onionbagblog
See You on the Other Side| Wednesday 14 June, 2006 |
...of Sunny Stockwell.
technorati: house move hell
| #permalink |
Sticks
What does the World Cup mean to you? It's a question that I've asked the kids at school this week.
'It means extra McDonalds in Brixton, innit Sir?' came the reply.
'Me after 11 mini England kits with every Big Mac. Not all stores stock the mini-kits, terms & conditions apply, ask in store for details blah blah blah and Sir - buy us a Big Mac!'
Blimey. How times have changed. Back in the day and the World Cup for me meant the finest footballers from around the world competing for the ultimate prize. But Darren Bent didn't get the call up from Sven, and so Big Mac & fries to go it is.
I can' see a great deal to get excited about here in South London over the next month. Millwall, Charlton and Pal-arse won't exactly be showboating on the big stage. Unless that is you count the big stage of Zoots nightclub in Croydon. Friday night is karaoke night and there's always an open mic for any mid-table South London clogger to belt out Daydream Believer in the early hours of a Saturday morning. Down at Dulwich (ooh - new website! Top photogrpaher as well..) and this was known as the pre-game warm up this season.
Ah - the proud pink 'blues. It's highly unlikely that you'll read any newspaper print in the next month that mentions Dulwich Hamlet and the World Cup in the same paragraph. But dig a little deeper and it turns out that the current England pin-up boy (no, really) got his international grounding at Champion Hill. He also got a lot of stick from the Rabble behind the goal, which is probably why Peter Crouch has become such a cult figure for England.
'Rodders' (aha!) as the Iron Giant was affectionately known in SE22, was loaned out from Spuz for six games back in 2000. A record of played six, scored one didn't quite hint at the heady times ahead, but at least Crouchy was OUR six foot six flop.
And so just for the record, the South London representation over in the Fatherland in the next four weeks is an ex-Dulwich beanpole who if nothing else, at least managed to stake a claim as the only player to wear the pink 'n blue that could look over the main stand into the Sainsbury's car park on a Saturday afternoon should the game ever get a little dull. Which it often did with the Iron Giant counting the clouds up front.
I tried to explain all of this to the Big Mac bunch back at school. I even brought in a picture of Rodders wearing his pink 'n blue.
'Who's the plonker in the pink?' asked one burger boy.
But truth be told and the picture featured five plonkers in the pink. Crouch's South London sabbatical wasn't the best of times.
'What does the World Cup mean to you?'
A six foot six former South London lad doing a silly dance on some foreign soil.
Super Size Me, Rodders.
technorati: peter crouch
| Saturday 10 June, 2006 |
What does the World Cup mean to you? It's a question that I've asked the kids at school this week.
'It means extra McDonalds in Brixton, innit Sir?' came the reply.
 Who's the plonker in the pink? |
Blimey. How times have changed. Back in the day and the World Cup for me meant the finest footballers from around the world competing for the ultimate prize. But Darren Bent didn't get the call up from Sven, and so Big Mac & fries to go it is.
I can' see a great deal to get excited about here in South London over the next month. Millwall, Charlton and Pal-arse won't exactly be showboating on the big stage. Unless that is you count the big stage of Zoots nightclub in Croydon. Friday night is karaoke night and there's always an open mic for any mid-table South London clogger to belt out Daydream Believer in the early hours of a Saturday morning. Down at Dulwich (ooh - new website! Top photogrpaher as well..) and this was known as the pre-game warm up this season.
Ah - the proud pink 'blues. It's highly unlikely that you'll read any newspaper print in the next month that mentions Dulwich Hamlet and the World Cup in the same paragraph. But dig a little deeper and it turns out that the current England pin-up boy (no, really) got his international grounding at Champion Hill. He also got a lot of stick from the Rabble behind the goal, which is probably why Peter Crouch has become such a cult figure for England.
'Rodders' (aha!) as the Iron Giant was affectionately known in SE22, was loaned out from Spuz for six games back in 2000. A record of played six, scored one didn't quite hint at the heady times ahead, but at least Crouchy was OUR six foot six flop.
And so just for the record, the South London representation over in the Fatherland in the next four weeks is an ex-Dulwich beanpole who if nothing else, at least managed to stake a claim as the only player to wear the pink 'n blue that could look over the main stand into the Sainsbury's car park on a Saturday afternoon should the game ever get a little dull. Which it often did with the Iron Giant counting the clouds up front.
I tried to explain all of this to the Big Mac bunch back at school. I even brought in a picture of Rodders wearing his pink 'n blue.
'Who's the plonker in the pink?' asked one burger boy.
But truth be told and the picture featured five plonkers in the pink. Crouch's South London sabbatical wasn't the best of times.
'What does the World Cup mean to you?'
A six foot six former South London lad doing a silly dance on some foreign soil.
Super Size Me, Rodders.
technorati: peter crouch
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
Day one (stumps): Leicestershire 251 Vs Surrey 64-1
A more sobering Surrey experience this time, after my lastlegless high spirited Big Day Out at The Oval. Isn't that right, mrs onionbagblogger's glamorous girly friend? Apparently I've got something of a name for myself. And that name is knobber whenever I'm at the cricket. It was a bloody Bank Holiday after all.
But if it's a Wednesday then it must be the start of another Championship game as Surrey continue their season long assault to escape the embarrassment of Division Two county cricket.
Speaking of embarrassments, the visitors to South London this week are Leicestershire. I confess to knowing little about the current club, but any team wearing the colours of the City of Death deserves the stick. I certainly gave them some:
'SHIT! FUCK! WANK! BOLLOCKS! DERBY! LEICESTER!' - and that was even before a sip of my stilled water.
Following an afternoon back in the day job slogging Boy Y for six in the pressure cooker of the school playground crease, I took up my Freebie Seat of No Shame shortly after 4:30. The fox loving folk had scraped to 249-9 and I was scraping the barrel with my Leicester SHITTY, WANKERS Stadium and Jug Ears Gary jibes. I was given a formal warning by a Surrey steward before the end of my first over.
Not as formal though as the Surrey member sitting in the Pavilion who was named and shamed in front of the not quite capacity crowd of forty coffin dodgers. The chap (and they're always chaps if they are sitting in the Pavilion) was being castrated for his choice of clothes. That's a bit rich coming from eleven men who hold a collective huddle in public whilst wearing white trousers.
The chap's red T-shirt was blocking out the ball for the batsman at the Vauxhall End. Blimey - they've banned our beer at the cricket and now they're trying to take away our slightly uncomfortable middle-aged male casual clothes wear.
Chap obliged by moving to another seat. I would have painted my face red, let off a red smoke flare and bared my red bottom right in the batman's face. Howzat?
Mohammad Asif soon fell for six and Leicestershire left the field 251 all out. Surrey padded up and Scott Newman was the new man (ha!) to open the innings. But he was soon walking, trapped lbw by Asif.
With the skies beginning to bruise, cometh the late hour, cometh the late man with a long in the tooth Mark Ramprakash limping out to the middle. Here's where I made up for staying up until 2am the night before and cleaning onionbagblog HQ i ahead of the Great House Move. I dozed off and didn't see any more cricket. I don't know if the Surrey seamers turned the ball, but I certainly turned my head constantly with that strange up and down jerk motion that said:
Look at me! I've dozed off and very soon will be dribbling in public!
Just like old times.
technorati: surrey cricket
| Thursday 8 June, 2006 |
Day one (stumps): Leicestershire 251 Vs Surrey 64-1
A more sobering Surrey experience this time, after my last
I dozed off... |
Speaking of embarrassments, the visitors to South London this week are Leicestershire. I confess to knowing little about the current club, but any team wearing the colours of the City of Death deserves the stick. I certainly gave them some:
'SHIT! FUCK! WANK! BOLLOCKS! DERBY! LEICESTER!' - and that was even before a sip of my stilled water.
Following an afternoon back in the day job slogging Boy Y for six in the pressure cooker of the school playground crease, I took up my Freebie Seat of No Shame shortly after 4:30. The fox loving folk had scraped to 249-9 and I was scraping the barrel with my Leicester SHITTY, WANKERS Stadium and Jug Ears Gary jibes. I was given a formal warning by a Surrey steward before the end of my first over.
Not as formal though as the Surrey member sitting in the Pavilion who was named and shamed in front of the not quite capacity crowd of forty coffin dodgers. The chap (and they're always chaps if they are sitting in the Pavilion) was being castrated for his choice of clothes. That's a bit rich coming from eleven men who hold a collective huddle in public whilst wearing white trousers.
The chap's red T-shirt was blocking out the ball for the batsman at the Vauxhall End. Blimey - they've banned our beer at the cricket and now they're trying to take away our slightly uncomfortable middle-aged male casual clothes wear.
Chap obliged by moving to another seat. I would have painted my face red, let off a red smoke flare and bared my red bottom right in the batman's face. Howzat?
Mohammad Asif soon fell for six and Leicestershire left the field 251 all out. Surrey padded up and Scott Newman was the new man (ha!) to open the innings. But he was soon walking, trapped lbw by Asif.
With the skies beginning to bruise, cometh the late hour, cometh the late man with a long in the tooth Mark Ramprakash limping out to the middle. Here's where I made up for staying up until 2am the night before and cleaning onionbagblog HQ i ahead of the Great House Move. I dozed off and didn't see any more cricket. I don't know if the Surrey seamers turned the ball, but I certainly turned my head constantly with that strange up and down jerk motion that said:
Look at me! I've dozed off and very soon will be dribbling in public!
Just like old times.
technorati: surrey cricket
| #permalink |
Petty
Continuing The Way We See It weekly theme (as I continue to lose the will to live with the great onionbagblog HQ house move in full flow...)
The latest location was Middlesex Street, E1. Sounds sedate enough, but you probably know it better as Petticoat Lane. All the action is to be seen on a Sunday; tat, Artful Dodger types and a mad as a wet hen Bag Lady who offered to pose with a little more than I had in mind.
Fearful that I was about to find out the true meaning of Petticoat Lane, I legged it back to the safety of Sunny Stockwell. I was met by Vest Man sitting outside the old obb HQ. This is not unusual for a Sunday afternoon; actually it's not unusual for any afternoon.
I've left him a forwarding address so that he can continue to slump outside my front door and cause a general nuisance to any passers by.
Who needs an East End bag lady with Vest Man letting it all hang out on your doorstep?
technorati: petticoat lane
| Tuesday 6 June, 2006 |
Continuing The Way We See It weekly theme (as I continue to lose the will to live with the great onionbagblog HQ house move in full flow...)
I was met by Vest Man... |
Fearful that I was about to find out the true meaning of Petticoat Lane, I legged it back to the safety of Sunny Stockwell. I was met by Vest Man sitting outside the old obb HQ. This is not unusual for a Sunday afternoon; actually it's not unusual for any afternoon.
I've left him a forwarding address so that he can continue to slump outside my front door and cause a general nuisance to any passers by.
Who needs an East End bag lady with Vest Man letting it all hang out on your doorstep?
technorati: petticoat lane
| #permalink |
Spit or Swallow?
Not shifting many photos right now; shifting plenty of boxes though. I managed to escape the conjugal rites of the great onionbagblog HQ house move and headed out to Fitzrovia with TWWSI at the weekend.
Not my favourite part of town and not many photo opportunities either. What's the point of having a fuck off great big London square and then... locking up it up away from members of the public? It's Open Garden Squares Weekend later this month and I'm organising a 48 hour ketamine induced mong-fest in Fitzrovia.
Don't bother coming though if you're scared of Alsatians. I'm shit scared of the wolves in waiting after a particularly disturbing experience with one of the fuckers as a five year old. Fitzroy Square is home to one of the four legged fuckers and the bastard tried to bite me on the backside at the weekend. Doesn't bode well for the mong-fest, does it?
As the above picture demonstrates, my Alsatian assassin wasn't the only dog around in W1. Woof woof. A little harsh. She was a playful thing and was probably playing up to the camera.
It's got to be better than shifting boxes.
There better not be a bastard bulldog next door to the new obb HQ.
technorati: fitzroy square
| Monday 5 June, 2006 |
Not shifting many photos right now; shifting plenty of boxes though. I managed to escape the conjugal rites of the great onionbagblog HQ house move and headed out to Fitzrovia with TWWSI at the weekend.
I'm organising a mong fest |
Don't bother coming though if you're scared of Alsatians. I'm shit scared of the wolves in waiting after a particularly disturbing experience with one of the fuckers as a five year old. Fitzroy Square is home to one of the four legged fuckers and the bastard tried to bite me on the backside at the weekend. Doesn't bode well for the mong-fest, does it?
As the above picture demonstrates, my Alsatian assassin wasn't the only dog around in W1. Woof woof. A little harsh. She was a playful thing and was probably playing up to the camera.
It's got to be better than shifting boxes.
There better not be a bastard bulldog next door to the new obb HQ.
technorati: fitzroy square
| #permalink |
Bearing All
It's a week of The Way We See It catching up around here; it's also the week of the onionbagblog HQ house move ('in for the World Cup' we've been saying...) hence having some handy images as a space filler.
First up is Bear Gardens, SE1. 'Gardens' is a bit generous; walk along Bankside and buried away behind all the new gastro-ponce places is a piss alley with weeds growing in it. Give it a few years and no doubt penthouse apartments will line the place.
The Bear name comes from the old South East London family sport ofgetting the shit kicked out of you at Millwall bear baiting. I didn't see any bears during my TWWSI visit, but a few foxes. And not the four legged variety either.
And so as I ponder a change of scenery in Sunny Stockwell (sod it - it's only across the street), it's perhaps apt timing that TWWSI has had something of a late spring clean as well. It all looks resplendent and is rather user friendly. Perfect for any hit and miss photographer - pedal off on a Sunday afternoon with your camera and then come back to share the results.
Really as simple as that?
Do bears shit in South London piss alleys?
technorati: bankside
| Sunday 4 June, 2006 |
It's a week of The Way We See It catching up around here; it's also the week of the onionbagblog HQ house move ('in for the World Cup' we've been saying...) hence having some handy images as a space filler.
First up is Bear Gardens, SE1. 'Gardens' is a bit generous; walk along Bankside and buried away behind all the new gastro-ponce places is a piss alley with weeds growing in it. Give it a few years and no doubt penthouse apartments will line the place.
The Bear name comes from the old South East London family sport of
And so as I ponder a change of scenery in Sunny Stockwell (sod it - it's only across the street), it's perhaps apt timing that TWWSI has had something of a late spring clean as well. It all looks resplendent and is rather user friendly. Perfect for any hit and miss photographer - pedal off on a Sunday afternoon with your camera and then come back to share the results.
Really as simple as that?
Do bears shit in South London piss alleys?
technorati: bankside
| #permalink |
Brighton Biker Boy
The plan was to cycle to Croydon. But Croydon is crap and I've been a bit restless of late. Ha! That's a fucking joke. Five hours sleep a night, a pot of PG Tips every half hour and I'm still more jumpy than Jumpin' Jack Flash on a pogo stick. I blame the PY... Well, no, I've got myself to blame to be honest. And so I kept on cycling; and cycling; and then some cycling further still.
Fuck it - I'm in bloody Brighton. How the hell did that happen? Happy days. It's half term you see and no PY...
Fifty five miles in total. A fine preparation for the on / off onionbagblog summer cycling excursion en Francais. Assuming the Great House Move is completed sometime this Century, I've got six weeks of 40 miles a day scheduled in for the summer. Well, two weeks, which should hopefully leave me with four weeks of being the Sunny Stockwell Playboy of the South of France.
Buy anyway - Brighton...
I got through five Sing-A-Long-A-Weller albums on the iPod on route. The Wild Wood of Purley Way helped the wheels to turn; this became Live Wood once I hit Hundred Acre Lane; I had some Heavy Soul in Haywards Heath; I went a little Heliocentric on the outskirts of Hove and I was Illuminated along the A23. Plus I was correctly called a knobber at Paxhill Park as I peddled along pretending I was Paul Weller.
Norbury was a turning point. It probably is for most people at some stage in their life. I wasEric Clapton Robert Johnson at the crossroads, deciding to make a deal with the Devil. The sign said Croydon - Straight Ahead. But I'm not that much of a straight guy (in a strictly non-conformist style, and NOT a sexual way.) The sign saying Brighton - Sun, Sea and Singing Along to a Style Council album on the Beach seemed the better option.
And so I kept pedalling.
I kept count on my 'onboard computerised cycling companion.' Yeah, right. It was a fiver from Argos and is about as accurate as a London Underground platform countdown sign. You can toggle between different modes: Distance travelled, time, calorie count and number of miles that separate you from the PY...
And so I kept pedalling.
There was some symmetry to this trip. The first half term of the school year saw an onionbagblog day out to Brighton, all aboard thepenny pinching Pikey Express Megabus. The middle term was a little messy, and so it was left to the summer half term for my South Coast return.
The Mod within should have seen me take to the streets on a scooter. But that's hopefully to come in the months ahead as I enter into knobber Petrol Head territory and make even more of a twat of myself around the streets of South London.
I can see why the Quadrophenia crowd did the London to Brighton commute through the country lanes rather than using the arsehole of a road that is the A23. Three hours and thirty three minutes was my final read out; forty five minutes of which were spent being stuck behind some energy inefficient environmental polluting prick.
I came close to giving up at Gatwick. My legs were like lead and I was missing my PG Tips. But I persevered and pedalled on with Pauly regardless. Like Withnail, I was making up for lost time. I wanted to be on the beach beforesunset the tea hut shut up shop for the day.
I shat my pants as a 747 going towards Gatwick flew a little too close overhead. Did I really hit 36 kph in panic mode? Every Second Counts asPaul Daniels yer man Lance uses as his mantra. Bollocks. I've got two as well.
And then I hit Brighton. Brilliant!
I made for the promenade and soon I was sitting right in front of the setting for The Jam's last stand with a pot of PG Tips at my side. My journey had been back breaking and knee knackering, not to mention a little one dimensional on the music front. Fifty five miles and then just the small mater of an all day six-a-side football tournament to contend with on Thursday.
Last year Diamond Geezer laid down the gauntlet with his legendary London Walk. Others followed. Blogging to Brighton on a bike is my benchmark. I'd be happy to be outdone.
technorati: brighton
| Thursday 1 June, 2006 |
The plan was to cycle to Croydon. But Croydon is crap and I've been a bit restless of late. Ha! That's a fucking joke. Five hours sleep a night, a pot of PG Tips every half hour and I'm still more jumpy than Jumpin' Jack Flash on a pogo stick. I blame the PY... Well, no, I've got myself to blame to be honest. And so I kept on cycling; and cycling; and then some cycling further still.
Norbury was a turning point |
Fifty five miles in total. A fine preparation for the on / off onionbagblog summer cycling excursion en Francais. Assuming the Great House Move is completed sometime this Century, I've got six weeks of 40 miles a day scheduled in for the summer. Well, two weeks, which should hopefully leave me with four weeks of being the Sunny Stockwell Playboy of the South of France.
Buy anyway - Brighton...
I got through five Sing-A-Long-A-Weller albums on the iPod on route. The Wild Wood of Purley Way helped the wheels to turn; this became Live Wood once I hit Hundred Acre Lane; I had some Heavy Soul in Haywards Heath; I went a little Heliocentric on the outskirts of Hove and I was Illuminated along the A23. Plus I was correctly called a knobber at Paxhill Park as I peddled along pretending I was Paul Weller.
Norbury was a turning point. It probably is for most people at some stage in their life. I was
And so I kept pedalling.
I kept count on my 'onboard computerised cycling companion.' Yeah, right. It was a fiver from Argos and is about as accurate as a London Underground platform countdown sign. You can toggle between different modes: Distance travelled, time, calorie count and number of miles that separate you from the PY...
And so I kept pedalling.
There was some symmetry to this trip. The first half term of the school year saw an onionbagblog day out to Brighton, all aboard the
The Mod within should have seen me take to the streets on a scooter. But that's hopefully to come in the months ahead as I enter into knobber Petrol Head territory and make even more of a twat of myself around the streets of South London.
I can see why the Quadrophenia crowd did the London to Brighton commute through the country lanes rather than using the arsehole of a road that is the A23. Three hours and thirty three minutes was my final read out; forty five minutes of which were spent being stuck behind some energy inefficient environmental polluting prick.
I came close to giving up at Gatwick. My legs were like lead and I was missing my PG Tips. But I persevered and pedalled on with Pauly regardless. Like Withnail, I was making up for lost time. I wanted to be on the beach before
I shat my pants as a 747 going towards Gatwick flew a little too close overhead. Did I really hit 36 kph in panic mode? Every Second Counts as
And then I hit Brighton. Brilliant!
I made for the promenade and soon I was sitting right in front of the setting for The Jam's last stand with a pot of PG Tips at my side. My journey had been back breaking and knee knackering, not to mention a little one dimensional on the music front. Fifty five miles and then just the small mater of an all day six-a-side football tournament to contend with on Thursday.
Last year Diamond Geezer laid down the gauntlet with his legendary London Walk. Others followed. Blogging to Brighton on a bike is my benchmark. I'd be happy to be outdone.
technorati: brighton
| #permalink |
