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
| #permalink |
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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Wish You Weren't Here
Who's London is it anyway?
Not yours geezer if Visit London boss David Campbell can have his crass commercial little way. Cuddly Ken (fast becoming F'Ken with his F1 foolhardiness) has hired the branding bugger to give London the New Labour luvvie makeover treatment.
Campbell (no relation to Mr Tony's ex-image idiot) clearly sees London life as a media experiment, the ultimate in reality TV. Not content with working with a producer from Changing Rooms (oh look at those frightful red London busses darling; let's paint them all pastel shades...), Visit London is hoping to get people to do just that by... watching TV.
Why Don't You, Just Switch Off Your Television Set and Go and Do Something Less Boring Instead, I seem to remember.
Launching on Sky Digital and with a viewing audience probably on par with the traffic levels for this hit and miss blog, London TV aims to:
'Give visitors and residents a lively, experimental insider's guide to what's on, where to eat and where to stay.'
OK, I hear and like what you're saying. Lively, experimental, insiders; no more West End film premieres packaged up as local news; no more OB to studio, studio to OB bollocks and definitely no more media knobbers then. Vernon Kay keep well away.
But what's this steaming pile of pooh poking its hairy arse around from behind the Post Office Tower?
'Deals' are being done with British Airways and Virgin Atlantic (that FUCKING hippy again) and the whole corporate cockfest is being produced by the useless tossers responsible for some arsewipe of a channel broadcasting under the name of Thomas Cook TV.
Who do you reckon will be the lively, experimental and insider face of London TV? Hoxton IT Girl Judith Chalmers by any chance?
London TV is in danger of making the crappy Carlton local news shite sound like a party political broadcast for the London wing of Class War. Which is not quite as ludicrous as putting together an 'insiders' guide to London and then getting the global travel operators to hijack it.
That should do wonders for my random Google hits – british+airways+virgin+atlantic+HIJACK – all in the same story.
Campbell has a career background that would even make a shameless self-publicist such as Peter Mandelson tick the NO PUBLICITY box on his weekly pools coupon.
'I've always looked at London as a brand,' commented Campbell, sitting pretty on his £300,000 salary (plus 20% bonus to boot) and looking back at his CV which name checks such corporate cunts as Pepsi, Virgin Radio, Ginger Group and Misery of Sound.
'I want to give it a brand DNA (what the fuck?) that is no different to Coke or Vodafone.’
Over a thousand years of historical and cultural significance all packaged up as a shitty soft drinks that turns your teeth yellow with a touch of mobile madness thrown in. Not exactly Samuel Pepys now is it?
What about the marginalised and misrepresented that are as much part of this city as the suits over in EC2? The migrant workers, the elderly and the locals who are being forced further and further out towards Zone 6? Generations of family history wiped out with gentrification. Are they being encouraged to Visit London? If so, will they be told how to make the most of this fine city on a minimum wage budget?
This is MY fucking life and I don't need no knobber trying to brand me.
| Wednesday 27 July, 2004 |
Who's London is it anyway?
Not yours geezer if Visit London boss David Campbell can have his crass commercial little way. Cuddly Ken (fast becoming F'Ken with his F1 foolhardiness) has hired the branding bugger to give London the New Labour luvvie makeover treatment.
Campbell (no relation to Mr Tony's ex-image idiot) clearly sees London life as a media experiment, the ultimate in reality TV. Not content with working with a producer from Changing Rooms (oh look at those frightful red London busses darling; let's paint them all pastel shades...), Visit London is hoping to get people to do just that by... watching TV.
Why Don't You, Just Switch Off Your Television Set and Go and Do Something Less Boring Instead, I seem to remember.
Not exactly Samuel Pepys is it? |
'Give visitors and residents a lively, experimental insider's guide to what's on, where to eat and where to stay.'
OK, I hear and like what you're saying. Lively, experimental, insiders; no more West End film premieres packaged up as local news; no more OB to studio, studio to OB bollocks and definitely no more media knobbers then. Vernon Kay keep well away.
But what's this steaming pile of pooh poking its hairy arse around from behind the Post Office Tower?
'Deals' are being done with British Airways and Virgin Atlantic (that FUCKING hippy again) and the whole corporate cockfest is being produced by the useless tossers responsible for some arsewipe of a channel broadcasting under the name of Thomas Cook TV.
Who do you reckon will be the lively, experimental and insider face of London TV? Hoxton IT Girl Judith Chalmers by any chance?
London TV is in danger of making the crappy Carlton local news shite sound like a party political broadcast for the London wing of Class War. Which is not quite as ludicrous as putting together an 'insiders' guide to London and then getting the global travel operators to hijack it.
That should do wonders for my random Google hits – british+airways+virgin+atlantic+HIJACK – all in the same story.
Campbell has a career background that would even make a shameless self-publicist such as Peter Mandelson tick the NO PUBLICITY box on his weekly pools coupon.
'I've always looked at London as a brand,' commented Campbell, sitting pretty on his £300,000 salary (plus 20% bonus to boot) and looking back at his CV which name checks such corporate cunts as Pepsi, Virgin Radio, Ginger Group and Misery of Sound.
'I want to give it a brand DNA (what the fuck?) that is no different to Coke or Vodafone.’
Over a thousand years of historical and cultural significance all packaged up as a shitty soft drinks that turns your teeth yellow with a touch of mobile madness thrown in. Not exactly Samuel Pepys now is it?
What about the marginalised and misrepresented that are as much part of this city as the suits over in EC2? The migrant workers, the elderly and the locals who are being forced further and further out towards Zone 6? Generations of family history wiped out with gentrification. Are they being encouraged to Visit London? If so, will they be told how to make the most of this fine city on a minimum wage budget?
This is MY fucking life and I don't need no knobber trying to brand me.
| #permalink |
Sloppy Second Half
'Heard the one about the Football Coach and the Secretary?'
'Is that the same one as the Football Coach, the Chief Exec and the Secretary?'
'At least I managed to score, which is more than my team did this summer.'
'Watch it lover boy, careless pillow talk costs jobs.'
*forty five minutes each way, at half time the brass band plays etc...* (mr bragg)
| Tuesday 27 July, 2004 |
'Heard the one about the Football Coach and the Secretary?'
'Is that the same one as the Football Coach, the Chief Exec and the Secretary?'
'At least I managed to score, which is more than my team did this summer.'
'Watch it lover boy, careless pillow talk costs jobs.'
*forty five minutes each way, at half time the brass band plays etc...* (mr bragg)
| #permalink |
Glass Houses, Large Bricks
I use to pass through Canary Wharf on a weekly basis when the London Knights were playing out of the London Arena at Crossharbour. With the Knights ice hockey team now 'frozen' (owners AEG unfortunate choice of phrase, not mine), it was over a year since I last sat at the front of a DLR train and played the grown up game of I'm the Choo Choo Driver.
Blowing my own whistle, etc etc.
Even eighteen months ago the second phase of development was well underway; Heron Quays station had seen a complete futuristic facelift and the memorial to mammon had been joined by the Citibank and HSBC Towers partnering 1 Canada Square.
I still gaped up in amazement though during my recent visit at the sheer speed and physical brutality of building work within the area. Everywhere you look you see a reflection of the sun shining at you from rows and columns of steel and glass houses. And that's the frightening thought of course, living in glass houses and all that during these unsure times.
For me Canary Wharf will always be 1 Canada Square, or the original Thatcherite phallic symbol that blows off a head of steam just like Dion Dublin's forehead on a cold day. Even prior to the erection of mini-me Thatcherite pricks, Canary Wharf was the fourth largest financial district in the world behind New York, Tokyo and the City of London.
World recession, War on Terror and Dulwich Hamlet season ticket prices increasing yet again this summer (£118 – outrageous!) – there's still plenty of filthy lucre floating around with the multi-national elites.
No matter how impressive a totem of trade may be, Canary Wharf itself has no soul. The area is a culture free zone unless the prospect of paying a fiver for an over-priced orange juice in a shitty Slug and Lettuce bar with some men in suits floats your boat. No surprises then that I was accompanied, as ever, with my fave flask, which raised a few eyebrows during the 'lunch is for wimps' session sitting outside with the suits.
The highlight of the year in Docklands seems to be the passing through of the London Marathon with Canary Wharf emerging in recent years as a good vantage point. Sums it all up really – fast pace, run through and leave the area without actually contributing anything to it.
Another reason for my scepticism and suspicion is that oh so quietly quietly, the toadies of Fleet Street have migrated en masse to Canary Wharf with The Mirror and The Torygraph entrenched up in the Tower. Quite how this places their news monkeys in a strategic location for Westminster or the West End is beyond me and you get the impression that they are barricaded in within their glass house. As knobber Piers found out recently, glass houses, stone chucking etc.
My lasting memory of Canary Wharf was that the only place of interest was the magnificent tube station; a vast underground cavern sealed within a grass entrance that seems wasted as the location for a bloody The Beautiful South video. Even this spectacular setting has now advanced further down the corporate gravy train with some ghastly mobile company adorning the cathedral like concrete walls with their advertising.
For all the faults of Canary Wharf though you have to ask what would stand there if not for the money men. Accepting that we need to turn the wheels of business (although not necessarily by the Captains of Industry), without the investment in the area then the Isle of Dogs would probably remain a wasteland.
Canary Wharf has at least given London another landmark and if the City suits have to be somewhere, I would preferably like to keep them as far away from Sunny Stockwell as possible.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Tuesday 27 July, 2004 |
I use to pass through Canary Wharf on a weekly basis when the London Knights were playing out of the London Arena at Crossharbour. With the Knights ice hockey team now 'frozen' (owners AEG unfortunate choice of phrase, not mine), it was over a year since I last sat at the front of a DLR train and played the grown up game of I'm the Choo Choo Driver.
Blowing my own whistle, etc etc.
Even eighteen months ago the second phase of development was well underway; Heron Quays station had seen a complete futuristic facelift and the memorial to mammon had been joined by the Citibank and HSBC Towers partnering 1 Canada Square.
The phallic symbol blows a head of steam like Dion Dublin |
For me Canary Wharf will always be 1 Canada Square, or the original Thatcherite phallic symbol that blows off a head of steam just like Dion Dublin's forehead on a cold day. Even prior to the erection of mini-me Thatcherite pricks, Canary Wharf was the fourth largest financial district in the world behind New York, Tokyo and the City of London.
World recession, War on Terror and Dulwich Hamlet season ticket prices increasing yet again this summer (£118 – outrageous!) – there's still plenty of filthy lucre floating around with the multi-national elites.
No matter how impressive a totem of trade may be, Canary Wharf itself has no soul. The area is a culture free zone unless the prospect of paying a fiver for an over-priced orange juice in a shitty Slug and Lettuce bar with some men in suits floats your boat. No surprises then that I was accompanied, as ever, with my fave flask, which raised a few eyebrows during the 'lunch is for wimps' session sitting outside with the suits.
The highlight of the year in Docklands seems to be the passing through of the London Marathon with Canary Wharf emerging in recent years as a good vantage point. Sums it all up really – fast pace, run through and leave the area without actually contributing anything to it.
Another reason for my scepticism and suspicion is that oh so quietly quietly, the toadies of Fleet Street have migrated en masse to Canary Wharf with The Mirror and The Torygraph entrenched up in the Tower. Quite how this places their news monkeys in a strategic location for Westminster or the West End is beyond me and you get the impression that they are barricaded in within their glass house. As knobber Piers found out recently, glass houses, stone chucking etc.
My lasting memory of Canary Wharf was that the only place of interest was the magnificent tube station; a vast underground cavern sealed within a grass entrance that seems wasted as the location for a bloody The Beautiful South video. Even this spectacular setting has now advanced further down the corporate gravy train with some ghastly mobile company adorning the cathedral like concrete walls with their advertising.
For all the faults of Canary Wharf though you have to ask what would stand there if not for the money men. Accepting that we need to turn the wheels of business (although not necessarily by the Captains of Industry), without the investment in the area then the Isle of Dogs would probably remain a wasteland.
Canary Wharf has at least given London another landmark and if the City suits have to be somewhere, I would preferably like to keep them as far away from Sunny Stockwell as possible.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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| #permalink |
Bowled Over
It's been thirteen years since I last saw a gig at the Crystal Palace Bowl. The Pixies were Trouping Le Monde back in '91; strange times – pre-Nirvana but just the first hint that the MTV-isation of alt.com was around the corner with Pepsi sponsoring the show, much to the frustration of Frank Black. Judging by his belly growth in the intervening years, a contra deal with Diet Pepsi probably wasn't part of the arrangement.
Such a delight then to find thirteen years later a truly local festival making use of the unique Crystal Palace stage; homemade cake stalls, information tents featuring South London historical societies and kids kicking a football about in front of the lake that doubles up as a no man's land between artist and audience.
For those unfamiliar with the Crystal Palace concert space, a permanent stage protected by a giant ramp overlooks a lake with the gig goers sitting on the other side. Back in '91, a mosher made the most of the Come on Pilgrim call to arms and belly flopped (there's your 4AD reference) face down into the lily leafs. I thought of making my own spectacular splash yesterday but despite their tuneful ditties, the South London Orish folk duo didn't quite have the same calling card as a generation defining band from Boston.
With a mixed local bill, the Bowl Festival was a pleasant reminder of the legendary Nottingham Rock 'n Reggae Festival that was the highlight of my youth during the '80s. Memories were rekindled of making my way to the off licence with my mates at 10am and stocking up on a stash of Special Brew and then wasting the away the afternoon.
My Special Brew days are but a distant memory now and it was all much more civilised with the PG Tips today. I still managed to make a twat of myself (you're SUPPOSED to spend a summer Saturday afternoon siesta style, dribbling down your face), though not as much as the lone mad dancer (there's always one) in front of the pond.
Glasto aside, mainstream music 'festivals' are now nothing more than art for advertising sake. Got band? We'll brand it.
They're either staged in a crappy car park or a shitty field. V is the worst offender; you queue to buy beer tokens and then queue again for the actual booze; next you have to fight off the hordes of mobile phone manufacturers on the way to see some imported band (brought to you in association with...) and then find yourself stranded in some suburban shithole with the only public transport strangely supplied by the same twats who are staging the shambles of a show.
A big V sign in the face of knobber Branson then. Never trust a hippy, etc.
At the Crystal Palace Bowl Festival I found a lovely tea tent who were more then happy for my custom; I learnt more about the history of the park and then after a fine (and free) line up of local talent, I cycled back down Crystal Palace Hill, home in time for the last few overs of the Test.
Howzat?
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Sunday 25 July, 2004 |
It's been thirteen years since I last saw a gig at the Crystal Palace Bowl. The Pixies were Trouping Le Monde back in '91; strange times – pre-Nirvana but just the first hint that the MTV-isation of alt.com was around the corner with Pepsi sponsoring the show, much to the frustration of Frank Black. Judging by his belly growth in the intervening years, a contra deal with Diet Pepsi probably wasn't part of the arrangement.
Such a delight then to find thirteen years later a truly local festival making use of the unique Crystal Palace stage; homemade cake stalls, information tents featuring South London historical societies and kids kicking a football about in front of the lake that doubles up as a no man's land between artist and audience.
I still managed to make a twat of myself |
With a mixed local bill, the Bowl Festival was a pleasant reminder of the legendary Nottingham Rock 'n Reggae Festival that was the highlight of my youth during the '80s. Memories were rekindled of making my way to the off licence with my mates at 10am and stocking up on a stash of Special Brew and then wasting the away the afternoon.
My Special Brew days are but a distant memory now and it was all much more civilised with the PG Tips today. I still managed to make a twat of myself (you're SUPPOSED to spend a summer Saturday afternoon siesta style, dribbling down your face), though not as much as the lone mad dancer (there's always one) in front of the pond.
Glasto aside, mainstream music 'festivals' are now nothing more than art for advertising sake. Got band? We'll brand it.
They're either staged in a crappy car park or a shitty field. V is the worst offender; you queue to buy beer tokens and then queue again for the actual booze; next you have to fight off the hordes of mobile phone manufacturers on the way to see some imported band (brought to you in association with...) and then find yourself stranded in some suburban shithole with the only public transport strangely supplied by the same twats who are staging the shambles of a show.
A big V sign in the face of knobber Branson then. Never trust a hippy, etc.
At the Crystal Palace Bowl Festival I found a lovely tea tent who were more then happy for my custom; I learnt more about the history of the park and then after a fine (and free) line up of local talent, I cycled back down Crystal Palace Hill, home in time for the last few overs of the Test.
Howzat?
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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| #permalink |
Super Fly Guys
You really couldn't think of a more countryside setting in South London than Clapham Common; strange then that the sixth annual URBAN games were hosted on the SW4 plot of land that looks more like a Lake District location (well, there is a lake) than an inner city setting.
The first Phew, Wot a Scorcher of the summer and lookey here, the Urban Games were sponsored by a shitty soft drinks manufacturer. Conspiracy theory? The stewards on the gate were certainly conspiring against me, questioning why I was carrying a flask of freshly made tea.
Cos I drink it bro, innit?
I was soon talking it like I wanna walk it but when it comes to all things urban, I am but a bystander behind the barrier. I blame it all on a childhood incident involving my Evel Knievel and the bruising of a young boy's tender bollocks.
My first pit stop was by the large mounds of top soil (how very un-urban) where some young chaps were riding their bicycles with little regard for the Highway Code. It must be a bugger for their brakes. Do BMX's even have bloody brakes? Probably not if the yoof around Sunny Stockwell are any indicator with their pavement pandemonium pedalling. Bicycles were built for commuting, not clearing skyscrapers with.
As for the nearby skateboarders, how the hell are you supposed to stand on a plank of wood that keeps on slipping from under your feet? Maybe it was all a trick of the trainers? My Hi-Tech Squash shoes are probably some tongue in cheek retro joke over in shitty Shoreditch, but for me they are the personification of sensible and affordable footwear. I didn't see any of the board stooopid siblings sporting any though.
Speaking of which, you could tell that the schools had just broken up for the summer. It was all a bit like a Blink 182 gig. Without the crap music of course. For once my decision not to update my 20-soemthing wardrobe over the course of the past decade was paying dividends, dude. But I ask you, nine year-olds in Nirvana T-shirts? Smells Like Pre-Teen Spirit and too much pocket money for me (plus more cash for Courtney).
Of course the Urban Games aren't a 'proper' sport. They're a trade expo for teenagers with some urban bling to spend, and boy, the marketing men are more than happy to change their corporate crap so that it is coming up off the street. Perhaps the most pathetic example was some urban art (OK, graffiti) put forward by Pizza Hut. Nice one. I must remember that next time I pass my local franchise on Streatham High Road armed with a selection of spray cans.
The Urban Games are not all about bunny hops, backward flips and bruised knees though; memories of spinning off a six foot high school stage and almost breaking my back with an ill advised backspin were brought back when I hit the B-Boy Arena.
Back in the day (’84 to be exact), the Future Beat Breakers had the best turtle master in South Nottinghamshire. He now runs a crappy, occasionally read blog. I then discovered Billy Bragg who wasn't quite compatible with my B-Boy stance.
Coal Not Dole?
Just show us yer fuckin footwork you stupid twat.
I was pleased to find that all the posturing within B-Boy culture was still present at the Urban Games with more eyeball to eyeball contact than Tino Best steaming in with the Windies bowling attack.
But what's all this crash helmet crap? It was all Kappa cagoules and ski goggles during the battle for South Notts B-Boy supremacy.
I was then reminded why I got into windmills in the first place; is there anything more fuck-able than a female break dancer? Peter Mandelson aside, obviously. Mmm, maybe a red head goth in her prime perhaps, but I can't help dreaming of all that dexterity. It's put me in a right old headspin.
I left the Urban Games in awe of all the activities, but still unsure as to what is so 'urban' about riding a bike or falling off a skateboard. Don't kids in Cornwall use skateboards? As with most sports, a lifestyle is being packaged up here. And a very expensive one at that.
My plan next year is to export the authentic Urban Games out to the suburbs. Events include Tube Ticket Tout dodging, cycling over streets of broken glass and punching hard in the face any knobber seen wearing a UKIP rosette.
Innit.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Saturday 24 July, 2004 |
You really couldn't think of a more countryside setting in South London than Clapham Common; strange then that the sixth annual URBAN games were hosted on the SW4 plot of land that looks more like a Lake District location (well, there is a lake) than an inner city setting.
The first Phew, Wot a Scorcher of the summer and lookey here, the Urban Games were sponsored by a shitty soft drinks manufacturer. Conspiracy theory? The stewards on the gate were certainly conspiring against me, questioning why I was carrying a flask of freshly made tea.
Cos I drink it bro, innit?
It was all a bit like a Blink 182 gig |
My first pit stop was by the large mounds of top soil (how very un-urban) where some young chaps were riding their bicycles with little regard for the Highway Code. It must be a bugger for their brakes. Do BMX's even have bloody brakes? Probably not if the yoof around Sunny Stockwell are any indicator with their pavement pandemonium pedalling. Bicycles were built for commuting, not clearing skyscrapers with.
As for the nearby skateboarders, how the hell are you supposed to stand on a plank of wood that keeps on slipping from under your feet? Maybe it was all a trick of the trainers? My Hi-Tech Squash shoes are probably some tongue in cheek retro joke over in shitty Shoreditch, but for me they are the personification of sensible and affordable footwear. I didn't see any of the board stooopid siblings sporting any though.
Speaking of which, you could tell that the schools had just broken up for the summer. It was all a bit like a Blink 182 gig. Without the crap music of course. For once my decision not to update my 20-soemthing wardrobe over the course of the past decade was paying dividends, dude. But I ask you, nine year-olds in Nirvana T-shirts? Smells Like Pre-Teen Spirit and too much pocket money for me (plus more cash for Courtney).
Of course the Urban Games aren't a 'proper' sport. They're a trade expo for teenagers with some urban bling to spend, and boy, the marketing men are more than happy to change their corporate crap so that it is coming up off the street. Perhaps the most pathetic example was some urban art (OK, graffiti) put forward by Pizza Hut. Nice one. I must remember that next time I pass my local franchise on Streatham High Road armed with a selection of spray cans.
The Urban Games are not all about bunny hops, backward flips and bruised knees though; memories of spinning off a six foot high school stage and almost breaking my back with an ill advised backspin were brought back when I hit the B-Boy Arena.
Back in the day (’84 to be exact), the Future Beat Breakers had the best turtle master in South Nottinghamshire. He now runs a crappy, occasionally read blog. I then discovered Billy Bragg who wasn't quite compatible with my B-Boy stance.
Coal Not Dole?
Just show us yer fuckin footwork you stupid twat.
I was pleased to find that all the posturing within B-Boy culture was still present at the Urban Games with more eyeball to eyeball contact than Tino Best steaming in with the Windies bowling attack.
But what's all this crash helmet crap? It was all Kappa cagoules and ski goggles during the battle for South Notts B-Boy supremacy.
I was then reminded why I got into windmills in the first place; is there anything more fuck-able than a female break dancer? Peter Mandelson aside, obviously. Mmm, maybe a red head goth in her prime perhaps, but I can't help dreaming of all that dexterity. It's put me in a right old headspin.
I left the Urban Games in awe of all the activities, but still unsure as to what is so 'urban' about riding a bike or falling off a skateboard. Don't kids in Cornwall use skateboards? As with most sports, a lifestyle is being packaged up here. And a very expensive one at that.
My plan next year is to export the authentic Urban Games out to the suburbs. Events include Tube Ticket Tout dodging, cycling over streets of broken glass and punching hard in the face any knobber seen wearing a UKIP rosette.
Innit.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Heart of Stone
And to return to an onionbagblog regular royal feature favourite...
Much in the same way that her 'inclusive personality' is no longer flowing through our daily lives (and tax bills), the memorial to the stupid dead bint of a Princess has once again had the plug pulled in its prime.
Three visitors were injured when they slipped on a stone.
If only Princess Anne and Princess Michael of Kent could be persuaded to have a perusal - we could kill two birds with one stone.
| Friday 23 July, 2004 |
And to return to an onionbagblog regular royal feature favourite...
Much in the same way that her 'inclusive personality' is no longer flowing through our daily lives (and tax bills), the memorial to the stupid dead bint of a Princess has once again had the plug pulled in its prime.
Three visitors were injured when they slipped on a stone.
If only Princess Anne and Princess Michael of Kent could be persuaded to have a perusal - we could kill two birds with one stone.
| #permalink |
Quality Item
To quote the Great Man himslef:
'If you don't like this then you really don't like music.'
Mark Radcliffe's opening track each night is fast becoming the summer CDR compilation of choice around these parts.
New Order - True Faith
Johnny Cash - Ring of Fire
Orb - Little Fluffy Clouds
The Clash - London Calling
The Pretenders - Kid
Prince - Kiss
The Stone Roses - I Am the Ressurection (Garage Flower version!)
Sly and the Family Stone - It's a Family Affair
*Sit down, headphones whacked up to eleven - fancy a brew?*
If you can still get away with being a dirty stop out (in Kings Cross to boot), then you could do a lot worse than a night out with Smacked Face at Buy None Get One Free this Saturday.
| Friday 23 July, 2004 |
To quote the Great Man himslef:
'If you don't like this then you really don't like music.'
Mark Radcliffe's opening track each night is fast becoming the summer CDR compilation of choice around these parts.
New Order - True Faith
Johnny Cash - Ring of Fire
Orb - Little Fluffy Clouds
The Clash - London Calling
The Pretenders - Kid
Prince - Kiss
The Stone Roses - I Am the Ressurection (Garage Flower version!)
Sly and the Family Stone - It's a Family Affair
*Sit down, headphones whacked up to eleven - fancy a brew?*
If you can still get away with being a dirty stop out (in Kings Cross to boot), then you could do a lot worse than a night out with Smacked Face at Buy None Get One Free this Saturday.
| #permalink |
Crap Journo
Sniffing out the stories and serving them up in a shit sandwich
Cocaine-ine
A real shaggy dogs tail this one. Yep, no other reason for barking on about this other than it boosts my chances for a lazy Subs job at some shitty local newspaper. Bark worse than his bite, etc.
This is the story of the first class pedigree chums who surgically placed some Columbian marching powder into the belly of a beast as a ploy to bypass customs at Stanstead airport.
Every dog has its day etc, and thankfully the wraps weren't woven into the dog's bollocks.
Gregory Graham and Kaye Chapman are the two bozos in question and they must have made a real dogs dinner of their puppy patchwork. Talk about working like a dog, pity the poor poodles who were victims of the dog eat dog drugs world. If the stash had gone undetected than there was every chance that it would ROT WHILE 'ER owners were out having a swift one down the Dog and Duck.
The two sleeping dogs certainly didn't lie, especially when quizzed by customs about the exact nature of their hair of the dog drug overdose.
It's a dog's life of course and not a DAWWWWWGS life as the not so dope gangster wanabees found out.
Makes a change from the usual Man Bites Dog headline.
Of course this isn't the first time that 'dogs' and 'cocaine' have been associated in the same story and it probably won't be the last either, bearing in mind that Madonna is about to set off on a world tour, no doubt demonstrating that you can teach an old dog new tricks.
Meowwww...
And don't even get me started on pussies.
Dog gone crazy world, blah blah blah.
Did I pass the audition? (wags tail in Pavlovian anticipation).
| Thursday 22 July, 2004 |
Sniffing out the stories and serving them up in a shit sandwich
Cocaine-ine
A real shaggy dogs tail this one. Yep, no other reason for barking on about this other than it boosts my chances for a lazy Subs job at some shitty local newspaper. Bark worse than his bite, etc.
This is the story of the first class pedigree chums who surgically placed some Columbian marching powder into the belly of a beast as a ploy to bypass customs at Stanstead airport.
Every dog has its day etc, and thankfully the wraps weren't woven into the dog's bollocks.
Gregory Graham and Kaye Chapman are the two bozos in question and they must have made a real dogs dinner of their puppy patchwork. Talk about working like a dog, pity the poor poodles who were victims of the dog eat dog drugs world. If the stash had gone undetected than there was every chance that it would ROT WHILE 'ER owners were out having a swift one down the Dog and Duck.
Don't get me started on pussies |
It's a dog's life of course and not a DAWWWWWGS life as the not so dope gangster wanabees found out.
Makes a change from the usual Man Bites Dog headline.
Of course this isn't the first time that 'dogs' and 'cocaine' have been associated in the same story and it probably won't be the last either, bearing in mind that Madonna is about to set off on a world tour, no doubt demonstrating that you can teach an old dog new tricks.
Meowwww...
And don't even get me started on pussies.
Dog gone crazy world, blah blah blah.
Did I pass the audition? (wags tail in Pavlovian anticipation).
| #permalink |
Pass the Dutchie
Some strange sports are played out across South London's splendid open spaces; Rugby Netball (that's ONE sport by the way – always did have my suspicions about the rugby rabble), Frisby Golf and of course the team playing down at Imperial Fields in Mitcham calling themselves a football club.
Perhaps the most peculiar sport however is Korfball which has a hotbed in South London. Quite literally, seeing as though the rules require four males and four females per side, making it the next best way to cop off in South London if you can't get into Caesars in Streatham on a Saturday night.
Devised by the Dutch, Korfball is a hybrid of basketball (hurrah!) and netball (tepid response, not wanting to upset any readers...). Five South London based teams play within the top two National League making local derbies a lively affair. Plus it increases the odds of incestuous junior players being bred at club social nights.
If you'e six foot plus, single and don't mind being called a cissy as you canter about on Clapham Common, Korfball is for you. Then again if all of the above apply, chances are that you already play football for Tooting and Mitcham.
Supernova Korfball Club is a rising star (boom boom) down here in the Beautiful South. Formed during the Britpop summer of '96 when Noely G was more relevant than retard, the champagne inspired name remains, unfortunately just like Oasis.
The second annual Supernova Companies Tournament took place on Clapham Common on Tuesday night with twenty four teams competing for the honour of the Corporate Kings of Korfball.
Yes it all does sound slightly power suits, office politics and Jags parked at the back, but it raised the profile of a growing sport and besides, the corporate crowd got to skive off early giving us a score line of Korfball 1, Captains of Industry 0.
With team representation from all sectors of the business world, you could gauge the various motivational methods found within each industry. The Bankers (not a cockney euphemism) were highly organised, methodical and last to dig deep at the bar. The more laissez faire approach favoured by the Journos form The Guardian (they forgot to turn up) was a little too laid back, even by korfball's dizzy Dutch standards.
Korfball is essentially a non-contact sport although it didn't take long for the corporate boys and girls from Barclays, British Airways and Deutsche Bank to grasp the basics of the game: Look for a member of the opposite sex and innocently dive on top of them. Or given the liberal Dutch approach, perhaps even a member of the same sex if Sir is that way inclined?
The standard was actually extremely high for a bunch of beginners with bragging rights in the boardroom up for grabs. One day the FTSE Index will be linked to Korfball know-how.
The Supernova Companies Tournament was a taster for those wanting to take the game further. The summer season is a superb chance to give it a go with friendly tournaments held most Sundays, in preparation for the indoor league come the autumn. The downside is that Croydon is the Korfball capital of the South. And yes, Tooting does have a team, but a bit like their football club, they’re full of cissys as well.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
supernova korfball club
british korfball association
| Wednesday 21 July, 2004 |
Some strange sports are played out across South London's splendid open spaces; Rugby Netball (that's ONE sport by the way – always did have my suspicions about the rugby rabble), Frisby Golf and of course the team playing down at Imperial Fields in Mitcham calling themselves a football club.
Perhaps the most peculiar sport however is Korfball which has a hotbed in South London. Quite literally, seeing as though the rules require four males and four females per side, making it the next best way to cop off in South London if you can't get into Caesars in Streatham on a Saturday night.
Look for the opposite sex and dive on top |
If you'e six foot plus, single and don't mind being called a cissy as you canter about on Clapham Common, Korfball is for you. Then again if all of the above apply, chances are that you already play football for Tooting and Mitcham.
Supernova Korfball Club is a rising star (boom boom) down here in the Beautiful South. Formed during the Britpop summer of '96 when Noely G was more relevant than retard, the champagne inspired name remains, unfortunately just like Oasis.
The second annual Supernova Companies Tournament took place on Clapham Common on Tuesday night with twenty four teams competing for the honour of the Corporate Kings of Korfball.
Yes it all does sound slightly power suits, office politics and Jags parked at the back, but it raised the profile of a growing sport and besides, the corporate crowd got to skive off early giving us a score line of Korfball 1, Captains of Industry 0.
With team representation from all sectors of the business world, you could gauge the various motivational methods found within each industry. The Bankers (not a cockney euphemism) were highly organised, methodical and last to dig deep at the bar. The more laissez faire approach favoured by the Journos form The Guardian (they forgot to turn up) was a little too laid back, even by korfball's dizzy Dutch standards.
Korfball is essentially a non-contact sport although it didn't take long for the corporate boys and girls from Barclays, British Airways and Deutsche Bank to grasp the basics of the game: Look for a member of the opposite sex and innocently dive on top of them. Or given the liberal Dutch approach, perhaps even a member of the same sex if Sir is that way inclined?
The standard was actually extremely high for a bunch of beginners with bragging rights in the boardroom up for grabs. One day the FTSE Index will be linked to Korfball know-how.
The Supernova Companies Tournament was a taster for those wanting to take the game further. The summer season is a superb chance to give it a go with friendly tournaments held most Sundays, in preparation for the indoor league come the autumn. The downside is that Croydon is the Korfball capital of the South. And yes, Tooting does have a team, but a bit like their football club, they’re full of cissys as well.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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supernova korfball club
british korfball association
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Dark Side of my Gloom
I've been listening to far too much Pink Floyd in recent weeks than is healthy within the average male mind. There's a harsh hibernation quality to their music that impels you to dive under the duvet all day long and daydream your life away. Johnny No Mates Music you might say.
Much in the same way that I turn to Mozza to cheer me up, the Floyd remind you that yes, you may be stuck in a shitty job, your ageing body is falling apart and you can't even raise a smile out of a tube ticket tout, but hey, we're all in this together, yet ironically also stuck in isolation.
Plus having a Reggie Perrin retrospective on BBC1 last night should send alarm bells ringing about razor baldes etc.
This summer hasn't turned out how I wanted it too. Not just the shitty weather (a pithy three day Lido count for the end of July is not good), but also other issues in my life as well. But I'm working on them, slowly.
With Dark Side of the Moon calling me to keep the curtains closed, I'm reminded of my vow to Never Trust a Fucking Hippy. Maybe I just need a Holiday in the Sun with the Pistols?
| Tuesday 20 July, 2004 |
I've been listening to far too much Pink Floyd in recent weeks than is healthy within the average male mind. There's a harsh hibernation quality to their music that impels you to dive under the duvet all day long and daydream your life away. Johnny No Mates Music you might say.
Johnny No Mates Music |
Plus having a Reggie Perrin retrospective on BBC1 last night should send alarm bells ringing about razor baldes etc.
This summer hasn't turned out how I wanted it too. Not just the shitty weather (a pithy three day Lido count for the end of July is not good), but also other issues in my life as well. But I'm working on them, slowly.
With Dark Side of the Moon calling me to keep the curtains closed, I'm reminded of my vow to Never Trust a Fucking Hippy. Maybe I just need a Holiday in the Sun with the Pistols?
| #permalink |
Barbican Blah Blah Blah
The Barbican is a city within a city complete with common communal facilities such as a gym, a barbers and considering the population of the enclosed conurbation, a rather grandiose local theatre. It's a council estate for City playboys with all the urban brutality that you might find in some of the swathes of mass municipal housing in South East London. Just more knobbers per square meter at The Barbican.
When Mr Tony talks of 'social exclusion' on the Aylesbury Estate in Walworth, what he really means is the rejection of local people by government. The Barbican is the same landscape as the Aylesbury, if not a little more ugly (buildings, not people, but I'm willing to argue the case for the latter).
The main difference between a private and public estate of course is the sense of community. The Barbican becomes a Ghost Town at the weekend – no life, no soul; the community de-camps to Kent in their four wheelers, no doubt causing a countryside onionbagblogger to write some spiel about City intruders.
Having money doesn't mean that you have sense though; Follow the Yellow Brick Line is an internal twat-proof mapping system at The Barbican so that the little lost City boys can find their way to the tube.
Ask an Aylesbury geezer how to get from Chiltern to Missenden Block and right you are guv; he'll probably even take you there in person and put the kettle on for you. Unfortunately there was no one around at The Barbican for me to ask during my visit, apart from some dear old Blue Rinse bird that was all set to call 999 until she saw me depart.
She knew I wasn't local though – I managed to make my way out of the gated ghetto without any yellow brick nonsense. It wasn't difficult – I just opened my eyes and looked for life again.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Monday 19 July, 2004 |
The Barbican is a city within a city complete with common communal facilities such as a gym, a barbers and considering the population of the enclosed conurbation, a rather grandiose local theatre. It's a council estate for City playboys with all the urban brutality that you might find in some of the swathes of mass municipal housing in South East London. Just more knobbers per square meter at The Barbican.
When Mr Tony talks of 'social exclusion' on the Aylesbury Estate in Walworth, what he really means is the rejection of local people by government. The Barbican is the same landscape as the Aylesbury, if not a little more ugly (buildings, not people, but I'm willing to argue the case for the latter).
Some dear old Blue Rinse bird was all set to call 999 |
Having money doesn't mean that you have sense though; Follow the Yellow Brick Line is an internal twat-proof mapping system at The Barbican so that the little lost City boys can find their way to the tube.
Ask an Aylesbury geezer how to get from Chiltern to Missenden Block and right you are guv; he'll probably even take you there in person and put the kettle on for you. Unfortunately there was no one around at The Barbican for me to ask during my visit, apart from some dear old Blue Rinse bird that was all set to call 999 until she saw me depart.
She knew I wasn't local though – I managed to make my way out of the gated ghetto without any yellow brick nonsense. It wasn't difficult – I just opened my eyes and looked for life again.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Country Cousins
It's a funny feeling strolling into a South London Park and seeing your whole life stretch ahead of you. Maybe I just need to get out of Lovely Lambeth a little more. The Lambeth Country Show, the highlight of the South London summer social scene, took place at Brockwell Park this weekend.
They were all there; Streatham Redskins (who have just hired a crack match report writer by the way...), Surrey County Cricket Club, Brockwell Lido Users Group, Herne Hill Velodrome and Lambeth Cyclists.
It all reads like an onionbagblog Lottery winning party VIP list, after I have bankrolled Dulwich Hamlet for life of course (whose presence can be excused from the Show as technically Champion Hill is in Southwark. There was a Tooting and Mitcham presence though; may I refer you to the picture of the Donkey Sanctuary spotted on the brow of the hill...)
Think of all the wonderful chaos found within Lambeth and the Country Show is the coming today of the clan. And a very diverse one it is too. Sure you have the traditional Country Show stuff such as a falconry display; the difference in Lambeth though is that we use Bunny Girl bait as an incentive to get the great birds of prey to perform their party tricks. It was with no great surprise then to see a pretty young thing looking like she had just come from a Playboy shoot sprinting across the park with some bait attached to her backside. I don't remember that particular scene in Kes.
There was further farmyard frolics found within the Vauxhall City Farm enclosure. A quartet of sizeable sheep bearing their backside in public was generating much interest. So that's how a Derby County fan spends his spare time during the close season.
For the political animal amongst you (a big BAAAAA from onionbagblogger) you could debate the issues of the day with those either in, or seeking to hold public office. Sadly there was no stocks which I thought would have been more appropriate, but I did raise a wry smile to the planners of the show who had placed New Labour next to the Socialist Party. New Labour were just to the right of course. Not a Tory to be found, which given a Show that attracts 100,000 plus visitors, is probably the perfect ratio for Lambeth citizens to blue rinse knobbers around these parts.
Everywhere you looked you just couldn't escape the politics; I was all set to give my local MP the KKKrazy Kate Tally Hoey a right old earbashing after seeing an army motorbike display team warming up; two issues here Katie dear – why is the armed forces budget being spent on wheelie practise? Isn't there anything more worthwhile such as preparing our troops adequately for combat? Plus I'm sure the park wardens at Brockwell Park will be begging for more of my Council Tax money to repair the damaged caused by the greenery torn up by the Easy Riders.
Calm down, calm down. The motorbike boys were BRILLIANT and even a pedal pushing cynic such as myself was left in awe of their handiness with a Honda. Plus it helped that they had a bloke on a little toy bike kitted out in a Guerrilla costume who answered to the rather apt name of Camilla.
Finally convinced that the Lambeth County Show had been conquered with every last corner uncovered, I collapsed in front of the main stage for some traditional South London musical delights: DUB-selector.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Sunday 18 July, 2004 |
It's a funny feeling strolling into a South London Park and seeing your whole life stretch ahead of you. Maybe I just need to get out of Lovely Lambeth a little more. The Lambeth Country Show, the highlight of the South London summer social scene, took place at Brockwell Park this weekend.
They were all there; Streatham Redskins (who have just hired a crack match report writer by the way...), Surrey County Cricket Club, Brockwell Lido Users Group, Herne Hill Velodrome and Lambeth Cyclists.
There was a bloke in a Guerrilla costume called Camilla |
Think of all the wonderful chaos found within Lambeth and the Country Show is the coming today of the clan. And a very diverse one it is too. Sure you have the traditional Country Show stuff such as a falconry display; the difference in Lambeth though is that we use Bunny Girl bait as an incentive to get the great birds of prey to perform their party tricks. It was with no great surprise then to see a pretty young thing looking like she had just come from a Playboy shoot sprinting across the park with some bait attached to her backside. I don't remember that particular scene in Kes.
There was further farmyard frolics found within the Vauxhall City Farm enclosure. A quartet of sizeable sheep bearing their backside in public was generating much interest. So that's how a Derby County fan spends his spare time during the close season.
For the political animal amongst you (a big BAAAAA from onionbagblogger) you could debate the issues of the day with those either in, or seeking to hold public office. Sadly there was no stocks which I thought would have been more appropriate, but I did raise a wry smile to the planners of the show who had placed New Labour next to the Socialist Party. New Labour were just to the right of course. Not a Tory to be found, which given a Show that attracts 100,000 plus visitors, is probably the perfect ratio for Lambeth citizens to blue rinse knobbers around these parts.
Everywhere you looked you just couldn't escape the politics; I was all set to give my local MP the KKKrazy Kate Tally Hoey a right old earbashing after seeing an army motorbike display team warming up; two issues here Katie dear – why is the armed forces budget being spent on wheelie practise? Isn't there anything more worthwhile such as preparing our troops adequately for combat? Plus I'm sure the park wardens at Brockwell Park will be begging for more of my Council Tax money to repair the damaged caused by the greenery torn up by the Easy Riders.
Calm down, calm down. The motorbike boys were BRILLIANT and even a pedal pushing cynic such as myself was left in awe of their handiness with a Honda. Plus it helped that they had a bloke on a little toy bike kitted out in a Guerrilla costume who answered to the rather apt name of Camilla.
Finally convinced that the Lambeth County Show had been conquered with every last corner uncovered, I collapsed in front of the main stage for some traditional South London musical delights: DUB-selector.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Aye Aye, Eel Pie
The Thames is so much more than a river – it's a living, breathing way of life. Any river than can support its only fully fledged island deserves more credit than a streaky blue line on a map.
Eel Pie Island is a contradiction of style, a contradiction of money and a contradiction of ambience. Situated down the river at Twickenham, Eel Pie is remote in every sense from the rugby bollox culture of TW3 and the Little England mentality out in the West London suburbs. Sales of The Telegraph must soar in Twickenham.
But Eel Pie is different. It stands alone from the mainland lost to the twentieth first century (probably lost to the twentieth, nineteenth and eighteenth as well) as a haven for relaxation. Or money, which is a recent contradiction.
The island has always been associated with recreation with early records detailing Henry VIII's fondness for stopping off for the local eel pie delicacy en route from trips from London to Hampton. That must have been a hell of a lot of trips then.
A hotel provided tourism opportunities in the nineteenth century and then in the 1960's the building was squatted and became a central meeting point in the London squatting scene.
Eel Pie has a history of radicalism hosting some legendary London happenings in the 60s and was the preferred location for taking your preferred drug of choice. Local boys the Stones played a select gig there in 1963, returning some forty years later to play the somewhat sterile setting of nearby Twickenham RFC. Genesis and The Yarbirds have also made appearance and Pete Townsend's recording studio still remains on the island today.
Although the odd sign of a long lost hippy culture can still be seen (observe the assortment of action men, dolls and all round happy clappy toys randomly arranged in one particular front garden), serious money has now colonised the island. £1m plus will buy you two-three bedrooms in what has to be one of the most desirable locations in London.
Eel Pie has its own economy with its strategic positioning making it ideal for the boat building community. A number of private yards are scattered around the Middlesex bank with the Surrey side being reserved for a bird sanctuary.
Planning on such a small plot of land has always been a sensitive issue and the proposed open air swimming pool from the free love period was a non starter. A recent addition though has been a new footbridge, the only link between Eel Pie and the mainland. A ferry service use to exist but with the high Thames tidal pattern, missing the last ferry home was a bit different to missing the last bus back on dry land.
Today Eel Pie holds fifty houses with a population of around 120. Trevor Baylis, inventor of the wind-up radio (and I don't mean Dr Fox) is an inhabitant. It has always been an ambition of mine to organise the Eel Pie Marathon, although with the only public through fare taking little over two minutes to walk, it won't rank up there with the likes of the London or New York Marathons for sightseeing.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Friday 16 July, 2004 |
The Thames is so much more than a river – it's a living, breathing way of life. Any river than can support its only fully fledged island deserves more credit than a streaky blue line on a map.
Eel Pie Island is a contradiction of style, a contradiction of money and a contradiction of ambience. Situated down the river at Twickenham, Eel Pie is remote in every sense from the rugby bollox culture of TW3 and the Little England mentality out in the West London suburbs. Sales of The Telegraph must soar in Twickenham.
The odd sign of a lost hippy culture can be seen |
The island has always been associated with recreation with early records detailing Henry VIII's fondness for stopping off for the local eel pie delicacy en route from trips from London to Hampton. That must have been a hell of a lot of trips then.
A hotel provided tourism opportunities in the nineteenth century and then in the 1960's the building was squatted and became a central meeting point in the London squatting scene.
Eel Pie has a history of radicalism hosting some legendary London happenings in the 60s and was the preferred location for taking your preferred drug of choice. Local boys the Stones played a select gig there in 1963, returning some forty years later to play the somewhat sterile setting of nearby Twickenham RFC. Genesis and The Yarbirds have also made appearance and Pete Townsend's recording studio still remains on the island today.
Although the odd sign of a long lost hippy culture can still be seen (observe the assortment of action men, dolls and all round happy clappy toys randomly arranged in one particular front garden), serious money has now colonised the island. £1m plus will buy you two-three bedrooms in what has to be one of the most desirable locations in London.
Eel Pie has its own economy with its strategic positioning making it ideal for the boat building community. A number of private yards are scattered around the Middlesex bank with the Surrey side being reserved for a bird sanctuary.
Planning on such a small plot of land has always been a sensitive issue and the proposed open air swimming pool from the free love period was a non starter. A recent addition though has been a new footbridge, the only link between Eel Pie and the mainland. A ferry service use to exist but with the high Thames tidal pattern, missing the last ferry home was a bit different to missing the last bus back on dry land.
Today Eel Pie holds fifty houses with a population of around 120. Trevor Baylis, inventor of the wind-up radio (and I don't mean Dr Fox) is an inhabitant. It has always been an ambition of mine to organise the Eel Pie Marathon, although with the only public through fare taking little over two minutes to walk, it won't rank up there with the likes of the London or New York Marathons for sightseeing.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Mutha of Suburbia
ITV and suburbia – two of my pet hates. Why then am I strangely drawn to Sublime Suburbia, an early evening antiquated look at life on the edge of Zone 6 broadcast every Thursday on ITV?
For half an hour you are taken on a quirky architectural tour by some raving old beaut of a bint who appears as though she has just fallen off the wagon and lost her job as the Daily Mail's Village Correspondent. I really should HATE this take on Little England nestling away on the edges of the South East but Lucinda Lambton uncovers some of the best secrets from suburban London. Plus she has a strange alluring side to her personality. A bit like fancying Sarah Kennedy, Rosie Boycott or even Germaine Greer and not understanding why.
This week featured a look around Jools Holland's totally bizarre creation of a miniature Portmeirion village that houses his studio in South East London, an architectural appreciation of the Greenwich Yuppie Village and some great hall in East Grinstead which for some unexplained reasoned has a massive monkey mural stretching across all four walls.
Holland's studio was freakish beyond the extreme. Scaled down models of town halls, clock squares and even a railway station were the facade to hide away mixing desks and sound booths. Bordering on the Spinal Tap Stonehenge surrealism, the Madness of Jools was better understood when the lovely loopy Lucinda explained a family connection between the two.
She didn't stop there either.
The monkey madness in East Grinstead unearthed another long lost blood line leading to Winston Churchill. From spam fritters to Squeeze in one move. Not bad going for a Thursday night on ITV.
The post Emmerdale time slot has long been a bastion of regional programming across the ITV network on a Thursday. Carlton has rightfully judged the audience by understanding that after a commute from hell home, the last thing you want to see is a glorification of the City.
This is community broadcasting as it should be with the only agenda at work that of a Mad as a Wet Hen old maid who has a habit of adding alliteration to words in all the wrong places.
A bit like Sublime Suburbia really which stands out an undigested gem festering in the shitfest of ITV pooh.
| Thursday 15 July, 2004 |
ITV and suburbia – two of my pet hates. Why then am I strangely drawn to Sublime Suburbia, an early evening antiquated look at life on the edge of Zone 6 broadcast every Thursday on ITV?
For half an hour you are taken on a quirky architectural tour by some raving old beaut of a bint who appears as though she has just fallen off the wagon and lost her job as the Daily Mail's Village Correspondent. I really should HATE this take on Little England nestling away on the edges of the South East but Lucinda Lambton uncovers some of the best secrets from suburban London. Plus she has a strange alluring side to her personality. A bit like fancying Sarah Kennedy, Rosie Boycott or even Germaine Greer and not understanding why.
From spam fritters to Squeeze in one move |
Holland's studio was freakish beyond the extreme. Scaled down models of town halls, clock squares and even a railway station were the facade to hide away mixing desks and sound booths. Bordering on the Spinal Tap Stonehenge surrealism, the Madness of Jools was better understood when the lovely loopy Lucinda explained a family connection between the two.
She didn't stop there either.
The monkey madness in East Grinstead unearthed another long lost blood line leading to Winston Churchill. From spam fritters to Squeeze in one move. Not bad going for a Thursday night on ITV.
The post Emmerdale time slot has long been a bastion of regional programming across the ITV network on a Thursday. Carlton has rightfully judged the audience by understanding that after a commute from hell home, the last thing you want to see is a glorification of the City.
This is community broadcasting as it should be with the only agenda at work that of a Mad as a Wet Hen old maid who has a habit of adding alliteration to words in all the wrong places.
A bit like Sublime Suburbia really which stands out an undigested gem festering in the shitfest of ITV pooh.
| #permalink |
Green Apple Splats
Do people still drink Lucozade? Apart from professional footballers who are paid handsomely for sipping back the sugary stuff, has Lucozade become a niche market for dehydrated drinkers along with Irn Bru and Dandelion Burdock?
The highlight of my day so far has been to down a bottle of Lucozade. Yes, it really has been that dull. The word ENERGY has appeared on the bottle since my last Lucozade liaison. I feel bloated and fucking knackered now though to be honest.
There's not really a great deal you can do as you sit down with a plastic bottle of water supplemented by two tablespoons of sugar. And so I read the label. Hidden away under all the E numbers (Ascorbic Acid – Mmmm – tasty) was the warning:
'Lucozade is not appropriate for replacing the fluid lost during diarrhoea.'
WHAT????!!!!
Run (so to speak) that through me again... So we all know that diarrhoea is hereditary (it runs in your jeans...), but exactly what TYPE of fluid is being referred to here? Facial fluid or flatulence fluid? Am I the only one who loses facial fluid during a diarrhoea dump?
The fluid disclaimer was followed up with the unfortunately phrased:
'This product may stain if split.'
Ah, I get it now. It's a chicken and egg scenario. Probably a chicken and egg sandwich scenario if we’re being brutally honest. What came first? The drinking of the diarrhoea dehydrator or the subsequent staining?
I have never thought so long and hard about Lucozade since John Barnes got the gig to advertise the sugary shit on TV during Italia '90. And we all know what happened to him; verbal diarrhoea as a career presenting Inter Toto Cup first round qualifiers live on Channel 5.
And relax.
| Thursday 15 July, 2004 |
Do people still drink Lucozade? Apart from professional footballers who are paid handsomely for sipping back the sugary stuff, has Lucozade become a niche market for dehydrated drinkers along with Irn Bru and Dandelion Burdock?
The highlight of my day so far has been to down a bottle of Lucozade. Yes, it really has been that dull. The word ENERGY has appeared on the bottle since my last Lucozade liaison. I feel bloated and fucking knackered now though to be honest.
Ascorbic Acid – Mmmm – tasty |
'Lucozade is not appropriate for replacing the fluid lost during diarrhoea.'
WHAT????!!!!
Run (so to speak) that through me again... So we all know that diarrhoea is hereditary (it runs in your jeans...), but exactly what TYPE of fluid is being referred to here? Facial fluid or flatulence fluid? Am I the only one who loses facial fluid during a diarrhoea dump?
The fluid disclaimer was followed up with the unfortunately phrased:
'This product may stain if split.'
Ah, I get it now. It's a chicken and egg scenario. Probably a chicken and egg sandwich scenario if we’re being brutally honest. What came first? The drinking of the diarrhoea dehydrator or the subsequent staining?
I have never thought so long and hard about Lucozade since John Barnes got the gig to advertise the sugary shit on TV during Italia '90. And we all know what happened to him; verbal diarrhoea as a career presenting Inter Toto Cup first round qualifiers live on Channel 5.
And relax.
| #permalink |
Puck Bunny Summer Hockey Blues| Thursday 15 July, 2004 |
2004 is supposed to be a Superb Summer of Sport if we are to believe the BBC. Not if you are a slap shot starved puck bunny with a Brian McLaughlin fixation though; Euro 2004 is a three week televised marketing convention for bluechip companies, Wimbledon is for flag wavers and the Athens Olympics is nothing but a pharmaceutical freak show for pill poppers with bollocks the size of water balloons.
It should all be about the hockey, stooopid.
I have therefore hibernated for the summer season at onionbagblog HQ, wrapped up in an unwashed Racers jersey, clenching a puck last hit by the Great Glocks in-between my buttocks and going slightly mad walking around the flat on all fours doing my best Oscar the Dog impression and causing concern for mrs onionbagblogger as she tries to remove my full on face guard (which has become something of a talking point down at the local Tescos as I trundle along the aisles doggy style and try to win over some new fans for the Big Red Machine with my own unique marketing strategy. Old dog, new tricks etc, but I wouldn't advise anyone else to call mrs onionbagblogger an old dog to her face).
Barking mad? That will be the cricket fans amongst you then.
It's all about the hockey, stooopid |
With the last whiskers of play off beards still straddling the
NHL, the month of June was a strange time for this Lee Valley Bike Shed Boy. Sixty plus days in the hockey wilderness (multiply this by 100 and you get Mad Mike Ware's entire playing career) and I have come to the conclusion that cricket just isn't hockey. Which is probably a good thing for the Racers as the last thing we want down at Lee Valley is some doddering old umpire posing as a match official, raising his finger every time a player appeals for a decision. We already get enough of that kind of behaviour from Mr Boniface thank you very much.
The biggest shock of the summer wasn't the Sheffield Steelers submitting their accounts to Companies House on time but the Racers arranging for the return of a local London hero. Working alongside Nate Leslie (ha ha – gotcha!) next season will of course be the man most responsible for causing sales of ladies undies at M&S to multiply on matchdays (plus the odd moratorium of the male menopause), Dennis the Menace of course.
Welcome home Maxwell.
This has to be the most astute signing in the short history of the Racers franchise (1936, yeah yeah yeah) since Oscar answered the perennial question: 'Do stumpy little short arse dogs shit in ice rinks?'
Finally it will give the We Love Dennis the Menace Fan Club a meaningful purpose, rather than loitering around the Bike Shed away bench with no real purpose whenever the bruiser is in town (a bit like UKIP putting up candidates for the London Assembly – deluded visions of a former past glory all being played out at the most inappropriate of venues. Bet the buggers all still turn up with their Knights tops though).
My own personal interest in the arrival of #94 is that I have a brand new seven inch super zoom with a shiny thing on the end that I can't wait to poke right in the face of Mr Maxwell. All the better for me if he manages a smile as I press my trigger during that magical moment and shoot my load (of film).
As for the rest of the team? Well something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue should set us up for the season. JR is the old head on young shoulders, some young Brit kids will liven Lee Valley up and we should try and borrow Martin St Louis from Tampa Bay. As for something blue? I'm sure Dennis will see to that when he drops his gloves for the first time.
I may even finally get the courage to climb over the plexi and propose to ice maiden Tottman during the opening game of the season. I'm sure she will be most accommodating when asked to pose for some serious action with my new toy that has a shutter speed so fast that girls are usually left pondering 'is that it?' 'Fraid so dear, blink and you’ll miss it.
One final request for a returning hero is that of Mr McLaughlin. I have a slightly soiled puck to personally return to the rugged looking one and I have been keeping it warm for him all summer long. I just need to dislodge it from up my own arse, a phrase that I'm sure fans of the Sheffield Steelers are already familiar with.
Happy hockey.
london racers official site
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Knobber Media Whore #2: John Inverdale
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onionbagblog print out & keep guide to modern day media fuckspuddery
Manifesto:
Believes that blazer wearing, fee paying, egg ball chasing Dulwich College is a prime example of an urban inner city estate school. OK yah?
Career 'Highlight':
Interviewing Will Carling over the phone whilst simultaneously holding the sports pages of the Daily Mail in one hand and pleasuring himself with the other. No need for toilet tissue either once your ten seconds are up, with the Mail close at hand.
Playa or Play School?
Playa. Not a scheming Soho meeja empire builder, but a good old fashioned PLAYER of the oval shaped ball code. But please talk to my agent first OK? My fee is £10k for a Sunday morning kickabout for the local spastic's charity.
Monkey Tennis?
Alan Partridge eats himself and then shits out the remains. A TV star is born – AHA! All filmed of course as part of a pilot for a programme taking an aesthetical appreciation of the game of rugby union.
Groucho Moment of Madness:
Don't drink, don't smoke, what do you do? Was once forcibly ejected from the hallowed halls of the Soho drinking den after being sold some sherbet dip in the gents by England captain Lawrence Dallaglio. The evening came to an abrupt end when Inverdale paraded his pants over his head whilst singing the National Anthem and simultaneously trying to seduce Sadie Frost with his own one man scrummage.
Tabloid Tittle Tattle:
Why I Support Kilroy-Silk by BBC's Inverdale.
John Leslie Rating:
Should be out of your radar unless you are a bearded Sheila living in Twickenham.
Contact Details:
Twickenham, Wentworth, Granada Men & Motors.
Evidence:
Any Sporting Questions, BBC Radio 5Live, Monday evening. The useless tosser described ALL London Broncos rugby league fans as: 'Australians.'
Twat.
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knobber media whore #1: vernon kay
| Wednesday 14 July, 2004 |
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Manifesto:
Believes that blazer wearing, fee paying, egg ball chasing Dulwich College is a prime example of an urban inner city estate school. OK yah?
Career 'Highlight':
Interviewing Will Carling over the phone whilst simultaneously holding the sports pages of the Daily Mail in one hand and pleasuring himself with the other. No need for toilet tissue either once your ten seconds are up, with the Mail close at hand.
Playa or Play School?
Playa. Not a scheming Soho meeja empire builder, but a good old fashioned PLAYER of the oval shaped ball code. But please talk to my agent first OK? My fee is £10k for a Sunday morning kickabout for the local spastic's charity.
Monkey Tennis?
Alan Partridge eats himself and then shits out the remains. A TV star is born – AHA! All filmed of course as part of a pilot for a programme taking an aesthetical appreciation of the game of rugby union.
Groucho Moment of Madness:
Don't drink, don't smoke, what do you do? Was once forcibly ejected from the hallowed halls of the Soho drinking den after being sold some sherbet dip in the gents by England captain Lawrence Dallaglio. The evening came to an abrupt end when Inverdale paraded his pants over his head whilst singing the National Anthem and simultaneously trying to seduce Sadie Frost with his own one man scrummage.
Tabloid Tittle Tattle:
Why I Support Kilroy-Silk by BBC's Inverdale.
John Leslie Rating:
Should be out of your radar unless you are a bearded Sheila living in Twickenham.
Contact Details:
Twickenham, Wentworth, Granada Men & Motors.
Evidence:
Any Sporting Questions, BBC Radio 5Live, Monday evening. The useless tosser described ALL London Broncos rugby league fans as: 'Australians.'
Twat.
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knobber media whore #1: vernon kay
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Honours Gonners
For a nation that has to resort to importing athletes ahead of the Olympics (much in the same way that supermarkets import superior dogfood), it really comes as no surprise that the days of the Order of the British EMPIRE are doomed.
I must have been the last generation who upon spinning around a globe in the classroom, was told to look out for the prominent patches of pink that were still flying the Red, White and Blue in some long lost tea bag plantation outpost.
I'm all for retaining the vast swathes of pink on the globe, if only to confuse the Daily Mail under some misguided assumption that homosexuality is the current threat to the New World Order (which is exactly the same as the Old World Order of course).
With no more Empire, the Public Administration Committee has rightly called for an update of the Honours System. As ever with Whitehall, we're talking evolution rather than revolution here.
Why don't we just get rid of the gong giving for good?
Having some loony old bint insisting that her subjects bow in front of her whilst she hands out what looks like a blue ribbon for swimming your 10m at school only serves to prop up The Establishment.
Golly gosh, many thanks M’am. Nice wallpaper in your gaff by the way. Fancy a fag round the back?
Being proposed by the MPs is a re-naming of the awards. Bye bye Order of the British Empire, all bow to the Order of British Excellence.
So whose EXCELLENCE will that be exactly? Middle England loving John Major tired to make the system more meritocratic by inviting Lollipop Ladies to kiss the feet in front of Brenda. Anything that keeps knobbers such as Sir Cliff, Sir Mick and sodding Sir Jimmy (how I would love to fix his face) out of the headlines has to be a good thing. But somehow the shit always seems to rise to the top and the mainstream media pricks are always going to eulogise some worthless celeb drama queen over a member of the community that carries an absurdly large lollipop for a living.
Nope, bollocks to the Order of British Excellence, Benjamin Zephaniah was of course spot on when he refused to be associated with the Empire. His stand has no doubt sent the spin doctors scrambling for a new solution. But the problem isn't just the name, it's the whole concept of honouring people and thus generating more divisions in an already highly fractured social society.
Of course an alternative is needed to satisfy the tabloid twats twice a year. And as ever, onionbagblog is keen to help out. Suggested categories include:
Ringo Starr - OBE (Ordinary Beatle Extraordinaire)
David Beckham - OBE (Obsolete Before Euro 2004)
Richard Branson - OBE (Orrible Beardy Egomaniac)
Chris Martin - MBE (Most Boring Ever)
Madonna - MBE (Mad Bint in Exile)
Bono - MBE (Muthafucking Bono Evangelicalist)
Chris Evans - CBE (Crap Bloke Exhibitionist)
Charlotte Church - CBE (Could Be Evil)
George Michael - CBE (Caught Buggering Elton)
Other nominations most welcome from fellow oiks.
| Wednesday 14 July, 2004 |
For a nation that has to resort to importing athletes ahead of the Olympics (much in the same way that supermarkets import superior dogfood), it really comes as no surprise that the days of the Order of the British EMPIRE are doomed.
I must have been the last generation who upon spinning around a globe in the classroom, was told to look out for the prominent patches of pink that were still flying the Red, White and Blue in some long lost tea bag plantation outpost.
Bollocks to the Order of British Excellence |
With no more Empire, the Public Administration Committee has rightly called for an update of the Honours System. As ever with Whitehall, we're talking evolution rather than revolution here.
Why don't we just get rid of the gong giving for good?
Having some loony old bint insisting that her subjects bow in front of her whilst she hands out what looks like a blue ribbon for swimming your 10m at school only serves to prop up The Establishment.
Golly gosh, many thanks M’am. Nice wallpaper in your gaff by the way. Fancy a fag round the back?
Being proposed by the MPs is a re-naming of the awards. Bye bye Order of the British Empire, all bow to the Order of British Excellence.
So whose EXCELLENCE will that be exactly? Middle England loving John Major tired to make the system more meritocratic by inviting Lollipop Ladies to kiss the feet in front of Brenda. Anything that keeps knobbers such as Sir Cliff, Sir Mick and sodding Sir Jimmy (how I would love to fix his face) out of the headlines has to be a good thing. But somehow the shit always seems to rise to the top and the mainstream media pricks are always going to eulogise some worthless celeb drama queen over a member of the community that carries an absurdly large lollipop for a living.
Nope, bollocks to the Order of British Excellence, Benjamin Zephaniah was of course spot on when he refused to be associated with the Empire. His stand has no doubt sent the spin doctors scrambling for a new solution. But the problem isn't just the name, it's the whole concept of honouring people and thus generating more divisions in an already highly fractured social society.
Of course an alternative is needed to satisfy the tabloid twats twice a year. And as ever, onionbagblog is keen to help out. Suggested categories include:
Ringo Starr - OBE (Ordinary Beatle Extraordinaire)
David Beckham - OBE (Obsolete Before Euro 2004)
Richard Branson - OBE (Orrible Beardy Egomaniac)
Chris Martin - MBE (Most Boring Ever)
Madonna - MBE (Mad Bint in Exile)
Bono - MBE (Muthafucking Bono Evangelicalist)
Chris Evans - CBE (Crap Bloke Exhibitionist)
Charlotte Church - CBE (Could Be Evil)
George Michael - CBE (Caught Buggering Elton)
Other nominations most welcome from fellow oiks.
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Hello Sunshine
Sunflowers are the daisies of the Gods. Who could resist the most striking and simplest flower in all its midsummer glory glowing back at you in an urban garden on an early morning commute?
Bring me sunshine, bring me rain. Bring me a sunflower to Sunny Stockwell. One of the terraced houses across the road from me always grows a solitary sunflower each summer. Pictured here is the '04 flower captured at its finest.
I've no idea why only a single flower appears each summer. Maybe it is some sort of statement? Perhaps they could only afford a solitary seed? Or it might be a sunflower alone stands tall and proud and tells you all that you need to know about an English urban garden than any overcrowded box of geraniums could hope for.
*brief update on my Window Box: a double whammy of the woeful winds last Wednesday and the incompatibility of mother nature with the odours from a 30-something male flat has left my little lovelies looking limp*
Each summer the Stockwell sunflower always seems to remain upright. Yoofs, winos, Porto crackheads – they all pass through and with their own environmentally unfriendly take on urban living, but somehow the sunflower stays standing until September.
An example of the unwritten code of honour amongst sunflowers? You can piss in the street but please don't pull up our sunflower.
A few summers back I ploughed and scattered the fields in my own back yard. A bag of bird seed was bought from Brixton market and after weeding out the sunflowers seeds, I employed a strict 'eat one, plant' routine with around fifty or so slipping under the soil.
I thought nothing more of it until mid-May when the first shoots started to appear. With a growth rate even more spectacular than a porn star on Viagra, come the Solstice and I had a mini-jungle on my hands.
And then came the snail colony; what is it with snails and sunflowers? For every sunflower there was around twenty or so of the slimy little shits leaving a right old mess on my patio each morning. It all looked like Vanessa Feltz had been shuffling her arse around across the slabs whilst on heat.
This all tied in with my teetotal tea bag loving period and provided the perfect opportunity to get rid of the thirty pints of home brew ropey stout that had been infesting in the kitchen for the past six months. Snails love to get pissed. And then they die. A bit like humans really but without the slow physical decline of red cheeks and random insults at strangers in the street.
Impressed with the ease at which sunflowers grow, I'm often tempted to repeat the experiment but add a little avant garde to the occasion. With a noisy neighbour up above overlooking the small patch of land, the temptation is there to plant the seeds spelling out FUCK OFF.
Nice one Sunshine.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Tuesday 13 July, 2004 |
Sunflowers are the daisies of the Gods. Who could resist the most striking and simplest flower in all its midsummer glory glowing back at you in an urban garden on an early morning commute?
Bring me sunshine, bring me rain. Bring me a sunflower to Sunny Stockwell. One of the terraced houses across the road from me always grows a solitary sunflower each summer. Pictured here is the '04 flower captured at its finest.
Snails love to get pissed |
*brief update on my Window Box: a double whammy of the woeful winds last Wednesday and the incompatibility of mother nature with the odours from a 30-something male flat has left my little lovelies looking limp*
Each summer the Stockwell sunflower always seems to remain upright. Yoofs, winos, Porto crackheads – they all pass through and with their own environmentally unfriendly take on urban living, but somehow the sunflower stays standing until September.
An example of the unwritten code of honour amongst sunflowers? You can piss in the street but please don't pull up our sunflower.
A few summers back I ploughed and scattered the fields in my own back yard. A bag of bird seed was bought from Brixton market and after weeding out the sunflowers seeds, I employed a strict 'eat one, plant' routine with around fifty or so slipping under the soil.
I thought nothing more of it until mid-May when the first shoots started to appear. With a growth rate even more spectacular than a porn star on Viagra, come the Solstice and I had a mini-jungle on my hands.
And then came the snail colony; what is it with snails and sunflowers? For every sunflower there was around twenty or so of the slimy little shits leaving a right old mess on my patio each morning. It all looked like Vanessa Feltz had been shuffling her arse around across the slabs whilst on heat.
This all tied in with my teetotal tea bag loving period and provided the perfect opportunity to get rid of the thirty pints of home brew ropey stout that had been infesting in the kitchen for the past six months. Snails love to get pissed. And then they die. A bit like humans really but without the slow physical decline of red cheeks and random insults at strangers in the street.
Impressed with the ease at which sunflowers grow, I'm often tempted to repeat the experiment but add a little avant garde to the occasion. With a noisy neighbour up above overlooking the small patch of land, the temptation is there to plant the seeds spelling out FUCK OFF.
Nice one Sunshine.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Turn, turn, turn
To everything there is a season, turn, turn turn.
And so the short cycle up Brixton Hill on Sunday afternoon for the second Windmill Festival, organised by the lovely folk from the Friends of Windmill Gardens. Sadly the sails of the lovely old listed building weren't turning for the summer season. Hopefully this will soon change if this local community get together continues to grow and raise awareness in the proud old building that has been standing for almost two hundred years.
If only buildings could talk; it must have seen some sights looking down on SW9 over the years. The events of the afternoon of 11 July, 2004 would surely figure high on the agenda.
The highlight had to be the Whippersnappers gymnastic kids who treated the crowd to a perfect 6.0 display of high flying forward rolls that gave me backache just watching the supple school kids jumping through the hoops.
The Whippersnapers are coached by local legend Patrick, Brixton's best incense seller and sometime Santa Rasta to boot. Brockwell Lido is their base and in the Windmill Gardens on Sunday afternoon they were close to walking on water.
Follow that.
Only in Brixton can a Rasta inspired rolly polly troupe exit the stage to be replaced by a choral society. But the great outdoors seemed to find the perfect ambience for the wonderful warblers to bring a touch of Middle England to Brixton. Not a Daily Mail reader in sight either.
Marvellous.
This is the second year that the Friends of Windmill Gardens has been staging a summer fair and judging by the turn out, the event is already a firm fixture on the Brixton summer social scene.
Just as the choral choir teased us all with a rendition of If You Go Down to the Woods Today, gym instructor supremo Patrick was back behind his incense stall drumming up trade. I don't think that was a scenario penned in the original tune.
With the smell of barbecued sweet corn competing with Chakras, I spent an envious ten minutes enjoying a selection of the fantastic photos that had been entered for the competition to capture the windmill in all its glory. My camera was all set for semi-retirement when seeing the quality on show. It was then hidden away for good when I noticed the school age range of the applicants.
With such enthusiasm and energy for the Brixton Windmill coming from those so young (and talented), here's to another two hundred years of keeping watch over Brixton.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Monday 12 July, 2004 |
To everything there is a season, turn, turn turn.
And so the short cycle up Brixton Hill on Sunday afternoon for the second Windmill Festival, organised by the lovely folk from the Friends of Windmill Gardens. Sadly the sails of the lovely old listed building weren't turning for the summer season. Hopefully this will soon change if this local community get together continues to grow and raise awareness in the proud old building that has been standing for almost two hundred years.
Not a Daily Mail reader in sight |
The highlight had to be the Whippersnappers gymnastic kids who treated the crowd to a perfect 6.0 display of high flying forward rolls that gave me backache just watching the supple school kids jumping through the hoops.
The Whippersnapers are coached by local legend Patrick, Brixton's best incense seller and sometime Santa Rasta to boot. Brockwell Lido is their base and in the Windmill Gardens on Sunday afternoon they were close to walking on water.
Follow that.
Only in Brixton can a Rasta inspired rolly polly troupe exit the stage to be replaced by a choral society. But the great outdoors seemed to find the perfect ambience for the wonderful warblers to bring a touch of Middle England to Brixton. Not a Daily Mail reader in sight either.
Marvellous.
This is the second year that the Friends of Windmill Gardens has been staging a summer fair and judging by the turn out, the event is already a firm fixture on the Brixton summer social scene.
Just as the choral choir teased us all with a rendition of If You Go Down to the Woods Today, gym instructor supremo Patrick was back behind his incense stall drumming up trade. I don't think that was a scenario penned in the original tune.
With the smell of barbecued sweet corn competing with Chakras, I spent an envious ten minutes enjoying a selection of the fantastic photos that had been entered for the competition to capture the windmill in all its glory. My camera was all set for semi-retirement when seeing the quality on show. It was then hidden away for good when I noticed the school age range of the applicants.
With such enthusiasm and energy for the Brixton Windmill coming from those so young (and talented), here's to another two hundred years of keeping watch over Brixton.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Festival Freaks
Not so sunny for the Stockwell Festival held at Larkhall Park on Saturday. Still, a lovely afternoon spent doing the usual thing – you know, being chased by a wheelie bin that sprayed water, taking pictures of men dressed as pineapples and then cornering the local councillor and quizzing him as to exactly why it is taking so bloody long to spend £12m worth of the European Union Regional Development Fund. All that I'm asking for is a new 10,000 capacity ice arena in place of the private housing that is appearing around SW8 almost overnight.
The annual Stockwell Festival had a pineapple theme this year. I'm still not sure why. Everywhere you looked there were green roots shooting up in the most unlikely of places; on hats, on the tombola and even a customised pineapple bicycle. I must remember that one for Critical Mass come the end of the month.
Like all village fetes (the private property owning new additions to the neighbourhood will no doubt be bangin' on about St Ockwell Village soon), we had a village idiot. And nope, this wasn't the Councillor who was actually very approachable.
Some chap was sitting in a sizeable tent, obligatory pineapple hat on his head, insisting that his sign be held upside down and then gurning away for any gullible onionbagblogger with a camera that went past.
The kids (and the kids at heart...) were entertained by a motorised wheelie bin that chased them around the park with a water cannon. As the Met Police signs outside Stockwell tube regularly remind us, Lambeth is tough on crime, tough on the causes of crime etc. A blind eye was turned though to the mass kicking that the wheelie bins received from the under eights.
The Talk Tent wasn't quite as lively, proving that Talk is Cheap, even for a Saturday afternoon in a neighbourhood that usually has a lot to say for itself. Local luminary Will Self (swoon) was spotted doing the family thing and his appearance may have livened things up slightly.
Now then. That £12m. Any chance of a street party where the paid for drink of choice is something a little stronger than pineapple juice?
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Sunday 11 July, 2004 |
Not so sunny for the Stockwell Festival held at Larkhall Park on Saturday. Still, a lovely afternoon spent doing the usual thing – you know, being chased by a wheelie bin that sprayed water, taking pictures of men dressed as pineapples and then cornering the local councillor and quizzing him as to exactly why it is taking so bloody long to spend £12m worth of the European Union Regional Development Fund. All that I'm asking for is a new 10,000 capacity ice arena in place of the private housing that is appearing around SW8 almost overnight.
The annual Stockwell Festival had a pineapple theme this year. I'm still not sure why. Everywhere you looked there were green roots shooting up in the most unlikely of places; on hats, on the tombola and even a customised pineapple bicycle. I must remember that one for Critical Mass come the end of the month.
Like all village fetes, we had a village idiot |
Some chap was sitting in a sizeable tent, obligatory pineapple hat on his head, insisting that his sign be held upside down and then gurning away for any gullible onionbagblogger with a camera that went past.
The kids (and the kids at heart...) were entertained by a motorised wheelie bin that chased them around the park with a water cannon. As the Met Police signs outside Stockwell tube regularly remind us, Lambeth is tough on crime, tough on the causes of crime etc. A blind eye was turned though to the mass kicking that the wheelie bins received from the under eights.
The Talk Tent wasn't quite as lively, proving that Talk is Cheap, even for a Saturday afternoon in a neighbourhood that usually has a lot to say for itself. Local luminary Will Self (swoon) was spotted doing the family thing and his appearance may have livened things up slightly.
Now then. That £12m. Any chance of a street party where the paid for drink of choice is something a little stronger than pineapple juice?
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Metblog Madness
Meanwhile, over to our online correspondent for an update on the highly trivial (but equally entertaining) London Vs LA Blogging War:
*look away now if you don’t want to know the score*
London: Cocksure, LA: Cocksuckers
More knobcheese.com comment HERE and HERE.
In other news: Please welcome aboard the London blogging bus Mr Gawblimeyguv - a geezer who I am sure will always have some worthwhile ramblings to read.
| Sunday 11 July, 2004 |
Meanwhile, over to our online correspondent for an update on the highly trivial (but equally entertaining) London Vs LA Blogging War:
*look away now if you don’t want to know the score*
London: Cocksure, LA: Cocksuckers
More knobcheese.com comment HERE and HERE.
In other news: Please welcome aboard the London blogging bus Mr Gawblimeyguv - a geezer who I am sure will always have some worthwhile ramblings to read.
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report| Saturday 10 July, 2004 |
Surrey 185-7 beat Kent 182-9 by three runs
My prejudice against pyjama cricket has spread over to the professional; I spent Friday morning teaching Year 3 the noble art of defending your wicket, playing straight and playing safe at ALL times. Just like Geoffrey Boycott talking down to the television masses, the response from the future stars of the shortened game was to stare back at me with a bemused look before resuming their slolgfest and swinging the willow around their heads like it was a baseball bat.
'I just scored a home run!'
'Sorry little fella, I think you'll find that was a no ball.'
What’s your problem? Piles? |
Sure, it's just not cricket, but it is a damn good night out attracting a 'mixed' crowd. By which of course I mean the bright young things that wouldn't recognise a Flipper if it came and slapped them in the face. Which sometimes during twenty20 you just wish would happen, seeing as though it is more of a three hour communal mass mobile txting session interspersed with champagne quaffing and high flying females showing off their latest summer Dolce & Gabbana collection, all highly inappropriate for a chilled July night in South London.
The purist in me says that cricket should be about defending your wicket and if that means three legs byes an hour then so be it. Twenty20 is the fast forward version of the summer sport. A bit like skipping 90 minutes of football as well as extra time and heading straight for the penalties.
With music pumping out around the old ground and everyone under the age of twenty treating the serious business of a cricket match as a night out at a DJ Bar, it dawned on me the marketing masterstroke of naming the format Twenty20: Twenty quid gets you and the missus in, plus you end up spending a further twenty quid on booze to retain her interest in the game.
There's still room for freeloaders though down at The (semi) Oval this summer and it was with much respect that I doffed my Panama hat to the tightarse chap spotted at the back of the Oval building site making the most of a VERY restricted view peering through the gates on the Harleyford Road.
I paid my ten quid though and boy, was I gonna make the most of it; twenty20 attracts the sponsors you see, falsely lured in with the promise of ABC1s and 50 Quid Men wanting to offload their pocket money at the start of the weekend. What they didn't count on was a rabble of penny pinching South London geezers who have about as much brand loyalty as a nymphomaniac treated to a ten minute trolley dash at his local brothel.
If some garbage multi-national beverage bollocks of a company want to hand out free samples of smoothies and fruit juice then all form an orderly queue behind me.
I calculated that on the night and I walked off with £44.50 worth of smoothies statched away in various spots about my body. Is that a banana smoothie (or ten) in your pocket or are you just pleased to have seen Adam Hollioake? If only the weather wasn't so overcast today then I might have even held my own little summer garden fete to recoup all that effort. Thirsty work, etc.
The obsession with drinking carried through to the PA with Mockney Monkey Boy (whatever happened to the serene Professor Plum?) informing us all that if the home team hit a six during the sixth over then it was free drinks all around. Bravo!
Strangely the Surrey batting became a bit more Boycott than Wam, Bam, Thank You Mam for one over only.
With the Kent attack failing to find any rhythm mid innings (i.e. ten minutes in), a daisy cutter medium pace delivery was greeted with the sound of Yazz's The Only Way Is Up. Someone in the DJ booth has s sense of humour then. As well as a dodgy 80s record collection.
Mark 'The Butch' Butcher managed to survive a hat trick of fresh air shots at the start of his innings and the England Test player was fortunate that Cricket for Cretins hasn't YET adopted a US style three strikes and you’re out rule.
The pace of the Ten Second Tommy cricket was relenting. As was the banal banter coming from the suits sitting near to me with their Friday night escape from the office beered up bollocks:
'Ya, I've been offered 55 by Ernst & Young but I'm haggling for the car.'
I think the chinless wonder was referring to smackers rather than smoothies.
Surrey soon chalked up 100 on the old scoreboard, a feat which went unnoticed as the lager top lads had the serious business of a Mexican Wave to start. So you come to a sporting event featuring world class players just so that you can stand up and then sit down again on demand? What’s your problem? Fucking piles?
111 and Nelson was observed with the traditional English cricket ritual of having only one leg touching the floor whilst the ball was being delivered. No Umpire Shepherd feet shuffling shenanigans here; instead we were treated to the spectacle of some pisshead falling leg before backside in front of the Pavilion.
185 then was the slog fest set by the home side and Kent at least tried to cobble together some sort of contest. The intrusion of unfeasibly loud music, the lowdown on London office politics (I'd shag her. I HAVE shagged her) plus an overdose of smoothies meant that I didn't quite take it all in.
Leaving The (semi) Oval and the hallowed ground was left looking like the piss stained floor of the Brixton Academy after a gig. What goes in of course has to come out. Less than three hours after the first over, the queue for the toilets was estimated at roughly around the same length of time.
I almost pissed my pyjamas.
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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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ill Metblog by moonlight
There's this London website based in LA you see. As any shitty estate agent will tell you, location, location, location, DAHLING. I appreciate that the London property market is booming right now, but even a shark eyed suited and booted estate agent knobber would have some moral dilemma in trying to sell a LONDON based site from his Love Me I'm a Fucking Liberal LA power base of pornography.
But that's exactly what he tried to do. And failed miserably.
In case you are one of the 99.9% of modern interweb users that has managed to avoid the sweaty scrotum fest of london metblog, you may or MAY NOT want to click through. I wouldn't advise it though. The insightful take on everyday London life (as seen through an LA hippy shit porn filter least we forget) has all the wit of a cold cup of tea.
But hey, not that I'm bitter, even though I have just been thrown off the site as a 'writer,' an achievement that I intend to wear as a badge of honour.
A brief history of time:
The scrumptious Smacked Face first hit upon the site that shall now be known as knobcheese.com. Look, I've even updated my links especially for them. Being a philanthropist type, Smacky alerted a number of London bloggers that knobcheese.com was looking for writers. Makes sense. We blog about London. Let's throw it all together and build something locally for Londoners.
To be fair to the Smacked one, nothing was known at the time of the seedy dealings of knobcheese.com and the dodgy porn merchants, Suicide Girls – a wank screen for the tattooed and tit pierced generation, but still, a wank's a wank, innit?
And knobcheese.com are Grade A WANKERS.
As ever, the venerable Inspector Sands was first on the case. He highlighted the right wing agenda of the LA owners of knobcheese.com, and took them on and won the first round of the London / LA Blogging wars. It is at this point that you should all find a prayer mat, rotate it towards the South East in the general direction of Charlton and show some respect to the good Inspector, a man who should rightfully be Mayor of London come 2008.
The Inspector stood up to what he believed was another case of US imperialism fought out over the London blogging territory. Please don't snigger at the back, yes this all does seem highly trivial but similar to Big Brother making the front pages because it is so shite, knobcheese.com deserves a big blue veined custard chucker to offload the juice from within after a week of abstinence on account of the crappness of the content. And the fact the site owner smells of tramps piss. That will be an LA tramp though of course.
So where did it all go wrong? Well with the first 'post' from Cristopher, a man so wank at writing that he can't even spell his own name correctly. Typical excerpt from the useless tosser:
'Today I woke up. WOW! It was FANTASTIC! I just had to play my Mariah Carey CD. I LOVE music me! Isn't it great! I then went to work! In LONDON! I love this city! People live here! From all over! But I feel sad when I have to mix with some people that are poorer and more smelly than me. MORE TOMORROW!'
The Guardian Weblog Awards are but months away. I think we have found our new Belle.
And like all modern interweb freaks who have to resort to bashing out keyboard crap (it's either that or bashing out one himself from the end of his unloved manhood), Cristopher is a SPAMMER supreme.
Yes, he has fouled up the comments box here with his illegible insults, as well as other sites as well. I really don't want to deter him. Give 'Em Enough Rope etc. So please post away. Best use a spell checker first eh sweetheart? And some imagination.
As the few decent writers decided that knobcheese.com was only going to drag down their good name, the rats deserted the sinking ship. Like the idealist fool I am, I tried to raise the Titanic. Stick with it, change from within etc.
Why should some prickhead postcard writers piss all over MY city? Many voices, many thoughts etc and I love a Mass Debate as much as the next man. Or even Cristopher. But this was a total badger shit of a balls up.
And then the bitchfighting from across the pond started. Porn pusher supreme became upset when the dear Inspector took up the call to arms and alerted other London bloggers how silly the site was.
Emails were sent around to any writers who dared to enter into the free speech debate. I explained my issues with the site. I said it was shit. An essay was despatched back which to be honest, I got bored with after the first few sentences and decided to go and pluck my nasal hair instead.
I was accused of being a 'misogynist' (ha! see me in action on a Saturday night and you will find that I am the perfect LADEEES Man) after I upset some daft old dear with a posting poking fun at the dead Queen of Tarts whore. It wasn't even a very funny post to be honest.
Sorry darling, you are confusing the concept of a vile woman hater with that of someone who thinks that the Royal Family should all be lined up and fistfucked on live TV by Edward Scissorhands.
You see my dear, that's POETRY for you. And by golly gosh, you should know seeing as though you are supposedly a self-styled 'London Poet.' Although judging by the shitness of both your building block of a webshite, coupled with the poetical ramblings that even an LA based blogger who has a peccadillo for alt.com girly wank photos would no doubt have to admit, is the biggest spunk bubble since he licked his own cock whilst wanking one out to some clit pierced babe.
And then the lights were turned off. Well, for me anyway. The charming pornographer in chief slapped down his fist (makes a change from his cock) and sent out a mail to all of his little postcard writers calling me 'a fucker.'
The cad!
Some might say that this should have all been kept LA Confidential. Not likely matey. I have more spite than the collective gibberings of some cunts who wouldn't know their Cockfosters from their Mudchute.
I'm (still) So Bored With the U.S.A. It's times like these when we really do miss Uncle Joe.
It's a London thing. Let's keep it that way.
Battle commence...
| Saturday 10 July, 2004 |
There's this London website based in LA you see. As any shitty estate agent will tell you, location, location, location, DAHLING. I appreciate that the London property market is booming right now, but even a shark eyed suited and booted estate agent knobber would have some moral dilemma in trying to sell a LONDON based site from his Love Me I'm a Fucking Liberal LA power base of pornography.
But that's exactly what he tried to do. And failed miserably.
In case you are one of the 99.9% of modern interweb users that has managed to avoid the sweaty scrotum fest of london metblog, you may or MAY NOT want to click through. I wouldn't advise it though. The insightful take on everyday London life (as seen through an LA hippy shit porn filter least we forget) has all the wit of a cold cup of tea.
Today I woke up. WOW! It was FANTASTIC! |
A brief history of time:
The scrumptious Smacked Face first hit upon the site that shall now be known as knobcheese.com. Look, I've even updated my links especially for them. Being a philanthropist type, Smacky alerted a number of London bloggers that knobcheese.com was looking for writers. Makes sense. We blog about London. Let's throw it all together and build something locally for Londoners.
To be fair to the Smacked one, nothing was known at the time of the seedy dealings of knobcheese.com and the dodgy porn merchants, Suicide Girls – a wank screen for the tattooed and tit pierced generation, but still, a wank's a wank, innit?
And knobcheese.com are Grade A WANKERS.
As ever, the venerable Inspector Sands was first on the case. He highlighted the right wing agenda of the LA owners of knobcheese.com, and took them on and won the first round of the London / LA Blogging wars. It is at this point that you should all find a prayer mat, rotate it towards the South East in the general direction of Charlton and show some respect to the good Inspector, a man who should rightfully be Mayor of London come 2008.
The Inspector stood up to what he believed was another case of US imperialism fought out over the London blogging territory. Please don't snigger at the back, yes this all does seem highly trivial but similar to Big Brother making the front pages because it is so shite, knobcheese.com deserves a big blue veined custard chucker to offload the juice from within after a week of abstinence on account of the crappness of the content. And the fact the site owner smells of tramps piss. That will be an LA tramp though of course.
So where did it all go wrong? Well with the first 'post' from Cristopher, a man so wank at writing that he can't even spell his own name correctly. Typical excerpt from the useless tosser:
'Today I woke up. WOW! It was FANTASTIC! I just had to play my Mariah Carey CD. I LOVE music me! Isn't it great! I then went to work! In LONDON! I love this city! People live here! From all over! But I feel sad when I have to mix with some people that are poorer and more smelly than me. MORE TOMORROW!'
The Guardian Weblog Awards are but months away. I think we have found our new Belle.
And like all modern interweb freaks who have to resort to bashing out keyboard crap (it's either that or bashing out one himself from the end of his unloved manhood), Cristopher is a SPAMMER supreme.
Yes, he has fouled up the comments box here with his illegible insults, as well as other sites as well. I really don't want to deter him. Give 'Em Enough Rope etc. So please post away. Best use a spell checker first eh sweetheart? And some imagination.
As the few decent writers decided that knobcheese.com was only going to drag down their good name, the rats deserted the sinking ship. Like the idealist fool I am, I tried to raise the Titanic. Stick with it, change from within etc.
Why should some prickhead postcard writers piss all over MY city? Many voices, many thoughts etc and I love a Mass Debate as much as the next man. Or even Cristopher. But this was a total badger shit of a balls up.
And then the bitchfighting from across the pond started. Porn pusher supreme became upset when the dear Inspector took up the call to arms and alerted other London bloggers how silly the site was.
Emails were sent around to any writers who dared to enter into the free speech debate. I explained my issues with the site. I said it was shit. An essay was despatched back which to be honest, I got bored with after the first few sentences and decided to go and pluck my nasal hair instead.
I was accused of being a 'misogynist' (ha! see me in action on a Saturday night and you will find that I am the perfect LADEEES Man) after I upset some daft old dear with a posting poking fun at the dead Queen of Tarts whore. It wasn't even a very funny post to be honest.
Sorry darling, you are confusing the concept of a vile woman hater with that of someone who thinks that the Royal Family should all be lined up and fistfucked on live TV by Edward Scissorhands.
You see my dear, that's POETRY for you. And by golly gosh, you should know seeing as though you are supposedly a self-styled 'London Poet.' Although judging by the shitness of both your building block of a webshite, coupled with the poetical ramblings that even an LA based blogger who has a peccadillo for alt.com girly wank photos would no doubt have to admit, is the biggest spunk bubble since he licked his own cock whilst wanking one out to some clit pierced babe.
And then the lights were turned off. Well, for me anyway. The charming pornographer in chief slapped down his fist (makes a change from his cock) and sent out a mail to all of his little postcard writers calling me 'a fucker.'
The cad!
Some might say that this should have all been kept LA Confidential. Not likely matey. I have more spite than the collective gibberings of some cunts who wouldn't know their Cockfosters from their Mudchute.
I'm (still) So Bored With the U.S.A. It's times like these when we really do miss Uncle Joe.
It's a London thing. Let's keep it that way.
Battle commence...
| #permalink |
This Just In
London Sewer Overflows.
Must be the ghost of some arsehole anorexic bint chucking up her guts down the royal shitter.
| Thursday 8 July, 2004 |
London Sewer Overflows.
Must be the ghost of some arsehole anorexic bint chucking up her guts down the royal shitter.
| #permalink |
Wind of Change
Hidden away behind Blenheim Gardens Estate, Brixton Windmill is one of the most unexpected sights in SW9, an area that thrives on the unexpected. A short walk up Brixton Hill and the early nineteenth century building stands proud, surveying all the energy, enthusiasm and exhilaration from the town centre below.
It must have all been so different back in 1816 when the sails first started to turn. Fields would have been all around where estates now stand; town housing in place of the endless fast food joints down the Hill; I bet Brixton was still slightly stir crazy though – a consequence of not having the connotations of nearby Westminster and the West End, but not so far out to have to suffer the crapness of country loving Croydon.
Generations of neglect have left Brixton Windmill battered but the old building still refuses to budge. Restoration in recent years has made the Grade II site safe with the local community even celebrating the public space with the campaign for a nearby children's playground and even an annual festival within the windmill grounds.
A crowd of just over 1,000 attended the Brixton Windmill Festival last year, with similar figures expected again this summer on the afternoon of July 11.
The nearby Windmill pub is also worth a visit as well; home of live music most nights plus the monthly residency of the chaos and carnage of People's Republic of Disco, the boozer may boast all the style of a shitty 70s estate pub from the outside, but the spirit of the community (and the windmill) is found within.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Thursday 8 July, 2004 |
Hidden away behind Blenheim Gardens Estate, Brixton Windmill is one of the most unexpected sights in SW9, an area that thrives on the unexpected. A short walk up Brixton Hill and the early nineteenth century building stands proud, surveying all the energy, enthusiasm and exhilaration from the town centre below.
It must have all been so different back in 1816 when the sails first started to turn. Fields would have been all around where estates now stand; town housing in place of the endless fast food joints down the Hill; I bet Brixton was still slightly stir crazy though – a consequence of not having the connotations of nearby Westminster and the West End, but not so far out to have to suffer the crapness of country loving Croydon.
The boozer boasts all the style of a shitty 70s pub |
A crowd of just over 1,000 attended the Brixton Windmill Festival last year, with similar figures expected again this summer on the afternoon of July 11.
The nearby Windmill pub is also worth a visit as well; home of live music most nights plus the monthly residency of the chaos and carnage of People's Republic of Disco, the boozer may boast all the style of a shitty 70s estate pub from the outside, but the spirit of the community (and the windmill) is found within.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Memoirs of a Monger
Tory leader (for this week at least), the hapless Michael Howard has paid homage to his period as Home Secretary serving under the Wicked Witch back in the late 80s. Speaking during PMQs on Wednesday, Howard questioned the decision to allow Muslim cleric Sheikh Yusuf Al-Qaradawi into the country with a verbal volley with Mr Tony kicking off with the ill-advised introduction of:
'When I was Home Secretary...'
onionbagblog has secured the exclusive online media rights to Howard's PMQs rehearsals at Tory HQ (a kind of politicisation of The Osbournes featuring a bunch of misfit freaks who have 'something of the night' about them and the spectre of an old witch of a matriarch always looms large).
*you may of course want to consider first if you really want to inflict the gibbering ramblings of a Tory Twat on any work colleagues; speakers down, etc*
Click to hear the tory tosser
Coming next week exclusive to onionbagblog – Peter Mandelson: The Rimming Years.
Tasty tasty, Mr Tony.
| Wednesday 7 July, 2004 |
Tory leader (for this week at least), the hapless Michael Howard has paid homage to his period as Home Secretary serving under the Wicked Witch back in the late 80s. Speaking during PMQs on Wednesday, Howard questioned the decision to allow Muslim cleric Sheikh Yusuf Al-Qaradawi into the country with a verbal volley with Mr Tony kicking off with the ill-advised introduction of:
'When I was Home Secretary...'
onionbagblog has secured the exclusive online media rights to Howard's PMQs rehearsals at Tory HQ (a kind of politicisation of The Osbournes featuring a bunch of misfit freaks who have 'something of the night' about them and the spectre of an old witch of a matriarch always looms large).
*you may of course want to consider first if you really want to inflict the gibbering ramblings of a Tory Twat on any work colleagues; speakers down, etc*
Click to hear the tory tosserComing next week exclusive to onionbagblog – Peter Mandelson: The Rimming Years.
Tasty tasty, Mr Tony.
| #permalink |
Stockwell Seasons in the Sun
The Summer Season is upon us; Ascot, Henley and the Lords Test. Sod that for a game of over-priced Pimms. Here's the onionbagblog guide to the Summer Season South London style. Bring your own flask.
Stockwell Festival, 9-11 July
Couldn't grab a ticket for Glasto? Perturbed that T in the Park isn't actually sponsored by a tea bag company? Or perhaps you are just a tight arse freeloader who has stumbled on Stockwell under some misguided advice that The Swan is something more than a meat market for bearded Aussie Sheilas whose lips stink of Shish kebabs. Upstairs and downstairs lips by the way.
Sunny Stockwell has so much more to offer, and the annual Summer Festival would be a good starting point. Strangely themed this year around 'The Big Pineapple' (rumours of it being opened by Jason Lee), most of the action is located around the lovely Larkhall Park.
A real local feel, but to be honest, if you travelled in from the other side of the world especially for the event then you may leave feeling a little short changed. Even though it's free.
Highlights include an art exhibition organised by Age Concern, a Talk Tent (probably a bit different to the Glasto calling card of 'BOLLOCKSSSSSS' being bellowed out under the stars), a Community Stage, an Open Funk Mic (gosh, let me loose with my best Colonel Abrahams) and the End of Parade Family Party.
Twenty20 Cricket, 9 July
Only two games scheduled for The (semi) Oval this summer, with Kent (wonderful website animation) being the visitors on 9 July. For an old timer traditionalist who was appalled at the original idea of Sunday League pyjama cricket, this twenty20 lark ('cricket for cretins') has taken some time to grow on me.
Sure, it's just not cricket, but it is a damn good night out. The purist in me says that cricket should be about defending your wicket and if that means three legs byes an hour then so be it. Twenty20 is the fast forward version of the summer sport. A bit like skipping 90 minutes of football as well as extra time and heading straight for the penalties.
Always brings in a 'mixed' crowd. By which of course I mean the high flying bright young things that wouldn't recognise a Flipper if it came and slapped them in the face. Which sometimes during twenty20 you just wish would happen, seeing as though it is more of a three hour communal mass mobile txting session interspersed with champagne quaffing and silly bints showing off their latest summer Dolce & Gabbana collection - highly inappropriate evening wear for a chilled July night in South London.
Brixton Windmill Festival, 11 July
Another lovely local get-together in the community space centred around the Brixton Windmill. The purpose of the day is to raise awareness (and funds) for one of SW9's most unlikely of landmarks.
Brixton has many eye openers – evangelicalists preaching in Planet of the Apes costumes (seriously), a market which covers the globe in terms of goods for sale and a thriving ticket tout community housed in and around the tube station. Nothing still quite compares though to the sight of a working windmill as you head up Brixton Hill, proudly looking down on all the wonderful chaos down below.
Lambeth Country Show, 17-18 July
The DADDY of the South London Summer Season where all of the Beautiful South in its many weird and wonderful forms of human life come out to play at Brockwell Park.
It's a strange feeling strolling into a South London park and seeing your life stretching out ahead of you. They're all there: Streatham Redskins (who have just hired a crack Match Report writer btw...), Surrey CCC, Brockwell Lido Users Group, Herne Hill Velodrome, Friends of Larkhall Park, Lambeth Cyclists and all the other groups or activities that I really should get round to investigating.
I've had numerous requests to 'man some stalls' but my excuse is that I wouldn't know where to start. Plus I intend to just walk around, snapping away at the animals and medieval jousting and then collapsing in front of the main stage around tea time for some afternoon dub in the sun.
Pre-season friendlies
Ash United away, Worcester Park away, VCD Athletic away (anybody? ANYBODY PLEASE?), Chertsey away and then Fisher and Sutton at home. Looks like another sustained assault ahead for the mighty Dulwich Hamlet then.
Plus there's the small matter of FA Cup finalists and UEFA contenders Millwall (still makes me chuckle) down at Champion Hill at the unseemly early summer date of 22 July.
Urban Games, 23-25 July
Sponsored by some shitty soft drinks manufacturer and held on Clapham Common, that well known 'urban' arena. It's all a bit pricey for the final two days (£15) but those with foresight (and a six week summer holiday away from the kids – hurrah!) can hand over a grubby tenner on the Friday.
Plus the wall around the arena on the Common is not exactly up to Glasto commando durability standards either, if you know what I mean...
Once inside, then it's a baggy arsed concoction of skaters, BMX boys (and girls) and breakers. I just tend to hide away and point my camera at anything that looks good. Which usually turns out to be 17 year-old skater girls.
Crystal Palace Music Festival, 24-25 July
A bit of a newbie but given time, should hopefully blossom into a firm favourite on the South London summer circuit. The bill boasts mainly of local new bands and DJs, which given the diversity of the area seems like quite a good ticket. Imagine how shit a similar event in somewhere crap like Coventry might turn out to be.
DHFC Supporters Team Trip to the Seaside, 25 July
The occasion of the Dover Athletic five-a-side tournament. No donkey on the beach jokes please.
Norwich Union Athletics, 30 July
Although why would I want to part with the best part of thirty quid to watch freaks, cheats and Steve Backley, aka the Norwich Union London Grand Prix at Crystal Palace in July? Here's the legal loophole disclaimer: it may well be that the lycra luvvies are fuelled by nothing more than a heavy dosage of Lucozade Sport. Then again…
Why should we cough up to see a circus curiosity show that is hyper-charged up on something a little stronger than cough mixture? Athletics is about as squeaky clean as Ibiza Uncovered and you'd get more sense out of watching the Sydenham Snail Race with Road Runner as the guest racer.
But actually I am going. And yes, I was gullible enough to fork out the thirty quid.
| Wednesday 7 July, 2004 |
The Summer Season is upon us; Ascot, Henley and the Lords Test. Sod that for a game of over-priced Pimms. Here's the onionbagblog guide to the Summer Season South London style. Bring your own flask.
Stockwell Festival, 9-11 July
Couldn't grab a ticket for Glasto? Perturbed that T in the Park isn't actually sponsored by a tea bag company? Or perhaps you are just a tight arse freeloader who has stumbled on Stockwell under some misguided advice that The Swan is something more than a meat market for bearded Aussie Sheilas whose lips stink of Shish kebabs. Upstairs and downstairs lips by the way.
Lambeth Country Show is the DADDY of the South London Summer Season |
A real local feel, but to be honest, if you travelled in from the other side of the world especially for the event then you may leave feeling a little short changed. Even though it's free.
Highlights include an art exhibition organised by Age Concern, a Talk Tent (probably a bit different to the Glasto calling card of 'BOLLOCKSSSSSS' being bellowed out under the stars), a Community Stage, an Open Funk Mic (gosh, let me loose with my best Colonel Abrahams) and the End of Parade Family Party.
Twenty20 Cricket, 9 July
Only two games scheduled for The (semi) Oval this summer, with Kent (wonderful website animation) being the visitors on 9 July. For an old timer traditionalist who was appalled at the original idea of Sunday League pyjama cricket, this twenty20 lark ('cricket for cretins') has taken some time to grow on me.
Sure, it's just not cricket, but it is a damn good night out. The purist in me says that cricket should be about defending your wicket and if that means three legs byes an hour then so be it. Twenty20 is the fast forward version of the summer sport. A bit like skipping 90 minutes of football as well as extra time and heading straight for the penalties.
Always brings in a 'mixed' crowd. By which of course I mean the high flying bright young things that wouldn't recognise a Flipper if it came and slapped them in the face. Which sometimes during twenty20 you just wish would happen, seeing as though it is more of a three hour communal mass mobile txting session interspersed with champagne quaffing and silly bints showing off their latest summer Dolce & Gabbana collection - highly inappropriate evening wear for a chilled July night in South London.
Brixton Windmill Festival, 11 July
Another lovely local get-together in the community space centred around the Brixton Windmill. The purpose of the day is to raise awareness (and funds) for one of SW9's most unlikely of landmarks.
Brixton has many eye openers – evangelicalists preaching in Planet of the Apes costumes (seriously), a market which covers the globe in terms of goods for sale and a thriving ticket tout community housed in and around the tube station. Nothing still quite compares though to the sight of a working windmill as you head up Brixton Hill, proudly looking down on all the wonderful chaos down below.
Lambeth Country Show, 17-18 July
The DADDY of the South London Summer Season where all of the Beautiful South in its many weird and wonderful forms of human life come out to play at Brockwell Park.
It's a strange feeling strolling into a South London park and seeing your life stretching out ahead of you. They're all there: Streatham Redskins (who have just hired a crack Match Report writer btw...), Surrey CCC, Brockwell Lido Users Group, Herne Hill Velodrome, Friends of Larkhall Park, Lambeth Cyclists and all the other groups or activities that I really should get round to investigating.
I've had numerous requests to 'man some stalls' but my excuse is that I wouldn't know where to start. Plus I intend to just walk around, snapping away at the animals and medieval jousting and then collapsing in front of the main stage around tea time for some afternoon dub in the sun.
Pre-season friendlies
Ash United away, Worcester Park away, VCD Athletic away (anybody? ANYBODY PLEASE?), Chertsey away and then Fisher and Sutton at home. Looks like another sustained assault ahead for the mighty Dulwich Hamlet then.
Plus there's the small matter of FA Cup finalists and UEFA contenders Millwall (still makes me chuckle) down at Champion Hill at the unseemly early summer date of 22 July.
Urban Games, 23-25 July
Sponsored by some shitty soft drinks manufacturer and held on Clapham Common, that well known 'urban' arena. It's all a bit pricey for the final two days (£15) but those with foresight (and a six week summer holiday away from the kids – hurrah!) can hand over a grubby tenner on the Friday.
Plus the wall around the arena on the Common is not exactly up to Glasto commando durability standards either, if you know what I mean...
Once inside, then it's a baggy arsed concoction of skaters, BMX boys (and girls) and breakers. I just tend to hide away and point my camera at anything that looks good. Which usually turns out to be 17 year-old skater girls.
Crystal Palace Music Festival, 24-25 July
A bit of a newbie but given time, should hopefully blossom into a firm favourite on the South London summer circuit. The bill boasts mainly of local new bands and DJs, which given the diversity of the area seems like quite a good ticket. Imagine how shit a similar event in somewhere crap like Coventry might turn out to be.
DHFC Supporters Team Trip to the Seaside, 25 July
The occasion of the Dover Athletic five-a-side tournament. No donkey on the beach jokes please.
Norwich Union Athletics, 30 July
Although why would I want to part with the best part of thirty quid to watch freaks, cheats and Steve Backley, aka the Norwich Union London Grand Prix at Crystal Palace in July? Here's the legal loophole disclaimer: it may well be that the lycra luvvies are fuelled by nothing more than a heavy dosage of Lucozade Sport. Then again…
Why should we cough up to see a circus curiosity show that is hyper-charged up on something a little stronger than cough mixture? Athletics is about as squeaky clean as Ibiza Uncovered and you'd get more sense out of watching the Sydenham Snail Race with Road Runner as the guest racer.
But actually I am going. And yes, I was gullible enough to fork out the thirty quid.
| #permalink |
Skid Marks
Anyone bagged their bandstand (read: bus stop) Best Seat in the House for the Formula 1 drive down Regents Street tonight?
Eastenders it is then.
Just what we all need – prickhead petrol pollutants posturing like little cocks and putting their foot down to demonstrate how diesel is a dick compensator for car cunts. Such a shame if one of the glorified cab drivers skids off the road at Regents Street and smashes straight into the Disney Store. They could make a movie out of the whole sorry story then.
I hope they haven't forgotten about the Congestion Charge either.
Professional Pie Eater Supremo Nigel Mansell is even coming out of retirement for the appropriately name 'demonstration event,' something which I am considering interpreting quite literally with my own one man take on parading your helmet around in public. I've even been polishing the red headed monster especially for the occasion. Mansell is a man least we forget found to be too fat to fit into his fucking F1 petrol guzzler, and that was a full ten years ago.
What's the tosser going to be driving tonight? A bloody tank?
No surprises that 'Mr Entertainer' Harvey Goldsmith is the man behind the drive down Regents Street tonight. They'll be staging Live Aid II next and snorting like there's no 80s revival to be found in town.
Ah, but up goes the cry from the shitty Sub-Standard of 'tourism, economic benefits and Olympic prestige' (soon to be a euphemism for any multi-national to piss all over the people of this city).
Fine, send them all off to the South Circular, Streatham Hill during the evening rush hour if they want to watch cars breaking the speed limit and presenting a real danger to pedestrians and cyclists.
'It should be pretty exciting,' said Williams driver Juan Pablo Montoya, a man who would no doubt describe a trip Sainsbury in Stevenage as 'awesome!'
'But I'm not going to go out and try to race anyone. It's just to show something to the public - spin the wheels as much as you can, a lot of smoke.'
Stupid twat. Piss off back to your Monaco mansion and take your Boy Racer bollocks with you. Knobber.
| Tuesday 6 July, 2004 |
Anyone bagged their bandstand (read: bus stop) Best Seat in the House for the Formula 1 drive down Regents Street tonight?
Eastenders it is then.
Just what we all need – prickhead petrol pollutants posturing like little cocks and putting their foot down to demonstrate how diesel is a dick compensator for car cunts. Such a shame if one of the glorified cab drivers skids off the road at Regents Street and smashes straight into the Disney Store. They could make a movie out of the whole sorry story then.
I hope they haven't forgotten about the Congestion Charge either.
Professional Pie Eater Supremo Nigel Mansell is even coming out of retirement for the appropriately name 'demonstration event,' something which I am considering interpreting quite literally with my own one man take on parading your helmet around in public. I've even been polishing the red headed monster especially for the occasion. Mansell is a man least we forget found to be too fat to fit into his fucking F1 petrol guzzler, and that was a full ten years ago.
What's the tosser going to be driving tonight? A bloody tank?
What’s the tosser going to be driving? A tank? |
Ah, but up goes the cry from the shitty Sub-Standard of 'tourism, economic benefits and Olympic prestige' (soon to be a euphemism for any multi-national to piss all over the people of this city).
Fine, send them all off to the South Circular, Streatham Hill during the evening rush hour if they want to watch cars breaking the speed limit and presenting a real danger to pedestrians and cyclists.
'It should be pretty exciting,' said Williams driver Juan Pablo Montoya, a man who would no doubt describe a trip Sainsbury in Stevenage as 'awesome!'
'But I'm not going to go out and try to race anyone. It's just to show something to the public - spin the wheels as much as you can, a lot of smoke.'
Stupid twat. Piss off back to your Monaco mansion and take your Boy Racer bollocks with you. Knobber.
| #permalink |
Hit the North
And so I cycled off to the Camden Green Fair and Bikefest on Sunday afternoon. With my route taking me past Parliament Square, hitting the gridlocked West End and then battling along the Euston Road, finding a little corner of North London that was forever green for the afternoon was a welcome sight.
Green is definitely on the agenda for Kings Cross right now with most of the square half mile around NW1 resembling a building site as we make way for the Eurostar extension.
City planners have projected that Kings Cross will be THE growth area in London over the next ten years as Johnny Foreigner boards the bullet like train, trundles through the Kent countryside and then embarks off the platform into a world of crack, kerbcrawling and kebab shops.
But this is all set to change. Big business will of course colonise the area leaving locals and artists out-priced to Zone 6 with a shitty Starbucks on every street corner.
Make the most of the current crappy Kings Cross whilst you can then kids.
The Green Fair (Bikefest reminds me too much of a wankfest) paid close attention to the new Eurostar terminal with positive projections of how green and efficient the new addition to NW1 will be. I suppose that if you are going to pollute an area even more then you may as well do it deep underground.
The Fair Trade 5-a-side Football also caught my eye on the day, with the words 'fair,' 'trade’ and 'football' unlikely to be heard again in the same sentence again this year, especially around Stamford Bridge.
The main music stage was all a bit fiddly diddly Oirish authenticity. All harmless stuff but nothing my Best of the Chieftans CD back in Sunny Stockwell couldn't handle.
St James itself was a super little park and a welcome addition to be crossed off on my London Parks To Do list. The atmosphere was that of a Sunday afternoon spent on a village green, warm beer, old maids on bikes etc. Well, there were some old birds with some rather rickety looking two wheelers.
*Avoids joke about eveyone wanting to ride them...*
I had to leave the Health Zone as the male masseur (not THAT type, even if it was Kings Cross) was chain smoking. I moved onto the Creative Zone instead and was inspired to take some more pics by a lovely aroma with something just a little stronger as the source.
So a fantastic little fair and park to stumble across. Where else in Camden could you find a corner of land that was knobber free for a Sunday afternoon?
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Monday 5 July, 2004 |
And so I cycled off to the Camden Green Fair and Bikefest on Sunday afternoon. With my route taking me past Parliament Square, hitting the gridlocked West End and then battling along the Euston Road, finding a little corner of North London that was forever green for the afternoon was a welcome sight.
Green is definitely on the agenda for Kings Cross right now with most of the square half mile around NW1 resembling a building site as we make way for the Eurostar extension.
Welcome to a world of crack, kerbcrawling and kebab shops |
But this is all set to change. Big business will of course colonise the area leaving locals and artists out-priced to Zone 6 with a shitty Starbucks on every street corner.
Make the most of the current crappy Kings Cross whilst you can then kids.
The Green Fair (Bikefest reminds me too much of a wankfest) paid close attention to the new Eurostar terminal with positive projections of how green and efficient the new addition to NW1 will be. I suppose that if you are going to pollute an area even more then you may as well do it deep underground.
The Fair Trade 5-a-side Football also caught my eye on the day, with the words 'fair,' 'trade’ and 'football' unlikely to be heard again in the same sentence again this year, especially around Stamford Bridge.
The main music stage was all a bit fiddly diddly Oirish authenticity. All harmless stuff but nothing my Best of the Chieftans CD back in Sunny Stockwell couldn't handle.
St James itself was a super little park and a welcome addition to be crossed off on my London Parks To Do list. The atmosphere was that of a Sunday afternoon spent on a village green, warm beer, old maids on bikes etc. Well, there were some old birds with some rather rickety looking two wheelers.
*Avoids joke about eveyone wanting to ride them...*
I had to leave the Health Zone as the male masseur (not THAT type, even if it was Kings Cross) was chain smoking. I moved onto the Creative Zone instead and was inspired to take some more pics by a lovely aroma with something just a little stronger as the source.
So a fantastic little fair and park to stumble across. Where else in Camden could you find a corner of land that was knobber free for a Sunday afternoon?
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Look Away Now...
In time honoured Sir Trev tradition: Look away now if you don’t want to know the result.
Anticipating a Greek Tragedy for Sunny Stockwell, I headed out with the camera pre-kick off to capture the Little Portugal atmosphere. I didn't quite fancy poking my seven inch zoom thing right in the face of some poor Portos post-defeat.
I needn't have worried though. What a tremendous bunch (and by that I mean 40,000 South London Little Portos) they turned out to be. Defiant in defeat, come the final whistle and South Lambeth Road was treated to a tongue in cheek funeral procession complete with flag carriers at the front and a go slow up and down the road that Critical Mass would have been proud of.
Would the same have happened in somewhere shitty like Stevenage if England had made it to the final (yeah, right) and lost?
My final Euro 2004 thought, just as the wonderful Portos have lit up the Stockwell sky with their own firework display: A previously ghettoised district has emerged stronger for the Porto experience and Stockwell has at long last found an identity.
Fantastic stuff.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Sunday 4 July, 2004 |
In time honoured Sir Trev tradition: Look away now if you don’t want to know the result.
Anticipating a Greek Tragedy for Sunny Stockwell, I headed out with the camera pre-kick off to capture the Little Portugal atmosphere. I didn't quite fancy poking my seven inch zoom thing right in the face of some poor Portos post-defeat.
I needn't have worried though. What a tremendous bunch (and by that I mean 40,000 South London Little Portos) they turned out to be. Defiant in defeat, come the final whistle and South Lambeth Road was treated to a tongue in cheek funeral procession complete with flag carriers at the front and a go slow up and down the road that Critical Mass would have been proud of.
Stockwell has found an identity |
My final Euro 2004 thought, just as the wonderful Portos have lit up the Stockwell sky with their own firework display: A previously ghettoised district has emerged stronger for the Porto experience and Stockwell has at long last found an identity.
Fantastic stuff.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Engaged
A gold star for anyone who can identify the picture to your right.
• A Portuguese Tardis?
• A tourist kiosk promoting Portuguese anarchist holidays?
• Or perhaps a Portuguese Punch and Judy show?
The more astute of you may have identified the picture as a public telephone box that has had the Porto makeover treatment. Some shitty long gone telco company had a nasty habit of leaving their vandalised orange eyesore phone boxes to try and blend in with the local Lambeth landscape.
After repeated requests from Lambeth Council to remove them, I can now sleep easy knowing that my Council Tax money has at long last found a valid cause; the Council ordered for the boxes to be bordered up and some Porto artist (probably not a piss one) has created South Lambeth Road's unofficial meeting point for later on tonight.
These Portos are obviously physic as well – of course I couldn't wait until 7.45 to hear the National Anthem, so they have been supplementing my Sunday afto chill period with the bloody thing blasting out from their cars for the past two hours.
It's not a grower either.
The build up in Sunny Stockwell started a full five hours ahead of kick off – horns honking up and down South Lambeth Road, Mediterranean tanned men with moustaches emptying the booze section at Sainsbury (the 'official supermarket for Team England,' natch) and an influx of bloody TV crews who don't take too well to a non-Porto chap cycling past at full pelt and shouting out 'CMON DULWICH!!!!’ just as they are in full vox pop mode.
Some sour grape England loving little shits tried to spoil the party by standing at the Lansdowne Way junction all afternoon, baiting the Green and Red flag flying cars with a scrappy home made Greece sign as they went pass.
And where's YOUR team now exactly?
As I was walking up towards Vauxhall a police siren was heard heading towards the chav youth who have suddenly found their Greek ancestry for the day. I can but live in hope that they had been chinned by a big Mediterranean medallion man who wanted them to feel the full effect of his bushy moustache.
Who do I want to win? I really am 50 / 50 to be honest. A Greece win would be the biggest footballing shock since Dulwich came back from 3-0 down to beat Aldershot Town 4-3 about five years ago. I bet they are still talking about that game over in Kos.
A Porto win though would be incredibly funny for my little corner of South London; Euro 2004 has grown with each game around Sunny Stockwell from the bin kickers (as opposed to Liverpool's bin dippers) after the opening defeat (against... Greece) to the current crescendo after the semis win with Sunny Stockwell finally crawling into bed around 3am.
It may even warrant the throwing of a sickie tomorrow: 'Sorry, Portugal won Euro 2004 and so I can't make it in today,’ which should go down better than my recent 'Um, I just can't be arsed to be honest.'
I may even make the call from the Porto flag flying phone box.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Sunday 4 July, 2004 |
A gold star for anyone who can identify the picture to your right.
• A Portuguese Tardis?
• A tourist kiosk promoting Portuguese anarchist holidays?
• Or perhaps a Portuguese Punch and Judy show?
The more astute of you may have identified the picture as a public telephone box that has had the Porto makeover treatment. Some shitty long gone telco company had a nasty habit of leaving their vandalised orange eyesore phone boxes to try and blend in with the local Lambeth landscape.
Portugal won and so I can't make it to work |
These Portos are obviously physic as well – of course I couldn't wait until 7.45 to hear the National Anthem, so they have been supplementing my Sunday afto chill period with the bloody thing blasting out from their cars for the past two hours.
It's not a grower either.
The build up in Sunny Stockwell started a full five hours ahead of kick off – horns honking up and down South Lambeth Road, Mediterranean tanned men with moustaches emptying the booze section at Sainsbury (the 'official supermarket for Team England,' natch) and an influx of bloody TV crews who don't take too well to a non-Porto chap cycling past at full pelt and shouting out 'CMON DULWICH!!!!’ just as they are in full vox pop mode.
Some sour grape England loving little shits tried to spoil the party by standing at the Lansdowne Way junction all afternoon, baiting the Green and Red flag flying cars with a scrappy home made Greece sign as they went pass.
And where's YOUR team now exactly?
As I was walking up towards Vauxhall a police siren was heard heading towards the chav youth who have suddenly found their Greek ancestry for the day. I can but live in hope that they had been chinned by a big Mediterranean medallion man who wanted them to feel the full effect of his bushy moustache.
Who do I want to win? I really am 50 / 50 to be honest. A Greece win would be the biggest footballing shock since Dulwich came back from 3-0 down to beat Aldershot Town 4-3 about five years ago. I bet they are still talking about that game over in Kos.
A Porto win though would be incredibly funny for my little corner of South London; Euro 2004 has grown with each game around Sunny Stockwell from the bin kickers (as opposed to Liverpool's bin dippers) after the opening defeat (against... Greece) to the current crescendo after the semis win with Sunny Stockwell finally crawling into bed around 3am.
It may even warrant the throwing of a sickie tomorrow: 'Sorry, Portugal won Euro 2004 and so I can't make it in today,’ which should go down better than my recent 'Um, I just can't be arsed to be honest.'
I may even make the call from the Porto flag flying phone box.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Measuring Up
I collect Globe theatre tickets like school kids collect Football 78 stickers and so to complete the Summer Season of Star Cross’d Lovers down at Bankside, I went to see how Measure for Measure would measure up with Romeo & Juliet and Much Ado.
I really wanted to be uplifted after what has been an entertaining season, although sadly not inspiring in the same way that past performances of Julius Caesar, Hamlet and Richard III have. My barometer for rating the Bard at The Globe usually works by my desire to head back for a second performance come the fag end of the season in September.
Looks like the early autumn period for me will be taken up with Hamlet. That's DULWICH Hamlet by the way.
I think I need to clarify first that this was a WEIRD Globe experience. Being an inglorious groundling then you get to walk around and generally get a feel for what is going off. Scattered amongst the cheap seats (£5, and they're not really seats as you are standing up for three hours plus) was about a dozen or so men and women kitted out in Jacobean costume.
Ahh, this seems interesting I thought; the performance is going to extend out to all around and I may even get the chance to tread the boards myself and finally get to kick start my comedy career with my gag about the fight outside the Stockwell Fish 'n Chip shop (two pieces of cod got battered last night...)
Half an hour in and the planted Plantagenets were still planted to the spot. The same come the interval and then finally for the encore, there was still no action to distinguish them from the rest of the groundlings in more traditional 21st Century costume.
How very strange. I wasn't the only audience member to keep on eyeing them up at every opportunity. I even thought of feeding them my chip shop joke just in case they had a sudden attack of stage fright and needed some encouragement.
My only conclusion is that it was all part of some ethnomethodological sociology experiment (I knew it would come in handy one day) to observe how individuals react to unexpected behaviour.
Either that or they were a family of local pikeys that wanted a cheap night out.
As for the production? Well Measure for Measure made the most of what is a mediocre plot. The Globe's Artistic Director Mark Rylance (well dodgy site alert) once again abuses his authority by casting himself in the lead role of Duke Vincentio, but quite frankly the man could ponce about on a stage wearing a Jimmy Cricket costume and play the bloody bagpipes and it would still be the best production that I have ever seen.
There was cause for concern with the clouds overhead moving quicker than the clients in to the brothel based plot. Back to Golden Showers again.
At the heart of Measure for Measure is a John Major Back to Basics message for the Jacobean age; deliver a lecture in morality and then go and rim some 16th Century descendent of Edwina Currie. Horses were all the rage in Elizabethan times I gather.
Liam Brennan plays Angelo as the perfect pantomime villain. There was even a few boos and hisses when he hit the stage which I don't think were directed at the fruitcake costume misfits who were clearly living the authentic Elizabethan approach to personal hygiene.
The plot is basically Indecent Proposal for men in tights. Plus the usual Shakespearean nod in the direction of mistaken identity. Quite apt then for the tunic togged set who actually added to my enjoyment of the production, although I still really haven't got a clue if their presence was part of the play or not.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Sunday 4 July, 2004 |
I collect Globe theatre tickets like school kids collect Football 78 stickers and so to complete the Summer Season of Star Cross’d Lovers down at Bankside, I went to see how Measure for Measure would measure up with Romeo & Juliet and Much Ado.
I really wanted to be uplifted after what has been an entertaining season, although sadly not inspiring in the same way that past performances of Julius Caesar, Hamlet and Richard III have. My barometer for rating the Bard at The Globe usually works by my desire to head back for a second performance come the fag end of the season in September.
Deliver a lecture in morality and then go and rim Edwina Currie |
I think I need to clarify first that this was a WEIRD Globe experience. Being an inglorious groundling then you get to walk around and generally get a feel for what is going off. Scattered amongst the cheap seats (£5, and they're not really seats as you are standing up for three hours plus) was about a dozen or so men and women kitted out in Jacobean costume.
Ahh, this seems interesting I thought; the performance is going to extend out to all around and I may even get the chance to tread the boards myself and finally get to kick start my comedy career with my gag about the fight outside the Stockwell Fish 'n Chip shop (two pieces of cod got battered last night...)
Half an hour in and the planted Plantagenets were still planted to the spot. The same come the interval and then finally for the encore, there was still no action to distinguish them from the rest of the groundlings in more traditional 21st Century costume.
How very strange. I wasn't the only audience member to keep on eyeing them up at every opportunity. I even thought of feeding them my chip shop joke just in case they had a sudden attack of stage fright and needed some encouragement.
My only conclusion is that it was all part of some ethnomethodological sociology experiment (I knew it would come in handy one day) to observe how individuals react to unexpected behaviour.
Either that or they were a family of local pikeys that wanted a cheap night out.
As for the production? Well Measure for Measure made the most of what is a mediocre plot. The Globe's Artistic Director Mark Rylance (well dodgy site alert) once again abuses his authority by casting himself in the lead role of Duke Vincentio, but quite frankly the man could ponce about on a stage wearing a Jimmy Cricket costume and play the bloody bagpipes and it would still be the best production that I have ever seen.
There was cause for concern with the clouds overhead moving quicker than the clients in to the brothel based plot. Back to Golden Showers again.
At the heart of Measure for Measure is a John Major Back to Basics message for the Jacobean age; deliver a lecture in morality and then go and rim some 16th Century descendent of Edwina Currie. Horses were all the rage in Elizabethan times I gather.
Liam Brennan plays Angelo as the perfect pantomime villain. There was even a few boos and hisses when he hit the stage which I don't think were directed at the fruitcake costume misfits who were clearly living the authentic Elizabethan approach to personal hygiene.
The plot is basically Indecent Proposal for men in tights. Plus the usual Shakespearean nod in the direction of mistaken identity. Quite apt then for the tunic togged set who actually added to my enjoyment of the production, although I still really haven't got a clue if their presence was part of the play or not.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Knobber Media Whore #1: Vernon Kay
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onionbagblog print out & keep guide to modern day media fuckspuddery
Career 'Highlight':
Arse licking Chris Evans when the ginger cunt was so down on his career with the post-beer bollocks of Boys and Girls that even a 3am timeslot was considered primetime for such a piece of piss.
Playa or Play School?
The latter. Counting to ten may be a problem. Plus the lanky fucker bares a passing resemblance to Jemima.
Monkey Tennis? Has previously pitched a TV format which involved touring various primary schools in the North of England and then collecting kiddie piss and asking professional footballers to drink it for charity: Piss Wins Prizes.
Groucho Moment of Madness: Once mistook 70s funnyman midget Ronnie Corbett for a toilet attendant. After failing to score some Class A's off the monologue man, Kay then asked for his arse to be personally wiped by Corbett.
Tabloid Tittle Tattle: Kay Caught With Ketamine, OK?
John Leslie Rating: Recently wed to Tess Daly, which must make for a home front from hell. Should therefore keep his hosepipe well out of reach of dumbfuck weather girls.
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| Saturday 3 July, 2004 |
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Career 'Highlight':
Arse licking Chris Evans when the ginger cunt was so down on his career with the post-beer bollocks of Boys and Girls that even a 3am timeslot was considered primetime for such a piece of piss.
Playa or Play School?
The latter. Counting to ten may be a problem. Plus the lanky fucker bares a passing resemblance to Jemima.
Monkey Tennis? Has previously pitched a TV format which involved touring various primary schools in the North of England and then collecting kiddie piss and asking professional footballers to drink it for charity: Piss Wins Prizes.
Groucho Moment of Madness: Once mistook 70s funnyman midget Ronnie Corbett for a toilet attendant. After failing to score some Class A's off the monologue man, Kay then asked for his arse to be personally wiped by Corbett.
Tabloid Tittle Tattle: Kay Caught With Ketamine, OK?
John Leslie Rating: Recently wed to Tess Daly, which must make for a home front from hell. Should therefore keep his hosepipe well out of reach of dumbfuck weather girls.
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Piss, Wank, Richard & Judy
Wow. What a weird commute home from the Institution today. It only lasts ten minutes on my Marin but I managed to experience two tropical rainstorms sandwiched in-between a sun drenched heat wave.
Proving that God is indeed a keen student of geography, the rain was reserved for the two border crossings that I make in shitty Southwark, whilst the sunshine sent me into a samba mood when I hit Lovely Lambeth. It's a strange route by the way involving more Borough border hoppings than Cuddly Ken when off on one of his charm offensives. Which I always do find offensive.
I understand the meteorological phenomenon of April Showers (a bit like Golden Showers but thankfully you only get them once a year; don’t get me started on Rainbow Kissing which comes once a month), but RAIN, and bloody buckets of it in July?
It doesn't bode well for my final trip of the summer to The Globe tomorrow, let alone the first twenty20 match of the season at The (semi) Oval this weekend.
Dodging the drips was made more tricky with a procession of petrol head pricks (users of motorised automated transport) who seemed to have about as much understanding of the Highway Code as I have of the reason as to why people think it is a good idea to play golf.
Cycling around the City and you can see how the chosen transport reflects the person within. The articulated truck that nearly took me out along Clapham Road was impatiently revving at the junction, despite my right of way, making a grunting sound with the accelerator which we can only presume was last heard when Gareth Gates was given the go-ahead to give Jordan the benefit of his boyhood.
Rrr Rrr Rrr, Grr Grr Grr, oh Sssssshit, watch out for the skidmark.
As I fought to keep my balance on the slippery surface with the Rev Monster being even more of a bully boy that David Blunkett, I glanced into the cabin and into the snarling eyes and vein popping pea brain of the driver.
I bet his missus just loves it on a Friday night when he rolls in after fifteen pints of Stella and tries to park his ugly beast safely inside her wide berth garage of a minge. I doubt that he will be as impatient with her as he was with me though.
Speaking of having the horn, I also managed to raise one of these, so to speak during my ten minutes of leg pumping action. From some silly cow in a four wheeler coming back from the school run (altogether now – you fucking IDIOT).
My crime? I was in a cycle lane, indicating to turn left (that's the Marxist within me) and my right of way was probably preventing her from catching the first few seconds of Richard and Judy, which as anyone who has ever seen the first few seconds of Richard and Judy will testify, is about ten seconds of their lifetime wasted. You could have had a wank instead. Although not whilst watching Richard and Judy, obviously.
Four Wheeler Woman's horn was high pitched and led me to detect an unhappiness within, probably caused by a childhood infliction involving a family of brothers playing with their Tonka Toys as she was left holding Barbie. A lifetime without any four wheel action and now she is making up for lost time.
Not today love. I peddle at my own pace, and besides, I want to save up at least ten seconds of my valuable inner energy for that Richard and Just wankfest when I get home.
And then just as I crossed the border back into Shitty Southwark, the heavens opened and I was drenched.
I didn't know God could get a signal for Richard and Judy upstairs. Wank wank wank.
Ten seconds later and I was back home in Sunny Stockwell.
| Friday 2 July, 2004 |
Wow. What a weird commute home from the Institution today. It only lasts ten minutes on my Marin but I managed to experience two tropical rainstorms sandwiched in-between a sun drenched heat wave.
Proving that God is indeed a keen student of geography, the rain was reserved for the two border crossings that I make in shitty Southwark, whilst the sunshine sent me into a samba mood when I hit Lovely Lambeth. It's a strange route by the way involving more Borough border hoppings than Cuddly Ken when off on one of his charm offensives. Which I always do find offensive.
You could have had a wank instead |
It doesn't bode well for my final trip of the summer to The Globe tomorrow, let alone the first twenty20 match of the season at The (semi) Oval this weekend.
Dodging the drips was made more tricky with a procession of petrol head pricks (users of motorised automated transport) who seemed to have about as much understanding of the Highway Code as I have of the reason as to why people think it is a good idea to play golf.
Cycling around the City and you can see how the chosen transport reflects the person within. The articulated truck that nearly took me out along Clapham Road was impatiently revving at the junction, despite my right of way, making a grunting sound with the accelerator which we can only presume was last heard when Gareth Gates was given the go-ahead to give Jordan the benefit of his boyhood.
Rrr Rrr Rrr, Grr Grr Grr, oh Sssssshit, watch out for the skidmark.
As I fought to keep my balance on the slippery surface with the Rev Monster being even more of a bully boy that David Blunkett, I glanced into the cabin and into the snarling eyes and vein popping pea brain of the driver.
I bet his missus just loves it on a Friday night when he rolls in after fifteen pints of Stella and tries to park his ugly beast safely inside her wide berth garage of a minge. I doubt that he will be as impatient with her as he was with me though.
Speaking of having the horn, I also managed to raise one of these, so to speak during my ten minutes of leg pumping action. From some silly cow in a four wheeler coming back from the school run (altogether now – you fucking IDIOT).
My crime? I was in a cycle lane, indicating to turn left (that's the Marxist within me) and my right of way was probably preventing her from catching the first few seconds of Richard and Judy, which as anyone who has ever seen the first few seconds of Richard and Judy will testify, is about ten seconds of their lifetime wasted. You could have had a wank instead. Although not whilst watching Richard and Judy, obviously.
Four Wheeler Woman's horn was high pitched and led me to detect an unhappiness within, probably caused by a childhood infliction involving a family of brothers playing with their Tonka Toys as she was left holding Barbie. A lifetime without any four wheel action and now she is making up for lost time.
Not today love. I peddle at my own pace, and besides, I want to save up at least ten seconds of my valuable inner energy for that Richard and Just wankfest when I get home.
And then just as I crossed the border back into Shitty Southwark, the heavens opened and I was drenched.
I didn't know God could get a signal for Richard and Judy upstairs. Wank wank wank.
Ten seconds later and I was back home in Sunny Stockwell.
| #permalink |
No One Knows Us
With the dust (from the penalty spot) barely settled at Euro 2004, we can all look forward to a long hot summer of... pre-season friendlies. Hurrah! The ever efficient match secretary at Dulwich Hamlet has been busy lining up some top opposition for the Pink n' Blues; Ash United away anyone? Nope, means little to me as well.
But wait, what's this penciled into my Pink n' Blue filofax (I kid you not) for 22 July? A genuine big name down at Champion Hill with a proud European pedigree. Not the Frenchies of Le Bromlei from Kent but... MILLWALL! The barmy night should see a meeting of like minded South London souls: No One Likes Us Vs No One KNOWS Us. All we need now is for Manchester United to turn up in SE22 and we would have No One Gives a Toss.
No Surrender to the Tooting Front!
| Thursday 1 July, 2004 |
With the dust (from the penalty spot) barely settled at Euro 2004, we can all look forward to a long hot summer of... pre-season friendlies. Hurrah! The ever efficient match secretary at Dulwich Hamlet has been busy lining up some top opposition for the Pink n' Blues; Ash United away anyone? Nope, means little to me as well.
But wait, what's this penciled into my Pink n' Blue filofax (I kid you not) for 22 July? A genuine big name down at Champion Hill with a proud European pedigree. Not the Frenchies of Le Bromlei from Kent but... MILLWALL! The barmy night should see a meeting of like minded South London souls: No One Likes Us Vs No One KNOWS Us. All we need now is for Manchester United to turn up in SE22 and we would have No One Gives a Toss.
No Surrender to the Tooting Front!
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