Diamond Jubilee, writing for i, 4 February 2012

This Week’s Number One

This week’s official Number One is Titanium by French DJ David Guetta featuring vocals by Sia.

‘And Finally’ Story of the Week

From Ariel (the BBC in-house online newspaper):

Matt Smith has caused a stir at the Doctor Who Experience in London by proposing to his long-standing girlfriend.

That’s Matt Smith from Rochford, Essex, by the way – not the actor who plays the 11th timelord. […]

Dressed in a tweed jacket and bow tie, he stunned his girlfriend, 23 year old Stacie-Anne Dilkes, by pretending to be an exhibit at the Doctor Who Experience before bending down on one knee and asking for her hand in marriage. To his delight, she accepted.

Read more on Ariel‘s website.

As we walked through the porch door, there was a tremendous smell of coffee and croissants, providing a relaxed start to the meeting. Revd Sally thanked everybody for coming despite the cold and the early start, and gave a brief introduction about the agenda for the rest of the meeting.

The basis for the meeting was St Luke’s strengths and weaknesses, as made obvious by a SWOT analysis completed by the PCC recently. Ultimately, it was agreed that while we’re great at charitable giving, leading Sunday Club and Sparklers activities, our ability to rise to a challenge, and our famous hospitality and cream-teas, we don’t necessarily have the most welcoming frontier and – like churches across the nation – have an aging population. This last point was disputed as a ‘weakness’: many argued strongly (and rightly, I think) that actually it can only be a benefit to have people able to come out in the day if needed.

A new ‘governing’ system with vision meetings was unveiled by Sally, with the emphasis on our slogan (In Faith, Out There). Through regular, all-inclusive mission meetings, focus planning groups (covering everything from Liturgy and Nurture, to Outreach, the Fabric, and Children) will be set up and meet simultaneously. Finally, action teams will go out and carry out the decisions as made by these planning groups.

In many ways, at first glance, it seems like a rather elaborate (perhaps overly so) plan to reform the structure of St Luke’s planning work. But actually, whilst confusing to understand, I think it may just work. In 2016, we’ll be celebrating our 150th birthday. With the guidance of God and Sally, and the determination for which so many at church are renowned, I look forward to seeing how St Luke’s will rise to the challenge of preparing itself for the next 150 years.

A week tonight, the audience will applaud Furze Platt’s performance of Little Shop of Horrors for the last time; we’ll strike the set; and if we’re all not too tired, somebody will host an after-show party. This is the first time the Music and Drama departments have come together since the opening of the new arts facilities at school in October, and this show makes full use of the technical advantages of our state-of-the-art studio theatre.

Rehearsals for this year’s school musical are now entering the final few days, and unlike last year when I worked with the technical team, I’m up on stage this time as Orin (the sadist dentist). It’s a fairly minor role – I made it clear from the very beginning that I didn’t have the time for the lead – but it’s easily the most entertaining character in the musical, thanks to his morbid, self-professed “fascination with human pain and suffering”, the way he so badly treats Audrey (his supposed girlfriend), and the quite spectacular way he dies. Having a more modest part has meant I haven’t had to attend as many rehearsals as Tilly and Mark (Audrey and Seymour respectively), nor have I had anything like the number of songs to learn as the chorus, but ultimately it’s allowed me to be part of the show without it impacting too greatly on my other work and social commitments.

For those who don’t know the show, it began as The Little Shop of Horrors, a 1960 American comedy film, before it was adapted to a stage musical in 1982. Less than five years later, it morphed once more, this time into a film adaptation of the stage musical. Without wanting to give away any spoilers, it’s a hilarious story. Seymour, a nerd and orphan, is given a job by the owner of the self-named ‘Mushnik’s Skid Row Florists’, in a downtown American city. Seymour works alongside the beautiful Audrey, who he dreams of. Audrey herself dreams of one day having “Somewhere That’s Green” and living with “a sweet little guy like Seymour” – a world apart from the life she currently leads: living in run-down Skid Row and dating Orin. Seymour buys a plant (which he names Audrey II after the subject of his crush), which (in addition to the usual requirement of CO₂ and H2O), also needs Hb (blood).

To find out who becomes plant food first, you’ll have to come along and watch!

The first episode of this new, eighteenth series of Top Gear was to be, for many once-loyal fans (myself included), a make-or-break episode. Cock it up, and we’d lose interest and leave it to suffer a plunge in ratings.

The producers (to whom the TG brand is worth millions) and presenters knew this very real threat. Though part of a joke, Jeremy Clarkson made no secret of the controversy that’s followed the disastrous Christmas India special, opening the show in simple terms: “Now, even though this programme has taken a terrible battering in the newspapers in recent weeks, we have made every effort we possibly can to make sure this series is unaffected.”

Indeed, the preview tape looked similar to those of the old series, with beautiful photography, great co-presenter chemistry, and a wide range of upcoming films included. But as the first episode progressed, it became obvious that it was not all ‘same old same old’. In addition to the addition of a plinth in the studio for the Hammerhead-i Eagle Thrust from Series 14, there were far greater changes in programme feel.

In recent series (and most noticeably in that Christmas 2011 episode), the style of the main films has felt hideously patronising, where it seemed we were meant to fall for the blatantly-staged, unfunny ‘accidents’ (many of which, like the crude ‘Eat English Muff‘ and ‘Sh IT For Your Company‘ train stunts, were merely repeats of virtually identical stunts from previous series).

But this one was different: there were seemingly genuine problems with Hammond’s car, and when the Italian AA turned up and failed to make any effort to communicate with the presenter, there was real comedy. Actually, I thought the entire Italy trip was well-presented, especially when the presenters were seen trying to reach their respective supercars’ top-speeds. There was a true sense of art to the way it was shown. I read somewhere once that when he commissioned the ill-fated Hammond Vampire film, Andy Wilman was trying to create a feeling of speed for the audience. Whether he was going for the same in this film, I could certainly share in the emotion, fear, and excitement felt by the driving presenters, despite having never driven a car (at any speed) in my life.

Will.i.am, this week’s Star In A Reasonably Priced Car, was, as Jeremy said, “one of the most inspiring people who’s ever sat on that sofa”, as he discussed how – after successfully buying his entire family out of the “ghetto” where they lived – he’s working to improve the area and prospects for the people who still live there.

The boisterous attitudes of the three is still there (they were describing the speed challenge as ‘a test of the biggest testes’). And that staple of the ‘brotherhood’ was still in there: the two other presenters leaving their mate to fix his broken car alone. But it was a very entertaining episode, that many are praising on the post-show discussion on Top Gear‘s own blog (quite the opposite of the post-India show blog), and I just hope that this more restrained, more original approach is maintained throughout the series. For the first time in a long while, I can’t wait until the next episode next Sunday!