onionbagblog
Crap Match Report
London Towers 99 Milton Keynes Lions 79, 30/10/04
The heat was on at the Crystal Palace Sauna on Saturday. My ears were burning which could only mean one of three things:
* Coach Peers was on the look out for new talent. Dream on.
* The Towers Dancers were on the look out for new talent. Double dream on.
* I'm an unfit lard arse whose pale limey complexion can't take the heat.
Hoping to set an example, I came close to watching the game topless. But my followers were few and far between, apart from the equally lard arse lady sitting nearby.
Strange lot these basketball players. Superstition plays as much a part as the ability to bounce a ball between another man's legs and still be brave enough to catch it on the other side. As the Towers left the court one by one after the warm-up, the six foot fellas attempted to sink one from the halfway line as part of a good luck routine. Much like my efforts with the Dancers, the attempts were all wide of the mark.
Being on time for once and I was treated to the Towers aerobic workout before tip off. Some men may dream of seeing Milton Keynes' Shawn Jamison in a leopard leotard but thankfully the Lions didn't follow the Towers lead.
Roddy Brown forced a full court press early on with Towers happy to press hard in defence and hit Lions on the break.
I was all set to take legal advice as the Towers Dancers took to the court for the first time and Neil the DJ claimed:
'Five of the girls have been laid ahead of tip off.'
He meant MISS-laid of course.
A three pointer right on the first quarter buzzer set up a 31-22 score line in favour of the Towers.
The home team came out hungry with Lynard Stewart making a steal and dunking straight from the tip off. Another routine from the Dancers minus the five miss-layers soon followed. To lose one Dancer would be unfortunate; to lose two would be careless; but to lose FIVE? I think I’ve lost the will to live.
Milton Keynes cut the lead to within six points. A great free flowing team move from the Towers then followed with Sam Betts dunking in style leaving a 48-40 advantage to the home team at half time.
With still no sign of the Famous Five missing Dancers, the third quarter tipped off. Surely there is a BBL regulation outlawing this? Travelling…? Despite Towers controlling the play, the game was still too close to call. Milton Keynes gambled with some hit and miss three pointers whilst Towers played safe sinking for two. A Jerry Williams hustle ended with his foe being floored, a move I was hoping to repeat on the dancefloor later.
Lions Lionel Ritchie look-alike Thomas Gillespie was looking like he couldn't go All Night Long, let alone Dancing on the Ceiling. Willimas turned Gillespie over once, twice, three times. The big lady.
Coach Peers meanwhile looked on from the bench all collars and cuffs, suited and booted for the evening. There was nothing formal though about the bollocking he gave the referee who made some strange calls in the third quarter.
A later quarter burst set up a 73-55 ball game come the buzzer.
Williams attempted a spectacular dunk at the start of the fourth quarter that went about as wayward as the lost dancers. But by now it was all too late for the Lions. The Towers forward 'did a Beckham' and fouled himself out of the game with thirty seconds remaining on the clock. But with a personal point tally of thirty, that's good going fella.
Sitting on the bench Williams had the best view as the Towers ended up with a 99-70 victory.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
crap match report compendium
london towers official
towers dancers
whats bev - uk basketball forums
| Sunday 31 October, 2004 |
London Towers 99 Milton Keynes Lions 79, 30/10/04
The heat was on at the Crystal Palace Sauna on Saturday. My ears were burning which could only mean one of three things:
* Coach Peers was on the look out for new talent. Dream on.
* The Towers Dancers were on the look out for new talent. Double dream on.
* I'm an unfit lard arse whose pale limey complexion can't take the heat.
Hoping to set an example, I came close to watching the game topless. But my followers were few and far between, apart from the equally lard arse lady sitting nearby.
 Five of the girls have been laid |
Being on time for once and I was treated to the Towers aerobic workout before tip off. Some men may dream of seeing Milton Keynes' Shawn Jamison in a leopard leotard but thankfully the Lions didn't follow the Towers lead.
Roddy Brown forced a full court press early on with Towers happy to press hard in defence and hit Lions on the break.
I was all set to take legal advice as the Towers Dancers took to the court for the first time and Neil the DJ claimed:
'Five of the girls have been laid ahead of tip off.'
He meant MISS-laid of course.
A three pointer right on the first quarter buzzer set up a 31-22 score line in favour of the Towers.
The home team came out hungry with Lynard Stewart making a steal and dunking straight from the tip off. Another routine from the Dancers minus the five miss-layers soon followed. To lose one Dancer would be unfortunate; to lose two would be careless; but to lose FIVE? I think I’ve lost the will to live.
Milton Keynes cut the lead to within six points. A great free flowing team move from the Towers then followed with Sam Betts dunking in style leaving a 48-40 advantage to the home team at half time.
With still no sign of the Famous Five missing Dancers, the third quarter tipped off. Surely there is a BBL regulation outlawing this? Travelling…? Despite Towers controlling the play, the game was still too close to call. Milton Keynes gambled with some hit and miss three pointers whilst Towers played safe sinking for two. A Jerry Williams hustle ended with his foe being floored, a move I was hoping to repeat on the dancefloor later.
Lions Lionel Ritchie look-alike Thomas Gillespie was looking like he couldn't go All Night Long, let alone Dancing on the Ceiling. Willimas turned Gillespie over once, twice, three times. The big lady.
Coach Peers meanwhile looked on from the bench all collars and cuffs, suited and booted for the evening. There was nothing formal though about the bollocking he gave the referee who made some strange calls in the third quarter.
A later quarter burst set up a 73-55 ball game come the buzzer.
Williams attempted a spectacular dunk at the start of the fourth quarter that went about as wayward as the lost dancers. But by now it was all too late for the Lions. The Towers forward 'did a Beckham' and fouled himself out of the game with thirty seconds remaining on the clock. But with a personal point tally of thirty, that's good going fella.
Sitting on the bench Williams had the best view as the Towers ended up with a 99-70 victory.
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Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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crap match report compendium
london towers official
towers dancers
whats bev - uk basketball forums
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
Dulwich Hamlet 3 Newport Isle of Wight 3, 30/10/04
This was Hamlet’s first home fixture on a Saturday for seven weeks; scheduling that has more to do with various cup runs and cancellations than being the stars of Sky Sports Super Sunday.
The first words I heard as I entered Champion Hill were: 'Well done Lee Akers!' as Dulwich's Mr Dependable cleared up another mess at the back. Akers was playing his 500th game in the proud pink 'n blue; a fantastic achievement but 500 headers doesn't do much for your hair.
The next words were from the equally reliable Voice of Champion Hill announcing: 'And the first goal for Dulwich scored by Dave Richards in the eighth minute.' Having made the trip across the water, Newport soon found their sea legs, catching Dulwich all at sea with a looping cross leading to an equaliser minutes later.
Akers age may be casting a long shadow but that was nothing compared to the wide shadow being cast by Pete Garland in the autumn sun. Some might say a shadow of his former self but Garland still controls the game in midfield.
With a young ruffian bouncing a rugby ball along the touchline, the Rugger Bugger had the right idea as both teams on the pitch booted the ball from one box to the other. It was hard to gauge if this was a competitive game between two teams both defying their bottom of the league status, or if they were both simply as crap as each other. An entertaining and even contest all the same.
A wonderful half time burst from the Voice of Champion Hill and his ever growing CD collection. When was the last time we heard from a self-centred, egotistical spoilt little shit down at Champion Hill? Not John Beasley but The Vines blasting out at the break and waking up all the old coffin dodgers lined along the Wall of Death.
With Dulwich looking for a win to lift them up the table, it was a case of any (New) port in a storm. Which was much the case with the female away fans as well. Both teams needed a rocket up the arse. In the absence of Beasley, the local yoofs delivered a succession of fireworks throughout the second half.
Sebastian Schoburgh threatened down the wing for Dulwich and Garland even backtracked to help out at the back. In the 63rd minute Garland delivered a free kick with the perfect pace for Charley Side to force home. The midfielder's reward was to be subbed off for Francis Quarm. A fine display from the Dulwich #8 though, and remember this: Hamlet had the lead when Pete left the pitch...
Wearing the Captain's armband, Akers stepped up a gear with a bold bicycle kick but Newport continued to look dangerous on the break. In the 86th minute Dulwich went 3-1 ahead following good work down the wing with a tap in for *rather sharp tricky looking player whose name I didn't catch despite the helpful Voice of Champion Hill spelling it out phonetically – it's a Crap Match Report, innit?*
Coasting. As Newport should have been back to the Isle of Wight. But then the away team made a monkey of Danny Harwood in goal for Dulwich a minute later with a lacklustre shot being fumbled into the back of the net. Three minutes later and a cock up on the edge of the area and Harwood's unfinished monkey business had him auditioning for Planet of the Apes.
Calling organ grinder Seuke, organ grinder Seuke...
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
crap match report compendium
hamletweb
| Sunday 31 October, 2004 |
Dulwich Hamlet 3 Newport Isle of Wight 3, 30/10/04
This was Hamlet’s first home fixture on a Saturday for seven weeks; scheduling that has more to do with various cup runs and cancellations than being the stars of Sky Sports Super Sunday.
The first words I heard as I entered Champion Hill were: 'Well done Lee Akers!' as Dulwich's Mr Dependable cleared up another mess at the back. Akers was playing his 500th game in the proud pink 'n blue; a fantastic achievement but 500 headers doesn't do much for your hair.
The next words were from the equally reliable Voice of Champion Hill announcing: 'And the first goal for Dulwich scored by Dave Richards in the eighth minute.' Having made the trip across the water, Newport soon found their sea legs, catching Dulwich all at sea with a looping cross leading to an equaliser minutes later.
Well played Lee Akers! |
With a young ruffian bouncing a rugby ball along the touchline, the Rugger Bugger had the right idea as both teams on the pitch booted the ball from one box to the other. It was hard to gauge if this was a competitive game between two teams both defying their bottom of the league status, or if they were both simply as crap as each other. An entertaining and even contest all the same.
A wonderful half time burst from the Voice of Champion Hill and his ever growing CD collection. When was the last time we heard from a self-centred, egotistical spoilt little shit down at Champion Hill? Not John Beasley but The Vines blasting out at the break and waking up all the old coffin dodgers lined along the Wall of Death.
With Dulwich looking for a win to lift them up the table, it was a case of any (New) port in a storm. Which was much the case with the female away fans as well. Both teams needed a rocket up the arse. In the absence of Beasley, the local yoofs delivered a succession of fireworks throughout the second half.
Sebastian Schoburgh threatened down the wing for Dulwich and Garland even backtracked to help out at the back. In the 63rd minute Garland delivered a free kick with the perfect pace for Charley Side to force home. The midfielder's reward was to be subbed off for Francis Quarm. A fine display from the Dulwich #8 though, and remember this: Hamlet had the lead when Pete left the pitch...
Wearing the Captain's armband, Akers stepped up a gear with a bold bicycle kick but Newport continued to look dangerous on the break. In the 86th minute Dulwich went 3-1 ahead following good work down the wing with a tap in for *rather sharp tricky looking player whose name I didn't catch despite the helpful Voice of Champion Hill spelling it out phonetically – it's a Crap Match Report, innit?*
Coasting. As Newport should have been back to the Isle of Wight. But then the away team made a monkey of Danny Harwood in goal for Dulwich a minute later with a lacklustre shot being fumbled into the back of the net. Three minutes later and a cock up on the edge of the area and Harwood's unfinished monkey business had him auditioning for Planet of the Apes.
Calling organ grinder Seuke, organ grinder Seuke...
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Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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crap match report compendium
hamletweb
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Soulseek Spree
A big binge planned for later today as my broadband connection contemplates swallowing up as many mp3's that the nice Soulseek can shake a subscription free stick at. RIAA and BPI – come and get me you fuckers! Fifteen years of paying fifteen quid for a CD and it's payback time.
If your mp3 folder contains any of the following, chances are that we'll be getting familiar with each others hard drives sometime today:
Elvis Costello - The Delivery Man
Anita Baker - My Everything
Kasabian - Kasabian
Dizzee Rascal - Showtime
Dread Meets B-Boys Downtown
Two Culture Clash
Steve Earle - The Revolution Starts Now
Loretta Lynn - Van Lear Rose
The Ordinary Boys (nasty intrusive website with sound shit) - Over the Counter Culture
The Thrills - Let's Bottle Bohemia
Brave Captain - All Watched Over By Machines
Campag Velocet - It's Beyond Our Control
A Girl Called Eddy - A Girl Called Eddy
Mylo - Destroy Rock n' Roll
Kathryn Williams - Relations
With half term drawing towards a close and a week of twelve hours a day iPod action making me look even more like a twat than usual, here's the lessons learnt from the previous batch of seedy CDRs:
The Orb's UFOrb has not aged well, sounding like a play out on a pirate station '94 at 4am.
No wonder I didn't cop off at the age of fifteen, trying to lure potential pussy into the lion's den listening to Prince's Controversy. Do Me Baby? Jack U Off More Like. Nice '80s production though.
Mercury Rev make fantastic singles but rather rubbish albums. Ditto The Flaming Lips.
More soul and less guitar would have made Spiritualized's Let It Come Down a GREAT album.
John Cooper Clarke is not as funny on record as he is as a live act. Ditto John Shuttleworth.
Patsy Cline remains the undisputed Queen of Country. Up yours Dolly Parton, so to speak.
Was I really buzzing off my tits in a field in Somerset back in '92 gurning at Ozric Tentacles? Time to destroy those photos.
Use Your Illusion 1 & 2 are both so bloated that I fear for Guns n' Roses' Chinese Democracy when it's finally finished.
Phil Ochs – we need you now more than ever.
| Saturday 30 October, 2004 |
A big binge planned for later today as my broadband connection contemplates swallowing up as many mp3's that the nice Soulseek can shake a subscription free stick at. RIAA and BPI – come and get me you fuckers! Fifteen years of paying fifteen quid for a CD and it's payback time.
If your mp3 folder contains any of the following, chances are that we'll be getting familiar with each others hard drives sometime today:
Elvis Costello - The Delivery Man
Anita Baker - My Everything
Kasabian - Kasabian
Dizzee Rascal - Showtime
Dread Meets B-Boys Downtown
Two Culture Clash
Steve Earle - The Revolution Starts Now
Loretta Lynn - Van Lear Rose
The Ordinary Boys (nasty intrusive website with sound shit) - Over the Counter Culture
The Thrills - Let's Bottle Bohemia
Brave Captain - All Watched Over By Machines
Campag Velocet - It's Beyond Our Control
A Girl Called Eddy - A Girl Called Eddy
Mylo - Destroy Rock n' Roll
Kathryn Williams - Relations
With half term drawing towards a close and a week of twelve hours a day iPod action making me look even more like a twat than usual, here's the lessons learnt from the previous batch of seedy CDRs:
The Orb's UFOrb has not aged well, sounding like a play out on a pirate station '94 at 4am.
No wonder I didn't cop off at the age of fifteen, trying to lure potential pussy into the lion's den listening to Prince's Controversy. Do Me Baby? Jack U Off More Like. Nice '80s production though.
Mercury Rev make fantastic singles but rather rubbish albums. Ditto The Flaming Lips.
More soul and less guitar would have made Spiritualized's Let It Come Down a GREAT album.
John Cooper Clarke is not as funny on record as he is as a live act. Ditto John Shuttleworth.
Patsy Cline remains the undisputed Queen of Country. Up yours Dolly Parton, so to speak.
Was I really buzzing off my tits in a field in Somerset back in '92 gurning at Ozric Tentacles? Time to destroy those photos.
Use Your Illusion 1 & 2 are both so bloated that I fear for Guns n' Roses' Chinese Democracy when it's finally finished.
Phil Ochs – we need you now more than ever.
| #permalink |
Truck or Treat?
Halloween Critical Mass and out come the freaks. More scary faces than usual, and that's nothing to do with a rare appearance from mrs onionbagblogger. This is the traditional Critical Mass downturn season where the numbers usually dwindle as the evenings draw in. Not tonight though with an impressive turnout of peddling pumpkin faces, plus the usual PC Plods on bikes of course.
The first casualty of the Mass was snared at the IMAX roundabout. A leather clad biker boy foolishly thinking that his stinkin' 500cc of polluting horsepower could overcome 500 or so cyclists. Silly boy. Back of the queue. He won't try that again.
Over the Ray Davies Bridge and there was even a fantastic Full Moon Fever to greet us with The City and Docklands illuminated downstream. A more perfect picture postcard you couldn't wish for. Unfortunately my crappy camera skills managed to cock up yet again.
We received a welcome wave from a wino as we headed off to Holborn, with his appearance matching the Halloween theme of the Mass. Bring yer bike along next time, fella. Everyone welcome.
Around The City and onto the Grays Inn Road interchange, the scene of Mr Tony's former chambers. Quite apt then that we witnessed a U-turn. Not from the cyclists but the cars stretching back down to Kings Cross. Just like Mr Tony, my bicycle has no reverse gear.
A customary communal get together with the courier crew outside the Duke of York on Clerkenwell Road, crossing the river at London Bridge and then the talk was of a trip off to Tower Bridge. It was here that my appetite and anticipation of the last episode of Green Wing got the better of my bike. Back down to Sunny Stockwell, having tricked a few pollutants and treated a fair number of peddlers.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Saturday 30 October, 2004 |
Halloween Critical Mass and out come the freaks. More scary faces than usual, and that's nothing to do with a rare appearance from mrs onionbagblogger. This is the traditional Critical Mass downturn season where the numbers usually dwindle as the evenings draw in. Not tonight though with an impressive turnout of peddling pumpkin faces, plus the usual PC Plods on bikes of course.
The first casualty of the Mass was snared at the IMAX roundabout. A leather clad biker boy foolishly thinking that his stinkin' 500cc of polluting horsepower could overcome 500 or so cyclists. Silly boy. Back of the queue. He won't try that again.
My bicycle has no reverse gear |
We received a welcome wave from a wino as we headed off to Holborn, with his appearance matching the Halloween theme of the Mass. Bring yer bike along next time, fella. Everyone welcome.
Around The City and onto the Grays Inn Road interchange, the scene of Mr Tony's former chambers. Quite apt then that we witnessed a U-turn. Not from the cyclists but the cars stretching back down to Kings Cross. Just like Mr Tony, my bicycle has no reverse gear.
A customary communal get together with the courier crew outside the Duke of York on Clerkenwell Road, crossing the river at London Bridge and then the talk was of a trip off to Tower Bridge. It was here that my appetite and anticipation of the last episode of Green Wing got the better of my bike. Back down to Sunny Stockwell, having tricked a few pollutants and treated a fair number of peddlers.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Oval Tube Thought of the Day
Oh how we laughed at The Oval Thought of the Day this morning.
Frankly Mr Shankly I prefer:
'If you must go to work tomorrow, if I was you I wouldn't bother...'
| Friday 29 October, 2004 |
Oh how we laughed at The Oval Thought of the Day this morning.
Frankly Mr Shankly I prefer:
'If you must go to work tomorrow, if I was you I wouldn't bother...'
| #permalink |
Price You Pay
A recent report into football finance concluded that ticket prices are too expensive. Doh! You don't say! They'll be telling us next that Sven Goran Eriksson likes to 'play away from home.' How do our South London teams hold up? Which of our clubs are VFM? (That's Value for Money by the way and NOT Very Frightened of Millwall. In a playing capacity of course).
Charlton charge £20 for a seat. Twenty smackers to sit and not see Scott Parker play represents a fair price compared to Chelsea's £50 to sit and not see Scott Parker play.
As is the case with the team, ticket information for Crippled Pal-ARSE is a bit thin on the ground. You want to buy a ticket? Fine – head off to the club website for further details etc. But what's this? With all the predictability of a bottom half berth of the table for the Eagles, gawblimey guv, you need to fork out even BEFORE you buy a ticket. I clicked on the link labelled TICKETS only to find a form to fill in which would give me the privilege of purchasing a Palace match day ticket. It's a bit like playing Poker, having to pay to see someone else's cards first. House of Cards always fall down of course. Homebase it is for me then, which actually has quite a lot in common from an architectural point of view with Selhurst.
Paying to enter the Lion's Den is a long held South London tradition, although sadly some away clubs believe that it's a price not worth paying. A shame as it takes two to tango (just ask Dennis and Paul Scholes). At £19 a ticket you've still got change out of a twenty pound note for the charity of your choice. Such as the West Ham Youth Academy.
In terms of football finance AFC Wimbledon are the Victor Kayam's of South London. They liked the club so much that they bought it. Well, so would you if it was a close shave of being uplifted out of your South London heartland to some soulless middle England enclave. AFC Wimbledon charge £8, which much like the team, is top of the division. Still, you'd rather pay eight quid to be part of a community club than double this price, as is the case in the Milton Keynes badlands where some clowns are cashing in on a long lost South London legacy.
Seven pounds for the Pink n' Blues of Dulwich Hamlet ain't bad, but the football has been this season. The main gate is usually open at halftime for any penny pinchers that have just completed the weekly shop next door at Sainsbury, although to be honest, I think it is locked for the first 45 to keep the poor souls stuck inside from walking out. The Hamlet use to have a cheap as chips pricing policy for students, back in the days when chips weren't French Fries and you didn't need anything more than a grubby fiver for your fish 'n chips. Five pounds was the exact amount needed for a student season ticket for the season, which works out at roughly 23p a match. Being the cheeky scamps that students are, I bet some even had the nerve to ask for a refund at full time.
Apparently it costs £7 to watch Tooting & Mitcham, although personally I wouldn’t watch them even if you paid me. But please don't allow some petty personal prejudice of a relegation threatened Dulwich Hamlet fan to distract you from your normal Saturday afternoon routine at Homebase. You'll find a fine set of tool heads at Imperial Fields as well. In the away end of course.
A bit like the team, Fisher Athletic are punching above their weight with £7 for a Southern League Division One East match. If there was a non-league football phone in on the radio, well, first off how dull would that be? But you can also bet that a lost soul out in Wivenhoe would be phoning up to have a whine at the £7 admission charge.
| Friday 29 October, 2004 |
A recent report into football finance concluded that ticket prices are too expensive. Doh! You don't say! They'll be telling us next that Sven Goran Eriksson likes to 'play away from home.' How do our South London teams hold up? Which of our clubs are VFM? (That's Value for Money by the way and NOT Very Frightened of Millwall. In a playing capacity of course).
Charlton charge £20 for a seat. Twenty smackers to sit and not see Scott Parker play represents a fair price compared to Chelsea's £50 to sit and not see Scott Parker play.
AFC are the Victor Kayam's of South London |
Paying to enter the Lion's Den is a long held South London tradition, although sadly some away clubs believe that it's a price not worth paying. A shame as it takes two to tango (just ask Dennis and Paul Scholes). At £19 a ticket you've still got change out of a twenty pound note for the charity of your choice. Such as the West Ham Youth Academy.
In terms of football finance AFC Wimbledon are the Victor Kayam's of South London. They liked the club so much that they bought it. Well, so would you if it was a close shave of being uplifted out of your South London heartland to some soulless middle England enclave. AFC Wimbledon charge £8, which much like the team, is top of the division. Still, you'd rather pay eight quid to be part of a community club than double this price, as is the case in the Milton Keynes badlands where some clowns are cashing in on a long lost South London legacy.
Seven pounds for the Pink n' Blues of Dulwich Hamlet ain't bad, but the football has been this season. The main gate is usually open at halftime for any penny pinchers that have just completed the weekly shop next door at Sainsbury, although to be honest, I think it is locked for the first 45 to keep the poor souls stuck inside from walking out. The Hamlet use to have a cheap as chips pricing policy for students, back in the days when chips weren't French Fries and you didn't need anything more than a grubby fiver for your fish 'n chips. Five pounds was the exact amount needed for a student season ticket for the season, which works out at roughly 23p a match. Being the cheeky scamps that students are, I bet some even had the nerve to ask for a refund at full time.
Apparently it costs £7 to watch Tooting & Mitcham, although personally I wouldn’t watch them even if you paid me. But please don't allow some petty personal prejudice of a relegation threatened Dulwich Hamlet fan to distract you from your normal Saturday afternoon routine at Homebase. You'll find a fine set of tool heads at Imperial Fields as well. In the away end of course.
A bit like the team, Fisher Athletic are punching above their weight with £7 for a Southern League Division One East match. If there was a non-league football phone in on the radio, well, first off how dull would that be? But you can also bet that a lost soul out in Wivenhoe would be phoning up to have a whine at the £7 admission charge.
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Questions, Questions
Well, wasn't Question Time a wonderful whiz last night? Bumble-Bee and the crew took the road show across the pond to see how the other half of the Special Relationship do democracy. With a lot of whooping, shouting and fist punching as it turns out, all done by pale faced middle aged men with peculiar shaped faces and ill advised haircuts. If a high tax bracket salary is spunked on shitty plastic surgery, I'll stick with my minimum wage and 'salt of the earth' (lived in) rustic looks.
It was all very reminiscent of Jerry Springer the Opera being performed at the Royal Opera House with little in-between. All we needed was for fuckspud Richard Littlejohn to be joined by Robert Kilroy Silk and Beavis would have been re-united with Butthead once again.
For all its fault, Question Time carries a very British constitution in the interaction between presenter, panel and audience. Our American friends just 'didn't get' the quaintness and considered exchange of views, leading to an Oprah free for all.
Dimbleby took up the head teacher role and for once, his control of the democracy was welcomed. It's hard to put together a profile of your Average Joe USA style in 2004. If the audience did indeed represent a random sample of Stateside citizenship, America is one hell of a polarised country right now. Secularisation usually leads to extremism. Worrying times ahead.
The best bit was when the High School goth kid attracted the attention of Dimbleby. Looking like Robert Smith let loose in a gel factory must have done the trick with the ultra conservative Dimbleby fishing for controversy. Except what he got was the confused rambling of some politically naive American college kid who has been listening to too many Marilyn Manson albums. Was he pro-Kerry or pro-Bush? (webiste blocked for any non-US countires. Ahh... Democracy - talk to the hand, the head's not listening etc). The panel was perplexed.
'Oh, OK, um, any more questions? Yes, you madam with the long blonde hair. Oh, I do apologise, SIR.'
The expected Battle of the Heavyweights never really materialised, and geez, will someone PLEASE stop feeding Michael Moore? His sparing partner Littlejohn was surprisingly muzzled, although he finds himself trapped in a corner being both a Blair hater but a Bush supporter.
The most telling part of the programme was when Lida Rodriguez-Taseff, Chair of the Miami-Dade Electoral Reform Coalition admitted that there was 'no democracy in the United States.' Coming from someone who is in charge of overseeing a fair ballot in a State that is likely to decide who will become the most powerful man in the world for the next four years, this was a chilling admission.
Question Time is in Lovely Lambeth next week. Look out for the incoherent mutterings of a 30-something weekend anarchist in the audience. I'll be easy to spot Mr Dimbleby – just send yer mic over towards the knobber in the pink 'n blue Dulwich top.
| Friday 29 October, 2004 |
Well, wasn't Question Time a wonderful whiz last night? Bumble-Bee and the crew took the road show across the pond to see how the other half of the Special Relationship do democracy. With a lot of whooping, shouting and fist punching as it turns out, all done by pale faced middle aged men with peculiar shaped faces and ill advised haircuts. If a high tax bracket salary is spunked on shitty plastic surgery, I'll stick with my minimum wage and 'salt of the earth' (lived in) rustic looks.
It was all very reminiscent of Jerry Springer the Opera being performed at the Royal Opera House with little in-between. All we needed was for fuckspud Richard Littlejohn to be joined by Robert Kilroy Silk and Beavis would have been re-united with Butthead once again.
The panel was perplexed |
Dimbleby took up the head teacher role and for once, his control of the democracy was welcomed. It's hard to put together a profile of your Average Joe USA style in 2004. If the audience did indeed represent a random sample of Stateside citizenship, America is one hell of a polarised country right now. Secularisation usually leads to extremism. Worrying times ahead.
The best bit was when the High School goth kid attracted the attention of Dimbleby. Looking like Robert Smith let loose in a gel factory must have done the trick with the ultra conservative Dimbleby fishing for controversy. Except what he got was the confused rambling of some politically naive American college kid who has been listening to too many Marilyn Manson albums. Was he pro-Kerry or pro-Bush? (webiste blocked for any non-US countires. Ahh... Democracy - talk to the hand, the head's not listening etc). The panel was perplexed.
'Oh, OK, um, any more questions? Yes, you madam with the long blonde hair. Oh, I do apologise, SIR.'
The expected Battle of the Heavyweights never really materialised, and geez, will someone PLEASE stop feeding Michael Moore? His sparing partner Littlejohn was surprisingly muzzled, although he finds himself trapped in a corner being both a Blair hater but a Bush supporter.
The most telling part of the programme was when Lida Rodriguez-Taseff, Chair of the Miami-Dade Electoral Reform Coalition admitted that there was 'no democracy in the United States.' Coming from someone who is in charge of overseeing a fair ballot in a State that is likely to decide who will become the most powerful man in the world for the next four years, this was a chilling admission.
Question Time is in Lovely Lambeth next week. Look out for the incoherent mutterings of a 30-something weekend anarchist in the audience. I'll be easy to spot Mr Dimbleby – just send yer mic over towards the knobber in the pink 'n blue Dulwich top.
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Walk Like a Pal-arse Fan
Respect to the geezer for Telling It Like It Is, but if you're going to do a job, do it PROPERLY.
It's CRIPPLED Pal-ARSE for fucks sake.
More from the horse's mouth HERE, plus far superior Charlton bloginess HERE.
| Friday 29 October, 2004 |
Respect to the geezer for Telling It Like It Is, but if you're going to do a job, do it PROPERLY.
It's CRIPPLED Pal-ARSE for fucks sake.
More from the horse's mouth HERE, plus far superior Charlton bloginess HERE.
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Crap Match Report
Nottingham Panthers 1 Belfast Giants 2, 26/10/04
The first shock of the evening was forking out 50p for fifteen minutes in the NCP Car Park in Stoney Street. I know of local ladies whose quarterly hour rate is less than this, although unlike the NCP, apparently you do have to pay up front.
Don't you just love half term though? The kids had come out for the hockey, cheered on by the prospect of no school tomorrow and given the go-ahead to scream, drink over-priced sugary shit and prod anyone over the age of fifteen every time the latest nu metal crap came over the PA. At least it keeps them away from the NCP and my car.
The last time I was at the magnificent NIC was for the play-offs back in April. Entering the Arena and it was good to see the Panthers Play Off Banner hanging proud. Whoops, look a little more closely; just like my CHALLENGING eyesight, the Panthers were of course the proud winners of the Egg Cup. Still, any port in a storm, a phrase that your average Sheffield Steeler fan is probably familiar with.
With a spotlight that wouldn't look out of place at Alcatraz circling the Arena, out skated the officials. I never had referee Kirkham down as a Clint Eastwood type. Kenneth Williams maybe.
And then the lights dimmed, the smoke machine was cranked up and here come the finely toned athletes I'd paid my hard earned cash to come and see: The Panthers Wildcats of course. Steady on, Tiger.
A fast paced opening period with Panthers having most of the possession, moving the puck well around the large pad. There's no such thing as a 'bad seat' at the NIC, although I seemed to be sitting in the Worst Seat in the House. Eyes right to keep a watchful glance on the Wildcats and the bloody netting obstructs my view of the 'action.' Eyes left and the low plexi increases the possibility of a puck in the face, especially with Belfast 'sharp shooter' Shane Johnson on the ice. 'Puck in the face' was a phrase that I would later come to regret when used in conversation with one of the Wildcats.
A mid-ice trip from referee Kirkham and bang on cue, the first airing of ROCKIN' all Over the World. Giants grew in confidence towards the end of the first, but with most of the battles taking place in the neutral zone, this was a period with only five shots on goal for both teams.
During the first period break and I seemed to be attracting the attention of one of the female Blue Coats. I was all set to give her a nod and a wink and ask her how much she charges by the quarter hour when the twosome soon became a threesome. Don't fancy yours much as a lot of pointing and frowning from a fatty male Blue Coat confirmed that my seven inch super zoom camera was causing a problem. For them of course, not me. You know where you can stick it, love.
Good pressure from the Panthers in the second as John Craighead dumped and then chased his own puck, setting up Marek Ivan from five yards out to fire home the first goal at 23:52. The Giants responded by collecting ten minute misconduct penalties like Steelers collect Muppet fans. I hope that Block 3 is prepared for the Miss Piggy posse on Sunday night.
Curtis Cruickshank stood tall as Belfast broke down the ice one on one, and an away powerplay was then killed by Panthers with the home netminder on top of his game.
A trip to the toilet at the period break and a tug happy teenager was giving it a little too much shake 'n vac for my liking. Or maybe he was just daydreaming of Craighead? I couldn't possibly comment but he seemed happy in his own little world, despite the build up of blokes behind him about to wet their pants.
43:25 on the clock and a defensive error let Belfast back in the game as the two Bowens did the business. An assist from Curtis set up Jason and at this stage Giants would be glad to say: 'We’ve 'ad a lovely day, we'll take the draw and head back home, Jim.'
Super, lovely, smashing. Didn't they do well?
The remainder of the period was played out in play off hockey style with both teams pushing for the win. A dodgy roughing call with less than five minutes remaining in the game and Panthers were punished as Tony Hand fired home a one timer from the face off. It was a miss hit of course and he was trying to set up an assist.
And so back to Stoney Street with a pocket full of loose change and a Panthers performance that sadly was about as inspiring as the old girl positioned outside the NCP. Bring on those Sheffield tarts.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
crap match report compendium
nottingham panthers official site
| Thursday 28 October, 2004 |
Nottingham Panthers 1 Belfast Giants 2, 26/10/04
The first shock of the evening was forking out 50p for fifteen minutes in the NCP Car Park in Stoney Street. I know of local ladies whose quarterly hour rate is less than this, although unlike the NCP, apparently you do have to pay up front.
Don't you just love half term though? The kids had come out for the hockey, cheered on by the prospect of no school tomorrow and given the go-ahead to scream, drink over-priced sugary shit and prod anyone over the age of fifteen every time the latest nu metal crap came over the PA. At least it keeps them away from the NCP and my car.
Super, lovely, smashing |
With a spotlight that wouldn't look out of place at Alcatraz circling the Arena, out skated the officials. I never had referee Kirkham down as a Clint Eastwood type. Kenneth Williams maybe.
And then the lights dimmed, the smoke machine was cranked up and here come the finely toned athletes I'd paid my hard earned cash to come and see: The Panthers Wildcats of course. Steady on, Tiger.
A fast paced opening period with Panthers having most of the possession, moving the puck well around the large pad. There's no such thing as a 'bad seat' at the NIC, although I seemed to be sitting in the Worst Seat in the House. Eyes right to keep a watchful glance on the Wildcats and the bloody netting obstructs my view of the 'action.' Eyes left and the low plexi increases the possibility of a puck in the face, especially with Belfast 'sharp shooter' Shane Johnson on the ice. 'Puck in the face' was a phrase that I would later come to regret when used in conversation with one of the Wildcats.
A mid-ice trip from referee Kirkham and bang on cue, the first airing of ROCKIN' all Over the World. Giants grew in confidence towards the end of the first, but with most of the battles taking place in the neutral zone, this was a period with only five shots on goal for both teams.
During the first period break and I seemed to be attracting the attention of one of the female Blue Coats. I was all set to give her a nod and a wink and ask her how much she charges by the quarter hour when the twosome soon became a threesome. Don't fancy yours much as a lot of pointing and frowning from a fatty male Blue Coat confirmed that my seven inch super zoom camera was causing a problem. For them of course, not me. You know where you can stick it, love.
Good pressure from the Panthers in the second as John Craighead dumped and then chased his own puck, setting up Marek Ivan from five yards out to fire home the first goal at 23:52. The Giants responded by collecting ten minute misconduct penalties like Steelers collect Muppet fans. I hope that Block 3 is prepared for the Miss Piggy posse on Sunday night.
Curtis Cruickshank stood tall as Belfast broke down the ice one on one, and an away powerplay was then killed by Panthers with the home netminder on top of his game.
A trip to the toilet at the period break and a tug happy teenager was giving it a little too much shake 'n vac for my liking. Or maybe he was just daydreaming of Craighead? I couldn't possibly comment but he seemed happy in his own little world, despite the build up of blokes behind him about to wet their pants.
43:25 on the clock and a defensive error let Belfast back in the game as the two Bowens did the business. An assist from Curtis set up Jason and at this stage Giants would be glad to say: 'We’ve 'ad a lovely day, we'll take the draw and head back home, Jim.'
Super, lovely, smashing. Didn't they do well?
The remainder of the period was played out in play off hockey style with both teams pushing for the win. A dodgy roughing call with less than five minutes remaining in the game and Panthers were punished as Tony Hand fired home a one timer from the face off. It was a miss hit of course and he was trying to set up an assist.
And so back to Stoney Street with a pocket full of loose change and a Panthers performance that sadly was about as inspiring as the old girl positioned outside the NCP. Bring on those Sheffield tarts.
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Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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crap match report compendium
nottingham panthers official site
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DJ Wrong Speed
Posthumously for Peel...
At least the old bugger made the lead on the Six 'O Clock News on Tuesday. And fuck me, he even managed to drag Dr Kershaw up there too. It didn't end there; Newsnight a few hours later had Mark E Smith almost managing a Stone Roses moment.
I remember listening to R1 about five years ago and thinking: 'Shit – Peely's died on air!'
He'd pressed the wrong button of course.
| Thursday 28 October, 2004 |
Posthumously for Peel...
At least the old bugger made the lead on the Six 'O Clock News on Tuesday. And fuck me, he even managed to drag Dr Kershaw up there too. It didn't end there; Newsnight a few hours later had Mark E Smith almost managing a Stone Roses moment.
I remember listening to R1 about five years ago and thinking: 'Shit – Peely's died on air!'
He'd pressed the wrong button of course.
| #permalink |
MPs' Metropolis
Seeing as though it took so long to build, Westminster tube station was just about worth the wait. Looking like a scene from Metropolis, Westminster makes even a mundane task such as taking an escalator seem fun. Long gone are the days where a casual flirt on a London Underground stairway can liven up the commute. Escalators compete for you attention at every angle as you ride up, down and everything in-between. Think yo! sushi for human meat. Don’t fancy yours much.
Keeping with the dark goings on above ground at the Palace, Westminster tube is an opaque opening to the murky world above. Lighting is low key, adding more to the mechanical, Mecano feel.
Once above ground and you have battled past the tourists and shitty souvenir shops (ahh, a plastic figure with a face resembling a deformed English policeman – just what I've always wanted) and eyes left and you have the Palace of Westminster, contrasting strongly with eyes right and the pig ugly Portcullis House.
The eyes to the left have it, but I'm not too sure about some of the knobbers plonking their sweaty arses down on the green benches. Actually I'm not sure about ANY of them.
Portcullis House is of course home to the MPs, in-between sessions of playground taunting across the road and egotistical gooning in front of any camera that shows the slightest interest in their shitty little lives. The unsightly mis-match of modern and retro styles leave Portcullis looking more like a prison. Which is probably apt.
Send all the fuckers off to Sydenham I say and allow the prime piece of property to be used for the public. See how they deal with the daily commute. At least they will get to experience the Westminster tube. But don't expect me to give up my seat for the little shits.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Tuesday 26 October, 2004 |
Seeing as though it took so long to build, Westminster tube station was just about worth the wait. Looking like a scene from Metropolis, Westminster makes even a mundane task such as taking an escalator seem fun. Long gone are the days where a casual flirt on a London Underground stairway can liven up the commute. Escalators compete for you attention at every angle as you ride up, down and everything in-between. Think yo! sushi for human meat. Don’t fancy yours much.
Keeping with the dark goings on above ground at the Palace, Westminster tube is an opaque opening to the murky world above. Lighting is low key, adding more to the mechanical, Mecano feel.
Send the fuckers off to Sydenham |
The eyes to the left have it, but I'm not too sure about some of the knobbers plonking their sweaty arses down on the green benches. Actually I'm not sure about ANY of them.
Portcullis House is of course home to the MPs, in-between sessions of playground taunting across the road and egotistical gooning in front of any camera that shows the slightest interest in their shitty little lives. The unsightly mis-match of modern and retro styles leave Portcullis looking more like a prison. Which is probably apt.
Send all the fuckers off to Sydenham I say and allow the prime piece of property to be used for the public. See how they deal with the daily commute. At least they will get to experience the Westminster tube. But don't expect me to give up my seat for the little shits.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Vra Vra Vroom
'The Frenchman went to the toilet, ou est le papier?'
Sunday's Entente Cordiale Cycle Race from Paris to London wasn't perhaps the best opportunity for me to recite this Rugby clubhouse classic. Over three hundred riders from both sides of the Channel were no doubt left looking for London's more luxurious lavatories upon arrival at Tower Bridge at around 4pm on Sunday.
I could think of no better way of celebrating the centenary of the Entente Cordiale by holding a 300km cycle race from capital to capital. A society that cycles is a civilised society. That's why we didn't invite the Americans over presumably. Plus of course the small matter of cycling across the Atlantic.
Olympian Nicole Cooke, former Tour de France cyclist Colin Lewis and current world veteran cyclo-cross champion Mick Ives all took part in the race which was inevitably won by a Frenchie. The highest placed Brit peddled home in ninth place, a clear indication that more cycle lanes need to be built in Blighty.
The winning time was four hours and twenty minutes with the riders looking about as 'fresh' as I did after my time in the saddle from Sunny Stockwell to Tower Bridge. The windswept look is a winner, ladies.
The coming together of cultures wasn't limited to just the cyclists with the French Gendarme positioned outside the Tower of London no doubt inducing a heart attack to any UKIP knobbers over here form Brussels for the weekend. We should hold this kind of event more often.
With all the anti-climax of the French national football side bottling it at a major competition, the only let down was the refusal of the winning female rider to take off her lycra and wear her race winning top.
One French Fry short of a Happy Meal.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Monday 25 October, 2004 |
'The Frenchman went to the toilet, ou est le papier?'
Sunday's Entente Cordiale Cycle Race from Paris to London wasn't perhaps the best opportunity for me to recite this Rugby clubhouse classic. Over three hundred riders from both sides of the Channel were no doubt left looking for London's more luxurious lavatories upon arrival at Tower Bridge at around 4pm on Sunday.
I could think of no better way of celebrating the centenary of the Entente Cordiale by holding a 300km cycle race from capital to capital. A society that cycles is a civilised society. That's why we didn't invite the Americans over presumably. Plus of course the small matter of cycling across the Atlantic.
The windswept look is a winner |
The winning time was four hours and twenty minutes with the riders looking about as 'fresh' as I did after my time in the saddle from Sunny Stockwell to Tower Bridge. The windswept look is a winner, ladies.
The coming together of cultures wasn't limited to just the cyclists with the French Gendarme positioned outside the Tower of London no doubt inducing a heart attack to any UKIP knobbers over here form Brussels for the weekend. We should hold this kind of event more often.
With all the anti-climax of the French national football side bottling it at a major competition, the only let down was the refusal of the winning female rider to take off her lycra and wear her race winning top.
One French Fry short of a Happy Meal.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Return to Sodding Sender
Another nasty day on the post front yesterday, and no, I don't mean another nail in the coffin for Metroknobbers. First off was a letter from the Inland Revenue:
'Dear Mr Resident of XX7 (my attempt at disguising my address, not a super strength porn film). We are trying to contact the ex-Mrs Resident of XX9. Did she leave any contact details so that we can hound the poor girl for the £56.02 that she owes HM Government?'
Now, I may have rather long sideboards but I'm certainly no Supergrass. Alright? I was almost drawn to my BIG black book of knobbers that have screwed me over in the past for a fake forwarding address. But no doubt I'll need job references from the fuckspuds in the future.
Bad Post Day #2:
The excitement at onionbagblog HQ upon receiving a form from the friendly Sunny Stockwell Posty telling me that I had a packet to collect was almost on par with my packet down below after re-discovering some old pictures of Louise Wener recently. Someone loves me! Probably not Louise Wener but they are sending me a packet in the post.
I purposely procrastinated on picking up my little packet of fun for a week. This must be the first case ever of abstinence involving a Post Office parcel by choice. Usually it's because the Royal Mail is so shit. With an added extra thrill knowing that there was a surcharge of £1.21 to pay, FUCK ME, this had to be the BIG one.
And what an anti-climax. A lifetime supply of PG Tips in recognition of being such a loyal customer? Something saucy from an anonymous admirer? I would have even settled for third prize in the monthly Dulwich Hamlet Supporters Trust prize draw.
Instead I had to pay the princely sum of £1.21 for the privilege of reading some corporate knobcheese marketing crap from the buggers at British Gas who are so incompetent at running a utility company that they forgot to put a stamp on the envelope. Even a penny pinchy pikey such as myself stretches to a second class stamp.
Phone calls of complaint have been made. Reverse charge of course. Letters have been written. And yes, stamps have been attached. £1.21 is my weekly budget for buying out of date delicatessens at Sainsbury.
What a gas, etc.
| Sunday 24 October, 2004 |
Another nasty day on the post front yesterday, and no, I don't mean another nail in the coffin for Metroknobbers. First off was a letter from the Inland Revenue:
'Dear Mr Resident of XX7 (my attempt at disguising my address, not a super strength porn film). We are trying to contact the ex-Mrs Resident of XX9. Did she leave any contact details so that we can hound the poor girl for the £56.02 that she owes HM Government?'
Now, I may have rather long sideboards but I'm certainly no Supergrass. Alright? I was almost drawn to my BIG black book of knobbers that have screwed me over in the past for a fake forwarding address. But no doubt I'll need job references from the fuckspuds in the future.
FUCK ME, this had to be the BIG one |
The excitement at onionbagblog HQ upon receiving a form from the friendly Sunny Stockwell Posty telling me that I had a packet to collect was almost on par with my packet down below after re-discovering some old pictures of Louise Wener recently. Someone loves me! Probably not Louise Wener but they are sending me a packet in the post.
I purposely procrastinated on picking up my little packet of fun for a week. This must be the first case ever of abstinence involving a Post Office parcel by choice. Usually it's because the Royal Mail is so shit. With an added extra thrill knowing that there was a surcharge of £1.21 to pay, FUCK ME, this had to be the BIG one.
And what an anti-climax. A lifetime supply of PG Tips in recognition of being such a loyal customer? Something saucy from an anonymous admirer? I would have even settled for third prize in the monthly Dulwich Hamlet Supporters Trust prize draw.
Instead I had to pay the princely sum of £1.21 for the privilege of reading some corporate knobcheese marketing crap from the buggers at British Gas who are so incompetent at running a utility company that they forgot to put a stamp on the envelope. Even a penny pinchy pikey such as myself stretches to a second class stamp.
Phone calls of complaint have been made. Reverse charge of course. Letters have been written. And yes, stamps have been attached. £1.21 is my weekly budget for buying out of date delicatessens at Sainsbury.
What a gas, etc.
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Return to Brockwell
Much in the same way that the Lido looked a sorry state on Saturday, Brockwell Park had the appearance of a once prime time athlete reduced to a 40 a day Beno & Hedgehog habit. All life sucked out of the old boy and little reason for you to remain after giving a brief glance.
The good news of course is that unlike a tar stained lung, Brockwell Park will be back to breathing a healthy outlook in six months time. Just let Mother Nature take her natural healing process, clearing up the orange stained edges as Brockwell splutters back into life come the Spring.
For the time being Brockwell provides a chilling solace away from the Brixton madness. The Secret Garden is even more secret than it was in the summer as I was treated to a private viewing. The tennis courts were long deserted with Timmy's Wimbledon dream for another year and the kid's paddling pool was drained of all life.
Bonfire Night is the next big date in the calendar for Brockwell, although after recent years when the yoof of South London have turned it into target practise (with me being the target), I may just stay indoors on 5th November.
Hibernating, like the park.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Saturday 23 October, 2004 |
Much in the same way that the Lido looked a sorry state on Saturday, Brockwell Park had the appearance of a once prime time athlete reduced to a 40 a day Beno & Hedgehog habit. All life sucked out of the old boy and little reason for you to remain after giving a brief glance.
The good news of course is that unlike a tar stained lung, Brockwell Park will be back to breathing a healthy outlook in six months time. Just let Mother Nature take her natural healing process, clearing up the orange stained edges as Brockwell splutters back into life come the Spring.
For the time being Brockwell provides a chilling solace away from the Brixton madness. The Secret Garden is even more secret than it was in the summer as I was treated to a private viewing. The tennis courts were long deserted with Timmy's Wimbledon dream for another year and the kid's paddling pool was drained of all life.
Bonfire Night is the next big date in the calendar for Brockwell, although after recent years when the yoof of South London have turned it into target practise (with me being the target), I may just stay indoors on 5th November.
Hibernating, like the park.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Shelter From the Storm
In the words of the great Shakin' Stevens:
'Won't you let me in so I can find out what's behind the green door...'
'Bugger off – we're 'avin our tea,' is the stock response if you try and breach one of the last bastions of London cabbie culture – the London Taxi Shelter. Only four remain in the capital (I know 'cos I once heard this on a TV programme) and in true Crap Journo Style, I can only name one location – Warwick Square in Pimlico, SW1.
The first Cab Shelter surfaced in 1875 when Captain G.C. Armstrong of St. Johns Wood (a proper name for a gentleman) raised concern over the inclement weather conditions that our capital's cabbies had to endure whilst touting for business. A sort of brothel for Gentleman of the Road.
Acacia Road, NW8 was the location for the first green hut with one hundred spectators turning up for the opening. Now that's what I call a slow news day. Fifty three other shelters were soon up and running and by 1897 all corners of the capital were covered.
The upkeep of the cabbie cafes initially came from a charge of one penny per day or four pence per week. This also funded the employment of a full time Attendant per shelter, whose job spec consisted of the upkeep of the Cab Shelter Rules:
1. This Shelter is for Cab-Drivers solely.
2. The Drivers of the first two cabs on the rank are not to enter the Shelter.
3. No bad language.
4. Attendant in charge is authorised to sell tea, coffee, bread and butter to drivers using the Shelter only, at prices as per tariff.
5. The Attendant is instructed to see that the above Rules are strictly kept.
Bollocks to the bad language. Does a cabbie curse? Do taxis travel South of the river?
The 1950's saw the arrival of the motorised cab and green huts were soon gone. No need for somewhere off-road to read your copy of Sub-Standard when you can do it in the comfort of your own covered cab.
Much in the same way that in fifty years time we will probably be bemoaning the lack of bendy busses (yeah, right), the Shelter Fund was established in the early '80s to campaign for the protection of the few remaining Cab Shelters. With funding form the TGWU and a GLC donation of £20,000, four of the shelters were restored.
Catering for up to thirty thirsty cabbies in one sitting, the green huts take on a Tardis type quality. I would love to explore the inner sanctum but my lack of a genuine cockney accent and my general dislike of all motorised transport makes this unlikely. Peering through the smoked windows of the Pimlico hut and you can make out around two dozen mugs hanging from the wall. Paradise for a tea slurper such as myself.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Friday 22 October, 2004 |
In the words of the great Shakin' Stevens:
'Won't you let me in so I can find out what's behind the green door...'
'Bugger off – we're 'avin our tea,' is the stock response if you try and breach one of the last bastions of London cabbie culture – the London Taxi Shelter. Only four remain in the capital (I know 'cos I once heard this on a TV programme) and in true Crap Journo Style, I can only name one location – Warwick Square in Pimlico, SW1.
Bollocks to the bad language |
Acacia Road, NW8 was the location for the first green hut with one hundred spectators turning up for the opening. Now that's what I call a slow news day. Fifty three other shelters were soon up and running and by 1897 all corners of the capital were covered.
The upkeep of the cabbie cafes initially came from a charge of one penny per day or four pence per week. This also funded the employment of a full time Attendant per shelter, whose job spec consisted of the upkeep of the Cab Shelter Rules:
1. This Shelter is for Cab-Drivers solely.
2. The Drivers of the first two cabs on the rank are not to enter the Shelter.
3. No bad language.
4. Attendant in charge is authorised to sell tea, coffee, bread and butter to drivers using the Shelter only, at prices as per tariff.
5. The Attendant is instructed to see that the above Rules are strictly kept.
Bollocks to the bad language. Does a cabbie curse? Do taxis travel South of the river?
The 1950's saw the arrival of the motorised cab and green huts were soon gone. No need for somewhere off-road to read your copy of Sub-Standard when you can do it in the comfort of your own covered cab.
Much in the same way that in fifty years time we will probably be bemoaning the lack of bendy busses (yeah, right), the Shelter Fund was established in the early '80s to campaign for the protection of the few remaining Cab Shelters. With funding form the TGWU and a GLC donation of £20,000, four of the shelters were restored.
Catering for up to thirty thirsty cabbies in one sitting, the green huts take on a Tardis type quality. I would love to explore the inner sanctum but my lack of a genuine cockney accent and my general dislike of all motorised transport makes this unlikely. Peering through the smoked windows of the Pimlico hut and you can make out around two dozen mugs hanging from the wall. Paradise for a tea slurper such as myself.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Terribly Modern
I turned up at the Tate Modern having been told to expect an 'oral collage' in the magnificent Turbine Hall. I was expecting a cut 'n paste pastiche of porn pics splashed all over the walls, and was even hoping to add my own 'splashes' to the collection. But it was an 'aural' collage of course and so what I got was a 'soundscape' of some old coffin dodgers banging on about some incomprehensible crap.
Bruce Nauman's Raw Materials is the fifth installation in the Turbine Hall and like a keen Football '78 collector, so far I've bagged the full set. How to fill Europe's largest public art space is a problem that has been posed to Nauman. His solution is simple: DON'T fill it.
Instead a series of speakers are positioned around the hall with different spoken text being played out in a loop. Truth be told, all the random madness reminds you of a walk through Brixton Market on a Saturday morning, but with a higher proportion of knobbers of course.
The emptiness of the Hall even bypassed some of the visitors who seemed more turned on to the idea of being voyeurs of public art per se then actually taking in any of the work. If they had taken the time, they would have found an interesting yet flawed installation.
Those that persisted reverted to that rather strange habit we all have when listening to a radio broadcast in public. Much as in the same way as you would understandably stare at a TV, why do we feel the need to look at a radio during a communal listen?
The Turbine Hall has been turned into a public listening booth with the surreal site of groups huddled together and pressing an ear against the wall at various intervals. As Crapital Radio know only too well, people will listen to any old shit these days, which is pretty much the case down at The Tate Modern at the moment.
One of the speakers was stuck in a tape loop where a Radio 4 style female spoken voice repeated:
'No one's listening.'
Too right love. It all sounds a bit like running the radio dial up and down the wireless set and tuning into everything from the World Service, crappy local radio and the bling bling of the pirates.
Five minutes or so was all that I could take and so I found a space and sat down in the Hall. Placing my detached bike seat nearby (wot's up mate, lost yer bike? Ha bloody ha. No, I've found a seat actually you twat), true to stereotype, a Japanese student pointed the camera at the surreal statement of movement stationed in a confined space (or something) and took pictures of my cycling accessory.
Shit sells.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Thursday 21 October, 2004 |
I turned up at the Tate Modern having been told to expect an 'oral collage' in the magnificent Turbine Hall. I was expecting a cut 'n paste pastiche of porn pics splashed all over the walls, and was even hoping to add my own 'splashes' to the collection. But it was an 'aural' collage of course and so what I got was a 'soundscape' of some old coffin dodgers banging on about some incomprehensible crap.
Bruce Nauman's Raw Materials is the fifth installation in the Turbine Hall and like a keen Football '78 collector, so far I've bagged the full set. How to fill Europe's largest public art space is a problem that has been posed to Nauman. His solution is simple: DON'T fill it.
People will listen to any old shit |
The emptiness of the Hall even bypassed some of the visitors who seemed more turned on to the idea of being voyeurs of public art per se then actually taking in any of the work. If they had taken the time, they would have found an interesting yet flawed installation.
Those that persisted reverted to that rather strange habit we all have when listening to a radio broadcast in public. Much as in the same way as you would understandably stare at a TV, why do we feel the need to look at a radio during a communal listen?
The Turbine Hall has been turned into a public listening booth with the surreal site of groups huddled together and pressing an ear against the wall at various intervals. As Crapital Radio know only too well, people will listen to any old shit these days, which is pretty much the case down at The Tate Modern at the moment.
One of the speakers was stuck in a tape loop where a Radio 4 style female spoken voice repeated:
'No one's listening.'
Too right love. It all sounds a bit like running the radio dial up and down the wireless set and tuning into everything from the World Service, crappy local radio and the bling bling of the pirates.
Five minutes or so was all that I could take and so I found a space and sat down in the Hall. Placing my detached bike seat nearby (wot's up mate, lost yer bike? Ha bloody ha. No, I've found a seat actually you twat), true to stereotype, a Japanese student pointed the camera at the surreal statement of movement stationed in a confined space (or something) and took pictures of my cycling accessory.
Shit sells.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Mr Johnson Goes to Liverpool
Itinerary of Tory Twat Boris Johnson's trip to Liverpool, arranged so that the bumbling buffoon could 'personally apologies to the PEOPLE of Liverpool for the views expressed in The Spectator article:'
*Checks in at a Sefton Park five star hotel.
*Photo opportunity in local park.
*Interview with Radio Merseyside.
*Interview with the Liverpool Echo.
*Visits the Liverpool Institute of Performing Arts for another photo opportunity – Let it Be, eh, Boris?
*Local TV interview.
*More local radio interviews.
*Shakes the hand of one bemused Scouser at Albert Dock.
*Gets the fuck out on the first plane back to London.
Not on the itinerary:
*A request from the Hillsborough Support Group to meet families of the 96 Liverpool fans who died.
Boris may be a blogging MP but he is also a knobber of the highest order. How someone who was sacked from The Times for falsifying a quote (you know, the pillar that journalism is built upon) can then rise to become Editor of a national magazine and a columnist in a daily paper paints a sorry tale for the state of the UK press. But then again the twat has an Oxbridge background to guide him along.
Johnson replaced Michael Heseltine as MP for Henley at the last election. Mostly playing on my iPod today has been Chumbawamba's (stop sniggering) Mr Heseltine Meets His Public:
Mr Heseltine you drove into our town
The northern rain always drizzling down
Shoppers at the window stopped to look
As you signed another copy of your book
You have all the power
And you have all the wealth
We've got nothing... but ourselves
So we'll do away with leaders and bosses and police:
Reclaim our actions, rediscover our voices
Salvage our integrity, reassert our dignity.
Power in the heart of the community!
Mr Heseltine
We don't want power
and we don't want money
We're fighting for the right to decide
How the power and the wealth
Be equally divided...
Old people in Seacroft
Need money for bills
Single mums with kids
Want decent meals
And we all want new coats,
When all's said and done:
They're all worn out
From being walked upon...
There comes a time when we organise
When we take control of our daily lives
When we don't obey orders from authority
When we disbelieve the myths of Democracy
Mr Heseltine drove away
Two more appointments in the north today
Helpless and powerless
We join the queue for the metro bus
And Mr Heseltine I've up my mind:
I'll never give support to you and your kind
| Wednesday 20 October, 2004 |
Itinerary of Tory Twat Boris Johnson's trip to Liverpool, arranged so that the bumbling buffoon could 'personally apologies to the PEOPLE of Liverpool for the views expressed in The Spectator article:'
*Checks in at a Sefton Park five star hotel.
*Photo opportunity in local park.
*Interview with Radio Merseyside.
*Interview with the Liverpool Echo.
*Visits the Liverpool Institute of Performing Arts for another photo opportunity – Let it Be, eh, Boris?
*Local TV interview.
*More local radio interviews.
*Shakes the hand of one bemused Scouser at Albert Dock.
*Gets the fuck out on the first plane back to London.
Not on the itinerary:
*A request from the Hillsborough Support Group to meet families of the 96 Liverpool fans who died.
Boris may be a blogging MP but he is also a knobber of the highest order. How someone who was sacked from The Times for falsifying a quote (you know, the pillar that journalism is built upon) can then rise to become Editor of a national magazine and a columnist in a daily paper paints a sorry tale for the state of the UK press. But then again the twat has an Oxbridge background to guide him along.
Johnson replaced Michael Heseltine as MP for Henley at the last election. Mostly playing on my iPod today has been Chumbawamba's (stop sniggering) Mr Heseltine Meets His Public:
Mr Heseltine you drove into our town
The northern rain always drizzling down
Shoppers at the window stopped to look
As you signed another copy of your book
You have all the power
And you have all the wealth
We've got nothing... but ourselves
So we'll do away with leaders and bosses and police:
Reclaim our actions, rediscover our voices
Salvage our integrity, reassert our dignity.
Power in the heart of the community!
Mr Heseltine
We don't want power
and we don't want money
We're fighting for the right to decide
How the power and the wealth
Be equally divided...
Old people in Seacroft
Need money for bills
Single mums with kids
Want decent meals
And we all want new coats,
When all's said and done:
They're all worn out
From being walked upon...
There comes a time when we organise
When we take control of our daily lives
When we don't obey orders from authority
When we disbelieve the myths of Democracy
Mr Heseltine drove away
Two more appointments in the north today
Helpless and powerless
We join the queue for the metro bus
And Mr Heseltine I've up my mind:
I'll never give support to you and your kind
| #permalink |
Pipes of Peace
The last time I was at Russell Square was for a Year Three trip to the British Museum. Bless the little darlings. 20,000 plus anarchists, commies, pinkos and plain freaks such as myself can't compete with the demands of twenty South London snotty nosed little lovelies I'm afraid, but the gathering of the European Soical Forum on Sunday certainly caused a nuisance to the authority figures. It was nice to be on the mischief making side for once.
The NOT SO SOCIAL European Forum gave Uncle Ken a good kicking the night before up at Ally Pally. And rightly so for a member of the War Mongering Party and an individual who embraces capitalism like the career politician that he is. The high police presence on Sunday stretching all the way back to Waterloo suggested that the boys in blue were taking no chances this time.
Cycling through Kingsway and onto Holborn and I saw a homeless geezer out for the count in the salubrious setting of Sicilian Avenue. Scenes like these make it all the more easier to understand the ESF way of thinking. Party politics is for pricks with little gain. The real action is out there on the street. Or in the shop doorway as was the case for the poor bugger down on his luck.
The ESF Conference has confirmed London's status as THE great European city. The Sunday march was a pan-European event with representation from all corners of the continent. UKIP knobbers kept a low profile. The bigots were probably all partying hard across in Brussels. Strange that.
The march slowly moved down to Holborn and through Aldwych, across the Ray Davies Bridge and then double backed across Westminster Bridge and back up into Trafalgar Square. Probably just under an hour on foot, but the pace and party atmosphere stretched the Sunday morning stroll out to around three hours.
You know that you're in the London anarchist heartlands by the colour of the phone boxes. Black of course for the highly politicised territory around Russell Square and the London Metropolitan University. Red for the left of centre South Bank. Not a blue box in sight, the way it should be.
Chant of the Day had to be the first airing of the Jilted John classic 'Gordon is a Moron,' in anticipation of the Coronation of the Iron Fisted One as a successor to Mr Tony.
Welcome to the new boss, same as the old boss.
Back at school on Monday and the kids wanted to know if I had a nice weekend. Ah, bless again. 'You know, the usual; being a pain in the arse and upsetting authority figures. Much like yourselves I imagine.'
'Can we play next time?'
They're learning fast...
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Wednesday 20 October, 2004 |
The last time I was at Russell Square was for a Year Three trip to the British Museum. Bless the little darlings. 20,000 plus anarchists, commies, pinkos and plain freaks such as myself can't compete with the demands of twenty South London snotty nosed little lovelies I'm afraid, but the gathering of the European Soical Forum on Sunday certainly caused a nuisance to the authority figures. It was nice to be on the mischief making side for once.
The NOT SO SOCIAL European Forum gave Uncle Ken a good kicking the night before up at Ally Pally. And rightly so for a member of the War Mongering Party and an individual who embraces capitalism like the career politician that he is. The high police presence on Sunday stretching all the way back to Waterloo suggested that the boys in blue were taking no chances this time.
Gordon is a Moron |
The ESF Conference has confirmed London's status as THE great European city. The Sunday march was a pan-European event with representation from all corners of the continent. UKIP knobbers kept a low profile. The bigots were probably all partying hard across in Brussels. Strange that.
The march slowly moved down to Holborn and through Aldwych, across the Ray Davies Bridge and then double backed across Westminster Bridge and back up into Trafalgar Square. Probably just under an hour on foot, but the pace and party atmosphere stretched the Sunday morning stroll out to around three hours.
You know that you're in the London anarchist heartlands by the colour of the phone boxes. Black of course for the highly politicised territory around Russell Square and the London Metropolitan University. Red for the left of centre South Bank. Not a blue box in sight, the way it should be.
Chant of the Day had to be the first airing of the Jilted John classic 'Gordon is a Moron,' in anticipation of the Coronation of the Iron Fisted One as a successor to Mr Tony.
Welcome to the new boss, same as the old boss.
Back at school on Monday and the kids wanted to know if I had a nice weekend. Ah, bless again. 'You know, the usual; being a pain in the arse and upsetting authority figures. Much like yourselves I imagine.'
'Can we play next time?'
They're learning fast...
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Crap Match Report| Tuesday 19 October, 2004 |
Streatham Redskins 8 Peterborough Islanders 0, 17/10/04
Streatham Redskins returned to the High Road rink on Sunday after a controversial road trip at Milton Keynes the week before, determined to press ahead with their fine league form as Peterborough Islanders tried their luck against the English National League leaders. Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?
After a 9-0 (NINE – NIL) defeat for Dulwich the day before, what I needed from Streatham on Sunday was some South London spirit to show through. I got this, plus a LOT more having seen the Hamlet Rabble ahead of face off. The talk wasn't of hockey blue lines but the language was blue. I may have been mistaken though; the Pink 'n Blue Boys could have been banging on about 'a puck in hell' in front of their every utterance.
The Peterborough power play was pants |
Streatham controlled the early possession, forcing Peterborough to play a dump and chase game. The goal lamp was lit for the first time at 4:49 with an unassisted effort from Johnston. After almost five minutes of hockey, this was the first break in play. OK, so I pay my fiver to watch HOCKEY (actually I don't pay at all, but that's a different matter) but it's a real bugger to have to watch hockey for a full five minutes when I have more pressing engagements; eyeing up the Puck Bunnies, taking photos of the babe sitting next to me and considering the health and safety issues involved in having a dump in the old rink 'toilets' at the break. It's a dirty job, etc.
Unlike other opposition so far this season at Streatham, Peterborough didn't collapse. Play continued to flow with referee Hayden having an allergy to using his whistle. Unlike me who was already wolf whistling at the babe sitting to my left (refuses to clarify which side mrs onionbagblogger was sitting). A ten minute misconduct, young man.
A slashing penalty was finally called on Captain Quiney, and keeping with the urinal theme, the Peterborough power play was pants.
As the players took to the ice for the start of the second period, we were treated to a rare sight at Streatham; we're use to the opposition netminder 'knocking' their netting DURING play at the High Road. Pity the poor Peterborough pipeman then who looked a lone figure shifting the net back to the mooring after Mr Zamboni and his band of merry little helpers forgot to finish off the job.
Redskins picked up the pace where they left off at the end of the first period. Quiney came close with a goal mouth scramble and then with only 2:24 on the clock, the pressure paid off. Good team work from the youngster's line set up Steve Dulmage who smashed home from up close.
The free flowing hockey that has been a feature for Streatham this season was displayed yet again just a minute later as Victor Somfaleanu found himself on the end of a Johnston cross after some neat passing of the puck around the rink. It almost inspired me to make my own pass at the babe sitting next door, but I was still in the box (and dog house) for my previous ten minute misconduct.
An early contender for Goal of the Season was slot home by Somfaleanu at 26:50 as the Redskins forward skated from the halfway line, sold a dummy to a desperate Peterborough D man, and then once more for luck on the netminder. It was enough to raise the eyebrows of young Fitzmaurice. Not that the number 27 has any left after an 'induction ceremony' on the road trip last weekend.
The vulcanised rubber was now on fire in the old barn, and we're not talking about the condom machine in the Gents that I was hoping to get acquainted with before the evening was out.
Streatham played a style of hockey that wouldn't look out of place in a higher league. Home netminder James Tanner wasn't seeing much action, Puck Bunnies aside. It was no surprise that when the opening chords of The Stones' Start Me Up cranked up, the Redskins #1 could be seen playing air guitar with his big wooden stick. Down the other end of the ice and it was nearly a 19th Nervous Breakdown for poor Kelly Herring in-between the pipes for Peterborough.
Goal poacher Somfaleanu soon turned goal provider, making the perfect pass across the goal crease for Steve Paris to tap home for a 5-0 home lead with less than two minutes remaining in the period.
At the start of the third period and all the focus was on the two netminders. Peterborough had pulled their number 1 in favour of back up 'keeper Dan Jennings. Desperate Dan did his best but was let down by a poor Peterborough defence. Tanner meanwhile was looking for another shut out. Mrs onionbagblogger was looking for me to shut up.
It was a case of same old same between the pipes for Peterborough at 56 minutes as Paris hit home a blue liner from the left wing. Seconds later and Streatham had a goal washed out for having a player in the crease. If at first you don't succeed... Johnston hit the pipes and the rebound was picked up and slotted home by hat trick hero Somfaleanu with 32:43 played. Sadly Peterborough didn't travel with a THIRD netminder. Still, let's look for positives in the Peterborough performance; um... nice netminder pads. They saw plenty of action anyway.
With three minutes remaining in the game, Nick Bigwood fired a slap shot with such force that the net minder toppled backwards and allowed the puck to bounce behind into the net.
And so another shut out for Streatham, but not quite the 9-0 required to cancel out the Dulwich disaster from 24 hours earlier, leaving me with a -1 deficit for the weekend.
The big test for the Redskins comes at the end of the month when table topping rivals the Invicta Dynamos visit the High Road on 31 October. Face off is 6.45 and admission is £5 for this ENIHL Cup match.
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Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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crap match report compendium
streatham redskins official site
redskins forum
| #permalink |
Say Hello, Wave Goodbye?
Thank fuck that the obituaries proved about as premature as Marc's own manhood. The Queen isn't Dead - Long Live the Queen. Still, 'stable' conditions sometimes de-stabilise and so Marc's not out of the woods yet. And no, I don't mean dogging.
I really did fear the worst when I woke up with Marc this morning, a thought many a male must have experienced at some stage. Some clarification... I was talking about waking up and hearing Nicky Knobstick Campbell breaking the news of Marc Almond's motorbike crash on Sunday afternoon. Despite sharing the same name as another famous Marc who came unstuck on two wheels in Barnes some twenty five years ago, the world is not ready yet to Say Hello and Wave Goodbye to Mr Almond just yet. And I like to think that we are all better for this.
Please God, NO! Marc is an ARTISTEEE, darling... His lust for life (and spunk) is legendary. Plus he has some rather fine tunes, too. Painting a picture of Soho in '82 with Bedsitter and having the Sex Dwarf (NOT Michael Owen) locked up nearby; lighting a chanteur's Torch with a bit Motown shuffling in What; managing the graceful Art of Falling Apart, Down in the Subway and then entering his maverick phase with the Mambas.
Any man who can provide a seamless transition form ska to electonica in the education of a slightly disturbed teenager is worth as much quality NHS treatment that we can offer right now. Marc Almond is probably the only UK Diva we can throw back in the face at the likes of Whitney. Who else we gonna push forward? Fucking Will Young?
The 12" (ooh, err Marc...) of Tainted Love is without a doubt the finest extended version of ANY song from the '80s. I had the pleasure of seeing the Soft Cell reunion at the Brixton Academy in 2002, where for just over an hour there was as much pervy electronica and kinkiness that you could want to shake a great big throbbing cock at. And many a man did just that.
I hope he has plenty of male nurses on his ward.
WE LOVE YA MARC!
| Monday 18 October, 2004 |
Thank fuck that the obituaries proved about as premature as Marc's own manhood. The Queen isn't Dead - Long Live the Queen. Still, 'stable' conditions sometimes de-stabilise and so Marc's not out of the woods yet. And no, I don't mean dogging.
I really did fear the worst when I woke up with Marc this morning, a thought many a male must have experienced at some stage. Some clarification... I was talking about waking up and hearing Nicky Knobstick Campbell breaking the news of Marc Almond's motorbike crash on Sunday afternoon. Despite sharing the same name as another famous Marc who came unstuck on two wheels in Barnes some twenty five years ago, the world is not ready yet to Say Hello and Wave Goodbye to Mr Almond just yet. And I like to think that we are all better for this.
His lust for spunk is legendary |
Any man who can provide a seamless transition form ska to electonica in the education of a slightly disturbed teenager is worth as much quality NHS treatment that we can offer right now. Marc Almond is probably the only UK Diva we can throw back in the face at the likes of Whitney. Who else we gonna push forward? Fucking Will Young?
The 12" (ooh, err Marc...) of Tainted Love is without a doubt the finest extended version of ANY song from the '80s. I had the pleasure of seeing the Soft Cell reunion at the Brixton Academy in 2002, where for just over an hour there was as much pervy electronica and kinkiness that you could want to shake a great big throbbing cock at. And many a man did just that.
I hope he has plenty of male nurses on his ward.
WE LOVE YA MARC!
| #permalink |
Liar, Liar, Pants (not) on Fire
Further to the Firestarter fiasco below, the knobber neighbours are at it again...
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Sunday 17 October, 2004 |
Further to the Firestarter fiasco below, the knobber neighbours are at it again...
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Crap Match Report
London Towers 84 Newcastle Eagles 86, 16/10/04
Gosh I've missed the Towers Dancers over the summer months. The first game back for me at the Crystal Palace sauna and the leggie lovelies face some stiff competition this season. Well, I say stiff but what I really mean is competition. As for the stiffness? Is that a three pointer from the half way line in your baggy basketball shorts or are you just dreaming of a double header between the Dancers and the new Towers physio? Put me down for a slam dunk, darling. New season, new Towers, same old onionbagblogger out of his depth with the Dancers.
Towers by name, Towers by nature on the court for new signing Louis Truscott, at six foot seven standing head and shoulders above the rest. Thank God we didn't get Randy Duck this season. Lining up against the Towers was Eagles' birthday boy Jeremy Hyatt. I'm sure he enjoyed his visit but I can think of better ways of spending your special day than being at a South London sauna with the armpit of a seven foot sweaty bloke wearing a vest stuck in your face.
The Eagles were flying high during the opening exchanges stretching to a 15-4 lead with Hyatt and TJ Walker calling the play. Jerry Williams showed some sparkle for the home team towards the buzzer.
I was joined at the start of the second quarter by a basketball virgin friend who was looking to pop his cherry, much in the same way as I was with the Dancers. One of us would end the evening reaching for the box of tissues yet again.
Towers caught up with the pace in the second quarter with Eagles slipping up with some poor shooting from the free throw line. Walker ducked out of a dunk during a breakaway down the court but as any Essex Leopards fan will tell you, you don't get extra points for style.
A frantic final three minutes in the first half with baskets being traded by both teams. James Hamilton was subbed into the game for the Towers but had some trouble in removing his trackies. Dropping my trousers is not a problem I would ever encounter if I was to be called up. For a game of basketball of course. 38-46 to the Eagles at the break.
Good rebound work from Williams in the third quarter brought back the gap to five points but a strong Newcastle defence was grinding down the Towers attack. Hyatt was hot with his free throws as Eagles stretched the lead to twenty, a figure not dissimilar to the number of E numbers found in the average Krispy Kreme doughnut being given away in the raffle. The momentum turned once more with a late rally from the Towers setting up a 60-70 final quarter showdown.
After the short break Towers hustled the gap back down to three points and the Newcastle fans looked about as happy as professional Geordie whinger Alan Shearer. With an eye on the clock, Eagles wound down the pace, which given the mobility of Fab Flournoy, was business as usual.
It was all rather exciting stuff by my enjoyment of the final few minutes was spoiled by a posse of Hip Hop Hoes (their definition, not mine) who were playing a game of musical chairs in reverse. Whenever the play starts, you stand up.
Fab through an Ab-Fab style wobbly towards the buzzer as his team hung on for an 86-84 road win. Special mention for Williams who bagged 43 points for the Towers. Now, pass that box of tissues please. I have my own 'slam dunking' to do behind closed doors.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
crap match report compendium
london towers official
towers dancers
whats bev - uk basketball forums
| Sunday 17 October, 2004 |
London Towers 84 Newcastle Eagles 86, 16/10/04
Gosh I've missed the Towers Dancers over the summer months. The first game back for me at the Crystal Palace sauna and the leggie lovelies face some stiff competition this season. Well, I say stiff but what I really mean is competition. As for the stiffness? Is that a three pointer from the half way line in your baggy basketball shorts or are you just dreaming of a double header between the Dancers and the new Towers physio? Put me down for a slam dunk, darling. New season, new Towers, same old onionbagblogger out of his depth with the Dancers.
Towers by name, Towers by nature on the court for new signing Louis Truscott, at six foot seven standing head and shoulders above the rest. Thank God we didn't get Randy Duck this season. Lining up against the Towers was Eagles' birthday boy Jeremy Hyatt. I'm sure he enjoyed his visit but I can think of better ways of spending your special day than being at a South London sauna with the armpit of a seven foot sweaty bloke wearing a vest stuck in your face.
Dropping my trousers is not a problem |
I was joined at the start of the second quarter by a basketball virgin friend who was looking to pop his cherry, much in the same way as I was with the Dancers. One of us would end the evening reaching for the box of tissues yet again.
Towers caught up with the pace in the second quarter with Eagles slipping up with some poor shooting from the free throw line. Walker ducked out of a dunk during a breakaway down the court but as any Essex Leopards fan will tell you, you don't get extra points for style.
A frantic final three minutes in the first half with baskets being traded by both teams. James Hamilton was subbed into the game for the Towers but had some trouble in removing his trackies. Dropping my trousers is not a problem I would ever encounter if I was to be called up. For a game of basketball of course. 38-46 to the Eagles at the break.
Good rebound work from Williams in the third quarter brought back the gap to five points but a strong Newcastle defence was grinding down the Towers attack. Hyatt was hot with his free throws as Eagles stretched the lead to twenty, a figure not dissimilar to the number of E numbers found in the average Krispy Kreme doughnut being given away in the raffle. The momentum turned once more with a late rally from the Towers setting up a 60-70 final quarter showdown.
After the short break Towers hustled the gap back down to three points and the Newcastle fans looked about as happy as professional Geordie whinger Alan Shearer. With an eye on the clock, Eagles wound down the pace, which given the mobility of Fab Flournoy, was business as usual.
It was all rather exciting stuff by my enjoyment of the final few minutes was spoiled by a posse of Hip Hop Hoes (their definition, not mine) who were playing a game of musical chairs in reverse. Whenever the play starts, you stand up.
Fab through an Ab-Fab style wobbly towards the buzzer as his team hung on for an 86-84 road win. Special mention for Williams who bagged 43 points for the Towers. Now, pass that box of tissues please. I have my own 'slam dunking' to do behind closed doors.
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crap match report compendium
london towers official
towers dancers
whats bev - uk basketball forums
| #permalink |
Con Fusion
South London 'leisure lifestyle' company Fusion is on the brink of signing a twenty five year lease to manage Brockwell Lido on behalf of Lambeth Council. We have been here before- eighteen months ago to be precise. As is the case with these corporate types, the crossing of the dots slows down the blue sky thinking process, which is a shame as there was almost no blue sky at the Lido last summer with all the confusion. In stepped Paddy Castledine and Casey McGlue yet again to resurrect a management partnership for one last fling after the past decade of short term leases and long term apathy from Lambeth Council.
The Lido generates enthusiasm from its users usually reserved for a football team. If you can manage a summer weekly regime of a 6.45 early morning swim then a 10am start on a damp and drizzly Autumn Saturday for the AGM of the Brockwell Lido Users (BLU) group is a mere paddle in the shallow end.
There's something extremely sad about seeing the Lido during the off-season; like a dying window box as winter approaches or an old cricketer leaving the crease for the final time, the falling leaves in the pool is a stark reminder that only six weeks ago I was stretching out the last of the summer with a Saturday morning swim. Sadly the sun cream was replaced this morning with spazzy eczema cream (too much worrying about the future of the Lido, amongst other things...).
It's not without a lot belief, hard work and good luck that the Lido is still standing. With the property developers edging ever closer from East Dulwich towards Brixton, this is a prime spot of land owned by a council looking for ways to 'maximise their funds.' BLU has been central to this, acting as a 'critical friend' for both the Council and Fusion during the previous painful three year consultation period.
Speaking at the meeting this morning was the comically named Peter Kay, Chief Executive of Fusion. Having told us that 'the lease is ready' and with the clock counting down to next summer and 28 weeks of essential repair work needed, why then the estimation that pen won't be put to paper until 'November at the earliest?'
Kay confessed that a delayed summer opening of 'around July' was most likely for next year. Exactly WHAT will be opened remains to be seen. The appeal of the Lido is the unique ambience that has been created by Paddy and Casey. Hippy shit bollocks, yes, but the reality of Lambeth's diverse population partying down at the Lido is an experience that Fusion would do wise to try and maintain.
Unlike the Lambeth Council model which could be characterised as too little too late, Fusion promise to make the Lido self sufficient. And here's the dilemma: Membership payment at the expense as pay as you go; promoting the Lido as part of the Fusion brand rather than a local pool and probably an end to the jazz cigarette laissez faire policy in the top corner as well.
When questions were opened to the floor, a young (ish) articulate and inquisitive, um, ...blogger asked Kay if there was a pricing policy in place for next summer:
'Yes there is.'
'Great – care to expand?'
'It will not be significantly higher than the current prices.'
'So we can expect to pay around a fiver for a swim next summer?'
'Blah blah blah inflation bollocks now bugger off back to your bloody blog, etc'
A critical friend indeed.
The AGM then became tangled up in committee matters and sounded more like a talking shop for a Guardian reading Third Way focus group than semi-naked hedonists who enjoy a summer swim.
After a heated mass debate, the BLU members cooled off skinny dipping in the sub zero temperatures. Yeah, right... You'll be telling me next that the lease will be signed by Christmas.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Saturday 16 October, 2004 |
South London 'leisure lifestyle' company Fusion is on the brink of signing a twenty five year lease to manage Brockwell Lido on behalf of Lambeth Council. We have been here before- eighteen months ago to be precise. As is the case with these corporate types, the crossing of the dots slows down the blue sky thinking process, which is a shame as there was almost no blue sky at the Lido last summer with all the confusion. In stepped Paddy Castledine and Casey McGlue yet again to resurrect a management partnership for one last fling after the past decade of short term leases and long term apathy from Lambeth Council.
The Lido generates enthusiasm from its users usually reserved for a football team. If you can manage a summer weekly regime of a 6.45 early morning swim then a 10am start on a damp and drizzly Autumn Saturday for the AGM of the Brockwell Lido Users (BLU) group is a mere paddle in the shallow end.
Blah blah blah bollocks, bugger off back to your blog |
It's not without a lot belief, hard work and good luck that the Lido is still standing. With the property developers edging ever closer from East Dulwich towards Brixton, this is a prime spot of land owned by a council looking for ways to 'maximise their funds.' BLU has been central to this, acting as a 'critical friend' for both the Council and Fusion during the previous painful three year consultation period.
Speaking at the meeting this morning was the comically named Peter Kay, Chief Executive of Fusion. Having told us that 'the lease is ready' and with the clock counting down to next summer and 28 weeks of essential repair work needed, why then the estimation that pen won't be put to paper until 'November at the earliest?'
Kay confessed that a delayed summer opening of 'around July' was most likely for next year. Exactly WHAT will be opened remains to be seen. The appeal of the Lido is the unique ambience that has been created by Paddy and Casey. Hippy shit bollocks, yes, but the reality of Lambeth's diverse population partying down at the Lido is an experience that Fusion would do wise to try and maintain.
Unlike the Lambeth Council model which could be characterised as too little too late, Fusion promise to make the Lido self sufficient. And here's the dilemma: Membership payment at the expense as pay as you go; promoting the Lido as part of the Fusion brand rather than a local pool and probably an end to the jazz cigarette laissez faire policy in the top corner as well.
When questions were opened to the floor, a young (ish) articulate and inquisitive, um, ...blogger asked Kay if there was a pricing policy in place for next summer:
'Yes there is.'
'Great – care to expand?'
'It will not be significantly higher than the current prices.'
'So we can expect to pay around a fiver for a swim next summer?'
'Blah blah blah inflation bollocks now bugger off back to your bloody blog, etc'
A critical friend indeed.
The AGM then became tangled up in committee matters and sounded more like a talking shop for a Guardian reading Third Way focus group than semi-naked hedonists who enjoy a summer swim.
After a heated mass debate, the BLU members cooled off skinny dipping in the sub zero temperatures. Yeah, right... You'll be telling me next that the lease will be signed by Christmas.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Half Term Report
With Halloween on the horizon and then Bonfire Night next to sparkle, it can only mean one thing: Christmas is coming and Dulwich midfielder Pete Garland is getting fat. Now is the time for a half term report for our South London teams. Bottom of the Premiership come Christmas and relegation for Palace? Millwall to be the unlikely winners of the UEFA Fair Play award? Dulwich Hamlet to manage two consecutive wins? Could do better, must try harder and could someone please tell the Peckham Plonker young Ferdinand that his eight months are up and he can come out of the corner and remove his dunce hat.
After some early nerves at the start of the new term, Charlton have found their feet again. Which is a good job seeing as though we are talking about football. With a planned new extension to the school being built, there is much to look forward to. New boy Murphy has found his South London surroundings slightly more hostile than his old stomping ground, but then the style of play at Liverpool is enough to send anyone to sleep. A 4-0 thumping by the foreign students across the river the other week was unsettling, but as head teacher Curbishley commented in the assembly afterwards: 'Sticks and stones may brake our bones but a Thierry Henry backheel is just taking the piss.'
The new class photo wasn't the classiest catching head teacher Dowie on a bad day but Crystal Palace are still sitting pretty. Just. Moving up to the big school over the summer months is always a traumatic experience and the cost of a new school uniform (plus the odd multi-millionaire midfield mercenary) needs a steady hand on the school cheque book. Palace started off at the back of the class and have showed little improvement in their work to suggest a house point. Or any points to be honest. The effort is there and the ability can be worked on. Before the Christmas break preferably in order to prevent being held back a year and a swift return to the old school. Dowie delivered last Christmas, not just the presents but also promotion. Most Palace fans would happily sit on his knee if the same turnaround could be repeated.
The young boys from Millwall recently returned from a European exchange trip with their Hungarian hosts not quite signing up to the ideal of a unified European Union. The South East school has suffered in the past being wrongly labelled by local authorities that really should know better. A treasure hunting trip for a large silver cup in Cardiff last May didn't deliver the silverware, but the blameless behaviour of the young boys and girls under very trying circumstances (Roy Keane's gob) helped to refute the bad reputation of the school. The attendance record has not been great, but this is more to do with an obsessive school secretary than any lack of interest. The only one of our South London teams to be actually managed by a real life schoolboy.
AFC Wimbledon are the big boys in the small playground. Late developers in life, they are making up for lost time. Grade A+ reports from the past two school years look set to be repeated once again with a new head teacher keeping up the tradition of high achievers. The wider 'Wimbledon' family is not finding the three R's so easy going with Relegation, Relegation and Relegation looking more like a reality for the long lost elder brother who has recently moved out of the catchment area to Milton Keynes. A family feud is unlikely to be resolved with AFC set to take up the position as head of the household in future years.
Dulwich Hamlet have found it hard this season after failing their exams by the smallest possible margin on the final day of last term. The pupils are some of the brightest and most able in the school, but find it hard when asked to do class work together as a team. Sitting at the back of the class is an unusual experience for the boys in pink 'n blue but unlike Footballer's Wife Gillian Taylforth, they probably are too good to go down.
'You’re worse than Tooting and Mitcham' is the traditional playground chant usually heard coming out of Champion Hill. Given the gap between mid-table Tooting and the bottom half of the league, looks like the Dulwich choirboys will be busy singing the song to many a team this season. Tooting are punching above their weight, an analogy that will probably come true when the two teams next meet, especially if Pete 'pork pie' Garland is adding some extra bite to the pink 'n blue midfield.
And finally onto Fisher Athletic. For a school that has recently had a rich benefactor bank roll the establishment, the pupils are performing as well as can be expected. Their rivals are not quite in the Eton or Harrow upper echelons of respectability, but the likes of Leighton, Tilbury and Sittingbourne should soon be left behind as Fisher cast their nets out further come the summer.
Too many metaphors - one hundred lines by next week please:
Charlton - scrape to sixth
PalARSE - possible but not probable relegation
Millwall -play-offs
AFC - promotion by a country mile
Dulwich - late surge and a good Cup run (sadly the London Senior Cup again...)
Thuggers & Muggers - mid-season collapse
Fisher - up, up and away
| Friday 15 October, 2004 |
With Halloween on the horizon and then Bonfire Night next to sparkle, it can only mean one thing: Christmas is coming and Dulwich midfielder Pete Garland is getting fat. Now is the time for a half term report for our South London teams. Bottom of the Premiership come Christmas and relegation for Palace? Millwall to be the unlikely winners of the UEFA Fair Play award? Dulwich Hamlet to manage two consecutive wins? Could do better, must try harder and could someone please tell the Peckham Plonker young Ferdinand that his eight months are up and he can come out of the corner and remove his dunce hat.
After some early nerves at the start of the new term, Charlton have found their feet again. Which is a good job seeing as though we are talking about football. With a planned new extension to the school being built, there is much to look forward to. New boy Murphy has found his South London surroundings slightly more hostile than his old stomping ground, but then the style of play at Liverpool is enough to send anyone to sleep. A 4-0 thumping by the foreign students across the river the other week was unsettling, but as head teacher Curbishley commented in the assembly afterwards: 'Sticks and stones may brake our bones but a Thierry Henry backheel is just taking the piss.'
You're worse than Tooting & Mitcham |
The young boys from Millwall recently returned from a European exchange trip with their Hungarian hosts not quite signing up to the ideal of a unified European Union. The South East school has suffered in the past being wrongly labelled by local authorities that really should know better. A treasure hunting trip for a large silver cup in Cardiff last May didn't deliver the silverware, but the blameless behaviour of the young boys and girls under very trying circumstances (Roy Keane's gob) helped to refute the bad reputation of the school. The attendance record has not been great, but this is more to do with an obsessive school secretary than any lack of interest. The only one of our South London teams to be actually managed by a real life schoolboy.
AFC Wimbledon are the big boys in the small playground. Late developers in life, they are making up for lost time. Grade A+ reports from the past two school years look set to be repeated once again with a new head teacher keeping up the tradition of high achievers. The wider 'Wimbledon' family is not finding the three R's so easy going with Relegation, Relegation and Relegation looking more like a reality for the long lost elder brother who has recently moved out of the catchment area to Milton Keynes. A family feud is unlikely to be resolved with AFC set to take up the position as head of the household in future years.
Dulwich Hamlet have found it hard this season after failing their exams by the smallest possible margin on the final day of last term. The pupils are some of the brightest and most able in the school, but find it hard when asked to do class work together as a team. Sitting at the back of the class is an unusual experience for the boys in pink 'n blue but unlike Footballer's Wife Gillian Taylforth, they probably are too good to go down.
'You’re worse than Tooting and Mitcham' is the traditional playground chant usually heard coming out of Champion Hill. Given the gap between mid-table Tooting and the bottom half of the league, looks like the Dulwich choirboys will be busy singing the song to many a team this season. Tooting are punching above their weight, an analogy that will probably come true when the two teams next meet, especially if Pete 'pork pie' Garland is adding some extra bite to the pink 'n blue midfield.
And finally onto Fisher Athletic. For a school that has recently had a rich benefactor bank roll the establishment, the pupils are performing as well as can be expected. Their rivals are not quite in the Eton or Harrow upper echelons of respectability, but the likes of Leighton, Tilbury and Sittingbourne should soon be left behind as Fisher cast their nets out further come the summer.
Too many metaphors - one hundred lines by next week please:
Charlton - scrape to sixth
PalARSE - possible but not probable relegation
Millwall -play-offs
AFC - promotion by a country mile
Dulwich - late surge and a good Cup run (sadly the London Senior Cup again...)
Thuggers & Muggers - mid-season collapse
Fisher - up, up and away
| #permalink |
Top Trumps
Red faces and red arses all round at onionbagblog HQ this week. The decision by mrs onionbagblogger to go all healthy on my arse by having an organic vegetable box delivered has backfired big time – mostly through my backside.
Nothing to do with having a lettuce inserted up your arse (punch line: that's just the tip of the iceberg...), but bloody beetroots and the burgundy coloured crap that comes out every time you take time out to 'drop the kids off at the pool.'
I know that it's not an isolated incident as the usually fragrant mrs onionbagblogger is painting the potty purple as well. And yes, we do have a flushing toilet, but much in the same way that if you spill some beetroot vinegar over a white T-shirt and you're stained for life, pushing out a purple Mr Ploppy pebble dashes the pot with a permanent psychedelic print. Not so much a case of magic mushrooms but tragic flushroom.
The effect is like swallowing a bottle of red ink. I tried to dilute the situation by scoffing half a dozen Milky Bars. The result of this interesting yet futile experiment is a reminder as to why I only managed a CSE Grade 3 in Art, although it would make for a worthwhile case study over at ratemypoo.com.
Toilet comedy is of course mildly titillating but even my shit sense of humour hits the skids when it comes to posting up pictures of my purple pooh.
Exactly how long will the bloody thing stay in my system? I had intended to paint the town red at the weekend, but this date has now been brought forward to whenever I get the call of nature.
More pressing is my personal impression of the Red Arrows that I have been trailing throughout the day. One pump of air from my arse and a red haze of smoke can be majestically traced back to my ringhole. We're firing on all two cylinders in the evening as the double act of the two trumping troopers lights up the Sunny Stockwell sky.
Beetroot homebrew is the challenge for this weekend. Don't eat red snow.
| Thursday 14 October, 2004 |
Red faces and red arses all round at onionbagblog HQ this week. The decision by mrs onionbagblogger to go all healthy on my arse by having an organic vegetable box delivered has backfired big time – mostly through my backside.
Nothing to do with having a lettuce inserted up your arse (punch line: that's just the tip of the iceberg...), but bloody beetroots and the burgundy coloured crap that comes out every time you take time out to 'drop the kids off at the pool.'
I know that it's not an isolated incident as the usually fragrant mrs onionbagblogger is painting the potty purple as well. And yes, we do have a flushing toilet, but much in the same way that if you spill some beetroot vinegar over a white T-shirt and you're stained for life, pushing out a purple Mr Ploppy pebble dashes the pot with a permanent psychedelic print. Not so much a case of magic mushrooms but tragic flushroom.
The effect is like swallowing a bottle of red ink. I tried to dilute the situation by scoffing half a dozen Milky Bars. The result of this interesting yet futile experiment is a reminder as to why I only managed a CSE Grade 3 in Art, although it would make for a worthwhile case study over at ratemypoo.com.
Toilet comedy is of course mildly titillating but even my shit sense of humour hits the skids when it comes to posting up pictures of my purple pooh.
Exactly how long will the bloody thing stay in my system? I had intended to paint the town red at the weekend, but this date has now been brought forward to whenever I get the call of nature.
More pressing is my personal impression of the Red Arrows that I have been trailing throughout the day. One pump of air from my arse and a red haze of smoke can be majestically traced back to my ringhole. We're firing on all two cylinders in the evening as the double act of the two trumping troopers lights up the Sunny Stockwell sky.
Beetroot homebrew is the challenge for this weekend. Don't eat red snow.
| #permalink |
Firestarter
It happens EVERY autumn and this afternoon was no exception. A heavy cloud of smoke descends from the 'cottages' (knobber estate agent talk) across the road; five minutes later and the sirens start up; a further five minutes pass and the poor old Firemen are packing away their hoses and mumbling under their breath about the silly old bint who forgot to clean her chimney yet again ahead of the cold weather.
The sudden but brief bellowing of smoke is not really a problem, and isn't SW8 part of The Smoke anyway? Judging by the curtain twitching from the adjacent cottages then I can only assume that the hose waving hunks are caught up in a neighbourly feud. There's no smoke without fire etc.
Wednesday being wash day and all that, but still, leaving your linen out on the line just as the first flames of the winter months are lit is no reason to inconvenience the boys from Brixton Fire Station when they might have you know, REAL fires to attend to.
Talk about washing your dirty linen in public.
I'm tempted to intervene and offer an arbitration service. But then given the evil looks that I receive from across the road whenever I attempt something that runs the risk of causing genuine inconvenience to the community (such as oiling my bike chain outside the front door...), well, if you play with fire then you're going to get burnt.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Wednesday 13 October, 2004 |
It happens EVERY autumn and this afternoon was no exception. A heavy cloud of smoke descends from the 'cottages' (knobber estate agent talk) across the road; five minutes later and the sirens start up; a further five minutes pass and the poor old Firemen are packing away their hoses and mumbling under their breath about the silly old bint who forgot to clean her chimney yet again ahead of the cold weather.
The sudden but brief bellowing of smoke is not really a problem, and isn't SW8 part of The Smoke anyway? Judging by the curtain twitching from the adjacent cottages then I can only assume that the hose waving hunks are caught up in a neighbourly feud. There's no smoke without fire etc.
Wednesday being wash day and all that, but still, leaving your linen out on the line just as the first flames of the winter months are lit is no reason to inconvenience the boys from Brixton Fire Station when they might have you know, REAL fires to attend to.
Talk about washing your dirty linen in public.
I'm tempted to intervene and offer an arbitration service. But then given the evil looks that I receive from across the road whenever I attempt something that runs the risk of causing genuine inconvenience to the community (such as oiling my bike chain outside the front door...), well, if you play with fire then you're going to get burnt.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Crap Journo
Sniffing out the stories and serving them up in a shit sandwich
GOTCHA!
For a moment I managed a wry smile at the news that The Digger is doing the dirty on Wapping. For every individual job loss though there is a family struggling to meet the mortgage. Two thirds of the workforce will be soon be having a fast track introduction to the complexities of Job Seeker's Allowance (is that Contributions or Income based Sir?) as Murdoch's Fortress Wapping is pulled down and despatched out to the regions.
Let us not forget that it Was Wapping Wot Won the move from a secure and stable labour market to the crappy hire, fire and fuck 'em approach of today. The printing dispute of '86 was responsible for the current casual nature of the publishing industry, right down from the Gentlemen of the Press to the printers. Contracts were out, casual labour was in.
And now it has come back to bite the buggers on the bum. GOTCHA!
OK, so times and people change and it is unlikely that the poor sods being turned over this time by Murdoch are the same individuals that felt no shame in crossing the picket line nineteen years ago. But there is a lesson to be learnt in all of this.
It Was Wapping Wot Won, as I am frequently reminded whenever I watch Forest play away in Yorkshire (despite the fact that I was a fourteen-year-old Coal Not Dole sticker wearing weirdo back in '84 when the UDM was crossing the picket lines).
I hope there is no hardship for any families over the coming months as Christmas approaches. But I wouldn't trust Murdoch further than I could throw a brick at News International HQ.
Bollocks to Bloody Bobby Moore
Who gives a shit what some Saint of a '60s golden boy may or may not have thought about Beckham’s 'tactical' yellow card against Wales? Sir Geoff Hurst's insistence that the Great Fragrant One would be turning in his grave given the cynicism of Beckham said more about Hurst hijacking a dead footballer's legacy than Beckham's actual booking.
He thinks it's all over? Not just yet thank you very much. A fluky hat trick against the sausage scoffers almost forty years ago can still keep you in the public spotlight. Just come out with some dumbfuck drivel yearning back to a different age and the Great British Public (whoever that might be) will go all misty eyed, wipe their hands before bowing to the Queen and take a stroll down Carnaby Street spinning the latest platter from the beat combo The Beatles.
If it's wise words spoken from six feet under that you're after, then you could do a lot worse than watching BBC1 at 10.35 tonight.
Fuck off Hurst. Today is pension day. Go and join the queue.
Pissing on the Parade
I'm no great flag waver (except when it's a black one) and so fail to see the appeal of waiting in the pissing rain at Piccadilly Circus next Monday as we welcome back the cheats, freaks and pill poppers from Athens. Unless of course you arrange an afternoon skive, all in the name of team building of course.
It seems that I'm not alone as British sprinter Mark Lewis-Francis is unlikely to make the Olympic Parade as well. Being sponsored by Nike is not quite the unified image that Team GB wants to put across, seeing as though Adidas is the 'preferred supplier of funny looking vests and tight shorts' for our sportsmen and women.
'We went to the Olympics as a unified team and it's very important we are during the parade, not least because of our bid for the 2012 Olympics,' commented the BOA's Phillip Pope.
Ahh, now we're getting warmer. So we need to present unity as part of the 2012 bid, an aspiration that is motivated by Olympic ideals of honesty, fair play and participation for all. I hope the BOA remember this when the corporate cocks jostle for position to place their pig ugly brands all over our athletes if London actually lands the logo-fest of 2012.
The Army Surplus store on Walworth Road does a nice line in vests and running shorts and you'd get change out of a twenty pound note as well. The old boy behind the counter may be Britain's Rudest Man but the nearest you will get to a knobber Nike tick is the ticking off he gives you if you make the mistake of asking about his customer service policy.
| Wednesday 13 October, 2004 |
Sniffing out the stories and serving them up in a shit sandwich
GOTCHA!
For a moment I managed a wry smile at the news that The Digger is doing the dirty on Wapping. For every individual job loss though there is a family struggling to meet the mortgage. Two thirds of the workforce will be soon be having a fast track introduction to the complexities of Job Seeker's Allowance (is that Contributions or Income based Sir?) as Murdoch's Fortress Wapping is pulled down and despatched out to the regions.
It was Wapping Wot Won |
And now it has come back to bite the buggers on the bum. GOTCHA!
OK, so times and people change and it is unlikely that the poor sods being turned over this time by Murdoch are the same individuals that felt no shame in crossing the picket line nineteen years ago. But there is a lesson to be learnt in all of this.
It Was Wapping Wot Won, as I am frequently reminded whenever I watch Forest play away in Yorkshire (despite the fact that I was a fourteen-year-old Coal Not Dole sticker wearing weirdo back in '84 when the UDM was crossing the picket lines).
I hope there is no hardship for any families over the coming months as Christmas approaches. But I wouldn't trust Murdoch further than I could throw a brick at News International HQ.
Bollocks to Bloody Bobby Moore
Who gives a shit what some Saint of a '60s golden boy may or may not have thought about Beckham’s 'tactical' yellow card against Wales? Sir Geoff Hurst's insistence that the Great Fragrant One would be turning in his grave given the cynicism of Beckham said more about Hurst hijacking a dead footballer's legacy than Beckham's actual booking.
He thinks it's all over? Not just yet thank you very much. A fluky hat trick against the sausage scoffers almost forty years ago can still keep you in the public spotlight. Just come out with some dumbfuck drivel yearning back to a different age and the Great British Public (whoever that might be) will go all misty eyed, wipe their hands before bowing to the Queen and take a stroll down Carnaby Street spinning the latest platter from the beat combo The Beatles.
If it's wise words spoken from six feet under that you're after, then you could do a lot worse than watching BBC1 at 10.35 tonight.
Fuck off Hurst. Today is pension day. Go and join the queue.
Pissing on the Parade
I'm no great flag waver (except when it's a black one) and so fail to see the appeal of waiting in the pissing rain at Piccadilly Circus next Monday as we welcome back the cheats, freaks and pill poppers from Athens. Unless of course you arrange an afternoon skive, all in the name of team building of course.
It seems that I'm not alone as British sprinter Mark Lewis-Francis is unlikely to make the Olympic Parade as well. Being sponsored by Nike is not quite the unified image that Team GB wants to put across, seeing as though Adidas is the 'preferred supplier of funny looking vests and tight shorts' for our sportsmen and women.
'We went to the Olympics as a unified team and it's very important we are during the parade, not least because of our bid for the 2012 Olympics,' commented the BOA's Phillip Pope.
Ahh, now we're getting warmer. So we need to present unity as part of the 2012 bid, an aspiration that is motivated by Olympic ideals of honesty, fair play and participation for all. I hope the BOA remember this when the corporate cocks jostle for position to place their pig ugly brands all over our athletes if London actually lands the logo-fest of 2012.
The Army Surplus store on Walworth Road does a nice line in vests and running shorts and you'd get change out of a twenty pound note as well. The old boy behind the counter may be Britain's Rudest Man but the nearest you will get to a knobber Nike tick is the ticking off he gives you if you make the mistake of asking about his customer service policy.
| #permalink |
Talk is Cheap
A cycle through Hyde Park on a sunny Sunday morning, celebrating the charms of an English public space; Victorian fountains, elegant against a backdrop of red London busses; jumpers for goalposts as Beckham's moment of glory from the day before was played out again and again; and an assortment of loons lecturing at Speakers Corner, shooting from the lip like a mad woman's piss. Speakers Corner should of course be called Crankpots Corner, seeing as though the level of debate depends on the level of care in the community at any given time.
Speakers Corner dates back to the middle of the 19th Century with Chartists, the Reform League, May Day activists (old school style of course) and the Suffragettes all assembling at Hyde Park Corner for a mass debate. Well, maybe not the Suffragettes. A proud tradition of British protest, rinsed down to the modern day merry band of religious freaks, right wing bigots and zippity doo dah loons.
An Act of Parliament in 1872 established Speakers Corner as an area where 'free speech is tolerated.' Cross the road at Park Lane then and you're likely to be given a one way ticket to Guantanamo Bay for proposing the motion that Mr Tony is a knobber. And I second that.
But free speech is of course an ideal that any democracy should be proud, even if that allows some God fearing Preacher to accost me on a Sunday morning and declare to all those around that I will 'burn in hell' for my sin of wearing cycling shorts.
Actually, he may have a point.
The scene at Speakers Corner is best described as a bunch of bookies trackside at a racecourse. Stepladders elevate the professionals from the public as they battle against one another for your attention. Maybe the theory is that the higher the ladder, the closer you get to God?
He who speaks loudest is he who is normally heard, leading to an experience not unlike listening in to a crossed wired phone conversation between a get-together of town criers.
'OH YAY, OH YAY, COME AND JOIN ME AND MY WIVES AS WE CELEBRATE THE HUMAN BODY GOD GAVE TO US.'
'WARNING: EAT MORE MARMITE OR A GREAT PLAGUE WILL DESCEND OVER LONDON.'
'NOW HEAR THIS, NOW HERE THIS: CYCLING SHORTS ARE FOR SINNERS.'
I thought of using the opportunity to launch my own comedy career but I was lacking a ladder, a spiteful face, plus any decent jokes of course. Two out of three 'aint bad for the loons on ladders though.
Inevitably much of the mass debate centred around Iraq; a gun ho Yankee Doodle Dandy wearing a Stetson was only yards in front of a militant Muslim. Only in England of course, and this is something that we should be proud of.
All the speakers are self publicists, propping up the second from bottom rung of the ego ladder just above Bloggers. The demise of end of pier TV talent shows such as Opportunity Knocks only to be replaced with Pop Idol pap means that there is an excess of extroverts with no public platform. Somehow Robbie Williams managed to slip through the talent filter.
The best of the bunch had the perfect put down when heckled:
'I haven't got any answers love – I'm just a lone man up a ladder – NEXT!'
But what is the difference between some crankpot coming out with right wing rhetoric standing on a soapbox and some crankpot coming out with right wing rhetoric standing at the despatch box?
It's all a vanity contest of course. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Tuesday 12 October, 2004 |
A cycle through Hyde Park on a sunny Sunday morning, celebrating the charms of an English public space; Victorian fountains, elegant against a backdrop of red London busses; jumpers for goalposts as Beckham's moment of glory from the day before was played out again and again; and an assortment of loons lecturing at Speakers Corner, shooting from the lip like a mad woman's piss. Speakers Corner should of course be called Crankpots Corner, seeing as though the level of debate depends on the level of care in the community at any given time.
Speakers Corner dates back to the middle of the 19th Century with Chartists, the Reform League, May Day activists (old school style of course) and the Suffragettes all assembling at Hyde Park Corner for a mass debate. Well, maybe not the Suffragettes. A proud tradition of British protest, rinsed down to the modern day merry band of religious freaks, right wing bigots and zippity doo dah loons.
I'm just a lone man up a ladder |
But free speech is of course an ideal that any democracy should be proud, even if that allows some God fearing Preacher to accost me on a Sunday morning and declare to all those around that I will 'burn in hell' for my sin of wearing cycling shorts.
Actually, he may have a point.
The scene at Speakers Corner is best described as a bunch of bookies trackside at a racecourse. Stepladders elevate the professionals from the public as they battle against one another for your attention. Maybe the theory is that the higher the ladder, the closer you get to God?
He who speaks loudest is he who is normally heard, leading to an experience not unlike listening in to a crossed wired phone conversation between a get-together of town criers.
'OH YAY, OH YAY, COME AND JOIN ME AND MY WIVES AS WE CELEBRATE THE HUMAN BODY GOD GAVE TO US.'
'WARNING: EAT MORE MARMITE OR A GREAT PLAGUE WILL DESCEND OVER LONDON.'
'NOW HEAR THIS, NOW HERE THIS: CYCLING SHORTS ARE FOR SINNERS.'
I thought of using the opportunity to launch my own comedy career but I was lacking a ladder, a spiteful face, plus any decent jokes of course. Two out of three 'aint bad for the loons on ladders though.
Inevitably much of the mass debate centred around Iraq; a gun ho Yankee Doodle Dandy wearing a Stetson was only yards in front of a militant Muslim. Only in England of course, and this is something that we should be proud of.
All the speakers are self publicists, propping up the second from bottom rung of the ego ladder just above Bloggers. The demise of end of pier TV talent shows such as Opportunity Knocks only to be replaced with Pop Idol pap means that there is an excess of extroverts with no public platform. Somehow Robbie Williams managed to slip through the talent filter.
The best of the bunch had the perfect put down when heckled:
'I haven't got any answers love – I'm just a lone man up a ladder – NEXT!'
But what is the difference between some crankpot coming out with right wing rhetoric standing on a soapbox and some crankpot coming out with right wing rhetoric standing at the despatch box?
It's all a vanity contest of course. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Crap Match Report| Monday 11 October, 2004 |
London Racers 4 Nottingham Panthers 5, 10/10/04
Friday night in the not so fast lane or stuck in a Sunday afternoon snarl up? It's make your mind up time. Different day, same shit. Hopefully not for the Racers though after losing 5-2 to the Bracknell inbreds the night before. One hour and 45 minutes from Sunny Stockwell to the Lee Valley Badlands, which when I finally arrived was roughly the penalty minutes dished out for some fisticuffs in the first five minutes.
With 12:32 showing on the clock, Racers made the breakthrough with Richard Hargreaves being credited for a goal that may be more accurately accredited to Mr OG playing for the Panthers. A perfect pirouette from netminder Curtis Cruickshank with one hand on the puck, and then with 270 degrees of the rotation complete, he forgot that hockey is a game played on ice. Losing his balance (and possibly his match bonus), Cruickshank found both his backside and the little black bit of rubber in the back of the net.
Gouett hit it hard and straight down the middle |
Less than five minutes remaining in the first period and Racers netminder Sylvain Daigle faced more rubber than a durability machine at the local Durex factory as Panthers skated five on three. The Nottingham powerplay was Featherlite whilst the Racers D was Super Safe.
The first period came to a climax with 52 seconds on the clock (a figure which mrs onionbagblogger usually associates with a similar sensation). Mark Gouett induced a mass gooey moment with a blue liner that sent the bike shed into a shared orgasm. He hit it hard and straight down the middle. The five hole was breached, with Cruickshank leaving the ice looking like a man who had shared a team hotel room with Rick Brebant.
The Voice of the Bike Shed took pride in bellowing out: 'Nottingham Panthers... NOTHING!!!!' at the first period break, only to be drowned out by a competing microphone from rink management reminding us that a Ford Cortina was blocking the car park.
When push came to shove in the second period, Racers couldn't perform. And boy, was there plenty of pushing from John Craighead and his collection of misfits, freaks and goons. Ex-Knight Kim Ahlroos was quick on the rebound at 27:43 to pull a goal back for Panthers, finally giving a reason for existence for the torch bearers still wearing their Knights tops other than looking like a legion of Time Travellers from a forgotten age.
Straight from the face off and Marek Ivan equalised for the visitors and the comeback was complete at 32 minutes when Calle Carlsson (a big time Charley import by any chance?) hit home on the breakaway and slotted the puck under Daigle.
Holding onto the lead and Panthers pulled out all the cheap shots, which is no great surprise for a team that is so cheap to hire judging by the adverts for washing powder, feather dusters and tampons that are prostituted all over the 'proud' Panthers jersey.
Darren Cotton pulled Racers levels at 38:17 although I didn't see a thing thanks to the yoofs in front of me. Despite sitting on the front row, the androgynous boy / girl / thing took to his / her asexual feet. Even with an arse poking firmly in my face, I'm still no nearer to knowing if it was an Arthur or a Marthar.
Being the type of weirdo that marketing types carrying out questionnaires in the High Street usually cross the road to avoid, I was pleased to be asked to take part in the Man of the Match vote during the second period break. The quantitative scientific methodology involved a brave chap from Racers HQ approaching anyone who would listen and asking for their opinion. It would have made more sense in selecting the Panthers Man of the Match using the tried and tested method of playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey, seeing as though there was no shortage of donkeys wearing the black and gold.
The third period faced off and it was unlucky thirteen for the Racers. The topsy turvy game was turned around again when Craighead gave Panthers the lead at 19:47. Big Mac McIntyre put Racers level once more at 51:14, despite the Voice of the Bike Shed trying his best to award a home goal to the away team. Racers then rode out a five on three powerplay, but when the fourth skater returned to the ice, Ivan added his second goal of the game.
I was joined for the remainder of the period with the conversationally challenged Oscar the Dog sitting behind me, although to be honest, there was enough mindless yapping on the ice from the away team as they counted down the clock and delayed the action at every opportunity.
There was to be no turn around for the Racers, unlike the bloody No. 48 bus on the way home that took an unexplained detour to Leyton, before then turning back to Walthamstow Central. One hour and twenty minutes is the time it takes to get from Kings Cross to Nottingham on public transport. Go figure. Next week I might just do that.
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Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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crap match report compendium
london racers official site
london racers vid clips
| #permalink |
Knobber Media Whore #4 Johnny Vaughan
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onionbagblog print out & keep guide to modern day media fuckspuddery
'You put all those nasty little shits in your media bag...'
Crass had no shortage of contenders back in '77. Fuck me - they'd have a field day in 2004.
Manifesto:
To piss his mockney 'talent' up against the wall of any drooling TV or radio exec who is still stuck in a '96 time warp. Ooh – he's a bit like Chris Evans; ahh – he's SO Oasis geezer (whose webshite by the way looks like it hasn't been updated since 1996); umm... he's a fucking useless tosser to be honest. Post Big Breakfast (which was always like waking up in the morning to the sound of a screaming banshee pissing all over your cornflakes), everything Vaughan has touched has turned to shit. Johnny Vaughan's Shed Show was done a decade earlier by the far more witty Frank Sidebottom (and that's saying something, being upstaged by a man wearing a papier mache head); 'Orrible was fucking 'orrible and the reunion of Johnny and Denise reminds us all why we should never shag our ex. The temptation to return to former glory (holes) is soured when the reality of having to engage in polite conversation kicks in.
Career 'Highlight':
Conning Crapital (little shits themselves) to the tune of £3m a year for fronting a breakfast show that sounds like a screaming banshee pissing on your cornflakes… Consistent, yet still crap.
Playa or Play School?
A definite Playa in the slagheap of sycophantic arseholes. A pal of 'Wrighty',' probably has plans for his own production company and no doubt his PDA contains enough personal contacts to fill a studio for An Audience With Peter Purves. His 'contacts' probably contain other shady characters who may come in use to actually survive a three hour Audience With Peter Purves. Sorted.
Monkey Tennis?
The Monkey Tennis moment has to be the immensely irritating Fighting Talk on 5Live on a Saturday morning. For a man whose football knowledge can be summed up as 'Rooney, tart, back of the net,' the decision to allow the arsehole to front a football programme on national radio must mean the biggest case of corruption in the game since George Graham started collecting brown paper bags. Whisper is carefully: 'This piece of arsewipe broadcasting is so utterly inept that it almost (ALMOST) induces you to switch over to Knobber Ross on Radio 2.'
Groucho Moment of Madness:
For a man who makes a tit of himself in front of millions, Vaughan is unlikely to lose any sleep at night in acting the arse at a piss poor private members club.
Tabloid Tittle Tattle:
Just Say No Says TV's Johnny. It's no great secret that Vaughan received a four year sentence in 1987 after being found in possession of cocaine. Strange then that on the 5Live website Q&A's he lists his Drug of Choice as: Nurofen. Never heard the white powder named that before.
Contact Details:
Arkles Restaurant, Chelsea Village, Stamford Bridge. During matchday (and in particular DURING the match), Vaughan can be seen showing his working class grass roots support for Chelsea by sampling the smoked salmon. 'Got any Guacamole, guv? Anyone know the Man Utd score?'
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| Sunday 10 October, 2004 |
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'You put all those nasty little shits in your media bag...'
Crass had no shortage of contenders back in '77. Fuck me - they'd have a field day in 2004.
Manifesto:
To piss his mockney 'talent' up against the wall of any drooling TV or radio exec who is still stuck in a '96 time warp. Ooh – he's a bit like Chris Evans; ahh – he's SO Oasis geezer (whose webshite by the way looks like it hasn't been updated since 1996); umm... he's a fucking useless tosser to be honest. Post Big Breakfast (which was always like waking up in the morning to the sound of a screaming banshee pissing all over your cornflakes), everything Vaughan has touched has turned to shit. Johnny Vaughan's Shed Show was done a decade earlier by the far more witty Frank Sidebottom (and that's saying something, being upstaged by a man wearing a papier mache head); 'Orrible was fucking 'orrible and the reunion of Johnny and Denise reminds us all why we should never shag our ex. The temptation to return to former glory (holes) is soured when the reality of having to engage in polite conversation kicks in.
Career 'Highlight':
Conning Crapital (little shits themselves) to the tune of £3m a year for fronting a breakfast show that sounds like a screaming banshee pissing on your cornflakes… Consistent, yet still crap.
Playa or Play School?
A definite Playa in the slagheap of sycophantic arseholes. A pal of 'Wrighty',' probably has plans for his own production company and no doubt his PDA contains enough personal contacts to fill a studio for An Audience With Peter Purves. His 'contacts' probably contain other shady characters who may come in use to actually survive a three hour Audience With Peter Purves. Sorted.
Monkey Tennis?
The Monkey Tennis moment has to be the immensely irritating Fighting Talk on 5Live on a Saturday morning. For a man whose football knowledge can be summed up as 'Rooney, tart, back of the net,' the decision to allow the arsehole to front a football programme on national radio must mean the biggest case of corruption in the game since George Graham started collecting brown paper bags. Whisper is carefully: 'This piece of arsewipe broadcasting is so utterly inept that it almost (ALMOST) induces you to switch over to Knobber Ross on Radio 2.'
Groucho Moment of Madness:
For a man who makes a tit of himself in front of millions, Vaughan is unlikely to lose any sleep at night in acting the arse at a piss poor private members club.
Tabloid Tittle Tattle:
Just Say No Says TV's Johnny. It's no great secret that Vaughan received a four year sentence in 1987 after being found in possession of cocaine. Strange then that on the 5Live website Q&A's he lists his Drug of Choice as: Nurofen. Never heard the white powder named that before.
Contact Details:
Arkles Restaurant, Chelsea Village, Stamford Bridge. During matchday (and in particular DURING the match), Vaughan can be seen showing his working class grass roots support for Chelsea by sampling the smoked salmon. 'Got any Guacamole, guv? Anyone know the Man Utd score?'
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| #permalink |
Birthday Blogging Boy
| Saturday 9 October, 2004 |
| #permalink |
Tower of Strength
The best bit about the Trellick Tower is not the detached service shaft that separates the living quarters from the access points; it's not the canal side views either; the fact that the majority of the 219 flats are still local authority owned comes close but no cigar.
Towering above all of these is the name of the Hungarian architect responsible for the West London landmark: Erno Goldfinger.
Everything he touches turns to a tribute to urban living (whatever bollocks that might mean – look it up in ES Magazine). Erno's idea was to open up the tower with as many light entrances as possible. There is a division between work and play with the service shaft housing the lifts (which stop at every third floor), stairs and refuse chutes, and the main block containing the accommodation.
The Trellick has survived twenty six years of being ridiculed as a ridiculous slab of concrete standing in isolation looking down on the Georgian town houses further out towards Notting Hill. The '80s were not kind to her with tabloid tales of vandalism, drug abuse and prostitution. But remember, 'there was no such thing as society' back then and so these acts weren't the consequence of the surroundings, merely the actions of the downtrodden living within. Politicians remain blameless of course.
It's all very different now over in W10 with the few flats that hit the private market fetching £200,000 for two bedrooms looking down on Westbourne Park below. This rise in fortunes led to a Grade 2 listed status in 1998, securing the future of the Trellick, as well as giving the green light for hundreds of nosey parker backpackers to pass through once a year as part of the London Open House Weekend.
I wasn't one such snoop, just passing through on what soon became a bizarre scene: Mums struggling with carrier bags and kids; Open House Weekenders taking pictures of them ('FACK OFF Y’ CUNT!!!!') and boring bloggers taking pictures of the Open Houser's taking pictures of the Mums.
But the Trellick isn't an art installation. It's someone's Home Sweet Home. Lucky sods.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Friday 8 October, 2004 |
The best bit about the Trellick Tower is not the detached service shaft that separates the living quarters from the access points; it's not the canal side views either; the fact that the majority of the 219 flats are still local authority owned comes close but no cigar.
Towering above all of these is the name of the Hungarian architect responsible for the West London landmark: Erno Goldfinger.
Everything he touches turns to a tribute to urban living (whatever bollocks that might mean – look it up in ES Magazine). Erno's idea was to open up the tower with as many light entrances as possible. There is a division between work and play with the service shaft housing the lifts (which stop at every third floor), stairs and refuse chutes, and the main block containing the accommodation.
There was no such thing as society back in the '80s |
It's all very different now over in W10 with the few flats that hit the private market fetching £200,000 for two bedrooms looking down on Westbourne Park below. This rise in fortunes led to a Grade 2 listed status in 1998, securing the future of the Trellick, as well as giving the green light for hundreds of nosey parker backpackers to pass through once a year as part of the London Open House Weekend.
I wasn't one such snoop, just passing through on what soon became a bizarre scene: Mums struggling with carrier bags and kids; Open House Weekenders taking pictures of them ('FACK OFF Y’ CUNT!!!!') and boring bloggers taking pictures of the Open Houser's taking pictures of the Mums.
But the Trellick isn't an art installation. It's someone's Home Sweet Home. Lucky sods.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Smokin'
It's already been praised elsewhere, but seeing as though my copy of Smoke arrived this morning (hand delivered!), here's my recommendation for the best £2 you will spend all week.
Worth buying for the black and white photography alone, Smoke – A London Peculiar paints a picture of London as a living city and not a licence to print money which most of the big businesses in the capital seem to take for granted.
With the last rites being read on Metroknobbers, Smoke is a beautiful reminder that London is best viewed through the eyes of locals living in the city, and not some knobber tourist postcard writers.
| Thursday 7 October, 2004 |
It's already been praised elsewhere, but seeing as though my copy of Smoke arrived this morning (hand delivered!), here's my recommendation for the best £2 you will spend all week.
Worth buying for the black and white photography alone, Smoke – A London Peculiar paints a picture of London as a living city and not a licence to print money which most of the big businesses in the capital seem to take for granted.
With the last rites being read on Metroknobbers, Smoke is a beautiful reminder that London is best viewed through the eyes of locals living in the city, and not some knobber tourist postcard writers.
| #permalink |
In Praise of Ally Pally
All of London's significant sporting venues are situated at the top of a bloody great big hill; Champion Hill for the mighty Pink 'n Blues, Crystal Palace for the London Towers and of course Ally Pally for the ice hockey. Which although makes for a marvellous view as you enter the various Venue of Legends, if you're a cycling freak like myself you probably feel that you have already played 90 minutes, four quarters of basketball or three periods of hockey before you even set foot inside. Trying to appreciate a panoramic view of London is all very well, but it's a bugger to take it all in as your cycling legs reduce you to a punch drunk version of Shakin Stevens.
Ally Pally has a special place in my heart. It's London finest hockey venue, a real throwback to rough and ready blue collar teams with little comfort for the spectators. Sure, Streatham is the jewel of the South (did I really just type that?); Lee Valley is a sheer endurance test transport wise. Ally Pally though is a lovely old Victorian building which just happens to house an ice rink within the majestic design.
Built in 1873 as 'The People’s Palace,' the building is surrounded by a 196 acre country park. Not that I've seen much of that mind. I'm always either too tired or too late (usually the latter) whenever I find myself up there.
A lot can happen within a sixteen day period when we're talking about public buildings with royal connections. Just look at the public sewer for the Dead Bint Bitch over in Hyde Park. Sixteen days after Ally Pally was opened to the public it burnt down. I can think of much more deserving causes for such divine retribution.
The Victorians though were fond of their public buildings as symbols of Empire superiority and so two years later the new Ally Pally was opened. The main hall housed 12,000 people (divide by 100 and you get the average attendance for a Greyhounds game) as well as a separate 3,500 seater theatre which ended up as a roller rink.
And here's the news...
Jump forward to 1936 and the BBC leased the eastern part of the building and made the most of the mini mountain landscape for the first ever television transmission. I'm not sure if it was a broadcast of an ice hockey match, but if it was, you can bet that the home team lost as they always do at Ally Pally. Up until 1956 the mast was the main transmitting signal for the BBC. In later years it was used exclusively for news bulletins.
London has a great legacy of celebrating centenaries and so it was fitting that in 1980 Ally Pally was burnt down again. The roller rink fell victim whilst the BBC mast remained. Now under control of the GLC, a re-building programme took place with the final phase completed in 1988.
The design incorporates all the grand style of the original Victorian structure, which can also be interpreted as having a 'faded glory.' A bit like the Haringey hockey team actually. Still, Ally Pally remains a magnificent structure, probably the closest you will get to a Coliseum construction in Londinium.
It's well worth the walk up the back breaking hill for the views alone. Don't bother waiting for the W3 bus – you'd have more success holding out for a Haringey home victory. The rink will freeze the most fiery of bollocks. Take it from a man whose beast was tamed by the temperature, and never really recovered to be honest.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Wednesday 6 October, 2004 |
All of London's significant sporting venues are situated at the top of a bloody great big hill; Champion Hill for the mighty Pink 'n Blues, Crystal Palace for the London Towers and of course Ally Pally for the ice hockey. Which although makes for a marvellous view as you enter the various Venue of Legends, if you're a cycling freak like myself you probably feel that you have already played 90 minutes, four quarters of basketball or three periods of hockey before you even set foot inside. Trying to appreciate a panoramic view of London is all very well, but it's a bugger to take it all in as your cycling legs reduce you to a punch drunk version of Shakin Stevens.
Ally Pally has a special place in my heart. It's London finest hockey venue, a real throwback to rough and ready blue collar teams with little comfort for the spectators. Sure, Streatham is the jewel of the South (did I really just type that?); Lee Valley is a sheer endurance test transport wise. Ally Pally though is a lovely old Victorian building which just happens to house an ice rink within the majestic design.
The rink will freeze the most fiery of bollocks |
A lot can happen within a sixteen day period when we're talking about public buildings with royal connections. Just look at the public sewer for the Dead Bint Bitch over in Hyde Park. Sixteen days after Ally Pally was opened to the public it burnt down. I can think of much more deserving causes for such divine retribution.
The Victorians though were fond of their public buildings as symbols of Empire superiority and so two years later the new Ally Pally was opened. The main hall housed 12,000 people (divide by 100 and you get the average attendance for a Greyhounds game) as well as a separate 3,500 seater theatre which ended up as a roller rink.
And here's the news...
Jump forward to 1936 and the BBC leased the eastern part of the building and made the most of the mini mountain landscape for the first ever television transmission. I'm not sure if it was a broadcast of an ice hockey match, but if it was, you can bet that the home team lost as they always do at Ally Pally. Up until 1956 the mast was the main transmitting signal for the BBC. In later years it was used exclusively for news bulletins.
London has a great legacy of celebrating centenaries and so it was fitting that in 1980 Ally Pally was burnt down again. The roller rink fell victim whilst the BBC mast remained. Now under control of the GLC, a re-building programme took place with the final phase completed in 1988.
The design incorporates all the grand style of the original Victorian structure, which can also be interpreted as having a 'faded glory.' A bit like the Haringey hockey team actually. Still, Ally Pally remains a magnificent structure, probably the closest you will get to a Coliseum construction in Londinium.
It's well worth the walk up the back breaking hill for the views alone. Don't bother waiting for the W3 bus – you'd have more success holding out for a Haringey home victory. The rink will freeze the most fiery of bollocks. Take it from a man whose beast was tamed by the temperature, and never really recovered to be honest.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Crap Journo
Sniffing out the stories and serving them up in a shit sandwich
Chavin a Laugh
This week sees the publication of Chav! A User's Guide to Britain's New Ruling Class.
Rewind that past me again please...
RULING class? A fifteen-year-old kid sitting outside KFC has more control over the power base than the Chief Executive of some multi-national arsewipe company? I don't think so geezer.
'Chavs' are of course the Essex Girls of the New Millennium – the source of humour for snobs who should know better, and scapegoats for the mainstream media who are unfamiliar with the phrase 'reap what you sew.'
Chav spotting has descended from being a mildly amusing joke to become a shitty form of elitist lifestyle journalism from fuckspud journos. (Ex) Fleet Street's finest would run back to their High Street Kensington HQ if they were ever confronted with a Reebok Ratboy struggling to live off the minimum wage.
The blurb for the book promises:
'Everything you've ever (and never!) wanted to know about CHAV grooming, baby names, holidays, weddings, cars, food, eating out, mobile phones and pets...'
Substitute CHAV for WORKING CLASS and don't you just start to feel a little uneasy? Probably not if you are in the higher tax bracket. Do you really think that young adults choose a lifestyle of low income, bored out of their brains with little opportunities from a class system that shits on them from the moment they enter the local comprehensive, and then re-cycles their existence for comedy value in later life?
I'm all in favour of class consciousness, whatever the media definition, if only for the reason that one day it might rise up and punch the little pricks who write such wank.
Death of a Party
Speaking of potential candidates for a good slap... It's the reading of the last rites for the Nasty Party down in Brighton this week. And it makes for a wonderful leisure activity watching the bigots from Little England forming a group huddle and desperately trying to hang on to a political ideal that is open to ridicule no matter which way they try to market it.
Architecture and politics are two of my passions and so it was a pleasant surprise to read The Gruaniad's top building bloke Jonathan Glancey add some design perspective to the ever so slightly nasty new Tory Party logo.
As for the conference itself? Ah, who gives a toss. Certainly not the electorate. It didn't look like much fun as Oliver Letwin cut a lone figure on the stage and admitted that the Nasty Party lied about the economy when it last in power, if you can remember that far back that is.
The highlight on day one though had to be the skin crawling appearance of John Rightwing Redwood losing the plot in public and declaring that the Nasty Party are 'WINNERS!!!!'
Cue nervous look around to the wings to check if anyone else believed in the bollocks he was coming out with.
Redwood would of course make for an excellent pantomime villain. Expect to see him somewhere shitty like the Croydon Clocktower this Christmas.
Storm in a D-Cup
And finally... respect to Sharon for having the balls (he's all man really) for standing up to the rock Establishment and telling it like it is. In reference to Madonna being nominated (and not winning) the Best Live Act at the Q Awards, Sir Elt took to the stage to collect his Classic Songwriter Prize (um... Bernie Taupin?) and declared:
'Madonnna, best fucking live act? FUCK OFF!!!!'
The essence of Elt's argument was somewhat lost though when '70s throwback prog rockers Muse walked off with the award. Loud mouthed balding drama queens with crap songs we need; ego inflated Freddie Mercury imitators with even crapper songs we can do without.
Elsewhere and it's always good to see a millionaire rock star trip himself up in public. Bryan Ferry used the platform of the Q Awards to big up his tally hoe twat of a son. How very rock 'n roll. The bloodshed that followed (well, boos actually) wasn't quite on the same scale as a pack of hounds ripping out the guts of a defenceless fox, but you get the idea.
| Tuesday 5 October, 2004 |
Sniffing out the stories and serving them up in a shit sandwich
Chavin a Laugh
This week sees the publication of Chav! A User's Guide to Britain's New Ruling Class.
Rewind that past me again please...
RULING class? A fifteen-year-old kid sitting outside KFC has more control over the power base than the Chief Executive of some multi-national arsewipe company? I don't think so geezer.
Madonnna, best fucking live act? FUCK OFF!!!! |
Chav spotting has descended from being a mildly amusing joke to become a shitty form of elitist lifestyle journalism from fuckspud journos. (Ex) Fleet Street's finest would run back to their High Street Kensington HQ if they were ever confronted with a Reebok Ratboy struggling to live off the minimum wage.
The blurb for the book promises:
'Everything you've ever (and never!) wanted to know about CHAV grooming, baby names, holidays, weddings, cars, food, eating out, mobile phones and pets...'
Substitute CHAV for WORKING CLASS and don't you just start to feel a little uneasy? Probably not if you are in the higher tax bracket. Do you really think that young adults choose a lifestyle of low income, bored out of their brains with little opportunities from a class system that shits on them from the moment they enter the local comprehensive, and then re-cycles their existence for comedy value in later life?
I'm all in favour of class consciousness, whatever the media definition, if only for the reason that one day it might rise up and punch the little pricks who write such wank.
Death of a Party
Speaking of potential candidates for a good slap... It's the reading of the last rites for the Nasty Party down in Brighton this week. And it makes for a wonderful leisure activity watching the bigots from Little England forming a group huddle and desperately trying to hang on to a political ideal that is open to ridicule no matter which way they try to market it.
Architecture and politics are two of my passions and so it was a pleasant surprise to read The Gruaniad's top building bloke Jonathan Glancey add some design perspective to the ever so slightly nasty new Tory Party logo.
As for the conference itself? Ah, who gives a toss. Certainly not the electorate. It didn't look like much fun as Oliver Letwin cut a lone figure on the stage and admitted that the Nasty Party lied about the economy when it last in power, if you can remember that far back that is.
The highlight on day one though had to be the skin crawling appearance of John Rightwing Redwood losing the plot in public and declaring that the Nasty Party are 'WINNERS!!!!'
Cue nervous look around to the wings to check if anyone else believed in the bollocks he was coming out with.
Redwood would of course make for an excellent pantomime villain. Expect to see him somewhere shitty like the Croydon Clocktower this Christmas.
Storm in a D-Cup
And finally... respect to Sharon for having the balls (he's all man really) for standing up to the rock Establishment and telling it like it is. In reference to Madonna being nominated (and not winning) the Best Live Act at the Q Awards, Sir Elt took to the stage to collect his Classic Songwriter Prize (um... Bernie Taupin?) and declared:
'Madonnna, best fucking live act? FUCK OFF!!!!'
The essence of Elt's argument was somewhat lost though when '70s throwback prog rockers Muse walked off with the award. Loud mouthed balding drama queens with crap songs we need; ego inflated Freddie Mercury imitators with even crapper songs we can do without.
Elsewhere and it's always good to see a millionaire rock star trip himself up in public. Bryan Ferry used the platform of the Q Awards to big up his tally hoe twat of a son. How very rock 'n roll. The bloodshed that followed (well, boos actually) wasn't quite on the same scale as a pack of hounds ripping out the guts of a defenceless fox, but you get the idea.
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Crap Match Report| Monday 4 October, 2004 |
Streatham Redskins 5 Slough Harrier Hawks 0, 03/10/04
Streatham Redskins remain joint top of the English National Ice Hockey League after a comfortable 5-0 home win against the Slough Harrier Hawks last Sunday. The South London side remains unbeaten for the season with a near identical record to Invicta Dynamos, a team that visit the High Road rink at the end of the month.
With word spreading that Redskins are a winning team, the crowd at the High Road rink was the largest so far this season. Why stay in on a Sunday night watching Antiques Roadshow when you can experience a genuine South London, um, 'antique' building? And as an added bonus, the happy hockey throng was treated before face off to a 'Sumo on Ice' skating demonstration, otherwise known as referee Samways and his pre-match warm-up.
The drooping stanchion caused much concern |
It was the Redskins captain who got the goal feast started after only 1:28, finding himself free with the puck on the halfway line and the Hawks defence stranded too far up the ice. Quiney used his experience to skate straight for goal, releasing his slapshot from ten yards out.
Simon Greaves has slotted into the Streatham set up like a born and bred South Londoner. He was penalised for boarding at 3:47, but then what else are you supposed to do with a Harrier Hawk? Shag the Trolley Dolly? Not likely my friend, given the female away fans.
Some solid work behind the Hawks net from Luke Fitzmaurice set up Steve Dulmage to add a second goal at 7:36, tapping home from just outside the crease. A soft shot and some poor defending led to a third just over a minute later for Octavian Sersea and Slough were showing little reason to doubt their status as whipping boys of the league. Plenty of pleasure in witnessing their pain as well.
Midway through the first period and Redskins killed off a powerplay which saw Hawks resort to a dump and chase game even with their one man advantage, testimony of the tightness of the home team this season.
Redskins were on their own powerplay at the start of the second period and fired plenty of rubber at Kevin McGuirk in-between the pipes for the Hawks with a well worked shift from the specialist line. Hawks were finally awoken and caught up with the pace of the game, but Adam Noctor remained strong in the nets for Streatham.
With Chuck Berry's Johnny B Goode rocking the old rink, it was no coincidence that the little darling dismantling the top tier seats sitting to my right answered to the name of... Johnny. Still, they teach them young these days. Little Johnny's slap happy approach seemed to be adopted by Mr Rink Maintenance whose solution to a dodgy stanchion was to bang the bugger harder than a Nick Bigwood slapshot.
Despite his Super Size Me status, referee Samways is clearly not a man who believes in brute force as the solution for a sagging seven inches that can't remain upright. Remember that thought, ladeees. The drooping stanchion caused much concern, although to be honest most of it came from the stripey with everyone else in the rink simply wanting to play hockey. The two teams were sent packing back to the locker room with 16:02 on the clock while Samways tried to get it up, so to speak. Not much interest from Puck Bunny Corner I have to report.
Ten minutes later and The Voice of the High Road Rink informed us that 'expert' assistance had fixed the stanchion. That must be the first time then that a tin of sweets (admittedly with some tools inside) has been given such star billing. Sweets? Samways? Bribery?
The break in play didn't disrupt the Redskins who re-grouped after the brief interval and played a possession game camped around the offensive zone.
The third period faced off straight after the second had finished, but 25 seconds in and there was yet another lengthy break in play. The purpose of which seemed to be so that the Slough net minder could scratch his scrotum. Or allow a team mate to scratch it as the case was. It's a dirty job but someone's got to do it etc. Still, at least it meant that we got to hear The Specials and Too Much Too Young in full.
Sersea added his second goal and Redskins' fourth at 45:39 after using his body strength to control the puck in front of the net, holding off the Hawks defence and then finding the right moment and gap to fire home.
For the second consecutive week Streatham were now looking for a shut out with net minder Noctor wanting to match the high standards set by James Tanner in-between the pipes for the Redskins in the 7-0 away victory as Haringey the previous weekend. Hawks tried to spoil the party and the final ten minutes saw the most open period of play with zone to zone hockey from both teams. Under-19 star Luke Fitzmaurice hit home the fifth goal right on the final buzzer, keeping up his recent run of fine form with a goal a game ratio.
Having played three and won three league matches, the Streatham Redskins will now travel to Milton Keynes on Sunday confident of another smash and grab raid, awaiting the arrival of Peterborough at the High Road on October 17 with a 6.45 face off.
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Turkish Delight
A day of indulgence yesterday; pampering my body at the Ironmonger Row Turkish Bath, pampering my belly at the New Piccadilly cafe and then in the evening pampering John Otway's growing ego as the great man prepares for his first fully blown world tour.
Ironmonger Row is one of my few vices. A weekly outlay of £11 for a swim, followed by four hours of sweating it out down below with other naked men. Keep it as clean as a whistle otherwise it won't get blown etc, but personal hygiene comes at a price, not to mention a time premium too.
Saturday at Ironmonger is men's day. A curious mix of the camp boys sitting in the corner mixing with some East End gawblimey types who are 'appy to get away from the missus.' I tend to treat the session as a microwave bed, always coming out feeling as though I have slept for an entire week.
There' a definite ritual to taking a Turkish. A swim is always a good starter as you can then smugly reward yourself with four hours of lazing about doing nothing much at all. A steaming hot shower is the first step to bring your body temperature up and then you need ten minutes or so in the steam room. The Ironmonger steamer is always scented with a wonderful nasal clearer and the combination of steam rising above you and a Vick nasal blast opening up your nostrils takes you back to the early rave scene. Sorted. And so now straight into the plunge pool.
'FUCK, SHIT, WANK, BOLLOCKS, DERBY!!!!' is the familiar cry as I submerge myself into a bath with blocks of ice floating above. No shreddies either for men's day and so you need to time your moment of departure carefully, such is the shrivelled nature of the old man below.
The tip to taking a Turkish is to appreciate the change in temperature; out of the sharpness of the icy water and straight into the steam room again with the humidity hitting every pore. For a Jusy Say No sort such as me, this must be the equivalent of a Renton Trainspotting moment.
Just as the Saturday afternoon football is kicking off, you then work your way through the three hot rooms. I say 'work,' fall asleep would be a better description. Lying around on the marble slabs, reading a Saturday paper and then slowly drifting off. The plunge pool soon awakens you again and then it's another session of steam and a mild shower to cool you off.
The comedown is another afternoon nap, this time in the wood panelled den that resembles a slightly more luxurious Youth Hostel dormitory. A mobile free area of course and so no knobbers about to disturb the peace.
Men's day at Ironmonger has a great camaraderie with plenty of gossip as well, invariably about girls and football. A kind of Gentleman's Club for Geezers. The Saturday papers kept me amused (and angry) for the afternoon, although it might have been more appropriate if my reading material was the excellent The Chap, the bible for the modern day gentleman / cad.
Such a devotion to arseing about is hungry work, hence the next port of call across town at the New Piccadilly. Just as Ironmonger has remained unchanged for years, so has the West End's finest cheap and cheerful cafe. This soon may all change though with less than a year left on the lease and rising West End rates giving cause for concern to the family run business.
I'm a creature of habit of course, and so I paid my £6.50 and eagerly awaited the large plate of steak, chips and spaghetti. Not the most typical of cuisine dishes and unlikely to feature in Gordon Ramsey's kitchen. But then I'm unlikely to ever feature in the knobber’s restaurant. Seen as though it was mrs onionbagblogger’s birthday (the old cow) the budget extended to £4.50 for a Cannelloni dish as her annual treat. This was all washed down with a budget Bring Your Own bottle of red, which at £2.99 was indeed cheaper than the chips.
And so onto Two Hits Otway.
You always know what you're going to get from an Otway gig: All the hits (all TWO of them), Bachman Turner Overdrive covers performed by a somersaulting bare chested madman, and a balding bloke pushing fifty plus drawing blood on a nightly basis as he headbutts the microphone.
Otway’s 'one off' event gigs have been more than occasional in recent years; the Gig One Thousand party, the Royal Albert Hall, celebrating being named officially the Seventh Best Songwriter of the Millennium, the Abbey Road sessions and two years ago the crowning glory of the night out at the London Palladium after gate crashing the charts at No 7.
I'm neither proud nor ashamed to say that I was at all of these (plus an endless succession of toilet gigs in-between), but nothing compares to the grandiose plans for the Otway World Tour that was launched at the Mean Fiddler on Saturday night. Starting in London in March 2006, the chartered OtAir plane then take you and the band to New York, Las Vegas, Tahiti (SO Rock 'n Roll...), Sydney, Dubai (er...?) and finally Geneva.
I bet he's booked in for The Charlotte in Leicester the following night.
For those that can't afford the full fare (just under £3k – no more Cannelloni for you for the next ten years m'lady) there is going to be an Otway Convention. Held in Geneva of course. We may just make this date, if only to re-visit the lakeside location of our last romantic holiday, a week spent on a pre-season tour watching the London Knights.
Arriving at Charring Cross Road on Saturday was a strange experience with Saxon strutting their rock cocks upstairs at The Astoria. Given the queues of the G.A.Y. crowd and the Goths for later club nights, Mr Tony's Britain is indeed a broad (and slightly loopy) church.
The support for Two Hits Otway on Saturday was a wonderful surprise – Eddie Tenpole Tudor. Tales of talking cream buns and '50s rockabilly fitted in well with the Formica fittings of the New Piccadilly from earlier in the day.
Scrubbed, fed and entertained, I managed five minutes of MOTD in bed, and then dozed off, dreaming of hat trick glory playing for the Supporters' Team later this morning. Depending on the outcome, updates may or may not appear.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Sunday 3 October, 2004 |
A day of indulgence yesterday; pampering my body at the Ironmonger Row Turkish Bath, pampering my belly at the New Piccadilly cafe and then in the evening pampering John Otway's growing ego as the great man prepares for his first fully blown world tour.
Ironmonger Row is one of my few vices. A weekly outlay of £11 for a swim, followed by four hours of sweating it out down below with other naked men. Keep it as clean as a whistle otherwise it won't get blown etc, but personal hygiene comes at a price, not to mention a time premium too.
A Gentleman’s Club for Geezers |
There' a definite ritual to taking a Turkish. A swim is always a good starter as you can then smugly reward yourself with four hours of lazing about doing nothing much at all. A steaming hot shower is the first step to bring your body temperature up and then you need ten minutes or so in the steam room. The Ironmonger steamer is always scented with a wonderful nasal clearer and the combination of steam rising above you and a Vick nasal blast opening up your nostrils takes you back to the early rave scene. Sorted. And so now straight into the plunge pool.
'FUCK, SHIT, WANK, BOLLOCKS, DERBY!!!!' is the familiar cry as I submerge myself into a bath with blocks of ice floating above. No shreddies either for men's day and so you need to time your moment of departure carefully, such is the shrivelled nature of the old man below.
The tip to taking a Turkish is to appreciate the change in temperature; out of the sharpness of the icy water and straight into the steam room again with the humidity hitting every pore. For a Jusy Say No sort such as me, this must be the equivalent of a Renton Trainspotting moment.
Just as the Saturday afternoon football is kicking off, you then work your way through the three hot rooms. I say 'work,' fall asleep would be a better description. Lying around on the marble slabs, reading a Saturday paper and then slowly drifting off. The plunge pool soon awakens you again and then it's another session of steam and a mild shower to cool you off.
The comedown is another afternoon nap, this time in the wood panelled den that resembles a slightly more luxurious Youth Hostel dormitory. A mobile free area of course and so no knobbers about to disturb the peace.
Men's day at Ironmonger has a great camaraderie with plenty of gossip as well, invariably about girls and football. A kind of Gentleman's Club for Geezers. The Saturday papers kept me amused (and angry) for the afternoon, although it might have been more appropriate if my reading material was the excellent The Chap, the bible for the modern day gentleman / cad.
Such a devotion to arseing about is hungry work, hence the next port of call across town at the New Piccadilly. Just as Ironmonger has remained unchanged for years, so has the West End's finest cheap and cheerful cafe. This soon may all change though with less than a year left on the lease and rising West End rates giving cause for concern to the family run business.
I'm a creature of habit of course, and so I paid my £6.50 and eagerly awaited the large plate of steak, chips and spaghetti. Not the most typical of cuisine dishes and unlikely to feature in Gordon Ramsey's kitchen. But then I'm unlikely to ever feature in the knobber’s restaurant. Seen as though it was mrs onionbagblogger’s birthday (the old cow) the budget extended to £4.50 for a Cannelloni dish as her annual treat. This was all washed down with a budget Bring Your Own bottle of red, which at £2.99 was indeed cheaper than the chips.
And so onto Two Hits Otway.
You always know what you're going to get from an Otway gig: All the hits (all TWO of them), Bachman Turner Overdrive covers performed by a somersaulting bare chested madman, and a balding bloke pushing fifty plus drawing blood on a nightly basis as he headbutts the microphone.
Otway’s 'one off' event gigs have been more than occasional in recent years; the Gig One Thousand party, the Royal Albert Hall, celebrating being named officially the Seventh Best Songwriter of the Millennium, the Abbey Road sessions and two years ago the crowning glory of the night out at the London Palladium after gate crashing the charts at No 7.
I'm neither proud nor ashamed to say that I was at all of these (plus an endless succession of toilet gigs in-between), but nothing compares to the grandiose plans for the Otway World Tour that was launched at the Mean Fiddler on Saturday night. Starting in London in March 2006, the chartered OtAir plane then take you and the band to New York, Las Vegas, Tahiti (SO Rock 'n Roll...), Sydney, Dubai (er...?) and finally Geneva.
I bet he's booked in for The Charlotte in Leicester the following night.
For those that can't afford the full fare (just under £3k – no more Cannelloni for you for the next ten years m'lady) there is going to be an Otway Convention. Held in Geneva of course. We may just make this date, if only to re-visit the lakeside location of our last romantic holiday, a week spent on a pre-season tour watching the London Knights.
Arriving at Charring Cross Road on Saturday was a strange experience with Saxon strutting their rock cocks upstairs at The Astoria. Given the queues of the G.A.Y. crowd and the Goths for later club nights, Mr Tony's Britain is indeed a broad (and slightly loopy) church.
The support for Two Hits Otway on Saturday was a wonderful surprise – Eddie Tenpole Tudor. Tales of talking cream buns and '50s rockabilly fitted in well with the Formica fittings of the New Piccadilly from earlier in the day.
Scrubbed, fed and entertained, I managed five minutes of MOTD in bed, and then dozed off, dreaming of hat trick glory playing for the Supporters' Team later this morning. Depending on the outcome, updates may or may not appear.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Power to the People
Battersea Park is more Sydney than South London with the Aussie Rules crowd adopting the vast space for their Screamers, Smothers and Speccies. I'm not a great fan of any code that attempts to play football with a ball that won't bounce, but the Aussie form seems the most appealing, for the sheer silliness of the tight shorts, if nothing else.
Adding to the cosmopolitan outlook is the four geographical corners that surround the park; with the Winstanley Estate to the South, Pimlico to the North, Nine Elms eating into the East and Chelsea to the West, the school catchment area must be Mr Tony's personification of paradise with CHOICE being the key word. Choice for those who can either afford it or whose face fits of course.
In amongst all the contradictions there is one constant: Battersea Power Station. The four chimneys dominate the Park from every viewpoint adding some cohesion to an otherwise diverse public space that can't quite make its mind up as to what it wants to be.
London's least known zoo (ridiculous link ahoy)? A Buddhist Peace Pagoda? Throw in an Otter and Wildlife Sanctuary and you have something for every peace loving, amphibian appreciating Aussie Rules rucker.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Saturday 2 October, 2004 |
Battersea Park is more Sydney than South London with the Aussie Rules crowd adopting the vast space for their Screamers, Smothers and Speccies. I'm not a great fan of any code that attempts to play football with a ball that won't bounce, but the Aussie form seems the most appealing, for the sheer silliness of the tight shorts, if nothing else.
Adding to the cosmopolitan outlook is the four geographical corners that surround the park; with the Winstanley Estate to the South, Pimlico to the North, Nine Elms eating into the East and Chelsea to the West, the school catchment area must be Mr Tony's personification of paradise with CHOICE being the key word. Choice for those who can either afford it or whose face fits of course.
In amongst all the contradictions there is one constant: Battersea Power Station. The four chimneys dominate the Park from every viewpoint adding some cohesion to an otherwise diverse public space that can't quite make its mind up as to what it wants to be.
London's least known zoo (ridiculous link ahoy)? A Buddhist Peace Pagoda? Throw in an Otter and Wildlife Sanctuary and you have something for every peace loving, amphibian appreciating Aussie Rules rucker.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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