onionbagblog
Any Port(o) in a Storm
Much madness (and there's more) down South Lambeth Road tonight, and I don't think it is to do with TIMMAH! twatting up at Wimbledon yet again.
It's on sporting nights like this I would love to see a UKIP candidate canvassing in Sunny Stockwell. Splendid Isolationist Little England is alive and well? Um, washed out more like along with Henman.
London as the proud capital of out great nation? Well, proud capital but with a foot firmly placed at the centre of Europe as the Anglo-Portos party hard with anyone, any nationality and any team colour that wants to celebrate with them.
The media myth of Tube Strike Hell was nowhere to be seen in SW8 on the last day in June. 'Crippled' (back to TIMMAH! again) proclaimed the Sub-Standard tonight. Bad taste aside from some dumbfuck circuit journos, but even a sour faced Sub-Standard hack from the Home Counties could probably walk on water in Stockwell tonight.
God help us on Sunday should our Mediterranean friends actually win the damn thing.
Such a shame that TIMMAH! won't be troubled in the final on Centre Court this weekend. Dare you imagine the 'celebrations' in some suburban shithole like Surbiton if he ever manages to remove his choker curse? Tea and cucumber sandwiches, bunting on the green and all back behind the net curtains in time for Antiques Roadshow and then Songs of Pissing Praise.
Bye Bye Little England. I'm off out to hit the mean streets of Sunny Stockwell to get shit faced on Sagres (which is saying something for a teetotal tea slurper) and to find some Senhora's to, erm, shag.
Any Porto in a Storm.
Have fun TIMMAH!
| Wednesday 30 June, 2004 |
Much madness (and there's more) down South Lambeth Road tonight, and I don't think it is to do with TIMMAH! twatting up at Wimbledon yet again.
It's on sporting nights like this I would love to see a UKIP candidate canvassing in Sunny Stockwell. Splendid Isolationist Little England is alive and well? Um, washed out more like along with Henman.
London as the proud capital of out great nation? Well, proud capital but with a foot firmly placed at the centre of Europe as the Anglo-Portos party hard with anyone, any nationality and any team colour that wants to celebrate with them.
 I'm off to find some Senhora’s to shag |
God help us on Sunday should our Mediterranean friends actually win the damn thing.
Such a shame that TIMMAH! won't be troubled in the final on Centre Court this weekend. Dare you imagine the 'celebrations' in some suburban shithole like Surbiton if he ever manages to remove his choker curse? Tea and cucumber sandwiches, bunting on the green and all back behind the net curtains in time for Antiques Roadshow and then Songs of Pissing Praise.
Bye Bye Little England. I'm off out to hit the mean streets of Sunny Stockwell to get shit faced on Sagres (which is saying something for a teetotal tea slurper) and to find some Senhora's to, erm, shag.
Any Porto in a Storm.
Have fun TIMMAH!
| #permalink |
Probing Uranus
• sex referee anders frisk
• four poofs (sic) and a piano free mp3 download
• scottish sweaties
• shagger norris
• jason lee pineapple
• paul scholes testicle
• larkhall dogging photos
• latex lovelies
• peter beardsley bollocks photo
• referee village people denmark italy
• anders frisk gay referee video
• kiddy piss
• wife swap
• jimmy krankie shakespeare
What have all of the above got in common? No, not items listed on Ann Widdecombe's Amazon wish list, but subjects searched for that no doubt led to disgruntled deviants down the dark alley that is onionbagblog.
Aww, shame, you seedy little scrotum scrathcers. Here's a picture of the Dulwich Hamlet hardcore instead. Go on, you know you want to.
Bring your own box of tissues.
*yeah yeah, oldest blog trick in the book, but I though that 'peter beardsley bollocks photo' was particularly imaginative.*
| Wednesday 30 June, 2004 |
• sex referee anders frisk
• four poofs (sic) and a piano free mp3 download
• scottish sweaties
• shagger norris
• jason lee pineapple
• paul scholes testicle
• larkhall dogging photos
• latex lovelies
• peter beardsley bollocks photo
• referee village people denmark italy
• anders frisk gay referee video
• kiddy piss
• wife swap
• jimmy krankie shakespeare
What have all of the above got in common? No, not items listed on Ann Widdecombe's Amazon wish list, but subjects searched for that no doubt led to disgruntled deviants down the dark alley that is onionbagblog.
Aww, shame, you seedy little scrotum scrathcers. Here's a picture of the Dulwich Hamlet hardcore instead. Go on, you know you want to.
Bring your own box of tissues.
*yeah yeah, oldest blog trick in the book, but I though that 'peter beardsley bollocks photo' was particularly imaginative.*
| #permalink |
To Di For
Five years in the making, costing three and a half million pounds and designed to reflect the stupid tart's 'inclusive personality.'
Couldn't they just have borrowed a burnt out car from my estate to remember the stupid bitch?
| Wednesday 30 June, 2004 |
Five years in the making, costing three and a half million pounds and designed to reflect the stupid tart's 'inclusive personality.'
Couldn't they just have borrowed a burnt out car from my estate to remember the stupid bitch?
| #permalink |
Everybody Out!
Tube strike day today – HURRAH!!!!
Apologies if you are reading this on your PDA from the back of an overcrowded bus, but then again the chances are that the average onionbagblog reader (i.e. my mum) hasn't even heard of a PDA let alone owns one.
Actually, no apologies at all. PDAs are for (over)Paid Dickhead Arses, except for mrs onionbagblogger of course who is certainly overpaid, but the Dickhead Arses are those higher up than her on the greasy pole who failed to understand why a 9-5 Modern Girl was still messing about with pen and paper.
As for the strike itself – well the dear old Inspector Sands articulates the media lies and myths far better than I could ever hope for, and I hereby give notice that unless his wonderful dictum is not given the Leader column in the Sub-Standard by tomorrow lunchtime, then I may actually go on blog-strike.
Oh look, I'm still here...
It's all to do with not being treated like shit, stooopid. Yes, it really is as simple as that. The crappy Carlton TV local news ran a poll earlier posing the pathetic question of:
'Should tube drivers be allowed to strike?'
Imagine that you were an incompetent fuckspud local TV Producer devoid of all original and meaningful ideas to engage with your target audience. A pre-requisite of the job some may say. But still, your evil empire building boss turns round and said:
'You’re shit, ARGHHHHH!!!! - take a 50% pay cut.'
Don't expect the onionbagblog poll to ponder the following day:
'Should incompetent fuckspud local TV Producers devoid of all original and meaningful ideas be allowed to strike after they have been told that they are shit?'
Even knobbers can withdraw their labour.
Tube strike days allow for me to act even smugger than usual (and that's saying something given the fact that there is the distinct possibility that I may be able to get my photo taken with the London Senior Cup that Dulwich Hamlet brought back to SE22 last season).
Cycling into 'work' (OK, the daily ritual of humiliation and torture by the under tens) is a joy on tube strike days. Peddling past the endless Johnnies at the Bus Stop (remember The Lady held the view that you were a 'failure' if you still used busses past the age of 30 – the silly old witch) and then when you arrive, the other useless tossers (staff, not pupils) are nowhere to be seen.
Bliss.
It's also a great opportunity to try and mobilise pedal power with a number of new cyclists taking to the London streets out of necessity, and then realising that two wheels are indeed the way to go.
Not too sure about the BMX Boys though who you sometimes see peddling from Brixton up to Brick Lane on their gearless gizmos. Then again if they are Brick Lane bound then it is highly likely that you will be in ownership of a PDA. In which case I don't want you around here and so stop downloading the page (as if...).
Whatcha gonnna do? Go on bloody strike?
| Tuesday 29 June, 2004 |
Tube strike day today – HURRAH!!!!
Apologies if you are reading this on your PDA from the back of an overcrowded bus, but then again the chances are that the average onionbagblog reader (i.e. my mum) hasn't even heard of a PDA let alone owns one.
Actually, no apologies at all. PDAs are for (over)Paid Dickhead Arses, except for mrs onionbagblogger of course who is certainly overpaid, but the Dickhead Arses are those higher up than her on the greasy pole who failed to understand why a 9-5 Modern Girl was still messing about with pen and paper.
Even knobbers can withdraw their labour |
Oh look, I'm still here...
It's all to do with not being treated like shit, stooopid. Yes, it really is as simple as that. The crappy Carlton TV local news ran a poll earlier posing the pathetic question of:
'Should tube drivers be allowed to strike?'
Imagine that you were an incompetent fuckspud local TV Producer devoid of all original and meaningful ideas to engage with your target audience. A pre-requisite of the job some may say. But still, your evil empire building boss turns round and said:
'You’re shit, ARGHHHHH!!!! - take a 50% pay cut.'
Don't expect the onionbagblog poll to ponder the following day:
'Should incompetent fuckspud local TV Producers devoid of all original and meaningful ideas be allowed to strike after they have been told that they are shit?'
Even knobbers can withdraw their labour.
Tube strike days allow for me to act even smugger than usual (and that's saying something given the fact that there is the distinct possibility that I may be able to get my photo taken with the London Senior Cup that Dulwich Hamlet brought back to SE22 last season).
Cycling into 'work' (OK, the daily ritual of humiliation and torture by the under tens) is a joy on tube strike days. Peddling past the endless Johnnies at the Bus Stop (remember The Lady held the view that you were a 'failure' if you still used busses past the age of 30 – the silly old witch) and then when you arrive, the other useless tossers (staff, not pupils) are nowhere to be seen.
Bliss.
It's also a great opportunity to try and mobilise pedal power with a number of new cyclists taking to the London streets out of necessity, and then realising that two wheels are indeed the way to go.
Not too sure about the BMX Boys though who you sometimes see peddling from Brixton up to Brick Lane on their gearless gizmos. Then again if they are Brick Lane bound then it is highly likely that you will be in ownership of a PDA. In which case I don't want you around here and so stop downloading the page (as if...).
Whatcha gonnna do? Go on bloody strike?
| #permalink |
Totally Rad-iculous
Clapham Common Skateboard Park isn't much cop; a couple of quarter pipes (bet that impressed you eh?) and one of those single tram lines whose sole purpose seems to be to inflict a lifetime of sexual incompetence for the skater yoof as they are introduced to the pleasure of having a metallic rod being hammered through their dangly bits at an early age.
It was therefore with some trepidation that I went to take some photos, knowing that there is a market for under the counter publications that specialise in pictures of pain infliction within young men.
What I found instead however was a couple of Porto teenagers (The Doors T-shirts were a dead giveaway) who would have probably found it difficult to stand upright even if they were wearing a deep sea divers weighted boots, such was their severe lack of balance.
Enquiring if it was OK to take some pics of them, 'we're not very good' was the cagey response.
True to their word, they were both shite.
My first shot involved the fifth generation Jim Morrison loving Mediterranean kid balancing his board tantalisingly off the edge of the quarter pipe for over a minute, teasing me with what wonderful new manoeuvre he had planned for my photographic benefit.
Finally he edged forward and then rolled his baggy arse over tit, crashing to the foot of the pipe in a move so fast that even my nifty shutter speed was heard to send out a digital signal which translates back as: 'Jeez, he WAS fucking shite wasn't he.'
Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee became strangely camera shy from this moment on.
The stage was then left for some Avril loving little ankle biters to steal the show. Having been granted permission from their elders to snap away, they were full of tricks, and also talk.
I just about managed to bluff through some skter boi bollocks with one of the Young Turks who was keen to talk me through what move he had planned next. Some sort of triple twist tweak with a totally rad carve grind, Ollie style. You go for it boy.
And then he fell off as well.
Not a great success and by now I was starting to attract the attention of the mid-morning coffee slurpers in the nearby hippy shit Clap'ham Common cafe, wanting to know if I would take some portraits of their Tarquins and Tallulhas sitting on some authentic oriental cushions.
'Um, I'm not very good' was my cagey response.
Jobs a good un then.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Monday 28 June, 2004 |
Clapham Common Skateboard Park isn't much cop; a couple of quarter pipes (bet that impressed you eh?) and one of those single tram lines whose sole purpose seems to be to inflict a lifetime of sexual incompetence for the skater yoof as they are introduced to the pleasure of having a metallic rod being hammered through their dangly bits at an early age.
It was therefore with some trepidation that I went to take some photos, knowing that there is a market for under the counter publications that specialise in pictures of pain infliction within young men.
True to their word, they were both shite |
Enquiring if it was OK to take some pics of them, 'we're not very good' was the cagey response.
True to their word, they were both shite.
My first shot involved the fifth generation Jim Morrison loving Mediterranean kid balancing his board tantalisingly off the edge of the quarter pipe for over a minute, teasing me with what wonderful new manoeuvre he had planned for my photographic benefit.
Finally he edged forward and then rolled his baggy arse over tit, crashing to the foot of the pipe in a move so fast that even my nifty shutter speed was heard to send out a digital signal which translates back as: 'Jeez, he WAS fucking shite wasn't he.'
Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee became strangely camera shy from this moment on.
The stage was then left for some Avril loving little ankle biters to steal the show. Having been granted permission from their elders to snap away, they were full of tricks, and also talk.
I just about managed to bluff through some skter boi bollocks with one of the Young Turks who was keen to talk me through what move he had planned next. Some sort of triple twist tweak with a totally rad carve grind, Ollie style. You go for it boy.
And then he fell off as well.
Not a great success and by now I was starting to attract the attention of the mid-morning coffee slurpers in the nearby hippy shit Clap'ham Common cafe, wanting to know if I would take some portraits of their Tarquins and Tallulhas sitting on some authentic oriental cushions.
'Um, I'm not very good' was my cagey response.
Jobs a good un then.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Ring-boner
A weekend run with my Walkman (oxymoron alert, not moron alert) around Clapham Common left me with a classic case of monger with mobile messes about with my radio reception. Anyone who has been unfortunate enough to be within a five metre radius of one of the repulsive ringing things will recognise the humming noise that sounds like an ear bleeding Aphex Twin remix which is picked up through your headphones whenever a useless tosser tries to send a twattish text:
ive jst cn onionbagblogger runN rownd clapham comN & he doesn't sEm best plsed
I wouldn't have minded but the interruption in service came at the most inconvenient moment; just as Sir Trevor Brooking was about to reveal something outrageous about his kinky sex life to Gary Richardson on 5Live's Sportsweek, the bloody beeping noise started.
I can only assume that Trev was talking about his tit ride fetish as when the reception returned, it was back to the bloody rugby.
It's no coincidence that the knobbers causing the interference are centred around the crap coffee shops of Clap'ham. Sunny Stockwell seems to escape the problem at the start of my running route. The only interference I have to dodge here comes form the Bag Lady who always tries an inebriated attempt to pull my shorts down as she drags herself up from the gutter, pissed out of her pig ugly head on meths with her sole mission to give my knob a spit and polish using some highly toxic fluid.
And I bet she swallows as well, the saucy little mare.
Nope, it's when I first hit Clap'ham North that the usually serene Sunday morning on 5Live is livened up with some Aphex like Drill n Bass action.
Of course you may surmise that I am a senile old school GPO loving geezer. And you'd be dead right of course. But an intrusive 24-7 ringing, txting and vibrating little gizmo doesn't exactly rally me to forge a 'relationship' with a four inch piece of plastic.
We'e talking phones here of course.
Virility and vibrations though are also an issue. Research has suggested that the male sperm count may be reduced by up to a third in men who position their plastic prick substitute close to their blue veined custard chucker.
Is that a mobile in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me? If it is the former then may be you should rub that smug smile off your face as the chances are that you will be shooting blanks at my face later, baby.
Which is I think what Sir Trev was saying all along back on 5Live when the reception on my walkman went a bit wobbly.
They'll be telling us next that blokes who wear headphones whilst running risk losing the plot slightly, forming irrational hatreds of mobile users and a fascination with the sex life of former West Ham players.
| Sunday 27 June, 2004 |
A weekend run with my Walkman (oxymoron alert, not moron alert) around Clapham Common left me with a classic case of monger with mobile messes about with my radio reception. Anyone who has been unfortunate enough to be within a five metre radius of one of the repulsive ringing things will recognise the humming noise that sounds like an ear bleeding Aphex Twin remix which is picked up through your headphones whenever a useless tosser tries to send a twattish text:
ive jst cn onionbagblogger runN rownd clapham comN & he doesn't sEm best plsed
I wouldn't have minded but the interruption in service came at the most inconvenient moment; just as Sir Trevor Brooking was about to reveal something outrageous about his kinky sex life to Gary Richardson on 5Live's Sportsweek, the bloody beeping noise started.
I bet she swallows, the saucy little mare |
It's no coincidence that the knobbers causing the interference are centred around the crap coffee shops of Clap'ham. Sunny Stockwell seems to escape the problem at the start of my running route. The only interference I have to dodge here comes form the Bag Lady who always tries an inebriated attempt to pull my shorts down as she drags herself up from the gutter, pissed out of her pig ugly head on meths with her sole mission to give my knob a spit and polish using some highly toxic fluid.
And I bet she swallows as well, the saucy little mare.
Nope, it's when I first hit Clap'ham North that the usually serene Sunday morning on 5Live is livened up with some Aphex like Drill n Bass action.
Of course you may surmise that I am a senile old school GPO loving geezer. And you'd be dead right of course. But an intrusive 24-7 ringing, txting and vibrating little gizmo doesn't exactly rally me to forge a 'relationship' with a four inch piece of plastic.
We'e talking phones here of course.
Virility and vibrations though are also an issue. Research has suggested that the male sperm count may be reduced by up to a third in men who position their plastic prick substitute close to their blue veined custard chucker.
Is that a mobile in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me? If it is the former then may be you should rub that smug smile off your face as the chances are that you will be shooting blanks at my face later, baby.
Which is I think what Sir Trev was saying all along back on 5Live when the reception on my walkman went a bit wobbly.
They'll be telling us next that blokes who wear headphones whilst running risk losing the plot slightly, forming irrational hatreds of mobile users and a fascination with the sex life of former West Ham players.
| #permalink |
Great Fire of London
I don' want to piss all over the parade of the London Olympic bid – the Wimbledon fortnight weather saw to that on Saturday down in South London. With the Athens 2004 torch passing through Brixton and (not very) Sunny Stockwell this morning, much has been made of the marketing opportunity of a flickering flame.
Come on people. Open your eyes, see it and tell it like it is.
Even a multi-national hegemony hater such as myself couldn' fail to be touched when Brixton gave big love to Frank Bruno as he proudly pounded the streets of SW9 with the mythical flame.
So what if the event was top and tailed with some ghastly global corporations attempting (and failing like the miserable rain) to hijack the day with their logo loving floats pumping out some ridiculous R 'n B bollocks along Brixton Road. The local yoofs wisely turned a blind eye and kept a lookout out for the fantastic flame instead.
Bet the 50 Cent CD is soon switched to some Simply Red shit once the torch hits crappy Kensington.
Brixton NEEDS events like this. People still talk about the Sunshine Days of the Summer of '96 when Mandela made his way through South London and left us all with a legacy for the future. Likewise for Spike Lee and even Mike Tyson who always makes a point of crossing the river to say hello whenever he is in town.
What do you want instead? Google brixton+torch and the chances are that you will bring up some pages documenting the last Brixton riots of '95 (scary shit indeed when a helicopter hovers over your flat for half an hour with a beaming light shining directly at your bedroom).
Helicopters and sirens were of course present once again today but it makes a refreshing change from the usual mainstream media bullshit of shooting and syringe stereotypes that we have to live with around these parts.
I do worry for the 2012 bid though when the only guaranteed safe passage through South London for a flame is that of a black cab. Doesn't exactly sell the story of an integrated transport structure does it Ken? The sooner the East London Line is extended to reach the Beautiful South the better.
Midway down Brixton Road and our Frank lit Davina McCall's flame, which is something you don't hear very often. So what if it takes a fruitcake former boxer (but we still LOVE him) and a media whore tart who couldn't even jog properly (the flat footed freak) to put Brixton back on the front pages?
Plus when is the last time that a piece of history passed right outside your front door and you have the photographic evidence to treasure?
Flaming hell.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Saturday 26 June, 2004 |
I don' want to piss all over the parade of the London Olympic bid – the Wimbledon fortnight weather saw to that on Saturday down in South London. With the Athens 2004 torch passing through Brixton and (not very) Sunny Stockwell this morning, much has been made of the marketing opportunity of a flickering flame.
Come on people. Open your eyes, see it and tell it like it is.
Even a multi-national hegemony hater such as myself couldn' fail to be touched when Brixton gave big love to Frank Bruno as he proudly pounded the streets of SW9 with the mythical flame.
Brixton NEEDS events like this |
Bet the 50 Cent CD is soon switched to some Simply Red shit once the torch hits crappy Kensington.
Brixton NEEDS events like this. People still talk about the Sunshine Days of the Summer of '96 when Mandela made his way through South London and left us all with a legacy for the future. Likewise for Spike Lee and even Mike Tyson who always makes a point of crossing the river to say hello whenever he is in town.
What do you want instead? Google brixton+torch and the chances are that you will bring up some pages documenting the last Brixton riots of '95 (scary shit indeed when a helicopter hovers over your flat for half an hour with a beaming light shining directly at your bedroom).
Helicopters and sirens were of course present once again today but it makes a refreshing change from the usual mainstream media bullshit of shooting and syringe stereotypes that we have to live with around these parts.
I do worry for the 2012 bid though when the only guaranteed safe passage through South London for a flame is that of a black cab. Doesn't exactly sell the story of an integrated transport structure does it Ken? The sooner the East London Line is extended to reach the Beautiful South the better.
Midway down Brixton Road and our Frank lit Davina McCall's flame, which is something you don't hear very often. So what if it takes a fruitcake former boxer (but we still LOVE him) and a media whore tart who couldn't even jog properly (the flat footed freak) to put Brixton back on the front pages?
Plus when is the last time that a piece of history passed right outside your front door and you have the photographic evidence to treasure?
Flaming hell.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Worshipping False Idols
How fantastic to hear Football Focus play out with the wonderful God's Footballer by Billy Bragg. It's not exactly something Saint and Greavsie, gawd bless em, would have done back in the day is it?
In case you missed it (and I realise that a Saturday lunchtime spent slurping tea on the sofa with Lawro, Reidy and the rotund Ray Stubbs may not be, um, everyone's cup of tea), the Boy Bragg soundtracked a montage of a week in the life of Wayne Rooney.
Hubcaps and cars balanced on bricks didn't feature.
God's Footballer, Wayne Rooney – see what they have done there? Must have been a quiet few days in the production office following England's Euro 2004 exit.
Bragg's God’s Footballer is the former Wolves player Peter Knowles. After making his debut for the Black Country club in 1962, he was capped at England U-23 level four times before sensationally quitting the game at the age of 24 to become a Jehovah Witness.
From banging the goals in to banging on front doors.
I use to think that God's Footballer was all about Peter Beardsely: The bells, the bells etc. Lame joke. I should be writing for the shitty Fantasy Football which has been a complete fuck up this year.
God's Footballer features on the '91 Don't Try This at Home Bragg album and remains his creative peak to date. It's one of the great summer albums and around this time each year it always seems to find a permanent place in my CD player.
If it's Glasto weekend then Billy must of course be somewhere in a field in Somerset. Playing on all three days this year, the Bard has found a fitting home on the Leftfield stage. I doubt if Rooney and Stubbsy will be joining him for some banter, but it would make for an interesting Glasto moment.
God's footballer hears the voices of angels
Above the choir at Molineux
God's footballer stands on the doorstep
And brings the Good News of the Kingdom to come
While the crowd sings 'Rock of Ages'
The goals bring weekly wages
Yet the glory of the sports pages
Is but the worship of false idols and tempts him not
God's footballer turns on a sixpence
And brings the Great crowd to their feet in praise of him
God's footballer quotes from the Gospels
While knocking on doors in Black Country back streets
He scores goals on a Saturday
And saves souls on a Sunday
For the Lord says these are the Last Days
Prepare thyself for the Judgement yet to come
His career will be over soon
And the rituals of a Saturday afternoon
Bid him a reluctant farewell
For he knows beyond the sport lies the spiritual
Billy Bragg, God's Footballer (Don’t Try This at Home)
| Saturday 26 June, 2004 |
How fantastic to hear Football Focus play out with the wonderful God's Footballer by Billy Bragg. It's not exactly something Saint and Greavsie, gawd bless em, would have done back in the day is it?
In case you missed it (and I realise that a Saturday lunchtime spent slurping tea on the sofa with Lawro, Reidy and the rotund Ray Stubbs may not be, um, everyone's cup of tea), the Boy Bragg soundtracked a montage of a week in the life of Wayne Rooney.
Hubcaps and cars balanced on bricks didn't feature.
From banging in goals to banging on front doors |
Bragg's God’s Footballer is the former Wolves player Peter Knowles. After making his debut for the Black Country club in 1962, he was capped at England U-23 level four times before sensationally quitting the game at the age of 24 to become a Jehovah Witness.
From banging the goals in to banging on front doors.
I use to think that God's Footballer was all about Peter Beardsely: The bells, the bells etc. Lame joke. I should be writing for the shitty Fantasy Football which has been a complete fuck up this year.
God's Footballer features on the '91 Don't Try This at Home Bragg album and remains his creative peak to date. It's one of the great summer albums and around this time each year it always seems to find a permanent place in my CD player.
If it's Glasto weekend then Billy must of course be somewhere in a field in Somerset. Playing on all three days this year, the Bard has found a fitting home on the Leftfield stage. I doubt if Rooney and Stubbsy will be joining him for some banter, but it would make for an interesting Glasto moment.
God's footballer hears the voices of angels
Above the choir at Molineux
God's footballer stands on the doorstep
And brings the Good News of the Kingdom to come
While the crowd sings 'Rock of Ages'
The goals bring weekly wages
Yet the glory of the sports pages
Is but the worship of false idols and tempts him not
God's footballer turns on a sixpence
And brings the Great crowd to their feet in praise of him
God's footballer quotes from the Gospels
While knocking on doors in Black Country back streets
He scores goals on a Saturday
And saves souls on a Sunday
For the Lord says these are the Last Days
Prepare thyself for the Judgement yet to come
His career will be over soon
And the rituals of a Saturday afternoon
Bid him a reluctant farewell
For he knows beyond the sport lies the spiritual
Billy Bragg, God's Footballer (Don’t Try This at Home)
| #permalink |
Tunnel Vision
The most pressing problem that has been of concern to Londoners since the Romans set up their wife swapping society sometime in 43AD has been how to cross the Thames; you are a South Londinium swinger and you fancy some up pompei rear guard action with a North Londinium knickerless Nomen Latinum. First off, nay, nay and thrice nay – why do you think the fig wearing Roman Empire died a death? Too much shagging (not a bad thing), not enough protection. But then again you wouldn't get me trying to cover my manhood with a sheep intestine as a sheath. As my dear old Granddad use to tell me on a daily basis.
The second obstacle to cross was of course the river. And so was born Londoner's fascination with the North / South divide, a parochial little bragging war that still dominates all within the great city.
London Bridge is Falling Down, Blackfriars Bridge is sadly a death trap for cyclists and the Millennium Bridge is just full of North London lifestyle type tossers lost in their own little iPod world, probably playing out some Scissor Sisters shit.
Since 1902 the best way to cross Father Thames has been to seek inspiration down below. And we're not talking dobbers again here.
The Greenwich Foot Tunnel is a journey within itself. Making the decent, even on a daily basis, brings back memories of a childhood train journey where the trip alone was sufficient to loose sleep over.
Plus the Foot Tunnel is free of course which is always a winner around here.
Designed by Sir Alexander Binnie and costing £127,000, the tunnel is lined with 200,000 white tiles. Plastering and tiling over my old fireplace was enough to make me hit a PG Tips binge.
With two identical entry points staring each other out South at Greenwich and North at the Isle of Dogs, even the entrances are a symbol of the North / South stand off. What awaits you inside the grand looking domes of decent is an even more grandiose wooden panelled lift. Plus a smiling old geezer who is content with his lot of pressing the Up / Down button all day long. If only life were as simple.
When you hit rock bottom (that will be the entrance to North London then), even on a midsummer's day, the journey fifty feet under the river experiences a temperature drop as you head deep down below an undiscovered new world. Rather worryingly there always seems to be dripping water from every angle. The Greenwich Foot Tunnel would make for a fantastic thriller movie. Probably posthumously staring RIVER Phoenix. Boom boom.
The tunnel itself has a dink in the middle as you walk down and then up again to the opposite lift. There are No Cycling signs a plenty, but exactly who is there to police all of this? Not the poor old button pusher.
My favourite trick is to make my way mid tunnel and then play the onionbagblogger Echo Game: You shout out loudly: 'What ECHO Echo echo' etc. Hours of fun and it certainly scares the shit out of the tourists as they head off for the anti-climax that is Greenwich.
In my ideal world then the Greenwich Foot Tunnel would start Southside, go round in an arc and then lead you back to the Beautiful South again. Not exactly a lot of practical use, granted, but then I wouldn't touch a North London tart even with yours. With or without a sheep's intestine.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Saturday 26 June, 2004 |
The most pressing problem that has been of concern to Londoners since the Romans set up their wife swapping society sometime in 43AD has been how to cross the Thames; you are a South Londinium swinger and you fancy some up pompei rear guard action with a North Londinium knickerless Nomen Latinum. First off, nay, nay and thrice nay – why do you think the fig wearing Roman Empire died a death? Too much shagging (not a bad thing), not enough protection. But then again you wouldn't get me trying to cover my manhood with a sheep intestine as a sheath. As my dear old Granddad use to tell me on a daily basis.
The second obstacle to cross was of course the river. And so was born Londoner's fascination with the North / South divide, a parochial little bragging war that still dominates all within the great city.
I wouldn’t touch a North London tart even with yours |
Since 1902 the best way to cross Father Thames has been to seek inspiration down below. And we're not talking dobbers again here.
The Greenwich Foot Tunnel is a journey within itself. Making the decent, even on a daily basis, brings back memories of a childhood train journey where the trip alone was sufficient to loose sleep over.
Plus the Foot Tunnel is free of course which is always a winner around here.
Designed by Sir Alexander Binnie and costing £127,000, the tunnel is lined with 200,000 white tiles. Plastering and tiling over my old fireplace was enough to make me hit a PG Tips binge.
With two identical entry points staring each other out South at Greenwich and North at the Isle of Dogs, even the entrances are a symbol of the North / South stand off. What awaits you inside the grand looking domes of decent is an even more grandiose wooden panelled lift. Plus a smiling old geezer who is content with his lot of pressing the Up / Down button all day long. If only life were as simple.
When you hit rock bottom (that will be the entrance to North London then), even on a midsummer's day, the journey fifty feet under the river experiences a temperature drop as you head deep down below an undiscovered new world. Rather worryingly there always seems to be dripping water from every angle. The Greenwich Foot Tunnel would make for a fantastic thriller movie. Probably posthumously staring RIVER Phoenix. Boom boom.
The tunnel itself has a dink in the middle as you walk down and then up again to the opposite lift. There are No Cycling signs a plenty, but exactly who is there to police all of this? Not the poor old button pusher.
My favourite trick is to make my way mid tunnel and then play the onionbagblogger Echo Game: You shout out loudly: 'What ECHO Echo echo' etc. Hours of fun and it certainly scares the shit out of the tourists as they head off for the anti-climax that is Greenwich.
In my ideal world then the Greenwich Foot Tunnel would start Southside, go round in an arc and then lead you back to the Beautiful South again. Not exactly a lot of practical use, granted, but then I wouldn't touch a North London tart even with yours. With or without a sheep's intestine.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Porto Blood, English Heart
200, 000 Portuguese live in London with another 100, 000 probably being conceived tonight. And I bet the reproduction process doesn't involve 45 minutes each way, stamina draining extra time and then the lottery of a shoot out at the end. Although some sadists may find it satisfying to shoot their load right in the face of ladyboy Christiano Ronaldo.
Where to start? Unless you are a non-football freak or a fan of The Bill (nice one ITV), then Owen quick off the block, a late equaliser, 2-1 down, Campbell’s goal' Beckham' sky high spot kick and finally poor old valiant Vassel will already be embedded into your long term memory filed away in the folder labelled 24_06_04.
But of course there was so much more. Especially on the Home Front, Sunny Stockwell SW8, home of London's Little Portugal and 40,000 Portos alone. And they don't half make a rousing racket at 2am in the morning, so much that all a local lad can do is lean out of the window, bash out a blog entry and humbly accept that if you can’t beat them, join them.
There's no way I’m wearing a wanky Ronaldo top though, the goof faced little girl.
If you were planning on a quiet football free evening in downtown Sunny Stockwell on Thursday evening with the stars from Sunhill station on your box, the local horn honkers had a different idea. Ford Cortinas flying the flag of St George broke out into a random route around South Lambeth Road soon after Owen was the Johnny on the Spot five minutes in.
Postiga's equaliser led to the more upmarket Porto Porches parading the green and red and South Lambeth Road was almost brought to a standstill when Costa's power drive put Portugal ahead some 1,000 miles away.
‘GET IN THERE' was the battle cry from around the estate minutes later when Lampard got lucky. The heartbreaking Vassel spot kick miss was the signal for Little Portugal to stop the traffic in a scene that someday will no doubt be repeated down the road in South East London when Dulwich Hamlet finally bring home some significant silverwear. We can but dream of the Surrey Senior Cup once again.
Previous Porto wins over Russia and Spain had led to processions down South Lambeth Road with an almost religious feel. This was different though. A win against the adopted mother nation and even the most carefree of coffee slurpers in the Tapas bars of Sunny Stockwell took to the street.
The most promising aspect of Stockwell's Euro 2004 experience to date has been how the two communities have moved closer together. Bars, cars and even mopeds flying both flags has been a boost to an area that can sometimes appear ghettoised.
The Police were wise to the potential for trouble though, especially with a number of staunch St George flag flying boozers also in the area. The Bill wisely held off (real life cops, not some idiotic ITV soap shit) and tried to keep the streets clear for the busses and taxis to keep moving. Yeah, right...
And then the pig ugly English disease set in. The cops had cordoned off the mainstream English pub, probably to protect the pricks insides rather than to let them run riot. With the good natured Portuguese celebrations in full fiesta mode, the unwise decision to let loose the English locals was made.
With an average age of around 18 and an IQ significantly less, they headed for the corner of Lansdowne Way, one of the main junctions in Stockwell and the only outpost in the area that was surprisingly police free.
With Portuguese fans flying the flag from their cars, just like the cross of St George would have been if it wasn't for Vassel, the knobbers dished out kicks to cars, battered bonnets with pulled up estate agents signs and general fuckspudery on behalf of the local louts took place.
Nothing too severe and it only lasted for around three minutes until the police got wise and the little shitheads moved on. School tomorrow and all that.
Let's look for positives: I'm just pleased that it will be the Portuguese that will be copulating tonight as the last thing Sunny Stockwell needs right now is another generation of in-bred, illiterate English scum.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Friday 25 June, 2004 |
200, 000 Portuguese live in London with another 100, 000 probably being conceived tonight. And I bet the reproduction process doesn't involve 45 minutes each way, stamina draining extra time and then the lottery of a shoot out at the end. Although some sadists may find it satisfying to shoot their load right in the face of ladyboy Christiano Ronaldo.
Where to start? Unless you are a non-football freak or a fan of The Bill (nice one ITV), then Owen quick off the block, a late equaliser, 2-1 down, Campbell’s goal' Beckham' sky high spot kick and finally poor old valiant Vassel will already be embedded into your long term memory filed away in the folder labelled 24_06_04.
There’s no way I'm wearing a wanky Ronaldo top |
There's no way I’m wearing a wanky Ronaldo top though, the goof faced little girl.
If you were planning on a quiet football free evening in downtown Sunny Stockwell on Thursday evening with the stars from Sunhill station on your box, the local horn honkers had a different idea. Ford Cortinas flying the flag of St George broke out into a random route around South Lambeth Road soon after Owen was the Johnny on the Spot five minutes in.
Postiga's equaliser led to the more upmarket Porto Porches parading the green and red and South Lambeth Road was almost brought to a standstill when Costa's power drive put Portugal ahead some 1,000 miles away.
‘GET IN THERE' was the battle cry from around the estate minutes later when Lampard got lucky. The heartbreaking Vassel spot kick miss was the signal for Little Portugal to stop the traffic in a scene that someday will no doubt be repeated down the road in South East London when Dulwich Hamlet finally bring home some significant silverwear. We can but dream of the Surrey Senior Cup once again.
Previous Porto wins over Russia and Spain had led to processions down South Lambeth Road with an almost religious feel. This was different though. A win against the adopted mother nation and even the most carefree of coffee slurpers in the Tapas bars of Sunny Stockwell took to the street.
The most promising aspect of Stockwell's Euro 2004 experience to date has been how the two communities have moved closer together. Bars, cars and even mopeds flying both flags has been a boost to an area that can sometimes appear ghettoised.
The Police were wise to the potential for trouble though, especially with a number of staunch St George flag flying boozers also in the area. The Bill wisely held off (real life cops, not some idiotic ITV soap shit) and tried to keep the streets clear for the busses and taxis to keep moving. Yeah, right...
And then the pig ugly English disease set in. The cops had cordoned off the mainstream English pub, probably to protect the pricks insides rather than to let them run riot. With the good natured Portuguese celebrations in full fiesta mode, the unwise decision to let loose the English locals was made.
With an average age of around 18 and an IQ significantly less, they headed for the corner of Lansdowne Way, one of the main junctions in Stockwell and the only outpost in the area that was surprisingly police free.
With Portuguese fans flying the flag from their cars, just like the cross of St George would have been if it wasn't for Vassel, the knobbers dished out kicks to cars, battered bonnets with pulled up estate agents signs and general fuckspudery on behalf of the local louts took place.
Nothing too severe and it only lasted for around three minutes until the police got wise and the little shitheads moved on. School tomorrow and all that.
Let's look for positives: I'm just pleased that it will be the Portuguese that will be copulating tonight as the last thing Sunny Stockwell needs right now is another generation of in-bred, illiterate English scum.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Portuguese Indecent Proposal
South Lambeth Road in Sunny Stockwell is not for the faint hearted (or English) whenever Portugal are playing. An opening defeat against Greece and my wheelie bin was upturned. A 2-0 win over Russia and the traffic was stopped as a procession of Mediterranean men blowing their horns made their way towards Stockwell, South London style. With a place in the quarter-finals set up after the 1-0 win over Spain in the Iberian derby, a trip to the chippy led to two marriage proposals (and yes, they were from females), an invitation to explore a back alley in Stockwell (yes, a femme fatale again) and a rather cheeky request to sample my saveloy. Vanity gets the better of me to declare the sexuality.
England in the semis or Stockwell sausage time? Dreamland either way.
| Thursday 24 June, 2004 |
South Lambeth Road in Sunny Stockwell is not for the faint hearted (or English) whenever Portugal are playing. An opening defeat against Greece and my wheelie bin was upturned. A 2-0 win over Russia and the traffic was stopped as a procession of Mediterranean men blowing their horns made their way towards Stockwell, South London style. With a place in the quarter-finals set up after the 1-0 win over Spain in the Iberian derby, a trip to the chippy led to two marriage proposals (and yes, they were from females), an invitation to explore a back alley in Stockwell (yes, a femme fatale again) and a rather cheeky request to sample my saveloy. Vanity gets the better of me to declare the sexuality.
England in the semis or Stockwell sausage time? Dreamland either way.
| #permalink |
Time of the Month
A brief body count at Brockwell Park over the weekend (an especially enjoyable experience once the sun is poking through, along with everything else...) revealed a close call contest in the South London Soccer Vs Strawberry stakes.
Euro 2004 or Wimbledon? Rooney's rear end or Tim's chinny chin chin? Five pints of Stella and a sunburnt beer belly or an afternoon spent queuing in the Wimbledon rain for the privilege of paying five quid for a punnet of over-priced strawberries? You decide. Well actually, let's allow the Brockwell Park budding stars of the future to cast the final vote with a straw poll of footballs being booted over the Brockwell boundary compared to tennis balls being lost in the Lambeth undergrowth.
Brockwell Park not only boasts a replica Henman Hill (well, it has a hill anyway), but also this summer has seen the emergence of South London' very own Rooney' Rump (that will be the unsightly mess of the overgrown and repugnant nature reserve then).
Anyone for tennis? Well, only if you'e a squeaky clean bright young thing bussed in from Merton, unable to book any tennis time in your own Borough because of the arrival of Federer, Roddick and Hewitt hogging the courts. Although the local Lambeth urchins were doing a fine trade in flogging back balls to the Merton set after their volleys went a bit Greg Rusedski (slightly loopy, aiming far too high and with a sky high velocity suggesting that they are fuelled by something a little stronger than Barley Water).
As for the football? A crowd of local yoofs (probably a full two years before they hit Rooney style Pizza face proportions) had assembled their Armani jumpers for goalposts, but they seemed more geared up for gymnastics than football. I was horrified when a cry of 'watch my Rooney' went out, only for the ball to be booted from the pitch to make way for a back flip 'goal' celebration (there was no goal...). It had all the style and grace of Ian Dowie doing the splits.
Football or tennis then? The end result must be a Love Match. Bet that's the only time you'll read in print the phrase 'Rooney, Henman, Dowie and Love'.
New balls please.
| Wednesday 23 June, 2004 |
A brief body count at Brockwell Park over the weekend (an especially enjoyable experience once the sun is poking through, along with everything else...) revealed a close call contest in the South London Soccer Vs Strawberry stakes.
Euro 2004 or Wimbledon? Rooney's rear end or Tim's chinny chin chin? Five pints of Stella and a sunburnt beer belly or an afternoon spent queuing in the Wimbledon rain for the privilege of paying five quid for a punnet of over-priced strawberries? You decide. Well actually, let's allow the Brockwell Park budding stars of the future to cast the final vote with a straw poll of footballs being booted over the Brockwell boundary compared to tennis balls being lost in the Lambeth undergrowth.
Watch my Rooney |
Anyone for tennis? Well, only if you'e a squeaky clean bright young thing bussed in from Merton, unable to book any tennis time in your own Borough because of the arrival of Federer, Roddick and Hewitt hogging the courts. Although the local Lambeth urchins were doing a fine trade in flogging back balls to the Merton set after their volleys went a bit Greg Rusedski (slightly loopy, aiming far too high and with a sky high velocity suggesting that they are fuelled by something a little stronger than Barley Water).
As for the football? A crowd of local yoofs (probably a full two years before they hit Rooney style Pizza face proportions) had assembled their Armani jumpers for goalposts, but they seemed more geared up for gymnastics than football. I was horrified when a cry of 'watch my Rooney' went out, only for the ball to be booted from the pitch to make way for a back flip 'goal' celebration (there was no goal...). It had all the style and grace of Ian Dowie doing the splits.
Football or tennis then? The end result must be a Love Match. Bet that's the only time you'll read in print the phrase 'Rooney, Henman, Dowie and Love'.
New balls please.
| #permalink |
Why the Long Face?
There's no getting around it - Vauxhall City Farm smells of shit. If it is at all possible for shit to smell sweet, then the tranquil little plot of land lodged behind Vauxhall station radiates the kind of joyful aroma usually reserved for when you line up your nostrils over the top of a bottle of poppers.
Finger covering the other nostril, deep snort, head back and... no heart pumping, head exploding buzzing off yer tits from the smell of cow shit, but it does make a pleasant change from choking the day in day out stench of the city. Actually with the Vauxhall Tavern only a short trail of used condoms away across the park, maybe amyl was actually competing for attention in the early summer air.
Presented with the backdrop of the MI6 building behind a bemused horse, oblivious to all the urban chaos ahead of him, and I was as happy as a pig in shite. Which actually when you are up close and peering a porker right between her trotters, is quite a surreal experience for a Sunday afternoon in London.
Where else in Lambeth can you see a hairy arsed pig lying on her back, ignorant to all around her staring at her smelly stout as she grunts and groans out what sounds like a mating call? Well, Caesars in Streatham on a Saturday night actually.
My new horsey friend however was an altogether more difficult customer; he refused to pose for a perfect urban meets countryside pic with his Van Nistelrooy facial features facing the Millbank Tower on the horizon.
Why the long face, etc. My four legged friend did seem a lot more at ease though in his city surroundings than Van Diver Boy after 90 minutes against the Czech Republic at the weekend.
YOU'RE SHIT, ARGHHHHH!!!!!!!!
Hand over left nostril, breathe in that urban farm fragrance.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Tuesday 22 June, 2004 |
There's no getting around it - Vauxhall City Farm smells of shit. If it is at all possible for shit to smell sweet, then the tranquil little plot of land lodged behind Vauxhall station radiates the kind of joyful aroma usually reserved for when you line up your nostrils over the top of a bottle of poppers.
Finger covering the other nostril, deep snort, head back and... no heart pumping, head exploding buzzing off yer tits from the smell of cow shit, but it does make a pleasant change from choking the day in day out stench of the city. Actually with the Vauxhall Tavern only a short trail of used condoms away across the park, maybe amyl was actually competing for attention in the early summer air.
I was as happy as a pig in shite |
Where else in Lambeth can you see a hairy arsed pig lying on her back, ignorant to all around her staring at her smelly stout as she grunts and groans out what sounds like a mating call? Well, Caesars in Streatham on a Saturday night actually.
My new horsey friend however was an altogether more difficult customer; he refused to pose for a perfect urban meets countryside pic with his Van Nistelrooy facial features facing the Millbank Tower on the horizon.
Why the long face, etc. My four legged friend did seem a lot more at ease though in his city surroundings than Van Diver Boy after 90 minutes against the Czech Republic at the weekend.
YOU'RE SHIT, ARGHHHHH!!!!!!!!
Hand over left nostril, breathe in that urban farm fragrance.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Crap Match Report| Sunday 20 June, 2004 |
Gloucestershire 368 & 4-0 Surrey 598, day three, bad light stopped play, 20/06/04
On reflection I should have known better than to try and watch cricket with Wimbledon fortnight imminent. I dodged the midday showers (I lie, my new posterior protracting physio routine takes the best part of a day to complete) and took up my freebie Seat of No Shame at The (semi) Oval just in time to see Surrey 'skittled' out for a meagre 598. Which is probably around the combined total that the South London side has managed in their previous seven County Championship matches this season.
Just as Gloucestershire were getting padded up (and no doubt dressed down by the bowling drillmaster), a slight guffaw (this is cricket remember) broke out around The (semi) Oval; not another seventy year old streaker you understand, but the usually pensive Surrey PA man was trying to get his head (and his wicked sense of humour) around the Gloucestershire bowling figures:
That was frustrating for all of us |
Out came the Surrey attack against a backdrop of grey skies that doesn't bode well for Glastonbury next week. There was probably more chance of Scott surviving the Antarctic than one of the poor stewards marshalling the empty new stands not finishing the day with frostbite.
Figures of four for nought later and on came the covers.
'That was very frustrating for all of us' commented the PA chap. I think he was referring to the weather rather than the away team's bowling stats.
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Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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crap match report compendium
surrey cricket
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Bloomin' Well!
All is well in my world; I have survived 90 minutes of post-crocked knee football (ran around like a twat, played like one as well - lost 3:2), the Morrissey CD becomes more marvellous with each listen and my wonderful window box is bloomin’ well.
Bring on those Croats.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Saturday 19 June, 2004 |
All is well in my world; I have survived 90 minutes of post-crocked knee football (ran around like a twat, played like one as well - lost 3:2), the Morrissey CD becomes more marvellous with each listen and my wonderful window box is bloomin’ well.
Bring on those Croats.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Having the Horn
Intrigued by the prospect of a museum housing halls and halls of Horny Men, I returned to the Horniman Museum in Forest Hill to satisfy my curiosity. Nothing else mind. Actually it was all part of a planned school trip and I had a class of ankle biters to berate, something else which can give off equal amounts of pleasure.
Victorian tea trader Frederick John Horniman founded the museum and surrounding gardens in the 1860s with the aim of bringing a wider appreciation of different cultures and environments. Horniman wanted to bring the world to Forest Hill, which I suppose is the correct logic as you probably wouldn't want to carry out a reverse ferret and want to bring Forest Hill to the world.
When Horniman's family home became too clustered with the collection (there's a serial hoarder in all of us – just look at the magazine stash under my bed), he commissioned the building of a new museum to hold all the junk. I mean worldly artefacts of course...
This was opened in 1901 and included the surrounding gardens which are probably the high point of any trip to Forest Hill. In the land of the blind, the one eyed King, etc.
Just over 100 years later in 2002, the new £13m wing was opened. And lovely it is too. What I found refreshing was for the design of the museum to be of significant interest alone. The new building is a spacious structure with natural light pouring in at every angle.
Looking more like an art gallery than some musty minging museum, the building itself appeals to you and is a worthy of a visit alone. One of the wings boasts a garden roof with a wild field of grass growing on top, and some strikingly modern aluminium air vents poking through the undergrowth.
Current exhibitions include Dinomites (little terrors with fangs, of which there are plenty of in Year 3), a photography exhibition looking at People and Their Environments and African Worlds, the first permanent exhibition in Britain exploring African diversity.
Some of the little darlings took an interest in the torture chair from the Spanish Inquisition. Yes, the temptation did cross my mind as well.
And so no horny men, but plenty of horns (African masks etc). Looks like I will have to go and pay a visit to the magnificent Minge House over in The Albuquerque Museum next month instead. Probably best to leave the kids back at school.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Friday 18 June, 2004 |
Intrigued by the prospect of a museum housing halls and halls of Horny Men, I returned to the Horniman Museum in Forest Hill to satisfy my curiosity. Nothing else mind. Actually it was all part of a planned school trip and I had a class of ankle biters to berate, something else which can give off equal amounts of pleasure.
Victorian tea trader Frederick John Horniman founded the museum and surrounding gardens in the 1860s with the aim of bringing a wider appreciation of different cultures and environments. Horniman wanted to bring the world to Forest Hill, which I suppose is the correct logic as you probably wouldn't want to carry out a reverse ferret and want to bring Forest Hill to the world.
There's a serial hoarder in all of us |
This was opened in 1901 and included the surrounding gardens which are probably the high point of any trip to Forest Hill. In the land of the blind, the one eyed King, etc.
Just over 100 years later in 2002, the new £13m wing was opened. And lovely it is too. What I found refreshing was for the design of the museum to be of significant interest alone. The new building is a spacious structure with natural light pouring in at every angle.
Looking more like an art gallery than some musty minging museum, the building itself appeals to you and is a worthy of a visit alone. One of the wings boasts a garden roof with a wild field of grass growing on top, and some strikingly modern aluminium air vents poking through the undergrowth.
Current exhibitions include Dinomites (little terrors with fangs, of which there are plenty of in Year 3), a photography exhibition looking at People and Their Environments and African Worlds, the first permanent exhibition in Britain exploring African diversity.
Some of the little darlings took an interest in the torture chair from the Spanish Inquisition. Yes, the temptation did cross my mind as well.
And so no horny men, but plenty of horns (African masks etc). Looks like I will have to go and pay a visit to the magnificent Minge House over in The Albuquerque Museum next month instead. Probably best to leave the kids back at school.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Lovely Jubbly East Street
For a city founded on trade it is fitting that Londoners still love a good old fashioned street market. A morning in Mayfair or a walk through Walworth and East Street Market? For the price that it would probably cost you to use the public pisser in Mayfair, down at East Street you can pick up a pirate DVD, a pound of bananas and still have change for pie and chips on the way home. Plus the area is a knobber free zone.
SE17 has seen a market since Victorian times with local lad charlie chaplin a regular customer. The area still retains some slapstick humour with East Street being classic Del Boy and Rodders territory.
You'll be disappointed if you're looking for antique dealers, Christian D'or and delicatessens, but you will pick up cut price razor blades (for shaving, not throat cutting), cheapo birthday cards (five for a quid) and a nice line in slightly soiled string vests. Plus of course TVs, deep freeze, David Bowie LPs...
The entertainment factor in East Street Market though is not so much found in what's for sale but more as the centre of focus for the local community. By which of course I mean gossip. South Londoner's love a good old chinwag and East Street provides locals with a meeting place to debate the issues of the day. Or usually who's shagging who.
I returned with the following nugget of wisdom from a market trader:
'Straight people are the odds ones out nowadays. Everyone’s going gay and lesbian.'
Classic.
Pointing your lens in the direction of some folk who may be on a Most Wanted list down at the local cop shop though is not to be recommended. It takes a steady hand to hold your nerve. Either that or a useful zoom as you hide away down a South East London side street like the piss yer pants scaredy cat that you really are.
During my visit Mad Frankie Fraser was keeping court at one end of the market with fellow Walworth wrinklies. I paused for thought, pondering asking the ex-axe murderer to pose for a postcard pic, and by the way, were you the thieving scum who nicked my beloved bike last year? Bastard. But the Butcher of South London had a cocker spaniel as a chaperon. Scary stuff.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Thursday 17 June, 2004 |
For a city founded on trade it is fitting that Londoners still love a good old fashioned street market. A morning in Mayfair or a walk through Walworth and East Street Market? For the price that it would probably cost you to use the public pisser in Mayfair, down at East Street you can pick up a pirate DVD, a pound of bananas and still have change for pie and chips on the way home. Plus the area is a knobber free zone.
SE17 has seen a market since Victorian times with local lad charlie chaplin a regular customer. The area still retains some slapstick humour with East Street being classic Del Boy and Rodders territory.
Everyone's going gay and lesbian |
The entertainment factor in East Street Market though is not so much found in what's for sale but more as the centre of focus for the local community. By which of course I mean gossip. South Londoner's love a good old chinwag and East Street provides locals with a meeting place to debate the issues of the day. Or usually who's shagging who.
I returned with the following nugget of wisdom from a market trader:
'Straight people are the odds ones out nowadays. Everyone’s going gay and lesbian.'
Classic.
Pointing your lens in the direction of some folk who may be on a Most Wanted list down at the local cop shop though is not to be recommended. It takes a steady hand to hold your nerve. Either that or a useful zoom as you hide away down a South East London side street like the piss yer pants scaredy cat that you really are.
During my visit Mad Frankie Fraser was keeping court at one end of the market with fellow Walworth wrinklies. I paused for thought, pondering asking the ex-axe murderer to pose for a postcard pic, and by the way, were you the thieving scum who nicked my beloved bike last year? Bastard. But the Butcher of South London had a cocker spaniel as a chaperon. Scary stuff.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Run It Up The Flag Pole
I'm not usually a cut 'n paste kid, but this is rather pertinent:
********DVLA NEWSFLASH********
In order to assist other motorists in identifying potentially dangerous drivers, it is now compulsory for anyone with a lower than average IQ and driving ability to display a warning flag. The flag (comprising of a red cross on a white background) will be attached to the top of at least one door of their vehicle. For drivers of exceptionally low ability, additional flags are required.
| Wednesday 16 June, 2004 |
I'm not usually a cut 'n paste kid, but this is rather pertinent:
In order to assist other motorists in identifying potentially dangerous drivers, it is now compulsory for anyone with a lower than average IQ and driving ability to display a warning flag. The flag (comprising of a red cross on a white background) will be attached to the top of at least one door of their vehicle. For drivers of exceptionally low ability, additional flags are required.
| #permalink |
My Giddy Aunt
'Aunt Flo is staying for the weekend' is a euphemism lodged in the conscience of crap Carry On script writers, along with 'the decorators are moving in downstairs.' Given the choice of a weekend with no nookie or my actual Aunt Flo fitting her fifteen stone frame into my flat for a weekend of fun, I think I would prefer Arts and Craft Week at the Panty Camp every time.
Popular myth portrays the aunt as a figure of fun; a rotund rosy cheeked M&S shopper who still hands out a Milky Bar to you (and your mates) each time she sees you, even if you are thirty four years of age and have a mortgage. My Aunt Flo unfortunately defies all stereotypes.
A family feud (something involving a buried pregnancy testing kit that Bonzo the family dog dug up in the back garden during Granddad's wake) has meant that I have been a gofer for dear old Aunt Flo and my mum for the past 13 years. With the line of communication that I have to pass back and forth more poisoned than 80's poodle rockers Poison propping up the bar and asking Poison Ivy what her poison is, Aunt Flo's fierce resistance to reconciliation makes the Middle East peace process seem like lip service for justification of an illegal operation of a foreign power. Oh, hang on...
I fear that my feeling of uncomfortableness around Flo can be traced back to a flirtatious moment on my thirteenth birthday; I had just discovered the joys of Derby County whereas Aunt Flo had just discovered the Joy of Sex. Unfortunately a premature male menopause for Uncle Stan meant that this was not a shared experience.
Expecting a Dean Saunders replica kit as I hit my teen years, there was much confusion and embarrassment come the morning of my birthday when Aunt Flo furnished me with my very own blow up doll.
'And have you got a big birthday kiss for your favourite aunt?'
Um, I wasn't expecting tongues.
Twenty one years later and with a rising career in the riotous world of IT, whenever Aunt Flo floats the idea of a visit, I struggle to come up with a new excuse.
Rebooting the Ovarian Operating System should suffice.
| Wednesday 15 June, 2004 |
'Aunt Flo is staying for the weekend' is a euphemism lodged in the conscience of crap Carry On script writers, along with 'the decorators are moving in downstairs.' Given the choice of a weekend with no nookie or my actual Aunt Flo fitting her fifteen stone frame into my flat for a weekend of fun, I think I would prefer Arts and Craft Week at the Panty Camp every time.
Popular myth portrays the aunt as a figure of fun; a rotund rosy cheeked M&S shopper who still hands out a Milky Bar to you (and your mates) each time she sees you, even if you are thirty four years of age and have a mortgage. My Aunt Flo unfortunately defies all stereotypes.
Aunt Flo had just discovered the Joy of Sex |
I fear that my feeling of uncomfortableness around Flo can be traced back to a flirtatious moment on my thirteenth birthday; I had just discovered the joys of Derby County whereas Aunt Flo had just discovered the Joy of Sex. Unfortunately a premature male menopause for Uncle Stan meant that this was not a shared experience.
Expecting a Dean Saunders replica kit as I hit my teen years, there was much confusion and embarrassment come the morning of my birthday when Aunt Flo furnished me with my very own blow up doll.
'And have you got a big birthday kiss for your favourite aunt?'
Um, I wasn't expecting tongues.
Twenty one years later and with a rising career in the riotous world of IT, whenever Aunt Flo floats the idea of a visit, I struggle to come up with a new excuse.
Rebooting the Ovarian Operating System should suffice.
| #permalink |
E’s a Jolly Good Fella
Prince Harry (Gawd bless the ginger rat faced twat) is to work for the Rugby Football Union as a coach representing England; at least the bastard (as in I don't like him, and not the dictionary definition of course) will be in familiar company.
You may remember that Happy Harry was sent to a Drugs Rehabilitation Clinic after he was found to be smoking cannabis in between buggery and wearing wanky costumes at Eton.
Likewise England rugby captain Lawrence Dallaglio was alleged to have been dealing Class A drugs but significantly failed to take libel action against his allegers.
I never did understand why..
So does this all mean that an appetite for hovering Class As up your arse on a Saturday night is now deemed a relevant coaching qualification within rugby? They're not exactly knocking on my door, and no, this isn't a tabloid style 'come and get me' plea.
I'd probably tell the rugger buggers wear to stick their silly egg shaped ball, if I could find room for it that is amongst all the other paraphernalia located within.
Up yours, your right royal knobber.
| Tuesday 14 June, 2004 |
Prince Harry (Gawd bless the ginger rat faced twat) is to work for the Rugby Football Union as a coach representing England; at least the bastard (as in I don't like him, and not the dictionary definition of course) will be in familiar company.
You may remember that Happy Harry was sent to a Drugs Rehabilitation Clinic after he was found to be smoking cannabis in between buggery and wearing wanky costumes at Eton.
Up yours, you right royal knobber |
I never did understand why..
So does this all mean that an appetite for hovering Class As up your arse on a Saturday night is now deemed a relevant coaching qualification within rugby? They're not exactly knocking on my door, and no, this isn't a tabloid style 'come and get me' plea.
I'd probably tell the rugger buggers wear to stick their silly egg shaped ball, if I could find room for it that is amongst all the other paraphernalia located within.
Up yours, your right royal knobber.
| #permalink |
Gender Bending Bard
Sometimes Shakespeare's Globe can be just a bit too authentic; The Bard's plays were performed by a strictly male only cast four hundred years ago (don't believe the shit of Shakespeare in Love), well hey nonny nonny, how about a post modern approach and an all female company for Much Ado About Nothing?
Shakespeare was one of the first gender benders of course. Not in a Pete Burns lips, hips and tits (and some crap plastic surgery) style, but in using the theme of gender identity and then turning it upside down. Why the need to confuse it all the more then with a If You've Not Got a Willy Then You’re Not Coming In door policy?
The production and performance doesn't suffer for the inequality; my problem though is with all the role reversal. Just as all-female parliamentary short lists serve up shit like Kate Tally Hoey, drawing a goatee in eyeliner on some bird isn't making some grand feminist statement. It's just showing that you have a steady hand.
All of which of course is Much Ado About Nothing, so to speak as I had a really great night. Such a shame that Josie Lawrence was bearded up as the unsightly Don Pedro; even behind the mangled dreadlocks and wispy beard, she still just about managed to give me the horn. Which is slightly worrying.
Uncle Leonata is played in the style of Aunt Whiteadder from the classic Blackadder Beer episode. Which only confuses the ladyboy narrative more. Wicked child!
The absence of knobs only sends the cast into cock overdrive. There's much thrusting of the hips as if to re-enforce the pretend masculinity. It didn't do anything for the hetro girls in the audience, and certainly didn't push any buttons for the gay groundlings. Asexual Shakespeare – much be a first.
The male members though do get to wear some spectacular phallic face masks during the courting and yes, the knob like noses do eventually get to be sucked. This was all a bit of a giveaway – a female acting out the role of a male who then gets his mouth around nine inches. You could tell instantly it was really a girlie underneath the make-up as he / she gave great head. A bit like Jimmy Crankie is probably capable of doing, but I'd rather not dwell on that.
It's not all hey nonny nonny, who's Arthur and who's Martha though. The various romantic pairings unfold around a statue of cupid which is a nice touch.
All the gender bending probably is Much Ado on my behalf. To balance things up, Measure for Measure is handed over to the men in the company next month. I say men, the magnificent Mark Rylance will play the role of Duke Vincentino. A real 'man's man,' if you know what I mean...
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Tuesday 14 June, 2004 |
Sometimes Shakespeare's Globe can be just a bit too authentic; The Bard's plays were performed by a strictly male only cast four hundred years ago (don't believe the shit of Shakespeare in Love), well hey nonny nonny, how about a post modern approach and an all female company for Much Ado About Nothing?
Shakespeare was one of the first gender benders of course. Not in a Pete Burns lips, hips and tits (and some crap plastic surgery) style, but in using the theme of gender identity and then turning it upside down. Why the need to confuse it all the more then with a If You've Not Got a Willy Then You’re Not Coming In door policy?
If you’ve not got a willy then you’re not coming in |
All of which of course is Much Ado About Nothing, so to speak as I had a really great night. Such a shame that Josie Lawrence was bearded up as the unsightly Don Pedro; even behind the mangled dreadlocks and wispy beard, she still just about managed to give me the horn. Which is slightly worrying.
Uncle Leonata is played in the style of Aunt Whiteadder from the classic Blackadder Beer episode. Which only confuses the ladyboy narrative more. Wicked child!
The absence of knobs only sends the cast into cock overdrive. There's much thrusting of the hips as if to re-enforce the pretend masculinity. It didn't do anything for the hetro girls in the audience, and certainly didn't push any buttons for the gay groundlings. Asexual Shakespeare – much be a first.
The male members though do get to wear some spectacular phallic face masks during the courting and yes, the knob like noses do eventually get to be sucked. This was all a bit of a giveaway – a female acting out the role of a male who then gets his mouth around nine inches. You could tell instantly it was really a girlie underneath the make-up as he / she gave great head. A bit like Jimmy Crankie is probably capable of doing, but I'd rather not dwell on that.
It's not all hey nonny nonny, who's Arthur and who's Martha though. The various romantic pairings unfold around a statue of cupid which is a nice touch.
All the gender bending probably is Much Ado on my behalf. To balance things up, Measure for Measure is handed over to the men in the company next month. I say men, the magnificent Mark Rylance will play the role of Duke Vincentino. A real 'man's man,' if you know what I mean...
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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| #permalink |
Re-tweet
watch budgie man video
Back by popular demand, the Bankside Budgie Man – an onionbagblogger personal hero.
'If you wanna love me, you gotta love my budgerigar'– a modern day classic.
Rumours abound though that the Bloke / Bird is set to return to the North East soon. Catch him while you can, the onionbagblog honorary Bonkers Bankside Bloke.
*Budgie Man alone is responsible for driving traffic to this shitty blog. I'not kidding. What the fuck is someone in Nigeria doing anyway searching for 'budgieman+funny+english+man?'*
| Monday 14 June, 2004 |
watch budgie man video
Back by popular demand, the Bankside Budgie Man – an onionbagblogger personal hero.
'If you wanna love me, you gotta love my budgerigar'– a modern day classic.
Rumours abound though that the Bloke / Bird is set to return to the North East soon. Catch him while you can, the onionbagblog honorary Bonkers Bankside Bloke.
*Budgie Man alone is responsible for driving traffic to this shitty blog. I'not kidding. What the fuck is someone in Nigeria doing anyway searching for 'budgieman+funny+english+man?'*
| #permalink |
Park-athon
Twenty sunny South London Parks in six and a half hours, pedal power style. It can be done my friend. Well, that is if you stock up heavily with supplies of cheapo cheese and onion pasties and have a 'mature' crowd as your cycling companions making you weary of being shamed as a two wheel, two park wonder.
This week is National Cycling Week and like Valentine's Day - always a bit of a misnomer to me; why withhold your smutty suggestions from a loved one for just one day of the year? Likewise a cycle isn't just for one week in the summer, it's a way of life, maaaaan...
And so on to the twenty parks, a couple of dodgy knees and one hundred plus hit and miss photos. The incredibly friendly folk at Lambeth Cyclists organised the Saturday cycle, taking in the best the Borough has to offer, as well as some border hopping to Southwark, Lewisham and even the dark depths of Bromley.
Brockwell Park
Meeting at the brow of Brockwell Park, we first had the formalities of a pep talk: No red light jumping (what, me?), single line procession and don't talk to any locals once we hit Bromley. Actually that was my own personal mantra, but seeing as though my French 'aint that good anyway, intelligent conversation with the pseudo Frenchies of Kent was about as likely as Gary Neville getting a hat trick the following day.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
Norwood Park
A nice view of The City. Park slightly unkempt, a bit like my weekend whiskers.
Norwood Recreation Ground
Any recreation taking place here seemed to be happening indoors rather than out in the great outdoors. The house count for the flag of St George's flying from the front of houses was similar to swastikas at Nuremberg. Not that I'm making any rational comparison of course. My notes say 'unappealing' – I think this refers to the park and not the first sampling of a cheese and onion pasty.
West Norwood Park
Lovely roses. Which is all one could want in a park really.
Crystal Palace
The Daddy of South London parks. Pity then that you have to navigate the SE19 shitty one way system first.
Sydenham Wells Park
The first duck chase of the day. Why do they do this? Is it a sexual thing? It is a playground bully equivalent of the duck world? Or perhaps they find Sydenham Wells Park so shit that they resort to waddling around trying to put their beak up each others arse?
Quackers.
Mayow Park
The first 'jumpers for goalposts' sighting of the day. Being bike week of course, we had bicycles for goalposts which was a nice touch.
Home Park
Not so much a park as a strip of singed grass with a vandalised hut at the one end. Nice graffiti job though.
Cator Park
Featuring the damp squid of the River Pool – I've seen more riveting rivers down South Lambeth Road when it pisses it down with rain.
Croydon Road Recreation Ground
Not the most aesthetically appealing name for a plot of green pasture, but this proved to be something of a garden of delight. I think the fact that it was also the official lunch stop helped.
Kelsey Park
Crystal Palace heartlands and with the dark clouds hovering above, this has to be some kind of metaphor for the imminent relegation battle down at Selhurst. Like Ian Dowie, much of Bromley was pig ugly.
Beckenham Place Park
Sadly not Beckenham Palace, home of the fragrant Victoria and 'im indoors. Just as tasteful though and the first chance for a bit of off-road.
Forster Memorial Park
In memory of two sons from the famous Lewisham Forster family who were lost to war.
Mountsfield Park
Always wanted to visit Catford but I'm not sure why. Now that I've been there I'm still non the clearer, but I'm in no hurry to return.
Ladywell Field
Which does actually feature a ladywell (similar to a ladbyboy?) , although it's buried beneath the approach to the park. Involves crossing the ghastly Lewisham High Street, a cycling feat on par with surviving a barrel ride down Niagara Falls.
Blythe Hill
Rather windswept, in serious danger of my crap notes being blown away.
Unknown Crematorium (probably the home of the Unknown Soldier blah blah blah)
Some unnamed crematorium en route which just about passes as a park, on account that it was DEAD good. People are dying to get in there you know. I once applied for a job here – you had hundreds of people under you, etc etc.
One Tree Hill
A highlight of the ride; a steep climb up some rocky terrain (no, really) and then you are rewarded with a panoramic view of The City. A romantic location, although I thought it a bit premature to start tonguing some cyclists I had only met hours before. More than one tree as well.
Horniman Park
Although I felt anything but horny, especially for men, after six hours in the saddle. Home of the Horniman Museum, which I can only presume proudly displays horny men. Wonderful view of the newly erected (yeah, yeah) Wembley arch from the top of the hill, a gleaming beam of light some fifteen miles across town. A possible vantage point for a game, armed with some incredibly powerful binoculars.
Dulwich Park
Yes, OK, all very lovely, all very village like but dangerously close to Daily Mail territory for my liking.
Brockwell Park
All back to Brixton and the beautiful Brockwell Park, just as the sun started to shine on us again.
Many thanks to Mark at Lambeth Cyclists for organising and guiding us through the ride.
Next up in the diary for me is the Summer Solstice bike ride: Meet at The Ritzy, Brixton 12.30 am for a leisurely cycle around the deserted City, seeing the sun up at Primrose Hill. I'm expecting free love all round. I'll probably end up with a puncture.
| Sunday 13 June, 2004 |
Twenty sunny South London Parks in six and a half hours, pedal power style. It can be done my friend. Well, that is if you stock up heavily with supplies of cheapo cheese and onion pasties and have a 'mature' crowd as your cycling companions making you weary of being shamed as a two wheel, two park wonder.
This week is National Cycling Week and like Valentine's Day - always a bit of a misnomer to me; why withhold your smutty suggestions from a loved one for just one day of the year? Likewise a cycle isn't just for one week in the summer, it's a way of life, maaaaan...
Park slightly unkempt, a bit like my weekend whiskers |
Brockwell Park
Meeting at the brow of Brockwell Park, we first had the formalities of a pep talk: No red light jumping (what, me?), single line procession and don't talk to any locals once we hit Bromley. Actually that was my own personal mantra, but seeing as though my French 'aint that good anyway, intelligent conversation with the pseudo Frenchies of Kent was about as likely as Gary Neville getting a hat trick the following day.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Norwood Park
A nice view of The City. Park slightly unkempt, a bit like my weekend whiskers.
)
)
)
)
)
Norwood Recreation Ground
Any recreation taking place here seemed to be happening indoors rather than out in the great outdoors. The house count for the flag of St George's flying from the front of houses was similar to swastikas at Nuremberg. Not that I'm making any rational comparison of course. My notes say 'unappealing' – I think this refers to the park and not the first sampling of a cheese and onion pasty.
)
)
)
)
)
West Norwood Park
Lovely roses. Which is all one could want in a park really.
)
)
)
)
)
Crystal Palace
The Daddy of South London parks. Pity then that you have to navigate the SE19 shitty one way system first.
)
)
)
)
)
Sydenham Wells Park
The first duck chase of the day. Why do they do this? Is it a sexual thing? It is a playground bully equivalent of the duck world? Or perhaps they find Sydenham Wells Park so shit that they resort to waddling around trying to put their beak up each others arse?
Quackers.
)
)
)
)
)
Mayow Park
The first 'jumpers for goalposts' sighting of the day. Being bike week of course, we had bicycles for goalposts which was a nice touch.
)
)
)
)
)
Home Park
Not so much a park as a strip of singed grass with a vandalised hut at the one end. Nice graffiti job though.
)
)
)
)
)
Cator Park
Featuring the damp squid of the River Pool – I've seen more riveting rivers down South Lambeth Road when it pisses it down with rain.
)
)
)
)
)
Croydon Road Recreation Ground
Not the most aesthetically appealing name for a plot of green pasture, but this proved to be something of a garden of delight. I think the fact that it was also the official lunch stop helped.
)
)
)
)
)
Kelsey Park
Crystal Palace heartlands and with the dark clouds hovering above, this has to be some kind of metaphor for the imminent relegation battle down at Selhurst. Like Ian Dowie, much of Bromley was pig ugly.
)
)
)
)
)
Beckenham Place Park
Sadly not Beckenham Palace, home of the fragrant Victoria and 'im indoors. Just as tasteful though and the first chance for a bit of off-road.
)
)
)
)
)
Forster Memorial Park
In memory of two sons from the famous Lewisham Forster family who were lost to war.
)
)
)
)
)
Mountsfield Park
Always wanted to visit Catford but I'm not sure why. Now that I've been there I'm still non the clearer, but I'm in no hurry to return.
)
)
)
)
)
Ladywell Field
Which does actually feature a ladywell (similar to a ladbyboy?) , although it's buried beneath the approach to the park. Involves crossing the ghastly Lewisham High Street, a cycling feat on par with surviving a barrel ride down Niagara Falls.
)
)
)
)
Blythe Hill
Rather windswept, in serious danger of my crap notes being blown away.
)
)
)
)
)
Unknown Crematorium (probably the home of the Unknown Soldier blah blah blah)
Some unnamed crematorium en route which just about passes as a park, on account that it was DEAD good. People are dying to get in there you know. I once applied for a job here – you had hundreds of people under you, etc etc.
)
)
)
One Tree Hill
A highlight of the ride; a steep climb up some rocky terrain (no, really) and then you are rewarded with a panoramic view of The City. A romantic location, although I thought it a bit premature to start tonguing some cyclists I had only met hours before. More than one tree as well.
)
)
)
)
)
Horniman Park
Although I felt anything but horny, especially for men, after six hours in the saddle. Home of the Horniman Museum, which I can only presume proudly displays horny men. Wonderful view of the newly erected (yeah, yeah) Wembley arch from the top of the hill, a gleaming beam of light some fifteen miles across town. A possible vantage point for a game, armed with some incredibly powerful binoculars.
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Dulwich Park
Yes, OK, all very lovely, all very village like but dangerously close to Daily Mail territory for my liking.
)
)
Brockwell Park
All back to Brixton and the beautiful Brockwell Park, just as the sun started to shine on us again.
Many thanks to Mark at Lambeth Cyclists for organising and guiding us through the ride.
Next up in the diary for me is the Summer Solstice bike ride: Meet at The Ritzy, Brixton 12.30 am for a leisurely cycle around the deserted City, seeing the sun up at Primrose Hill. I'm expecting free love all round. I'll probably end up with a puncture.
| #permalink |
Sun, Sangria & Stockwell
There's only one place to watch Euro 2004 – and that's in yer own front room, lounging about in your Y-fronts, TV on, volume off, Alan Green on the radio and an industrial size supply of tea bags to get you through the month.
If there was an alternative then it would be Sunny Stockwell of course, home of London's Little Portugal. But this option would involve spending money, plus the Portos don't take too kindly to a PG Tips lover propping up the bar, hands down his shreddies and having a good old scratch.
If you're thinking of bellowing out the benefits of Beckham over the fancy footwork of Figo, here's the onionbagblog Guide to Euro 2004, Sunny Stockwell Style.
A good starting point would be the tube. Don't use it. You will have to maintain a sterner eye gaze than Pierluigi Collina to psyche out the Porto junkies, as they pester you for a travelcard. A cheapo £1 touted card of course has its benefits for the return journey and if you have no morals in propping up the local drug trade in return for stashing some cash, then do the dirty deal. Don't forget to wash your hands afterwards.
No surprises then that Porto junkie Travelcard touts are my best friends.
Your next Port (o) (boom boom) of call should be Costcutters next door to the tube. Tennants Extra, twenty B&H and a packet of Pringles should see you on the way until you reach the first boozer. Or once again preferring the onionbagblog brevity of banknotes financial management then I refer you to the nice selection of 10p Sherbet Dips that are on offer.
What exactly do you want from your Sunny Stockwell Euro 2004 experience you have to ask yourself? An in depth and detailed analysis of the match shared within a union of European minds meeting in some symbol of shared continental unity, or simply a beered up finger of fudge with an Aussie slapper at The Swan as you ponder the physical deformity of Wayne Rooney?
If it's the latter then it's across the road for you to The Swan, officially the worst boozer in South London. An innocent blink of the eye can be misinterpreted for an invitation to exchange bodily fluids on the dancefloor. The Sheilas are of course all slags. The beer's a real bitch as well.
Which brings us on to The Priory, a short walks down South Lambeth Road, eyes right at Lansdowne Way and you will find the pub that has more CAMRA Pub of the Year awards than Stockwell has used condoms on the streets on a Saturday morning. Lovely staff, a free house (yes, confused me the first time as well I entered without my wallet) and probably the only place in South London where you can sip a glass of Turnip Wine, should that be your drink of fancy. We should invite Graham Taylor along actually.
If it's the true authentic Portuguese Euro 2004 experience that you harbour for then first you need to distinguish your rank. A well to do 'home in England, home in Portugal' gentleman or a Pikey Porto who jumped a plane and landed in Stockwell to feed his heroin habit? Yes, even assimilated Portuguese have adopted the English class system and the hierarchy is more or less laid out along South Lambeth Road with the selection of pubs and cafes.
The Duke of Cambridge on Lansdowne Way should cater for the comatosed crackhead end of the market; Karaoke nights in Portuguese seem to be a regular fixture, either with or without some shitty soundtrack accompaniment. The words always tend to follow the pattern of 'Ole ole ole ole, Beckham is fucking gay.' It's reassuring to find that the local English chavs have managed to put aside any tabloid xenophobic stereotyping and often join in at The Duke of Cambridge. Norman Tebbit would be proud of the shared cultural understanding.
Heading northwards further up South London Road and the choice is yours. Tapas Bars, which besides from being a good place to bag an MI6 laptop, also seem to be populated by pricks who would happily pay £3 plus for half a cup of coffee.
It all gets a bit more lively towards the Vauxhall end of South Lambeth Road with some full on terrace bars that seem to serve no other purpose than for highly desirable young Portuguese females to politely wolf whistle at the sight of short trousered onionbagblogger peddling past. Actually it could be some of the very camp gents also posing around but my vanity means that I'm too proud to take a proper look.
Any Euro 2004 trip Sunny Stockwell style of course has to end with the traditional drive up and down South Lambeth Road like a madman beeping your horn, waving a flag out of the window and generally getting up the nose of any killjoy local lad who can't understand exactly what is wrong with going out to your local friendly Porto pub with his own fresh flask of PG Tips.
Come on Portugal! Um, I mean England, I think...
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Saturday 11 June, 2004 |
There's only one place to watch Euro 2004 – and that's in yer own front room, lounging about in your Y-fronts, TV on, volume off, Alan Green on the radio and an industrial size supply of tea bags to get you through the month.
If there was an alternative then it would be Sunny Stockwell of course, home of London's Little Portugal. But this option would involve spending money, plus the Portos don't take too kindly to a PG Tips lover propping up the bar, hands down his shreddies and having a good old scratch.
If you're thinking of bellowing out the benefits of Beckham over the fancy footwork of Figo, here's the onionbagblog Guide to Euro 2004, Sunny Stockwell Style.
Ole ole ole ole, Beckham is fucking gay |
No surprises then that Porto junkie Travelcard touts are my best friends.
Your next Port (o) (boom boom) of call should be Costcutters next door to the tube. Tennants Extra, twenty B&H and a packet of Pringles should see you on the way until you reach the first boozer. Or once again preferring the onionbagblog brevity of banknotes financial management then I refer you to the nice selection of 10p Sherbet Dips that are on offer.
What exactly do you want from your Sunny Stockwell Euro 2004 experience you have to ask yourself? An in depth and detailed analysis of the match shared within a union of European minds meeting in some symbol of shared continental unity, or simply a beered up finger of fudge with an Aussie slapper at The Swan as you ponder the physical deformity of Wayne Rooney?
If it's the latter then it's across the road for you to The Swan, officially the worst boozer in South London. An innocent blink of the eye can be misinterpreted for an invitation to exchange bodily fluids on the dancefloor. The Sheilas are of course all slags. The beer's a real bitch as well.
Which brings us on to The Priory, a short walks down South Lambeth Road, eyes right at Lansdowne Way and you will find the pub that has more CAMRA Pub of the Year awards than Stockwell has used condoms on the streets on a Saturday morning. Lovely staff, a free house (yes, confused me the first time as well I entered without my wallet) and probably the only place in South London where you can sip a glass of Turnip Wine, should that be your drink of fancy. We should invite Graham Taylor along actually.
If it's the true authentic Portuguese Euro 2004 experience that you harbour for then first you need to distinguish your rank. A well to do 'home in England, home in Portugal' gentleman or a Pikey Porto who jumped a plane and landed in Stockwell to feed his heroin habit? Yes, even assimilated Portuguese have adopted the English class system and the hierarchy is more or less laid out along South Lambeth Road with the selection of pubs and cafes.
The Duke of Cambridge on Lansdowne Way should cater for the comatosed crackhead end of the market; Karaoke nights in Portuguese seem to be a regular fixture, either with or without some shitty soundtrack accompaniment. The words always tend to follow the pattern of 'Ole ole ole ole, Beckham is fucking gay.' It's reassuring to find that the local English chavs have managed to put aside any tabloid xenophobic stereotyping and often join in at The Duke of Cambridge. Norman Tebbit would be proud of the shared cultural understanding.
Heading northwards further up South London Road and the choice is yours. Tapas Bars, which besides from being a good place to bag an MI6 laptop, also seem to be populated by pricks who would happily pay £3 plus for half a cup of coffee.
It all gets a bit more lively towards the Vauxhall end of South Lambeth Road with some full on terrace bars that seem to serve no other purpose than for highly desirable young Portuguese females to politely wolf whistle at the sight of short trousered onionbagblogger peddling past. Actually it could be some of the very camp gents also posing around but my vanity means that I'm too proud to take a proper look.
Any Euro 2004 trip Sunny Stockwell style of course has to end with the traditional drive up and down South Lambeth Road like a madman beeping your horn, waving a flag out of the window and generally getting up the nose of any killjoy local lad who can't understand exactly what is wrong with going out to your local friendly Porto pub with his own fresh flask of PG Tips.
Come on Portugal! Um, I mean England, I think...
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Happy Barf-day
If you have a birthday coming up and are on the onionbagblog birthday hit list, I would appreciate if you would let me know in advance which of the following fantastic five designs (5 for a £1, East Street Market, Walworth) would make your morning ahead of the joyous occasion.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Friday 11 June, 2004 |
If you have a birthday coming up and are on the onionbagblog birthday hit list, I would appreciate if you would let me know in advance which of the following fantastic five designs (5 for a £1, East Street Market, Walworth) would make your morning ahead of the joyous occasion.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Champion-shit
Looks like the Football League has finally woken up to the modern world and the mantra of Brand it Like Beckham. Farewell to over one hundred years of tradition and the Football League Division One (well Division One is actually Division Two but we don't want to complicate things further) and hello to the ghastly Championship, home of legends such as Gillingham, Burnley and Rotherham.
What do you expect from an organisation with failed Tory Sir Brian Mawhinney at the helm, a man least we forget that managed to make John Major more of a monger than he actually was? The Championship sounds as shit as that other balls up of a re-brander, Consignia, and almost makes The Post Office look semi-professional (something which the Football League clubs probably will be in a few years time given the current rate of incompetence).
Mawhinney talks of the 'gateway to the Premierhsip.' Big fucking deal Brian; Balham is often bigged up as the 'gateway to the South' but you don't find the playboys of the Western World cruising the mean streets of SW12. Well, actually you do find plenty of playboys cruising in Balham but it's more for a blowjob in a back seat of a battered out Beetle than meander in a Mercedes in downtown Monaco.
With the football league pyramid structure changing identity more than the Tory party changing leaders, we can expect the mighty Dulwich Hamlet to be playing in The Premiership by the start of the new decade. The knock on effect will of course mean that my team of injury prone Brixton five-a-siders (latest medical diagnosis: foot gout, I kid you not) will be hobbling along and perennially seeking re-election to the Football League at the end of every season.
| Friday 11 June, 2004 |
Looks like the Football League has finally woken up to the modern world and the mantra of Brand it Like Beckham. Farewell to over one hundred years of tradition and the Football League Division One (well Division One is actually Division Two but we don't want to complicate things further) and hello to the ghastly Championship, home of legends such as Gillingham, Burnley and Rotherham.
What do you expect from an organisation with failed Tory Sir Brian Mawhinney at the helm, a man least we forget that managed to make John Major more of a monger than he actually was? The Championship sounds as shit as that other balls up of a re-brander, Consignia, and almost makes The Post Office look semi-professional (something which the Football League clubs probably will be in a few years time given the current rate of incompetence).
The Championship - home of Gillingham, Burnley and Rotherham |
With the football league pyramid structure changing identity more than the Tory party changing leaders, we can expect the mighty Dulwich Hamlet to be playing in The Premiership by the start of the new decade. The knock on effect will of course mean that my team of injury prone Brixton five-a-siders (latest medical diagnosis: foot gout, I kid you not) will be hobbling along and perennially seeking re-election to the Football League at the end of every season.
| #permalink |
Careless Talk
Things that I originally thought to be mildly amusing but only confirmed my belief that you should never engage in random conversation with strangers:
Outside the polling station this morning, doing my public duty and trying to convince myself that playing a rather one-sided game of noughts and crosses is a democratic act to carry out, when in reality you are just playing tit for tat with other self smug electorate.
Me: Can you look after my bike please?
Red rosette wearing number counter outside: OK
Me (with my best boyish grin): There may be a vote in it for you!
Him (spoken in all sincerity): That's against electoral regulations. Are you trying to bribe me?
Me: Oh fuck off. I wasn't going to vote for you cunts anyway.
Jeez.
Moving on to the supermarket and another random encounter with a coffin dodger after the ten minute trolley dash (pick up as many red label reduced items as possible – sod the fact that you won't actually eat them – if they're cheap then they're in).
Coffin Dodger as we were both unlocking our bikes: My, that's a big sack you have.
He meant rucksack of course.
Me: That’s what all the boys say!
Him: I’m not a woofter you know.
Which was a real bummer, so to speak, as I had a wonderful riposte in return built around the endless humour possibilities of my protruding Jumbo Sausage Roll.
| Thursday 10 June, 2004 |
Things that I originally thought to be mildly amusing but only confirmed my belief that you should never engage in random conversation with strangers:
Outside the polling station this morning, doing my public duty and trying to convince myself that playing a rather one-sided game of noughts and crosses is a democratic act to carry out, when in reality you are just playing tit for tat with other self smug electorate.
I'm not a woofter you know |
Red rosette wearing number counter outside: OK
Me (with my best boyish grin): There may be a vote in it for you!
Him (spoken in all sincerity): That's against electoral regulations. Are you trying to bribe me?
Me: Oh fuck off. I wasn't going to vote for you cunts anyway.
Jeez.
Moving on to the supermarket and another random encounter with a coffin dodger after the ten minute trolley dash (pick up as many red label reduced items as possible – sod the fact that you won't actually eat them – if they're cheap then they're in).
Coffin Dodger as we were both unlocking our bikes: My, that's a big sack you have.
He meant rucksack of course.
Me: That’s what all the boys say!
Him: I’m not a woofter you know.
Which was a real bummer, so to speak, as I had a wonderful riposte in return built around the endless humour possibilities of my protruding Jumbo Sausage Roll.
| #permalink |
Careerist, Capitalist & Bleedin Liberal
No, No and thrice No. It's just WRONG.
Apathy=BNP so I'm going to dig deep down the list for a credible (preferably pro-cycling) candidate.
| Thursday 10 June, 2004 |
No, No and thrice No. It's just WRONG.
Apathy=BNP so I'm going to dig deep down the list for a credible (preferably pro-cycling) candidate.
| #permalink |
Supermarket Sweeper
And so Sainsbury is the Offical England Supermarket. Now we know where to go to buy some rotten fruit (which Sainsbury specialise in) once Sven's superstars return home after only three games in Portugal.
What does this mean for the practicalities of a foreign football trip? If Team England (accept it, it's here to stay) run out of bog roll and can't find a Sainsbury in Lisbon, does this mean that it will be even more of a brown pants job against France? Will we end up with Ten Items (Players) or Less on the pitch once Wayne Rooney gets sent off? And can we get £20 cashback on Emile Heskey at the till please?
My expectations should have been adjusted accordingly when loading up the Sainsbury Euro 2004 'Microsite' (snigger, didn't we kill these off back in '99 along with First Tuesday, WAP Wednesday and Fuck All Finance For Your Shit Site?)
I loathe quoting a multi-national, but deep breath:
'Show me the jawdropping mindblowing pitchshaking scarfwaving studstomping burgersqueezing flash site.'
First off: Fuck off Flash. No one likes it and it is an intrusion on my rickety browser.
Guess who's just hired a Junior Copywriter who knows fuck all about football as well? Almost surprised that Sainsbury hasn't hijacked the ghastly 'soccer' bandwagon as well.
Jawdropping? That will be Peter Beardsley then.
Mindblowing? Knoblowing more like. Kieron Dyer's yer man, so to speak.
Pitchshaking? Unless they play football on Mount Etna, then nope, lost on me as well.
Scarfwaving? Um, yeah, right, don’t forget your scarf as you pack your suitcase for Mediterranean Portugal.
Studstomping? I think you will find that this is not allowed in the Laws of the Game.
Burgersqueezing? Oh right, let's lump all football supporters as lard arse grease guzzling geezers who dribble down their chin some under cooked shitty Sainsbury Value Burger (more bollocks than beef).
I really fucking hate all of this corporate squatting of football. And that's just what it is. Squatting for a temporary period whiles the fuckspud front page Editors find the game of value for a few weeks, and then desert it in favour for some other clueless celeb caught with the knob of a Third Division Centre Half stuck up her arse.
Last weekend saw a smothering of shite CDs stuck to the tabloids:
The Best EVER Football Anthems.
20 Classical Soccer Symphonies.
Morose Music to Hang Yourself to When Gary Neville Fucks Up Again.
I'm sorry arsehole Editors but you're confusing me with someone who buys CDs at a petrol station and still thinks that football is something that you squeeze into your lifestyle around squash, skiing and shooting (preferably tabloid Eds) once every four years.
I wish Team England well in the next week but I refuse to be part of the circus that will surround it all. I may just get a bit excited five minutes before kick off against France, but not nearly as much ahead of a Hamlet home match when I am positively creaming myself. And then some.
Team England doesn't represent me. It represents sponsorship and agents. OK so the players will talk a good game of 'being professionals' and 'hate to lose' but their lifestyle has bugger all to do with football as I know, understand and love.
And Sainsbury should stick to being a greengrocer. Along with Phil Neville.
| Wednesday 9 June, 2004 |
And so Sainsbury is the Offical England Supermarket. Now we know where to go to buy some rotten fruit (which Sainsbury specialise in) once Sven's superstars return home after only three games in Portugal.
What does this mean for the practicalities of a foreign football trip? If Team England (accept it, it's here to stay) run out of bog roll and can't find a Sainsbury in Lisbon, does this mean that it will be even more of a brown pants job against France? Will we end up with Ten Items (Players) or Less on the pitch once Wayne Rooney gets sent off? And can we get £20 cashback on Emile Heskey at the till please?
Can we get £20 cashback on Emile Heskey? |
I loathe quoting a multi-national, but deep breath:
'Show me the jawdropping mindblowing pitchshaking scarfwaving studstomping burgersqueezing flash site.'
First off: Fuck off Flash. No one likes it and it is an intrusion on my rickety browser.
Guess who's just hired a Junior Copywriter who knows fuck all about football as well? Almost surprised that Sainsbury hasn't hijacked the ghastly 'soccer' bandwagon as well.
Jawdropping? That will be Peter Beardsley then.
Mindblowing? Knoblowing more like. Kieron Dyer's yer man, so to speak.
Pitchshaking? Unless they play football on Mount Etna, then nope, lost on me as well.
Scarfwaving? Um, yeah, right, don’t forget your scarf as you pack your suitcase for Mediterranean Portugal.
Studstomping? I think you will find that this is not allowed in the Laws of the Game.
Burgersqueezing? Oh right, let's lump all football supporters as lard arse grease guzzling geezers who dribble down their chin some under cooked shitty Sainsbury Value Burger (more bollocks than beef).
I really fucking hate all of this corporate squatting of football. And that's just what it is. Squatting for a temporary period whiles the fuckspud front page Editors find the game of value for a few weeks, and then desert it in favour for some other clueless celeb caught with the knob of a Third Division Centre Half stuck up her arse.
Last weekend saw a smothering of shite CDs stuck to the tabloids:
The Best EVER Football Anthems.
20 Classical Soccer Symphonies.
Morose Music to Hang Yourself to When Gary Neville Fucks Up Again.
I'm sorry arsehole Editors but you're confusing me with someone who buys CDs at a petrol station and still thinks that football is something that you squeeze into your lifestyle around squash, skiing and shooting (preferably tabloid Eds) once every four years.
I wish Team England well in the next week but I refuse to be part of the circus that will surround it all. I may just get a bit excited five minutes before kick off against France, but not nearly as much ahead of a Hamlet home match when I am positively creaming myself. And then some.
Team England doesn't represent me. It represents sponsorship and agents. OK so the players will talk a good game of 'being professionals' and 'hate to lose' but their lifestyle has bugger all to do with football as I know, understand and love.
And Sainsbury should stick to being a greengrocer. Along with Phil Neville.
| #permalink |
Busy Doing Nothing
I live for The Lido during the summer season. That and Surrey cricket of course. Oh, and let's not forget the odd bit of poncing about at The Globe. After a slightly delayed start to the Lido opening this summer, what a pleasure it was yesterday to take that first dive and do my best Duncan Goodhew.
I locked up my Marin, exchanged a friendly smile with some familiar faces from summers past and there she was: Nothing quite prepares you for the first sight of the Lido each summer. Similar to spotting the sea as kid in car off to the coast, you've seen it a hundred times before but after a long hard winter, the 50 metre Mediterranean mosaic pool signifies that summer is finally here.
Nothing prepares you (or your bollocks) for the first swim either. Shoehorned into my Speedos (breathe in, here comes the babe, and relax...), I managed a mixture of a half duck dive, half belly flop, and then did a quick rain check to see if my trunks were still being propped up by a pecker that had lost a good three inches in the icy water (and when you start from a low base point, you then start to question the wisdom of skin tight shreddies).
Swimming in an outdoor Lido is a completely different experience from a cosy indoor pool; you have to get a feel for the natural rhythm of the water, chopping and causing random mini waves without the sterile surroundings of a sanitised indoor swim. Plus there's always the odd floater to navigate as well.
Wasting time and lying around doing absolutely nothing is a very noble art form and should be actively encouraged. Work, work, work. But what the fuck for? Sunshine, swimming, CDs, reading and a human zoo to pour over that would satisfy the most ardent People Watcher.
The heat wave of last summer saw me still swimming daily at The Lido right up until the start of October. It was a strange experience to be al fresco and frisky in the great outdoors during the day, and then at night packing the gloves and flask for hockey up at the freezing Ally Pally.
The last swim of the summer is always as memorable as the first; a sad, solitary experience, conformation that another summer is finally over. The Lido is to be cherished, even during the crossover of the summer / winter sports season. I've even been known to skip an early season September Hamlet home match to squeeze out one more swim.
But that's just a distant blur in the diary for now. Here Comes the Sun.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Tuesday 8 June, 2004 |
I live for The Lido during the summer season. That and Surrey cricket of course. Oh, and let's not forget the odd bit of poncing about at The Globe. After a slightly delayed start to the Lido opening this summer, what a pleasure it was yesterday to take that first dive and do my best Duncan Goodhew.
I locked up my Marin, exchanged a friendly smile with some familiar faces from summers past and there she was: Nothing quite prepares you for the first sight of the Lido each summer. Similar to spotting the sea as kid in car off to the coast, you've seen it a hundred times before but after a long hard winter, the 50 metre Mediterranean mosaic pool signifies that summer is finally here.
Doing absolutely nothing is a very noble art form |
Swimming in an outdoor Lido is a completely different experience from a cosy indoor pool; you have to get a feel for the natural rhythm of the water, chopping and causing random mini waves without the sterile surroundings of a sanitised indoor swim. Plus there's always the odd floater to navigate as well.
Wasting time and lying around doing absolutely nothing is a very noble art form and should be actively encouraged. Work, work, work. But what the fuck for? Sunshine, swimming, CDs, reading and a human zoo to pour over that would satisfy the most ardent People Watcher.
The heat wave of last summer saw me still swimming daily at The Lido right up until the start of October. It was a strange experience to be al fresco and frisky in the great outdoors during the day, and then at night packing the gloves and flask for hockey up at the freezing Ally Pally.
The last swim of the summer is always as memorable as the first; a sad, solitary experience, conformation that another summer is finally over. The Lido is to be cherished, even during the crossover of the summer / winter sports season. I've even been known to skip an early season September Hamlet home match to squeeze out one more swim.
But that's just a distant blur in the diary for now. Here Comes the Sun.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Blimey Charlie
Late night radio listening becomes slightly more mazy as of tonight with Mark Radcliffe making the switch from the Big One FM to cuddly Radio 2. Don't touch that dial? My finger will be hovering over my big fat knob, so to speak, channel hopping from the summertime vibes of Verity Sharp and Late Junction on Radio 3, a bit of Bolivian bangin drum n bass from Mr Peel back over at Radio 1 and now torn loyalties to Scrawny Boy.
Back in the day Radcliffe was the King of Crap Late Night Radio, a tag which I am sure he would celebrate much more than his selection of Sony Awards. After a panic move to the Breakfast Show on the Nation's Favourite (a bit like asking Kevin Campbell to lead the line against France next week), Radcliffe settled down and found his feet in the afternoons.
Forever battling against a pathetic playlist though, speech was always going to be his strong point. Even this went a bit Pete Tong in recent years (much like Pete Tong himself) and the divorce from Marc Riley should hopefully give Radcliffe some freedom to break out of his stooge persona.
It is slightly worrying that with Charlie Gillett, Bob Harris and now Radcliffe giving me cause to flick my knob deep down in the nether regions, my radio listening habits are making me morph into my Dad. I never thought I would be sharing the same knob space as my old man.
Too many metaphors. Too many Radcliffe style knob jokes. Too many DJs.
I give it six week before the welcome return of one Sir Francis Sidebottom sitting alongside Radcliffe.
Blimey.
| Monday 7 June, 2004 |
Late night radio listening becomes slightly more mazy as of tonight with Mark Radcliffe making the switch from the Big One FM to cuddly Radio 2. Don't touch that dial? My finger will be hovering over my big fat knob, so to speak, channel hopping from the summertime vibes of Verity Sharp and Late Junction on Radio 3, a bit of Bolivian bangin drum n bass from Mr Peel back over at Radio 1 and now torn loyalties to Scrawny Boy.
Radcliffe was the King of Crap Late Night Radio |
Forever battling against a pathetic playlist though, speech was always going to be his strong point. Even this went a bit Pete Tong in recent years (much like Pete Tong himself) and the divorce from Marc Riley should hopefully give Radcliffe some freedom to break out of his stooge persona.
It is slightly worrying that with Charlie Gillett, Bob Harris and now Radcliffe giving me cause to flick my knob deep down in the nether regions, my radio listening habits are making me morph into my Dad. I never thought I would be sharing the same knob space as my old man.
Too many metaphors. Too many Radcliffe style knob jokes. Too many DJs.
I give it six week before the welcome return of one Sir Francis Sidebottom sitting alongside Radcliffe.
Blimey.
| #permalink |
Up the Junction
One of the advantages of living in a top floor flat that overlooks a busy road junction is that you double your window of opportunity for watching an assortment of local nutters doing their nonsensical whatever it is that they do. Bored of the Bag Lady? Eyes right and oh look, I spy with my blood shot eye something beginning with V. Yes, that's right – Stockwell's very own Vest Man, come sun or rain he's always there at one end of the junction frightening young children with the infestations growing in his string garment and generally looking like a lost village idiot. We really should send him back to Putney.
The downside though of junction living is the traffic lights that double up as a starting grid for the Stockwell 500cc Contest – a 200 yard rubber burning rush to the next set of traffic lights where stage two of the deathwish dash starts all over again.
0-80 in under five seconds may indeed be impressive if you are a rev ravenous throttle guzzler, but it's highly inappropriate behaviour for a built up inner city area populated by a number of local schools. Besides, my Marin manages 0-15 in under twenty seconds (if I'm being fuelled by Bran Flakes), and I still find the time to catch up with the leather boys and give them a nod and a wink at stage two.
Having a semi-pro cc circuit outside your front door is mildly irritating during the day, but at night time when the rubber on road becomes a Le Mans twenty four hour style endurance test (for me), the temptation is there to drop drawing pins all over the road.
Sleeping with the window open in the summer months (more to let my own arse odours out than allow air to come in to be honest) is not possible. Unless you want to drift off into a dream that involves you being bound up in black leather from head to toe as you straddle the beast and get a cheap thrill each time you shuffle your wrist.
I could always try tossing and turning in bed (yeah yeah) but the junction mentality remains in sleep; bye bye leather boy, turn over and EEK: Vest Man in all his underarm growth glory.
| Sunday 6 June, 2004 |
One of the advantages of living in a top floor flat that overlooks a busy road junction is that you double your window of opportunity for watching an assortment of local nutters doing their nonsensical whatever it is that they do. Bored of the Bag Lady? Eyes right and oh look, I spy with my blood shot eye something beginning with V. Yes, that's right – Stockwell's very own Vest Man, come sun or rain he's always there at one end of the junction frightening young children with the infestations growing in his string garment and generally looking like a lost village idiot. We really should send him back to Putney.
The downside though of junction living is the traffic lights that double up as a starting grid for the Stockwell 500cc Contest – a 200 yard rubber burning rush to the next set of traffic lights where stage two of the deathwish dash starts all over again.
I get a cheap thrill each time I shuffle my wrist |
Having a semi-pro cc circuit outside your front door is mildly irritating during the day, but at night time when the rubber on road becomes a Le Mans twenty four hour style endurance test (for me), the temptation is there to drop drawing pins all over the road.
Sleeping with the window open in the summer months (more to let my own arse odours out than allow air to come in to be honest) is not possible. Unless you want to drift off into a dream that involves you being bound up in black leather from head to toe as you straddle the beast and get a cheap thrill each time you shuffle your wrist.
I could always try tossing and turning in bed (yeah yeah) but the junction mentality remains in sleep; bye bye leather boy, turn over and EEK: Vest Man in all his underarm growth glory.
| #permalink |
Never Trust a Hippie Pt ii
Some pictures taken at the Free Cannabis Festival before some filthy stinkin' hippie came over and claimed that my camera was 'spoiling his Karma', maaaaaaaan.
Fucking space cadet.
Fuck this hippy shit crap - I'm off to reclaim the Spirit of '76 at Steve Lamacq's Karaoke Punk night up at The Garage.
RIGHT, NOW, HA HA HA...
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Saturday 5 June, 2004 |
Some pictures taken at the Free Cannabis Festival before some filthy stinkin' hippie came over and claimed that my camera was 'spoiling his Karma', maaaaaaaan.
Fucking space cadet.
Fuck this hippy shit crap - I'm off to reclaim the Spirit of '76 at Steve Lamacq's Karaoke Punk night up at The Garage.
RIGHT, NOW, HA HA HA...
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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On The Busses
Sunny Stockwell Bus Garage always reminds me of a scene from On The Busses; endless tea slurping, a paranoid Inspector flapping about and busty figures as the butt end of all the jokes. That will be the busty MALE drivers of course who in true Schumacher style, appear to have had their cabins moulded around their fat framed man breasts.
The Bus Garage is a centrepiece of architectural splendour within Stockwell. Given that the only other buildings of interest are the Porto-junkie infested tube station, Costcutters and the Tongue 'Em, Fuck 'Em and Forget Their Fucking Name the Next Morning Swan boozer, you see why estate agents milk the Calp'ham North SW8 falsehood for all it's worth.
A series of strapping arches support the structure with a glass roof letting in light below. Well, it probably did when Stockwell Bus Garage was first built in 1952 but generations of South London pigeons have left their own unique imprint leaving the sunlit roof looking like the shit infested Liverpool away kit from '89.
Built on a site on Binfield Road by Adie, Burton & Partners (woh! You guys ROCK), the Garage has changed little in 50 years of service. This is partly to do with the site being a listed building (no, really), partly because well, a bus garage is a bus garage. What more do you bloody want?
Peering inside and Stockwell Bus Garage is paradise personified for Evel Knievel; the London Landmark has wall to wall double deckers lined up, ready for some redneck inebriant to challenge his own mortality. Failing that then a Porto pisshead from the tube will do.
Perhaps today was a poignant time to make a pilgrimage to a bus garage (go on, you've all done it); the last of the proud old Routemasters in the East End were making their final journeys on Friday, soon to be replaced with a one man all singing, computer operated soulless slick new design. It can't be long before the bastion of Routemasters, South London’s very own 159 heads for the Great Garage in the Sky.
Stockwell Bus Garage opens its doors every September (well, they’re always open to be honest) as part of the London Open House initiative. Although with the opportunity to freely explore Lambeth Palace, the Old Vic or City Hall, you've got to be a bit of a grease monkey (or an onionbagblogger) to want to spend the day knee deep in oil.
In answer to the always unfunny crap comedian gag of 'ever wondered how bus drivers get to work?', well the answer is in their BMWs if the car park at Stockwell is any indicator. If you combine the theories of sports cars being a substitute for a small prick with some other mixed up sexual metaphor about thrusting your big red one (bus, of course), I'm not sure what this tells you about the sex life of your average No 109 driver.
Maybe I've just been watching too many On The Busses movies.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Friday 4 June, 2004 |
Sunny Stockwell Bus Garage always reminds me of a scene from On The Busses; endless tea slurping, a paranoid Inspector flapping about and busty figures as the butt end of all the jokes. That will be the busty MALE drivers of course who in true Schumacher style, appear to have had their cabins moulded around their fat framed man breasts.
The Bus Garage is a centrepiece of architectural splendour within Stockwell. Given that the only other buildings of interest are the Porto-junkie infested tube station, Costcutters and the Tongue 'Em, Fuck 'Em and Forget Their Fucking Name the Next Morning Swan boozer, you see why estate agents milk the Calp'ham North SW8 falsehood for all it's worth.
Generations of pigeons have left their own unique imprint |
Built on a site on Binfield Road by Adie, Burton & Partners (woh! You guys ROCK), the Garage has changed little in 50 years of service. This is partly to do with the site being a listed building (no, really), partly because well, a bus garage is a bus garage. What more do you bloody want?
Peering inside and Stockwell Bus Garage is paradise personified for Evel Knievel; the London Landmark has wall to wall double deckers lined up, ready for some redneck inebriant to challenge his own mortality. Failing that then a Porto pisshead from the tube will do.
Perhaps today was a poignant time to make a pilgrimage to a bus garage (go on, you've all done it); the last of the proud old Routemasters in the East End were making their final journeys on Friday, soon to be replaced with a one man all singing, computer operated soulless slick new design. It can't be long before the bastion of Routemasters, South London’s very own 159 heads for the Great Garage in the Sky.
Stockwell Bus Garage opens its doors every September (well, they’re always open to be honest) as part of the London Open House initiative. Although with the opportunity to freely explore Lambeth Palace, the Old Vic or City Hall, you've got to be a bit of a grease monkey (or an onionbagblogger) to want to spend the day knee deep in oil.
In answer to the always unfunny crap comedian gag of 'ever wondered how bus drivers get to work?', well the answer is in their BMWs if the car park at Stockwell is any indicator. If you combine the theories of sports cars being a substitute for a small prick with some other mixed up sexual metaphor about thrusting your big red one (bus, of course), I'm not sure what this tells you about the sex life of your average No 109 driver.
Maybe I've just been watching too many On The Busses movies.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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All's Well in Brockwell
Brockwell Park was my first introduction to London running. Being a country boy and accustomed to open lanes, I legged it down Brixton Hill one Saturday morning (ahh, those were the days, being able to leg it...), took a few random turns and ended up in a wonderful vast green oasis, right in the middle of all the SW9 mad, mad energy.
Ten years later and I'm still finding new features and parts of the park. The Lido is an obvious homing point and worthy of a post all of its own, once the sun decides to put its hat on that is. Worth mentioning in passing though that after a few local difficulties (ha! putting it mildly), the Lido WILL be open for the season, hopefully within the week.
Here's the history lesson:
Built in 1811, Brockwell Hall was the home of John Blades, a wealthy glass maker. The adjacent land formed part of the estate and the park remained in the family until 1888 when the it was bought by the then London County Council for public use. And what fine public use this has been: Just under one hundred years later (1981), The Clash headlined a TUC organised Peoples March for Jobs gig. I bet the old glass blowing boy would have loved a bit of Julie's Been Working for the Drugs Squad blasting out from his front lawn.
Following fire damage in 1990, Brockwell Hall has recently been restored and serves as a decent (ish) cafe at the peak of the hill. I'd say bring yer own sarnies though.
A walk around Brockwell Park can be tiring. That's why I cycled, as the perimeter provides a perfect track for those fond of two wheels.
Entering the park at the Cold Water Lane entrance (River Effra bordered up below ground), I headed up the hill and past the hideous Brockwell Gate development; this private estate is a gated community in every sense; sold as 'prime location' (i.e. wake up with a view over the park, um, just like the council rented property right next door then), a one bedroom flat will set you back the best part of £170, 000. One bedroom said it all for the useless tossers no doubt wanting to buy into their own bit of Brixton gentrification.
The view from the Brixton Hill peak of the park gives you all of London up for grabs; Crystal Palace to the south, heading eastwards and Canary Wharf, look out to The City in the north, move round for the BT Tower and the West End and then a full circle taking in the majestic Battersea Power Stattion down south again. No sign of West London though. Just as we like it.
Peddling on the path back towards Brockwell Hall and you'll find (if you're lucky) the Enchanted Garden, a hidden walled garden of delight given a 'hands off' approach to gardening. Either that or Lambeth Council still hasn't resolved the park maintenance problems.
Looking very much like the garden from Villa Vignamaggio in Branagh's Much Ado About Nothing, rows of wild flowers, sculptures and even a periscope are to be discovered if you want a lost afternoon. Or a cheap kiss and cuddle as the Brixton yoof were making merry on almost every park bench.
Hey nonny nonny. Got any Johnnies?
Heading back down to the south end of the park and a recent addition is the Brockwell Railway. Nothing to do with the Eurostar that powers through the adjacent Norwood, but a miniature stretch of track taking you from the South entrance to the edge of the Lido.
Brockwell Park also boasts the usual park pastimes such as bowls, tennis, football pitches, basketball courts, a cricket wicket, a BMX track, a playground and even a community greenhouse. Ideal conditions for growing the local speciality... Um, cucumbers of course.
The best introduction to the Park is to get yourself there for the weekend of 17 and 18 July for the lovely Lambeth Country Show. This is when ALL of the Borough comes out to play and is the highpoint in the South London Social Scene (forget Ascot, Henley and Lords, what you really want is a slightly less than legal 48 hours being mashed up in Brixton with some nose bleed D&B blasting your brain out).
Nowadays I find that I don't as much run around the park as let the park run around me. With so much to do and see, Brockwell Park competes for your attention with its views, activities and endless possibilities to waste away an afternoon.
Tiring work.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Thursday 3 June, 2004 |
Brockwell Park was my first introduction to London running. Being a country boy and accustomed to open lanes, I legged it down Brixton Hill one Saturday morning (ahh, those were the days, being able to leg it...), took a few random turns and ended up in a wonderful vast green oasis, right in the middle of all the SW9 mad, mad energy.
Ten years later and I'm still finding new features and parts of the park. The Lido is an obvious homing point and worthy of a post all of its own, once the sun decides to put its hat on that is. Worth mentioning in passing though that after a few local difficulties (ha! putting it mildly), the Lido WILL be open for the season, hopefully within the week.
Here's the history lesson:
Hey nonny nonny. Got any Johnnies? |
Following fire damage in 1990, Brockwell Hall has recently been restored and serves as a decent (ish) cafe at the peak of the hill. I'd say bring yer own sarnies though.
A walk around Brockwell Park can be tiring. That's why I cycled, as the perimeter provides a perfect track for those fond of two wheels.
Entering the park at the Cold Water Lane entrance (River Effra bordered up below ground), I headed up the hill and past the hideous Brockwell Gate development; this private estate is a gated community in every sense; sold as 'prime location' (i.e. wake up with a view over the park, um, just like the council rented property right next door then), a one bedroom flat will set you back the best part of £170, 000. One bedroom said it all for the useless tossers no doubt wanting to buy into their own bit of Brixton gentrification.
The view from the Brixton Hill peak of the park gives you all of London up for grabs; Crystal Palace to the south, heading eastwards and Canary Wharf, look out to The City in the north, move round for the BT Tower and the West End and then a full circle taking in the majestic Battersea Power Stattion down south again. No sign of West London though. Just as we like it.
Peddling on the path back towards Brockwell Hall and you'll find (if you're lucky) the Enchanted Garden, a hidden walled garden of delight given a 'hands off' approach to gardening. Either that or Lambeth Council still hasn't resolved the park maintenance problems.
Looking very much like the garden from Villa Vignamaggio in Branagh's Much Ado About Nothing, rows of wild flowers, sculptures and even a periscope are to be discovered if you want a lost afternoon. Or a cheap kiss and cuddle as the Brixton yoof were making merry on almost every park bench.
Hey nonny nonny. Got any Johnnies?
Heading back down to the south end of the park and a recent addition is the Brockwell Railway. Nothing to do with the Eurostar that powers through the adjacent Norwood, but a miniature stretch of track taking you from the South entrance to the edge of the Lido.
Brockwell Park also boasts the usual park pastimes such as bowls, tennis, football pitches, basketball courts, a cricket wicket, a BMX track, a playground and even a community greenhouse. Ideal conditions for growing the local speciality... Um, cucumbers of course.
The best introduction to the Park is to get yourself there for the weekend of 17 and 18 July for the lovely Lambeth Country Show. This is when ALL of the Borough comes out to play and is the highpoint in the South London Social Scene (forget Ascot, Henley and Lords, what you really want is a slightly less than legal 48 hours being mashed up in Brixton with some nose bleed D&B blasting your brain out).
Nowadays I find that I don't as much run around the park as let the park run around me. With so much to do and see, Brockwell Park competes for your attention with its views, activities and endless possibilities to waste away an afternoon.
Tiring work.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Death Postponed
Nope, I never thought I would see this again either.
Good luck Charles.
Semi-related Edit: What the fuck were the wonderful Poppies doing on the ropey TOTP2 tonight?
CLASS!!!!!!!!
I'd forgotten all about that goth bint on Cicciolina.
*Off to dig out some Mega City Four*
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Wednesday 2 June, 2004 |
Nope, I never thought I would see this again either.
Good luck Charles.
Semi-related Edit: What the fuck were the wonderful Poppies doing on the ropey TOTP2 tonight?
CLASS!!!!!!!!
I'd forgotten all about that goth bint on Cicciolina.
*Off to dig out some Mega City Four*
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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| #permalink |
The Best a Twat Can Get
I’m slowing coming round to Henmania, albeit ten years too late: Sticking it up the Frenchies (something we all want to do, but not necessarily in the same orifice), looking mean and moody and even sporting a new (although shite) tennis top.
I've been trying over the past week to try and pinpoint the sudden turnaround; how has a clean cut, square jawed Middle England Mummy's Boy managed to work his way into onionbagblogger's affections when all my instincts say run up to the little jerk and discreetly stick a sign saying TWATSTICK on the back of his shirt?
Athletic endeavour? Well, we've had that before of course from Timmy in the Wimbledon semis and yet still the Oxford racket swinger has ranked no higher than say Brian McClair in my sporting estimation; kinda average talent, works hard, won't let you down – a bit like me in 5-a-side, assuming that this narcky knee injury ever has the decency to let me take up anything other than a jog that would put Paul McGrath to shame.
Jingoistic pride? My whole problem with Wimbledon is that it's a sports tournament for people who don't like sport. It attracts flag wavers. If the Queen were to die during Wimbledon fortnight (oh please, pretty please) then the conurbation of flag wavers would shift across town to SW1. Hopefully in the traditional pissing Wimbledon rain as well.
And then just as the camera panned in on Timmy Boy during a Barley Water break at Roland Garros, it all became clear: Henman has a Five 'O Clock Shadow! Hurrah!!!!!!!!
The Man-Boy who has been traditionally cleaner cut than a baby's arse after it has been put through a car wash and then had any pimply bits personally plucked out by the biggest plucker on the planet (probably Michael Jackson, but let's not go there...) has re-styled himself on a hybrid of James Bond meets Phil Mitchell. Mmmm ladies, a love match?
With a liberal sprinkling of facial hair (put yer face right next to the TV and you may just get a glance), Timmy's clean cut baby face chin is no the longer the ugliest thing on show at Roland Garros. This honour of course goes to the sponsors BNP. Not THAT BNP (I refuse to link), although the timing of such a fuckwit message across our screens couldn’t have been worse. Still, a sponsor is a sponsor is a sponsor, and they're all fuckwits to me.
OK, so it's not the greatest attempt at cultivating facial hair that I've ever seen (looks in mirror to confirm this), but at least it's a start. By Wimbledon fortnight I'll be expecting an intricately cut goatee, a stud through his chin and one of those freakish mini-plates that pulls out half your ear and even makes onionbagblogger question the sanity (and vanity) of the youth of today.
C'MON TIM!!!!
Deary me...
| Wednesday 2 June, 2004 |
I’m slowing coming round to Henmania, albeit ten years too late: Sticking it up the Frenchies (something we all want to do, but not necessarily in the same orifice), looking mean and moody and even sporting a new (although shite) tennis top.
I've been trying over the past week to try and pinpoint the sudden turnaround; how has a clean cut, square jawed Middle England Mummy's Boy managed to work his way into onionbagblogger's affections when all my instincts say run up to the little jerk and discreetly stick a sign saying TWATSTICK on the back of his shirt?
Henman has a Five ‘O Clock Shadow! Hurrah! |
Jingoistic pride? My whole problem with Wimbledon is that it's a sports tournament for people who don't like sport. It attracts flag wavers. If the Queen were to die during Wimbledon fortnight (oh please, pretty please) then the conurbation of flag wavers would shift across town to SW1. Hopefully in the traditional pissing Wimbledon rain as well.
And then just as the camera panned in on Timmy Boy during a Barley Water break at Roland Garros, it all became clear: Henman has a Five 'O Clock Shadow! Hurrah!!!!!!!!
The Man-Boy who has been traditionally cleaner cut than a baby's arse after it has been put through a car wash and then had any pimply bits personally plucked out by the biggest plucker on the planet (probably Michael Jackson, but let's not go there...) has re-styled himself on a hybrid of James Bond meets Phil Mitchell. Mmmm ladies, a love match?
With a liberal sprinkling of facial hair (put yer face right next to the TV and you may just get a glance), Timmy's clean cut baby face chin is no the longer the ugliest thing on show at Roland Garros. This honour of course goes to the sponsors BNP. Not THAT BNP (I refuse to link), although the timing of such a fuckwit message across our screens couldn’t have been worse. Still, a sponsor is a sponsor is a sponsor, and they're all fuckwits to me.
OK, so it's not the greatest attempt at cultivating facial hair that I've ever seen (looks in mirror to confirm this), but at least it's a start. By Wimbledon fortnight I'll be expecting an intricately cut goatee, a stud through his chin and one of those freakish mini-plates that pulls out half your ear and even makes onionbagblogger question the sanity (and vanity) of the youth of today.
C'MON TIM!!!!
Deary me...
| #permalink |
Mashed Up
Letter sent to Tetley Consumer Services
Dear Mr Tetley
Your 'Unique Non-Drip Drawstring' tea bags are balderdash; there's nothing unique about them apart from the crapness of the design which makes it impossible to make a decent brew.
The drawstring wouldn't even satisfy the slackest of slack girls wanting to hold her slack knickers up, let alone being able to let flavour flood out. That's the tea bags by the way, not the slack girls' drawstring.
How the hell are these pesky little non-drip designs supposed to work? You balance the drawstring on the edge of the cup, all continental style (did anyone not tell you that Johnny Foreigner makes crap tea as well?), pour in the water, and then with all the predictability of some corporate tea bag maker re-inventing the tea bag, the pouring of the water into the cup drags the damn drawstring down as well.
You're left to fish it out and get your fingers all sticky. Back to Mss Slack again.
Of course the Unique Non-Drip Drawstring (snappy name guys) is all about marketing and not mash making. Square, round, pyramid tea bags - square peg, round hole etc, not to mention one very unhappy obsessive tea drinker who is suffering withdrawal symptoms, so much so that he is mixing up his metaphors.
As an esteemed tea drinker of some repute, you really should value my custom. Back to the Sainsbury Red label for me.
Oh yeah, and your detailed instructions were so detailed that they forgot to explain which hand you are supposed to use to stir your tea with. So, which hand do you use?
I use a tea spoon myself, boom boom.
Fancy a brew, etc etc
onionbagblogger
| Tuesday 1 June, 2004 |
Letter sent to Tetley Consumer Services
Dear Mr Tetley
Your 'Unique Non-Drip Drawstring' tea bags are balderdash; there's nothing unique about them apart from the crapness of the design which makes it impossible to make a decent brew.
The drawstring wouldn't even satisfy the slackest of slack girls wanting to hold her slack knickers up, let alone being able to let flavour flood out. That's the tea bags by the way, not the slack girls' drawstring.
How the hell are these pesky little non-drip designs supposed to work? You balance the drawstring on the edge of the cup, all continental style (did anyone not tell you that Johnny Foreigner makes crap tea as well?), pour in the water, and then with all the predictability of some corporate tea bag maker re-inventing the tea bag, the pouring of the water into the cup drags the damn drawstring down as well.
You're left to fish it out and get your fingers all sticky. Back to Mss Slack again.
Of course the Unique Non-Drip Drawstring (snappy name guys) is all about marketing and not mash making. Square, round, pyramid tea bags - square peg, round hole etc, not to mention one very unhappy obsessive tea drinker who is suffering withdrawal symptoms, so much so that he is mixing up his metaphors.
As an esteemed tea drinker of some repute, you really should value my custom. Back to the Sainsbury Red label for me.
Oh yeah, and your detailed instructions were so detailed that they forgot to explain which hand you are supposed to use to stir your tea with. So, which hand do you use?
I use a tea spoon myself, boom boom.
Fancy a brew, etc etc
onionbagblogger
| #permalink |
