ANY CHILD who s ever worn a woggle and willingly saluted an adult who answers to the name Brown Owl will tell you that pitching your tent too close to the river bank is asking for trouble. When the tent in question costs #800 million and the river is the Thames, then it seems you re really courting disaster.
It s hardly surprising, then, that opinions remain divided on the Millennium Dome, New Labour s biggest fabric-ation to date. And while nobody disputes the fact that it was built at monstrous expense (over half of it public money) on the Meridian Line at Greenwich as part of Cool Britannia s efforts to celebrate the new millennium, after that opinions diverge radically.
A minority among them Tony Blair, The Queen and their respective lackeys and lickspittles see it as a display of confidence in the creativity and talents of the British public, and a chance for us all to shape our future and begin the 21st century with a sense of purpose, hope and unity. According to the British media, however, practically everyone else in Britain sees it as a giant, white elephant with sticky-out bits, constructed solely to provide Labour cabinet ministers with costly photo opportunities.
But how gigantic is it exactly? Well, If you had them at your disposal and were of a mind to do it, you could squeeze 175 billion sherbet lemons into the Millennium Dome. I know this because I read it in Millennium Experience, the official guide to the Millennium Dome, Greenwich, London. And as if such a nugget of trivia wasn t impressive enough, the same tome goes on to reveal that if you ate one of these bittersweet chunks of confectionery every 15 minutes, it would take five million years to finish them.
The untold damage such a citrus and sugar binge would have on one s constitution notwithstanding, these are disturbing revelations, not least because they suggest that someone on the British government s payroll is being paid money to while away their time dividing the volume of the Millennium Dome by the volume of things which are much smaller than the Millennium Dome, in order to demonstrate just how immense it truly is.
After all, who else but a civil servant would set about proving something is the greatest thing since sliced bread by attempting to figure out how many slices of bread you could fit in it? Or African elephants, Olympic swimming pools, blue whales, Albert Halls, double decker buses and Wembley Stadiums. Oh yes, they re all there, listed for your delectation.
With statistics like these being presented as proof positive that the Dome is the puppy s privates, it s hardly surprising that it s been an object of ridicule and the recipient of consistently bad press since day one. After all, its success is married to the success of a British government that is reportedly livid over the poor attendances and bad publicity currently plaguing what is ostensibly a monument to Blair Inc.
Indeed, it was with considerable glee and gusto that all sections of the British media reported the first official attendance figures released after the Dome s inaugural month of business. As expected, they were atrocious. Only half the expected number of visitors materialised, and at its lowest ebb it was only a quarter full, pulling in a derisory 5,084 visitors in one day. It s target had been to receive 20,000 paying visitors every day of the year 2000. The Dome s operator, the New Millennium Experience Company, initially stated that it would need 12 million visitors in its year long existence to balance the books. Upon crunching last month s numbers, the bean-counters promptly revised their opinion and decided that 10 million would probably do the trick.
Already, several cabinet members have conspired to have the Dome s chief executive, Jennie Page, sacked and replaced with Pierre Yves- PY Gerbeau, former vice-president of park operations at EuroDisney. He has described his new ward as being original, innovative and the perfect image of what are going to be the major challenges facing human beings in the 21st century. He has also conceded that some changes are necessary, citing the Dome s pricing strategy as an area of concern.
Admission to the Dome is currently #20 per head (although group and family rates are available). Throw in another four quid for the obligatory Tube fare (not to mention the additional travelling expenses incurred by those who don t live in London) and you re left with quite a hefty tab for what amounts to . . . well, read on and find out.
A trip to the end of the Tube s Jubilee line takes you to the Dome, where entry to the site can be gained through an array of turnstiles, the vast majority of which were unmanned on the day I arrived. Queues were conspicuous by their absence at the few which were actually open, and after handing over my admission fee, I walked into an expansive red courtyard which was eerily empty and silent. Once inside, the Dome s interior is certainly very striking. However, while boasting a massive erection is all well and good, I think we all know it s what you do with it that really counts. With this in mind, I set about exploring its myriad delights.
The Dome s interior is divided into 14 zones, 13 of which are, not to put to fine a point on it, complete shite. Surrounding a vast central arena which plays host to the daily Millennium Show, the zones in question glory in varied and often vague monikers such as Self Portrait, Home Planet, Living Planet, Journey, Shared Ground, Play, Body, Work, Learning, Money, Rest, Mind, Faith and Talk, not to mention a brace of McDonalds zones, one of which I must confess, was my first port of call. The fatuity of my Dome experience can be garnered from the disturbing fact that my breakfast of a Big Mac, large fries and a strawberry milkshake would prove the indisputable highlight of my big McDay out.
While rusting turnstiles are proving the biggest headache for Dome bigwigs, they are a blessing for those members of the public who have actually succumbed to idle curiosity. Small crowds mean small queues, and at most attractions, minuscule crowds mean no queues at all. I was forced to wait outside only one: Body, commonly regarded as the very best of this bad lot.
It consists of two seven-storey high male and female figures lying in a gently reclining embrace, covered in 80,000 shimmering tiles. Ironically, access to the Body zone is gained through an entrance at the arse-end of an outer thigh (as opposed to the inner, on the real thing). Purporting to instill a sense of wonder at our bodies and at the prospects for health and well-being in the new millennium, one can t help but feel that Body s popularity is entirely down to the fact that it s the last refuge of bored punters, drawn towards it by the prospect of seeing some good old-fashioned blood and guts. In fact, I d heard from more than one source that it boasted super-realistic pubic hair. That was me sold.
Inside Body, visitors are greeted by the sight of throbbing blood vessels just under the surface of the skin, before encountering a giant human heart seemingly suspended in mid-air pumping rhythmically and incessantly. Then there s a more tranquil womb, complete with shoals of sperm sallying forth at great speed in their attempts to put Mrs Body in the club. The aforementioned pubes are to be found in the general stomach/groin area and yes, infested as they are with menacing-looking lice, they could well have been clipped from any number of people I know.
Onwards and upwards towards the head, past a mesmerising giant eyeball and you find yourself in the brain. Without exception, the best exhibit to be found in the Dome, this area is a scaled down replica of an old style theatre fashioned in the interior of a giant skull. Centre-stage, a large brain sporting a fez bobbles comically on its spine telling Tommy Cooper jokes, while all around it an appreciative audience of cerebellums chuckle hysterically in appreciation. Never having been renowned for his cerebral humour, it s hard to know what Tommy Cooper would have made of this exhibit. Then again, had the act of a lesser comedian been chosen as the in-head entertainment, it would have been no laughing grey matter.
Almost without exception, the remaining Dome zones are awash with guff and nonsense. Forlorn employees sporting comical Star Trek-style tunics outnumber the gaggles of bemused visitors they are paid to usher up and down escalators, passages, tunnels and platforms, that are already clearly marked. The Dome employs a 5,000 strong workforce and averages fewer than 10,000 punters a day. You do the sums.
Mind explores the nature of our perceptions using unusual combinations of art and technology to expand what we can normally see and hear. It makes us realise just how small is the spectrum of information which our senses deliver to us from the world in which we live.
Well, at least that s what it says in my copy of Millennium Experience, which I purchased towards the end of my visit in the interests of keeping an open mind. Despite considering myself to be at least as smart as the average bear, it made me realise nothing of the sort. With the exception of Body, most zones seemed indistinguishable from each other: labyrinthine mazes containing contraptions, games, gadgets and devices which look intriguing at first glance but ultimately prove disappointing. This was best exemplified in Money, where monitors contained within futuristic shopping trolleys boldly challenge visitors to spend #1,000,000 in a minute. Accepting the challenge, I completed the task with ease. Twice. And then a third time.
This is too easy, what s the catch? I enquired of a nearby Starfleet cadet.
There isn t one, she replied.
Faith is one of the more controversial zones, having been bogged down in boring ecumenical wrangles since the very moment of its inception. It was practically deserted when I visited it. Presenting itself as a stopping point on a journey through the faith landscape of the UK , at the entrance we see a sculpture of a new-born child, with a short film in which children of different faiths share their thoughts about God. Millennium Experience tells us that it reminds us that our spiritual journey begins in childhood. Experience tells me that it reminded me of Gerry Ryan s School Around The Corner, except without the laughs.
Somewhere within this maze of confusion, guests are invited to write their wishes and thoughts for the year 2000 and post them in a giant honeycomb wall. My message, which I am assured will be sealed up for the next 50 years, read I wish I d never suggested doing a feature on the Millennium Dome. I think I ll steal this pen.
And so on, and so on . . . zone after zone after indistinguishable zone of unchallenging challenges, trivial pursuits and disengaging games (a vast number of which, incidentally, were unmanned, cordoned off or out of order). Space and the need to preserve my sanity preclude me from divulging the countless inane inter-activities to be experienced in every single zone (the Evening Standard spread them over 14 issues!), but suffice to say that the Dome is essentially a theme park without any rides. Politically correct to within an inch of its life and consequently bland to the core, it has attempted to be all things to all people and has seemingly failed dismally to make an impression on anyone.
Despite its countless shortcomings, however, most Britons would readily agree that the Millennium Dome is indeed a suitable testament to Blair s New Labour government. After all, who d have thought two entities that promised so much would deliver so little? And as for the pair of them being full of shit . . .