onionbagblog
Ich Bin Ein Londoner
Sun, sex and cycling. Two out of three 'aint bad. Must remember to cycle next time then, boom boom. The summer months are always boom time for Critical Mass London. Who could resist the post-work pedal through the city with a thousand plus similar cycling freaks?
Not many two wheelers judging by another tremendous turn out. Even our friends the Bobbies on Bikes seemed to make their way around the Mass with a grin wider than an eight lane London highway.
Cycle lanes however are a waste of space, not that it's much space to be honest. The Mass wasted no time in reclaiming the road as we exited at the Imax leaving the bike lanes blocked by busses. No change there.
London should adopt the Dutch style of dedicated cycle lanes, and not some piss poor lip service of a lane that is only suitable for a superwaif cyclist on a diet.
Keeping with the continental theme and it was wonderful for Critical Mass to welcome a couple of cycling tourists! Herr and Frau Freewheelers looked as though they had made the trip especially for the monthly ride, peddling away with their panniers either side and a London A-Z stretched out on the handlebars. Hadn't the heart to tell them that there's no such thing as a planned route on Critical Mass.
Speaking of the Germans, we almost visited the family at the end of The Mall, but common sense got the better of us. A sharp turn into St James and I was reminded why SW1A is such a wanky area. Next time I want to buy a deer hunter hat, some Havana cigars and a gentleman's walking stick then I'll know where to go. Not exactly Brixton market is it?
The Critical Mass sound systems were by now in full effect, competing for attention on the ride and no doubt giving some musty old Colonel figure in Mayfair a cardiac. A couple of cowhorn bells were also keeping rhythm, but before you jump to conclusions, they weren't banging out an Ich Bin Ein Londoner theme.
It didn't take long for my newly purchased Twat-ometer (£4.99, Argos) to alert me to a fine specimen; approaching Piccadilly and some suit in a sports car came out with the classic 'I pay my bloody road taxes blah blah blah' bollocks.
That may well be Sir, but your little toy car also chokes out more shit than my backside after a night out on the Brackwurst and beer, you petrol head prick. Auf Wiedersehen.
The first profanity of the Mass was heard just as we hit Piccadilly. Much in the same style that you can lip read a Premiership player puffing and panting on TV, one of the nice Bobby's on a Bike let rip with a just about audible 'OH FUCK' as it dawned on him the scale of the Mass and how we had shut down the centre of London. He was still smiling though.
Ten years of Critical Mass London and there's still no sight more satisfying than seeing the pained expression of a Cabbie hemmed in by bikes for a change. I left the Mass with Grace Jones' Pull Up To the Bumper blasting out from one of the sound systems and gave my own lip synch rendition to a confused cabbie.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Sunday 1 August, 2004 |
Sun, sex and cycling. Two out of three 'aint bad. Must remember to cycle next time then, boom boom. The summer months are always boom time for Critical Mass London. Who could resist the post-work pedal through the city with a thousand plus similar cycling freaks?
Not many two wheelers judging by another tremendous turn out. Even our friends the Bobbies on Bikes seemed to make their way around the Mass with a grin wider than an eight lane London highway.
 Herr and Frau Freewheeler had made the Mass |
London should adopt the Dutch style of dedicated cycle lanes, and not some piss poor lip service of a lane that is only suitable for a superwaif cyclist on a diet.
Keeping with the continental theme and it was wonderful for Critical Mass to welcome a couple of cycling tourists! Herr and Frau Freewheelers looked as though they had made the trip especially for the monthly ride, peddling away with their panniers either side and a London A-Z stretched out on the handlebars. Hadn't the heart to tell them that there's no such thing as a planned route on Critical Mass.
Speaking of the Germans, we almost visited the family at the end of The Mall, but common sense got the better of us. A sharp turn into St James and I was reminded why SW1A is such a wanky area. Next time I want to buy a deer hunter hat, some Havana cigars and a gentleman's walking stick then I'll know where to go. Not exactly Brixton market is it?
The Critical Mass sound systems were by now in full effect, competing for attention on the ride and no doubt giving some musty old Colonel figure in Mayfair a cardiac. A couple of cowhorn bells were also keeping rhythm, but before you jump to conclusions, they weren't banging out an Ich Bin Ein Londoner theme.
It didn't take long for my newly purchased Twat-ometer (£4.99, Argos) to alert me to a fine specimen; approaching Piccadilly and some suit in a sports car came out with the classic 'I pay my bloody road taxes blah blah blah' bollocks.
That may well be Sir, but your little toy car also chokes out more shit than my backside after a night out on the Brackwurst and beer, you petrol head prick. Auf Wiedersehen.
The first profanity of the Mass was heard just as we hit Piccadilly. Much in the same style that you can lip read a Premiership player puffing and panting on TV, one of the nice Bobby's on a Bike let rip with a just about audible 'OH FUCK' as it dawned on him the scale of the Mass and how we had shut down the centre of London. He was still smiling though.
Ten years of Critical Mass London and there's still no sight more satisfying than seeing the pained expression of a Cabbie hemmed in by bikes for a change. I left the Mass with Grace Jones' Pull Up To the Bumper blasting out from one of the sound systems and gave my own lip synch rendition to a confused cabbie.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Knobber Media Whore #3: 'Dr' Fox
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onionbagblog print out & keep guide to modern day media fuckspuddery
Career 'Highlight':
Interrupted a live chart countdown on crappy local radio to announce the death of Harold Shipman:
'And hanging on in there at unlucky number 13 is The Killers.'
Playa or Play School?
Still stuck in the playground. Has a history of a long running feud with Tony Blackburn. Once refused to do some charity work for the Spastic Society, thinking that his foe would be the benefactor.
Monkey Tennis?
'This is a crab. This has sex with kids...'
Groucho Moment of Madness:
Refused the offer of an MBE from The Queen because: 'I never did like that Freddie Mercury woofter.'
Tabloid Tittle Tattle:
Foxy Gives Feltz His Finger of Fudge (or Five)
John Leslie Rating:
My my, aren't those Pop Idol contestants getting younger these days.
Contact Details:
Capital Radio Cafe. 'Is that to eat in or eat out Sir?'
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knobber media whore #1: vernon kay
knobber media whore #2: john inverdale
| Saturday 31 July, 2004 |
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Career 'Highlight':
Interrupted a live chart countdown on crappy local radio to announce the death of Harold Shipman:
'And hanging on in there at unlucky number 13 is The Killers.'
Playa or Play School?
Still stuck in the playground. Has a history of a long running feud with Tony Blackburn. Once refused to do some charity work for the Spastic Society, thinking that his foe would be the benefactor.
Monkey Tennis?
'This is a crab. This has sex with kids...'
Groucho Moment of Madness:
Refused the offer of an MBE from The Queen because: 'I never did like that Freddie Mercury woofter.'
Tabloid Tittle Tattle:
Foxy Gives Feltz His Finger of Fudge (or Five)
John Leslie Rating:
My my, aren't those Pop Idol contestants getting younger these days.
Contact Details:
Capital Radio Cafe. 'Is that to eat in or eat out Sir?'
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knobber media whore #1: vernon kay
knobber media whore #2: john inverdale
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Terry Meets Julie, Waterloo Station...
As long as I gaze at Waterloo Sunset...
Plus: Consider yerself a Cockney?
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Friday 30 July, 2004 |
As long as I gaze at Waterloo Sunset...
Plus: Consider yerself a Cockney?
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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State of the Nation
Blimey - John Kerry's Boston speech was a bit of a belter, even viewed from over here in Blighty. Blogging about US politics on a London-centric site makes about as much sense as trying to portray London from over in LA. And so carrying on in the trashy tradition of the shitness of our friends over at metroknobbers, my lack of knowledge of the US Presidential campaign shouldn't stop me from writing shit about it.
First observation: Kerry took to the stage with Springsteen's No Surrender pumping out of the Arena. Bit of a difference from D:ream eh Mr Tony?
Despite my Anglophile leanings, Bruce truly is the BOSS around onionbagblog HQ. Can't get enough of the Blue Collar multi-millionaire. Two of the happiest days of my life were spent at Crystal Palace last summer (and that's saying something) when I saw seven hours of Springsteen over two nights.
But No fucking Surrender?
'We busted out of class, had to get away from those fools, we learnt more from a three minute record then we ever learnt in school...'
Where's the Education, Education, Education?
Actually, my insider knowledge of the education system (five weeks and counting, ner ner ner ner ner) leads me to the conclusion that you probably would learn more from a three minute record than you'll ever learn in school.
Just as long as you aren't listening to Oasis that is.
As for Kerry's speech itself? Oh, who gives a fuck really. It was probably written by some Sex in the City scriptwriter and it's all style over substance anyway.
Needs to work on the pronounciation though. I jumped to my feet, punched the air and then high fived mrs onionbagblogger when Kerry declared:
'I want an America that relies on its own ingenuity and innovation not the sordid royal family.'
Bollocks to you then Brenda. No more Stars and Stripes flying from The Mall.
I then realised that he meant SAUDI royal family.
One Step Up, Two Steps Back as the Boss might say.
| Friday 30 July, 2004 |
Blimey - John Kerry's Boston speech was a bit of a belter, even viewed from over here in Blighty. Blogging about US politics on a London-centric site makes about as much sense as trying to portray London from over in LA. And so carrying on in the trashy tradition of the shitness of our friends over at metroknobbers, my lack of knowledge of the US Presidential campaign shouldn't stop me from writing shit about it.
First observation: Kerry took to the stage with Springsteen's No Surrender pumping out of the Arena. Bit of a difference from D:ream eh Mr Tony?
Despite my Anglophile leanings, Bruce truly is the BOSS around onionbagblog HQ. Can't get enough of the Blue Collar multi-millionaire. Two of the happiest days of my life were spent at Crystal Palace last summer (and that's saying something) when I saw seven hours of Springsteen over two nights.
But No fucking Surrender?
'We busted out of class, had to get away from those fools, we learnt more from a three minute record then we ever learnt in school...'
Where's the Education, Education, Education?
Actually, my insider knowledge of the education system (five weeks and counting, ner ner ner ner ner) leads me to the conclusion that you probably would learn more from a three minute record than you'll ever learn in school.
Just as long as you aren't listening to Oasis that is.
As for Kerry's speech itself? Oh, who gives a fuck really. It was probably written by some Sex in the City scriptwriter and it's all style over substance anyway.
Needs to work on the pronounciation though. I jumped to my feet, punched the air and then high fived mrs onionbagblogger when Kerry declared:
'I want an America that relies on its own ingenuity and innovation not the sordid royal family.'
Bollocks to you then Brenda. No more Stars and Stripes flying from The Mall.
I then realised that he meant SAUDI royal family.
One Step Up, Two Steps Back as the Boss might say.
| #permalink |
Red Label Day
Supermarkets serve many purposes; they make for a cost efficient method of keeping cool during a heat wave; they double up as a dating agency for penny pinchers with a food fetish, but top of the list is the possibilities that your local supermarket offers as an alternative urban take on Bargain Hunt.
Bobby Dazzlers read on...
My basic rule for supermarket shopping is only buy items that have a red reduced label attached to them or are part of a Buy One Get One Free deal. Who needs basics like bread, butter and breakfast cereal when my mantra for modern living means that you return home laden down with Dean Martin DVDs, dodgy delicatessens and out of date Monster Munch?
Other tricks of the trade need to be subtly employed though to ensure that you are eating a healthy diet. Apples are apples are apples. But a bit of variety is nice, as Eve once explained to Adam. When bagging up my bag of budget Golden Delicious, I slip in the odd Braeburn. The check out chick aint gonna get picky over a poxy stray superior apple. Technically it is fraud, or at worst theft. But I see it as theft from the land and not theft from some multi-national that has put poor Mr Patel from around the corner out of business.
Reduced red label items are a gift from God for a penny pinching onionbagblogger. I have a biological homing device that can spot a red label from fifty yards. Failing that, a fine trick of the trade is to load up your trolley at around 7pm with all the goods that you WANT to buy can't AFFORD to buy. This is to prevent less prudent buggers from buying them.
You then need to pass away the odd three hours or so casually pushing your load up and down the aisles. I suggest a freebie read of the magazine section. Shame there's no top shelf stuff at Sainsbury.
Come the wonderful witching hour of 10pm when all goods with a sell by date for the next day are reduced, return your items to the shelves whilst at the same time alerting a member of staff that they are now out of date and demand that they be reduced.
You can see how a Friday night out at the supermarket is THE big night out of the week for me.
One of the best onionbagblog buys is the deodorant dodge. This doesn't mean living like a Leveller for a year with armpits that Nena of 99 Red Balloons fame would be proud of, but instead making the most of a BOGOF offer on Right Guard.
EVERYONE needs deodorant. That includes one of my work colleagues who seems to be living in deodorant denial. When the supermarkets are stupid enough to offer a BOGOF deal (a phrase I often utter at the till when I have been overcharged), then yep, I'm gonna take them up on it.
You certainly attract some strange looks at the Nine Elms branch of Sainsbury as you check out your trolley loaded up with 50 cans of CC (teenage terminology – the second C is for Catcher and the first C stands for what you 'catch' on a Friday night if you are splashing it all over and are on a promise).
BOGOF can also be used as a legal credit loophole. The scenario is that a cheese and onion pasty has the original price of £1.50 with a BOGOF deal. Hover around some discounting diva as she places the red labels on the item and you will pick up two pasties now priced at 79p.
Here's the mathematics...
You pay 79p, your second pasty triggers off a £1.50 reduction at the till leaving you with 71p credit to your bill, plus two FREE cheese and onion pasties for your pleasure. It's worth doing for the free cash alone, even if you're not a Pasty Prince such as myself.
Mrs onionbagblogger did once complain though when she found the freezer stuffed full of pasties. I made it up to her by treating her to a home prepared meal: Pasties and baked beans from a damaged tin. All paid for with the pasty cashback I had accumulated.
Supermarket Bargain Hunt is not a hobby to be taken lightly. It is a full on cash saving commitment with careful planning needed. The post-Christmas period can prove to be profitable for the penny pinching shopper. I buy all my Christmas Cards from the supermarket on December 27. I even mark it down in my diary each year as a treat to look forward to after Boxing Day.
I'm still on half a dozen boxes of cards that bagged in December '98. They are now slightly faded and a rotation system is needed to so that friends and family don't receive the same card year in year out. The secret is simple: I wrote my Christmas cards for the next ten years back in '98.
Humbug to you as well.
If you have read this far and are truly shameless, then you probably understand and appreciate the difference between the REDUCED aisle and GYPO'S CORNER. I live in Gypo's Corner. This is the section of the supermarket where 'damaged goods' are packaged up. Dented tins of beans, half eaten packets of crisps and usually an EU mountain of washing powder.
My most proudest moment as a supermarket Bargain Hunter happened at Gypo's Corner last summer; I seized upon a plastic bag packaged up with all the crappy crisps that were destined for the dumper. And what a selection! £1.50 for twenty seven packets of assorted savoury slightly out of date delights, which works out at around 5p a packet. I love 1977 etc. Plus there was the Brucie bonus of around a dozen fun sized Snickers bars (I love it how you can define the size of fun) in the bottom of the bag to boot.
I didn't sleep for a week with all the excitement.
True penny pinching pikeys are also proficient proof readers. Never trust an organisation that puts up the mockney monger Jamie Oliver as its public persona. Receipts need to be scrutinised before leaving the supermarket with more scepticism than a Labour Party election manifesto. The buggers will rip you off at every opportunity.
But behold, there is even more budget bargains to be found here. Tesco emerges as the superior supermarket. Ignore all criteria such as range of items, friendliness of the staff etc; if Tesco overcharge you then you are given the item for free, as well a refund of the total amount paid in the first place.
Jobs a good 'un. Almost makes you want to seek out who you think will be the least proficient check out chap or chappess.
I'm horrified when hearing of how some people these days use the modern interweb to do their supermarket shopping. Bartering is a Great British tradition (even though constitutionally I support the devolution of government from within the regions), and besides, where’s the Gypo's Corner online?
Too many suggestions...
| Friday 30 July, 2004 |
Supermarkets serve many purposes; they make for a cost efficient method of keeping cool during a heat wave; they double up as a dating agency for penny pinchers with a food fetish, but top of the list is the possibilities that your local supermarket offers as an alternative urban take on Bargain Hunt.
Bobby Dazzlers read on...
My basic rule for supermarket shopping is only buy items that have a red reduced label attached to them or are part of a Buy One Get One Free deal. Who needs basics like bread, butter and breakfast cereal when my mantra for modern living means that you return home laden down with Dean Martin DVDs, dodgy delicatessens and out of date Monster Munch?
I live in Gypo's Corner |
Reduced red label items are a gift from God for a penny pinching onionbagblogger. I have a biological homing device that can spot a red label from fifty yards. Failing that, a fine trick of the trade is to load up your trolley at around 7pm with all the goods that you WANT to buy can't AFFORD to buy. This is to prevent less prudent buggers from buying them.
You then need to pass away the odd three hours or so casually pushing your load up and down the aisles. I suggest a freebie read of the magazine section. Shame there's no top shelf stuff at Sainsbury.
Come the wonderful witching hour of 10pm when all goods with a sell by date for the next day are reduced, return your items to the shelves whilst at the same time alerting a member of staff that they are now out of date and demand that they be reduced.
You can see how a Friday night out at the supermarket is THE big night out of the week for me.
One of the best onionbagblog buys is the deodorant dodge. This doesn't mean living like a Leveller for a year with armpits that Nena of 99 Red Balloons fame would be proud of, but instead making the most of a BOGOF offer on Right Guard.
EVERYONE needs deodorant. That includes one of my work colleagues who seems to be living in deodorant denial. When the supermarkets are stupid enough to offer a BOGOF deal (a phrase I often utter at the till when I have been overcharged), then yep, I'm gonna take them up on it.
You certainly attract some strange looks at the Nine Elms branch of Sainsbury as you check out your trolley loaded up with 50 cans of CC (teenage terminology – the second C is for Catcher and the first C stands for what you 'catch' on a Friday night if you are splashing it all over and are on a promise).
BOGOF can also be used as a legal credit loophole. The scenario is that a cheese and onion pasty has the original price of £1.50 with a BOGOF deal. Hover around some discounting diva as she places the red labels on the item and you will pick up two pasties now priced at 79p.
Here's the mathematics...
You pay 79p, your second pasty triggers off a £1.50 reduction at the till leaving you with 71p credit to your bill, plus two FREE cheese and onion pasties for your pleasure. It's worth doing for the free cash alone, even if you're not a Pasty Prince such as myself.
Mrs onionbagblogger did once complain though when she found the freezer stuffed full of pasties. I made it up to her by treating her to a home prepared meal: Pasties and baked beans from a damaged tin. All paid for with the pasty cashback I had accumulated.
Supermarket Bargain Hunt is not a hobby to be taken lightly. It is a full on cash saving commitment with careful planning needed. The post-Christmas period can prove to be profitable for the penny pinching shopper. I buy all my Christmas Cards from the supermarket on December 27. I even mark it down in my diary each year as a treat to look forward to after Boxing Day.
I'm still on half a dozen boxes of cards that bagged in December '98. They are now slightly faded and a rotation system is needed to so that friends and family don't receive the same card year in year out. The secret is simple: I wrote my Christmas cards for the next ten years back in '98.
Humbug to you as well.
If you have read this far and are truly shameless, then you probably understand and appreciate the difference between the REDUCED aisle and GYPO'S CORNER. I live in Gypo's Corner. This is the section of the supermarket where 'damaged goods' are packaged up. Dented tins of beans, half eaten packets of crisps and usually an EU mountain of washing powder.
My most proudest moment as a supermarket Bargain Hunter happened at Gypo's Corner last summer; I seized upon a plastic bag packaged up with all the crappy crisps that were destined for the dumper. And what a selection! £1.50 for twenty seven packets of assorted savoury slightly out of date delights, which works out at around 5p a packet. I love 1977 etc. Plus there was the Brucie bonus of around a dozen fun sized Snickers bars (I love it how you can define the size of fun) in the bottom of the bag to boot.
I didn't sleep for a week with all the excitement.
True penny pinching pikeys are also proficient proof readers. Never trust an organisation that puts up the mockney monger Jamie Oliver as its public persona. Receipts need to be scrutinised before leaving the supermarket with more scepticism than a Labour Party election manifesto. The buggers will rip you off at every opportunity.
But behold, there is even more budget bargains to be found here. Tesco emerges as the superior supermarket. Ignore all criteria such as range of items, friendliness of the staff etc; if Tesco overcharge you then you are given the item for free, as well a refund of the total amount paid in the first place.
Jobs a good 'un. Almost makes you want to seek out who you think will be the least proficient check out chap or chappess.
I'm horrified when hearing of how some people these days use the modern interweb to do their supermarket shopping. Bartering is a Great British tradition (even though constitutionally I support the devolution of government from within the regions), and besides, where’s the Gypo's Corner online?
Too many suggestions...
| #permalink |
Square Peg, Round Hole
London squares are back in fashion again. So you would be led to believe if you read a rubbish style supplement such the Evening Sub Standard's ES or tune in to a twatstick talk show like Knobber Gaunt on Londumb Live.
'Ah Squares, dahhhhling. Berkley, Bloomsbury, St James. Lurrrvely! So honest and SO London.’
I don't think so. Piss off back to your Porsche and question long and hard exactly how your spazzer lifestyle of South Kensington, the Slug and Lettuce and Sloane Square adds any real value to the daily life of Londoners.
Historically London introduced squares into urban living as the centre of a small community. The square was a local facility to be shared and celebrated in Georgian London. If you wanted to play naked Twister with your neighbours then what finer setting than the greenery outside your front door?
Most squares now though have been sanitised and packaged up as some estate agents' ideal of a prim and proper gentrified lifestyle.
Except Bonnington Square SW8, a cluster of overlapping window boxes, balloons and banners draped from the windows and a jungle of a centrepiece square, which of course has a wooden rowing boat suspended above the entrance. Just don't ask why – it's there because it is.
Bonnington resembles what the scenery would have looked like if Tarzan had been shot in Sunny SW8.
To describe Bonnington as a 'hippy commune' would of course be to fall into the lazy stereotypes so beloved of our mainstream media monkeys. Croquet on the lawn though it most certainly 'aint.
Away from the enchanted garden is the restaurant with no name and no number but plenty of patronage. OK, it's actually called The Bonnington but you try finding a contact number for it. Tables are usually booked well in advance with residents sharing the cooking duties and local artists and musicians providing the entertainment.
You couldn't think of anywhere further removed than the suburbs for a comparison with Bonnington, but both share a love of curtain twitching.
Who exactly are your neighbours? What do they do for a living? Do you know anything about them apart from how she screams like a fucking banshee on one of those rare occasions when he actually finds the spot?
Bonnington doesn't curtain twitch out of curiosity though but out of a sense of community. I doubt if there are many secrets within the square but then again you get the impression that the residents just don't give a fuck.
Residency tends to be along the lines of a friend of a friend of a friend. There aren't many For Sale signs outside, despite the fact that given the central location and laid back lifestyle, Bonnington has to be one of the most desirable addresses in South London.
Shhh, don't tell the neighbours.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Thursday 29 July, 2004 |
London squares are back in fashion again. So you would be led to believe if you read a rubbish style supplement such the Evening Sub Standard's ES or tune in to a twatstick talk show like Knobber Gaunt on Londumb Live.
'Ah Squares, dahhhhling. Berkley, Bloomsbury, St James. Lurrrvely! So honest and SO London.’
I don't think so. Piss off back to your Porsche and question long and hard exactly how your spazzer lifestyle of South Kensington, the Slug and Lettuce and Sloane Square adds any real value to the daily life of Londoners.
Croquet on the lawn it most certainly ‘aint |
Most squares now though have been sanitised and packaged up as some estate agents' ideal of a prim and proper gentrified lifestyle.
Except Bonnington Square SW8, a cluster of overlapping window boxes, balloons and banners draped from the windows and a jungle of a centrepiece square, which of course has a wooden rowing boat suspended above the entrance. Just don't ask why – it's there because it is.
Bonnington resembles what the scenery would have looked like if Tarzan had been shot in Sunny SW8.
To describe Bonnington as a 'hippy commune' would of course be to fall into the lazy stereotypes so beloved of our mainstream media monkeys. Croquet on the lawn though it most certainly 'aint.
Away from the enchanted garden is the restaurant with no name and no number but plenty of patronage. OK, it's actually called The Bonnington but you try finding a contact number for it. Tables are usually booked well in advance with residents sharing the cooking duties and local artists and musicians providing the entertainment.
You couldn't think of anywhere further removed than the suburbs for a comparison with Bonnington, but both share a love of curtain twitching.
Who exactly are your neighbours? What do they do for a living? Do you know anything about them apart from how she screams like a fucking banshee on one of those rare occasions when he actually finds the spot?
Bonnington doesn't curtain twitch out of curiosity though but out of a sense of community. I doubt if there are many secrets within the square but then again you get the impression that the residents just don't give a fuck.
Residency tends to be along the lines of a friend of a friend of a friend. There aren't many For Sale signs outside, despite the fact that given the central location and laid back lifestyle, Bonnington has to be one of the most desirable addresses in South London.
Shhh, don't tell the neighbours.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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