onionbagblog
Photo Friday
When Walls Comes Tumbling Down...
Southwark Council is ripping out a couple of blocks around the edges of the Aylesbury. In true crap journo style, I've no idea why or what they will be replaced with, but you can bet that Council owned stock won't be standing there this time next year.
What I find fascinating is the colour combinations on the remaining walls. On an overcast June afternoon, they lit up a dull South London landscape all the way across Burgess Park. The thinness of the walls was also a bit alarming - that's an awful lot of sleepness nights when you consider the Baby Factory mothers walking around the area.
These pictures were taken from behind Southampton Way, just around the corner from the wonderful 'architectural salvage yard' (junk shop). 50's style formica can be found within, flogged at vastly inflated prices; I can't see the contents of the 60's blocks making the short journey across the road for the salvage yard to sell onto the contemporary urban warriors that seem to be moving into this small corner of South London.
Meanwhile the Aylesbury is going nowhere. Despite Southwark Council's best attempts to scare the residents into submission, the estate is much loved by most of the occupants who are fighting to build and improve their environment.
More worrying though is the threat of a second visit from Mr Tony. You may remember that the newly elected fresh faced PM rolled into town on a bright April morning back in '97, full of optimism, full of promises and full of shit. Eight years later and the physical construct of the Aylesbury fares no better. If anything, Mr Tony's visit rallied the residents around the cause of keeping the stock under Council control - the very opposite outcome Mr Tony wanted from his trip to South London.
The Second Coming of Mr Tony is being billed as a morale boost to the residents. Pulling down blocks and replacing them with PPP property is not the kind of news the residents want to hear.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Friday 1 July, 2005 |
When Walls Comes Tumbling Down...
Southwark Council is ripping out a couple of blocks around the edges of the Aylesbury. In true crap journo style, I've no idea why or what they will be replaced with, but you can bet that Council owned stock won't be standing there this time next year.
 There's the threat of a visit from Mr Tony |
These pictures were taken from behind Southampton Way, just around the corner from the wonderful 'architectural salvage yard' (junk shop). 50's style formica can be found within, flogged at vastly inflated prices; I can't see the contents of the 60's blocks making the short journey across the road for the salvage yard to sell onto the contemporary urban warriors that seem to be moving into this small corner of South London.
Meanwhile the Aylesbury is going nowhere. Despite Southwark Council's best attempts to scare the residents into submission, the estate is much loved by most of the occupants who are fighting to build and improve their environment.
More worrying though is the threat of a second visit from Mr Tony. You may remember that the newly elected fresh faced PM rolled into town on a bright April morning back in '97, full of optimism, full of promises and full of shit. Eight years later and the physical construct of the Aylesbury fares no better. If anything, Mr Tony's visit rallied the residents around the cause of keeping the stock under Council control - the very opposite outcome Mr Tony wanted from his trip to South London.
The Second Coming of Mr Tony is being billed as a morale boost to the residents. Pulling down blocks and replacing them with PPP property is not the kind of news the residents want to hear.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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People Like Us
An interesting train journey back to Vauxhall the other night. And let's face it - that's something you don't hear said very often.
Things you need to know:
U2 were playing over at 'Twickers,' as I believe Rugger Bugger Egg Chasers call the West London picnic hamper car park / sometime 'sports' stadium.
The 'Season' so beloved of The Establishment is upon us. Traditionally this involves wearing crap hats at Ascot, acting like a king knobber at Henley and generally furthering the cause for a Republic in the UK.
Eton and Harrow have just finished their summer terms. Back in the real world and we still have four more weeks to go. This goes a long way to explaining why the chinless wonders are so bloody thick.
And so you can imagine the demographics of my commuting companions coming back into town from out West late one midsummer evening. South West Trains don't provide First Class carriages on the Clap'ham line and so the hamper carrying 'hard rock' (HA!) fans had the pleasure of my cut off combats for the journey back to Vauxhall.
I had the pleasure of being subjected to the conversation of some extreme knobbers who probably have to hide away their U2 CDs up the arse of their teddy bears for fear of Mummsy mistaking them for being a dangerous subversive type.
Phew, rock 'n roll.
I found myself playing the role of a gooseberry, sandwiched in-between two public school pricks who made Jeremy Irons look like the rag and bone man. Now I know how a poor rugby ball feels, propped up by posh twatsticks with the only escape seemingly being a kick in the face.
Turns out that the two Hoorays had just met, although they shared similar backgrounds; the Eton Boat Song (SINK! You fucker), skiing holidays in Klosters and motherly love from Matron.
I was feeling a little left out.
It started off as harmless stuff and at first I couldn't help but see the irony in two privileged pricks paying to see a Rock Star Cock whose manifesto (and bank balance) is made up from Making Poverty History. And talking very loudly about it. Charity begins at home, you old Irish rock whore. Just give us the fucking money, etc.
But then it all turned a little nasty; the elder of the two tossers was enjoying his year out. I think we've all done that. Mine was known as Job Seekers Allowance. He was passing on tips to the younger freeloader about which boxes a young cad about London town should tick off before a career in corporate banking beckons:
'Trash a ski lodge, acquire as many gold credit cards as possible,' and...
'Shag some dirty little whore up the arse.'
Charming. That's something which I bet the females weren't warned about at finishing school.
And then the language turned REALLY nasty:
'There's People Like Us and there's Them. People Like Us stick together. We make Them work for us. People Like Us need to rule over Them.'
It sounded like something straight out of the Doomsday Book and not the 11:40 heading for Vauxhall. I smirked a little at first, but then as the froth started to foam around the lips of the Home Counties cunt, I realised that his prejudices were a point of principle that he believed in passionately. Public Transport apartheid is alive and kicking on a South West Train heading into Clap'ham.
Now was not the time to start off the whole of the carriage into a chorus of Beautiful Day. Stuck In a Moment You Can't Get Out Of may have made more sense.
The young sage was taking it all in. Phone numbers were exchanged and plans were made to 'meet on the slopes' next season. Here's hoping for an avalanche.
I left the train as the conversation tuned towards the CUNTryside Alliance. The piss stenched platform at Vauxhall has never seemed so welcoming. As the train pulled out of the platform bound for Waterloo, I bid my own fond farewell to the two fuckspuds: A gentle knock on the window followed by a five finger shuffle. Fantastic timing as the Hoorays had just started to bore the pants off a couple of 'dirty little whores.'
People Like Us have a duty: Make Knobbers History.
| Thursday 30 June, 2005 |
An interesting train journey back to Vauxhall the other night. And let's face it - that's something you don't hear said very often.
Things you need to know:
U2 were playing over at 'Twickers,' as I believe Rugger Bugger Egg Chasers call the West London picnic hamper car park / sometime 'sports' stadium.
Make Knobbers History |
Eton and Harrow have just finished their summer terms. Back in the real world and we still have four more weeks to go. This goes a long way to explaining why the chinless wonders are so bloody thick.
And so you can imagine the demographics of my commuting companions coming back into town from out West late one midsummer evening. South West Trains don't provide First Class carriages on the Clap'ham line and so the hamper carrying 'hard rock' (HA!) fans had the pleasure of my cut off combats for the journey back to Vauxhall.
I had the pleasure of being subjected to the conversation of some extreme knobbers who probably have to hide away their U2 CDs up the arse of their teddy bears for fear of Mummsy mistaking them for being a dangerous subversive type.
Phew, rock 'n roll.
I found myself playing the role of a gooseberry, sandwiched in-between two public school pricks who made Jeremy Irons look like the rag and bone man. Now I know how a poor rugby ball feels, propped up by posh twatsticks with the only escape seemingly being a kick in the face.
Turns out that the two Hoorays had just met, although they shared similar backgrounds; the Eton Boat Song (SINK! You fucker), skiing holidays in Klosters and motherly love from Matron.
I was feeling a little left out.
It started off as harmless stuff and at first I couldn't help but see the irony in two privileged pricks paying to see a Rock Star Cock whose manifesto (and bank balance) is made up from Making Poverty History. And talking very loudly about it. Charity begins at home, you old Irish rock whore. Just give us the fucking money, etc.
But then it all turned a little nasty; the elder of the two tossers was enjoying his year out. I think we've all done that. Mine was known as Job Seekers Allowance. He was passing on tips to the younger freeloader about which boxes a young cad about London town should tick off before a career in corporate banking beckons:
'Trash a ski lodge, acquire as many gold credit cards as possible,' and...
'Shag some dirty little whore up the arse.'
Charming. That's something which I bet the females weren't warned about at finishing school.
And then the language turned REALLY nasty:
'There's People Like Us and there's Them. People Like Us stick together. We make Them work for us. People Like Us need to rule over Them.'
It sounded like something straight out of the Doomsday Book and not the 11:40 heading for Vauxhall. I smirked a little at first, but then as the froth started to foam around the lips of the Home Counties cunt, I realised that his prejudices were a point of principle that he believed in passionately. Public Transport apartheid is alive and kicking on a South West Train heading into Clap'ham.
Now was not the time to start off the whole of the carriage into a chorus of Beautiful Day. Stuck In a Moment You Can't Get Out Of may have made more sense.
The young sage was taking it all in. Phone numbers were exchanged and plans were made to 'meet on the slopes' next season. Here's hoping for an avalanche.
I left the train as the conversation tuned towards the CUNTryside Alliance. The piss stenched platform at Vauxhall has never seemed so welcoming. As the train pulled out of the platform bound for Waterloo, I bid my own fond farewell to the two fuckspuds: A gentle knock on the window followed by a five finger shuffle. Fantastic timing as the Hoorays had just started to bore the pants off a couple of 'dirty little whores.'
People Like Us have a duty: Make Knobbers History.
| #permalink |
High Flyers
The annual Supernova Korfball Club Companies Tournement was played out under Wimbledon weather on Clap'ham Common on Tuesday evening. I half expected to see Cliff Richard emerge from the Clap'ham Common bushes (where he apparently enjoys 'solitary walks') and serenade us all with Living Doll. At least the weather kept the Aussie No Rules lot off the Common.
My semi-official role for the evening was to 'take pictures and try and make korfball look sexy.'
As the great Mozza once said:
'I tried and I failed...'
Sex in the City this wasn't; more like Mingers in the Metropolis. But regular readers may remember that the rules for the Dutch sport of korfball contain a Ying and a Yang element; for every tied to the 80's City Boy puffing and panting his way through the Companies Tournament, there has to be a Power Dressed Babe.
The equal male and female team composition is bit like the housemate selection policy for Big Brother. Up front we have the corporate Suit with his survival of the fittest philosophy; in defence there's the Fox from Finance with her silicon D-cups; and throw in a wild card sub of a Mystery Man who everyone is slightly scared of back in the office with his Action Men figurines arranged on top of his PC, let alone his kamikaze antics on the korfball pitch.
Who wins? You decide...
Well actually the good and honest laws of korfball had the final say. Foul play was penalised, long shots were sunk and a blind eye was turned when the Suits all tried to soften the blow of their less than gracious falls from grace by using the D-cups as a cushion.
All work and no play makes even more money for the City, as the saying goes. It was good then to see a bit of corporate skiving taking place with most teams arriving on the Common in time for the 5pm start. The team of Lawyers had lost a player though, and at an hourly rate of approximately five grand, that's quite an expensive loss. I was drafted in as a Legal Eagle ringer. I'll collect my fee later.
The game was against a team of corporate Bankers. I knew I would be in for some fun...
There was a definite smell of testosterone in the air, and for once this was nothing to do with my own personal hygiene habits. Play hard, work hard etc, but it might help if the two hundred odd page Rules of Korfball manual had been read beforehand. I was rugby tackled from behind by a burly Banker type. I was all set to give him the five finger greeting accustomed to his profession, but then I remembered that this was a FRIENDLY tournament, splendidly organised by the lovely people of Supernova.
I picked myself up and considered suing for compensation and asked one of my new found legal friends about the possibility of a No Win, No Fee representation.
'Just play bloody korfball' was the response.
With the first round of matches complete, I retired to the corporate food tent to take stock, plus the odd mouthful or ten of fancy sarnies. I knew that this corporate sponsorship would make sense. The food was almost as enjoyable as the korfball, and certainly less damaging to your health. Bottles of beer were even up for grabs, something which the British Korfball Association makes no reference to in their constitution.
But then just before the start of the next round of matches, the bloody rain returned. I returned back to Sunny Stockwell with a camera full of crap pics of Banker Boys.
Despite the downpour, this was another highly successful tournament organised by Supernova. Awareness and recruitment were the main aims. The free sarnies and odd D-cup snaps were a bonus.
*supernova train outdoors on Clap'ham Common by the Windmill Pub on Thursday evenings from 7pm in the summer, and then move indoors to a Battersea location in September - more here*
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Wednesday 29 June, 2005 |
The annual Supernova Korfball Club Companies Tournement was played out under Wimbledon weather on Clap'ham Common on Tuesday evening. I half expected to see Cliff Richard emerge from the Clap'ham Common bushes (where he apparently enjoys 'solitary walks') and serenade us all with Living Doll. At least the weather kept the Aussie No Rules lot off the Common.My semi-official role for the evening was to 'take pictures and try and make korfball look sexy.'
As the great Mozza once said:
'I tried and I failed...'
Sex in the City this wasn't; more like Mingers in the Metropolis. But regular readers may remember that the rules for the Dutch sport of korfball contain a Ying and a Yang element; for every tied to the 80's City Boy puffing and panting his way through the Companies Tournament, there has to be a Power Dressed Babe.
The equal male and female team composition is bit like the housemate selection policy for Big Brother. Up front we have the corporate Suit with his survival of the fittest philosophy; in defence there's the Fox from Finance with her silicon D-cups; and throw in a wild card sub of a Mystery Man who everyone is slightly scared of back in the office with his Action Men figurines arranged on top of his PC, let alone his kamikaze antics on the korfball pitch.
Who wins? You decide...
It was good to see corporate skiving |
All work and no play makes even more money for the City, as the saying goes. It was good then to see a bit of corporate skiving taking place with most teams arriving on the Common in time for the 5pm start. The team of Lawyers had lost a player though, and at an hourly rate of approximately five grand, that's quite an expensive loss. I was drafted in as a Legal Eagle ringer. I'll collect my fee later.
The game was against a team of corporate Bankers. I knew I would be in for some fun...
There was a definite smell of testosterone in the air, and for once this was nothing to do with my own personal hygiene habits. Play hard, work hard etc, but it might help if the two hundred odd page Rules of Korfball manual had been read beforehand. I was rugby tackled from behind by a burly Banker type. I was all set to give him the five finger greeting accustomed to his profession, but then I remembered that this was a FRIENDLY tournament, splendidly organised by the lovely people of Supernova.
I picked myself up and considered suing for compensation and asked one of my new found legal friends about the possibility of a No Win, No Fee representation.
'Just play bloody korfball' was the response.
With the first round of matches complete, I retired to the corporate food tent to take stock, plus the odd mouthful or ten of fancy sarnies. I knew that this corporate sponsorship would make sense. The food was almost as enjoyable as the korfball, and certainly less damaging to your health. Bottles of beer were even up for grabs, something which the British Korfball Association makes no reference to in their constitution.
But then just before the start of the next round of matches, the bloody rain returned. I returned back to Sunny Stockwell with a camera full of crap pics of Banker Boys.
Despite the downpour, this was another highly successful tournament organised by Supernova. Awareness and recruitment were the main aims. The free sarnies and odd D-cup snaps were a bonus.
*supernova train outdoors on Clap'ham Common by the Windmill Pub on Thursday evenings from 7pm in the summer, and then move indoors to a Battersea location in September - more here*
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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| #permalink |
