onionbagblog
Talk About Mudflaps...
I spent my Sunday morning beach combing beneath the old Billingsgate market on the North Bank of the Thames. Along with some other bleary eyed beach combers, it was like an Antiques Roadshow for scavengers.
I'm not quite sure what I was expecting the Old Father to wash up with the tide, but it certainly wasn't a bicycle seat. I didn't find such an item, but more than one of my fellow combers (a 'cheapskate' of combers?) came across my seat that I had left towards the tidal wall and pondered at great length the significance of their 'find.'
Shit shovelling is perhaps a more appropriate phrase for wading through the wonders that London's sewage system pumps out into the old river. The first thing that hits you once you descend down the steps at low tide is the smell. And that's saying something coming from a man who can happily indulge himself on the toilet reading The Guardian from front to back, G2 supplement as well.
You then get that sinking feeling (on the beach, not on the shitter) as a mud bank sucks you into the great shit hole of London. It's comparable with working as a toilet cleaner at Glastonbury. But instead of uncovering random stashes of drugs, you unearth random stashes of London's litter.
The most surprising aspects to the finds is the age. Very little twentieth century artefacts are uncovered, with most items dating back to Tudor times. I picked up some pieces of Tudor pottery, a pipe, a Victorian bottle top, a bullet and a knee bone. I like to think that I put together the final moments of a man who was shot in the knee cap whilst eating from a Tudor plate and drinking a bottle of Victorian beer. His life was cut short and so there wasn't time for the post-meal smoking of the pipe.
There are plans to put a stop to pikeys like me pillaging the Thames for pieces of OUR history. 'Experts' (people that are paid to pile through shit) predict that in ten years time there will be nothing left on the north bank of the Thames to pilfer. Um... isn't that the point?
The Thames is the perfect location for beach combing; two thousand years of different cultures to excavate and an ever decreasing water level which unearths all the artefacts from the mud bed at the bottom of the river.
Even without the contents of a plastic bag filled from a morning of combing, a Sunday stroll through the shit is worth it for the history alone. Directly underneath the old Billingsgate Market you can see three distinct timber structures as Londoners struggled over the years to contain the river. Old Tudor timber frames are also visible sunken into the sand (shit) at low tide, with a number of sixteenth Century sailing ships still there to see.
Using timber for Thameside structures was made illegal after the Great Fire. The original brick bank of the Thames can be see from below, even though Billingsgate is now long gone from the Upper Thames Street area and shifted down river towards Canary Wharf.
Having a bona fide beach in central London is much overlooked by many. Reclaim the Beach parties in the summer are always worth a shout, if heavily oversubscribed. The Thames Festival in September is much more than crap mime artists, with the beach down by the Millennium Pier also being put to great use.
But time and tide wait for no man. With the tide rapidly raking up some fresh shit (probably one of mine from earlier) and the time counting down to the Carling Cup Final, I made my exit.
'Vat iz it vat you are doing?' enquired a German tourist leaning over the river wall.
'Looking for unexploded World War II bombs,' came the reply.
I almost expected him to rush down and place his towel on the beach.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Monday 28 February, 2005 |
I spent my Sunday morning beach combing beneath the old Billingsgate market on the North Bank of the Thames. Along with some other bleary eyed beach combers, it was like an Antiques Roadshow for scavengers.I'm not quite sure what I was expecting the Old Father to wash up with the tide, but it certainly wasn't a bicycle seat. I didn't find such an item, but more than one of my fellow combers (a 'cheapskate' of combers?) came across my seat that I had left towards the tidal wall and pondered at great length the significance of their 'find.'
 Shit shovelling is an appropriate phrase |
You then get that sinking feeling (on the beach, not on the shitter) as a mud bank sucks you into the great shit hole of London. It's comparable with working as a toilet cleaner at Glastonbury. But instead of uncovering random stashes of drugs, you unearth random stashes of London's litter.
The most surprising aspects to the finds is the age. Very little twentieth century artefacts are uncovered, with most items dating back to Tudor times. I picked up some pieces of Tudor pottery, a pipe, a Victorian bottle top, a bullet and a knee bone. I like to think that I put together the final moments of a man who was shot in the knee cap whilst eating from a Tudor plate and drinking a bottle of Victorian beer. His life was cut short and so there wasn't time for the post-meal smoking of the pipe.
There are plans to put a stop to pikeys like me pillaging the Thames for pieces of OUR history. 'Experts' (people that are paid to pile through shit) predict that in ten years time there will be nothing left on the north bank of the Thames to pilfer. Um... isn't that the point?
The Thames is the perfect location for beach combing; two thousand years of different cultures to excavate and an ever decreasing water level which unearths all the artefacts from the mud bed at the bottom of the river.
Even without the contents of a plastic bag filled from a morning of combing, a Sunday stroll through the shit is worth it for the history alone. Directly underneath the old Billingsgate Market you can see three distinct timber structures as Londoners struggled over the years to contain the river. Old Tudor timber frames are also visible sunken into the sand (shit) at low tide, with a number of sixteenth Century sailing ships still there to see.
Using timber for Thameside structures was made illegal after the Great Fire. The original brick bank of the Thames can be see from below, even though Billingsgate is now long gone from the Upper Thames Street area and shifted down river towards Canary Wharf.
Having a bona fide beach in central London is much overlooked by many. Reclaim the Beach parties in the summer are always worth a shout, if heavily oversubscribed. The Thames Festival in September is much more than crap mime artists, with the beach down by the Millennium Pier also being put to great use.
But time and tide wait for no man. With the tide rapidly raking up some fresh shit (probably one of mine from earlier) and the time counting down to the Carling Cup Final, I made my exit.
'Vat iz it vat you are doing?' enquired a German tourist leaning over the river wall.
'Looking for unexploded World War II bombs,' came the reply.
I almost expected him to rush down and place his towel on the beach.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Scary Duck*
'Do you want to take some photos of some birds?' enquired mrs onionbagblogger.
'YEAH!' came the enthusiastic reply, thinking that I had been given the green light to gate crash one of her girly nights.
Now I'm no Bill Oddie (an 'Oddie' maybe, not a Bill), but there weren't many old hens at the Barnes Wetland Centre. Some of the old birds could have done with a face lift though.
My first photo was of a pigeon. Fantastic. What is this? Trafalgar Square? You may as well book the Budgie Man for the afternoon matinee.
I was in need of a lie down. Handy then that a Twitcher's hut had a bed for extra comfort inside. I didn't want to ruffle any feathers though given the average fifty plus age of the females walking around the Wetland Centre.
We then took a Walk on the Wildside. But there wasn't any eyebrow plucking, leg shaving or giving head out on the badlands of Barnes. The 'Wildside' is Twitcher talk for overgrown fields. And whadya know - more bloody pigeons. Plus some swans, caught in the act of mating. Four in fact, making it all a little too much like a suburban South London wife swap session. Don't fancy yours with the long neck, mate.
I wonder if mrs onionbagblogger's night out with the birds is as much fun as this?
'He's looks a bit randy' pointed out mrs onionbagblogger. I turned around to see an elderly gentleman with a walking stick wearing a pair of wellies. I was about to lamp the geezer and then I saw her looking at a male swan.
'Look - his wings are raised. He's on heat.'
How does she know such things? Do they discuss swan mating rituals on their girly nights out? A full scale domestic then broke out, all because mrs onionbagblogger managed to drop my best notepad into some bird shit. Now I'm not henpecked, but the Twitchers in the nearby hut all focussed their binoculars on us.
I headed for the hut to ask the voyeurs if they had ever observed a bird being spit roasted. It's a peculiar pastime that makes a man hide away in a wooden hut for hours, all in the name of feathers. But then taking notes and blogging about men hiding away in wooden huts for hours, all in the name of feathers fares no better.
I don't think they appreciated my entry in the bird watchers book detailing the spotting of 'a bird called Jordan with a fine chest seen pecking away at the head of a male bird.' Talk about making a tit of yourself.
Enough of the pics - I needed a piss. Even the urinals had a window where you could look out to one of the lakes whilst you were unleashing your own stream of urine. But I felt a bit twitchy myself with all the birds looking at my knob as I was leaking.
I wonder if the birds look at knobs on mrs onionbagblogger's girly nights out?
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
*more quackers HERE
| Sunday 27 February, 2005 |
'Do you want to take some photos of some birds?' enquired mrs onionbagblogger.'YEAH!' came the enthusiastic reply, thinking that I had been given the green light to gate crash one of her girly nights.
Now I'm no Bill Oddie (an 'Oddie' maybe, not a Bill), but there weren't many old hens at the Barnes Wetland Centre. Some of the old birds could have done with a face lift though.
He looks a bit randy |
I was in need of a lie down. Handy then that a Twitcher's hut had a bed for extra comfort inside. I didn't want to ruffle any feathers though given the average fifty plus age of the females walking around the Wetland Centre.
We then took a Walk on the Wildside. But there wasn't any eyebrow plucking, leg shaving or giving head out on the badlands of Barnes. The 'Wildside' is Twitcher talk for overgrown fields. And whadya know - more bloody pigeons. Plus some swans, caught in the act of mating. Four in fact, making it all a little too much like a suburban South London wife swap session. Don't fancy yours with the long neck, mate.
I wonder if mrs onionbagblogger's night out with the birds is as much fun as this?
'He's looks a bit randy' pointed out mrs onionbagblogger. I turned around to see an elderly gentleman with a walking stick wearing a pair of wellies. I was about to lamp the geezer and then I saw her looking at a male swan.
'Look - his wings are raised. He's on heat.'
How does she know such things? Do they discuss swan mating rituals on their girly nights out? A full scale domestic then broke out, all because mrs onionbagblogger managed to drop my best notepad into some bird shit. Now I'm not henpecked, but the Twitchers in the nearby hut all focussed their binoculars on us.
I headed for the hut to ask the voyeurs if they had ever observed a bird being spit roasted. It's a peculiar pastime that makes a man hide away in a wooden hut for hours, all in the name of feathers. But then taking notes and blogging about men hiding away in wooden huts for hours, all in the name of feathers fares no better.
I don't think they appreciated my entry in the bird watchers book detailing the spotting of 'a bird called Jordan with a fine chest seen pecking away at the head of a male bird.' Talk about making a tit of yourself.
Enough of the pics - I needed a piss. Even the urinals had a window where you could look out to one of the lakes whilst you were unleashing your own stream of urine. But I felt a bit twitchy myself with all the birds looking at my knob as I was leaking.
I wonder if the birds look at knobs on mrs onionbagblogger's girly nights out?
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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)
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)
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*more quackers HERE
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