onionbagblog
By George!
It's strange how you stick with certain routes to get you around the capital - and I don’t mean the Northern Line for the knobber journey between Embankment and Charing Cross either.
Nope, my cycling habits are indeed habitual. A gaw blimey cabbie map overlooks me from the office walls of onionbagblog HQ II, yet still I persist with what I know best.
Want to get from obb territory to the West End? That will be Vauxhall Bridge, Parliament Square, Whitehall and into Regent's Street then.
City bound? A sprint to The Elephant, cross at London Bridge and soon you will be within the Square Mile.
My particular favourite routine route though is for SW8 to Euston / King's Cross / Crack Whore Hell (NW1, not Barnes Bridge by the way.) This is a well peddled particular favourite, stretching back to the good 'ol days of the first onionbagblog excursion into cycling in the capital some ten years ago.
The work commute for the daily dose of corporate bullying had me heading out to Holborn, and then spinning slightly north bound up the Grays Inn Road. The Albert Embankment, over the Ray Davies, a few runs-ins with the cabbies along Fleet Street, swing into Chancery Lane (the second most unlikely Monopoly location) and then up towards NW1.
It's one of the most scenic rides in central London whilst South of the river, and then once you hit North London knobber land and it's all becomes creepily quite corporate. Familiarity is a factor here and so the cycle from SW8 towards the Gateway to the North is regularly on my radar.
It was once again on Saturday morning (aha! A change from the usual routine) with Mr Way We See It sending me up along the Grays Inn Road in search of St George's Gardens.
It turned out to be quite a search as well. Scribbled notes from the gaw blimey map into my esteemed Pad of Knowledge proved to be a little too brief in detail. It's surprising how many delightful community parks are simply a cycle ride away from the corporate hell hole of this area. I stumbled on at least two before I finally slayed the dragon with St George.
Sir Trev use to have an apartment around these parts. ITN legend is that the sly old fox still managed to wangle a personal driver to ferry him the few hundred yards or so down the road to number 200. But then it's not exactly fitting for a Knight of the Realm and esteemed international broadcaster to be asked by some poor crack whore at two in the morning if he would like his cock sucked for a fiver.
Makes you think though, doesn't it?
St George was slightly run down, and a little seedy, even for early on a Saturday morning. Syringes littered the edges of the park, seamlessly blending in with the fading Victorian headstones.
A lone jogger went round and round and round, a couple of bag ladies (a real rarity in finding a pair) passed the time of day and I was once again asked the legend:
'Can I ask what you are doing?' rather rudely as I pointed my seven inch super zoom around in full public gaze.
You should know how the scenario is played out by now...
'YES!'
*incredibly uncomfortable long pause*
'Go on then - ask me what I'm doing...'
'What are you doing?'
'I'm taking photographs.'
'Why?'
'Because I'm a photographer.'
Only in North London. It's a routine almost as worn out as my cycle route back down to the Beautiful South.
technorati: st george's gardens
| Tuesday 30 January, 2007 |
It's strange how you stick with certain routes to get you around the capital - and I don’t mean the Northern Line for the knobber journey between Embankment and Charing Cross either.
 What are you doing? |
Want to get from obb territory to the West End? That will be Vauxhall Bridge, Parliament Square, Whitehall and into Regent's Street then.
City bound? A sprint to The Elephant, cross at London Bridge and soon you will be within the Square Mile.
My particular favourite routine route though is for SW8 to Euston / King's Cross / Crack Whore Hell (NW1, not Barnes Bridge by the way.) This is a well peddled particular favourite, stretching back to the good 'ol days of the first onionbagblog excursion into cycling in the capital some ten years ago.
The work commute for the daily dose of corporate bullying had me heading out to Holborn, and then spinning slightly north bound up the Grays Inn Road. The Albert Embankment, over the Ray Davies, a few runs-ins with the cabbies along Fleet Street, swing into Chancery Lane (the second most unlikely Monopoly location) and then up towards NW1.
It's one of the most scenic rides in central London whilst South of the river, and then once you hit North London knobber land and it's all becomes creepily quite corporate. Familiarity is a factor here and so the cycle from SW8 towards the Gateway to the North is regularly on my radar.
It was once again on Saturday morning (aha! A change from the usual routine) with Mr Way We See It sending me up along the Grays Inn Road in search of St George's Gardens.
It turned out to be quite a search as well. Scribbled notes from the gaw blimey map into my esteemed Pad of Knowledge proved to be a little too brief in detail. It's surprising how many delightful community parks are simply a cycle ride away from the corporate hell hole of this area. I stumbled on at least two before I finally slayed the dragon with St George.
Sir Trev use to have an apartment around these parts. ITN legend is that the sly old fox still managed to wangle a personal driver to ferry him the few hundred yards or so down the road to number 200. But then it's not exactly fitting for a Knight of the Realm and esteemed international broadcaster to be asked by some poor crack whore at two in the morning if he would like his cock sucked for a fiver.
Makes you think though, doesn't it?
St George was slightly run down, and a little seedy, even for early on a Saturday morning. Syringes littered the edges of the park, seamlessly blending in with the fading Victorian headstones.
A lone jogger went round and round and round, a couple of bag ladies (a real rarity in finding a pair) passed the time of day and I was once again asked the legend:
'Can I ask what you are doing?' rather rudely as I pointed my seven inch super zoom around in full public gaze.
You should know how the scenario is played out by now...
'YES!'
*incredibly uncomfortable long pause*
'Go on then - ask me what I'm doing...'
'What are you doing?'
'I'm taking photographs.'
'Why?'
'Because I'm a photographer.'
Only in North London. It's a routine almost as worn out as my cycle route back down to the Beautiful South.
technorati: st george's gardens
| #permalink |
Happiness is...| Monday 29 January, 2007 |
Yes, it is slightly Glamorous, a little Girly and it was bought for me by a Friend.
Dip your bread, love.
technorati: sunny stockwell
| #permalink |
Swingers
In my efforts to cover every angle of South London Sport (I like to call it The Good, the Bad and the Crystal Pal-arse,) I found myself at Brixton Rec early on Saturday morning as softball came to SW9.
'You big Southern softie,' said mrs onionbagblogger. But she had me by the short and curlies as the fragrant one was swinging her big hard bat perilously close to my short and curlies with strict instructions to 'sit down and enjoy yourself.'
Softball is essentially baseball without the balls; sexually, not spherically. Although played as a mixed sport in South London, it's clear who wears the softball shorts as the females have all the fun, coming first on first first base etc.
Boyfriends are brought along as token softball sexual trophies. We're here essentially to make up the numbers and as justification for forking out for a large wooden phallic implement that makes you feel even more inadequate after having explained to your mates that you can't make the football, as you're playing a female sport first thing in the morning.
'Have you gone soft in the head?' asked a male friend the night before, as I spluttered out my pint of Stella and became paranoid as to whom he had been speaking to.
I felt castrated and confused, but probably not as much as the members of the Gay, Lesbian, Bi-Sexual and Transsexual Softball team. I bet their team socials include plenty of swinging (of softball bats of course.)
Softball in South London is played in the summer months on Clap'ham Common. Club fees are inflated with the required insurance for shattering windscreens of passing cars along the South Side of the Common.
The winter months sees the swingers either head up to the softball batting cages at Harrow on the Hill (I'm not making this up...) or going indoors at Brixton Rec. Having already been humiliated by playing a girlie sport, I might as well do it on my manor rather than some toff enclave best known for producing future Prime Ministers.
My Saturday morning experience will be remembered for the irregular wearing of baseball caps, plenty of whooping and High Fives aplenty. And that was just for the act of one male having the balls (I think) to say NO to his girlfriend when she demanded that he should go and fetch a cup of coffee for her.
The accents were not so much South London Gaw Blimey Guv, but more like Gee Wizz - Way to Go Brian!
The teams faired little better. Typical names were ASBO, Glove Me Tender and Uncle Monty's Most Beastly Umphhh. It was a bit like being back in the Student Union bar all over again.
Of course the problem in playing a mixed sport is that there is the very real danger that the females will perform better than the blokes. Actually that's a problem I experience in most walks of life.
But some things never change. After failing to swing my big stick and please mrs obb, we left Brixton for the weekly food shop. Well, I handed over my shopping list and went off to practice my pitching skills in the local pub.
'Way to go girl, way to go.'
technorati: softball
| Sunday 28 January, 2007 |
In my efforts to cover every angle of South London Sport (I like to call it The Good, the Bad and the Crystal Pal-arse,) I found myself at Brixton Rec early on Saturday morning as softball came to SW9.
Sit down and enjoy yourself |
Softball is essentially baseball without the balls; sexually, not spherically. Although played as a mixed sport in South London, it's clear who wears the softball shorts as the females have all the fun, coming first on first first base etc.
Boyfriends are brought along as token softball sexual trophies. We're here essentially to make up the numbers and as justification for forking out for a large wooden phallic implement that makes you feel even more inadequate after having explained to your mates that you can't make the football, as you're playing a female sport first thing in the morning.
'Have you gone soft in the head?' asked a male friend the night before, as I spluttered out my pint of Stella and became paranoid as to whom he had been speaking to.
I felt castrated and confused, but probably not as much as the members of the Gay, Lesbian, Bi-Sexual and Transsexual Softball team. I bet their team socials include plenty of swinging (of softball bats of course.)
Softball in South London is played in the summer months on Clap'ham Common. Club fees are inflated with the required insurance for shattering windscreens of passing cars along the South Side of the Common.
The winter months sees the swingers either head up to the softball batting cages at Harrow on the Hill (I'm not making this up...) or going indoors at Brixton Rec. Having already been humiliated by playing a girlie sport, I might as well do it on my manor rather than some toff enclave best known for producing future Prime Ministers.
My Saturday morning experience will be remembered for the irregular wearing of baseball caps, plenty of whooping and High Fives aplenty. And that was just for the act of one male having the balls (I think) to say NO to his girlfriend when she demanded that he should go and fetch a cup of coffee for her.
The accents were not so much South London Gaw Blimey Guv, but more like Gee Wizz - Way to Go Brian!
The teams faired little better. Typical names were ASBO, Glove Me Tender and Uncle Monty's Most Beastly Umphhh. It was a bit like being back in the Student Union bar all over again.
Of course the problem in playing a mixed sport is that there is the very real danger that the females will perform better than the blokes. Actually that's a problem I experience in most walks of life.
But some things never change. After failing to swing my big stick and please mrs obb, we left Brixton for the weekly food shop. Well, I handed over my shopping list and went off to practice my pitching skills in the local pub.
'Way to go girl, way to go.'
technorati: softball
| #permalink |
Things that go BUMP
And so yeah, I fell off my bike. Bummer. I'm not sure how it happened, but it's been the worst accident that I've experienced in almost a decade of cycling around the capital.
Before the finger of blame is pointed, you might as well point your browser over HERE. No knobber cars, no selfish pedestrians and no eye candy females flashing their legs at me were responsible for the great big GASH (hurrah!) I now have in my forehead.
I was taking it very steady around Vauxhall on Mr Wilson of Peckham, my latest peddling purchase. I can remember the huge THUD as my forehead hit the road; I can remember the incredibly helpful Italian guys who acted as the Good Samaritans; I can even remember the woes I had about my latest Le Tour cycling top becoming blood stained.
I can't quite remember how it all happened though.
I went head first over the handlebars, but there was no other man or machine in sight. I must have hit something on the SW8 road, although a quick look later for potholes was fruitless.
Most strange, most sore.
I walked back to onionbagblog HQ II and left a handy trail of blood for any sympathetic female cyclist to follow. Please don't confuse this with an urban nu media knobber geographical art prank. It's my passport for pain, and believe me, I bloody felt it.
I tired a DIY dressing job at home, but then scared the shit out of the fragrant mrs onionbagblogger when she returned home from the corporate commute.
'Nice gash,' she said.
'Likewise,' I replied.
A South London re-make of the Thriller video was an option, but instead we opted for A&E and eight hours ofpondering why a progressive political party that is supposed to represent the working class is so crap comparing gashes with other blood stained bodies.
Casualty really is an awful place to spend the evening, but I don't suppose they do a roaring trade in guided tours, office outings, hen nights etc. If you want a snapshot of modern London life, leave the West End and you'll find it in the A&E department just off Westminster Bridge.
It really is quite depressing - drunkards, families with seriously ill young children failing to get to grips with the English language, ignorant retards who are rather fond of using the word 'disrespect,' but have no actual understanding of the word 'respect' themselves.
London is supposed to a tolerant city. Whenever asked to define a Londoner, my response is usually 'a person who shows tolerance.'
Not so last night with the agitated queue jumpers demanding to know from some poorly under-paid and over-worked staff nurse why their sprained arm injured during a rugby training session wasn't being seen to ahead of the poor sod crying in pain suffering with sickle cell.
mrs obb and I had the foresight to bring books along, and so we just sat there reading, touching up our gashes and getting on with it.
And so sometime around 2am, I was dressed down and dressed up.
'Silly boy,' said the good Doctor. 'You'll wear a helmet next time, won't you?'
Um, no.
Why spread the message that CYCLING IS DANGEROUS when we need to encourage more cyclists on to the streets of London and create a critical mass that will change the road habits of other users?
'Do you think I will make the news?' I asked the fragrant one?
'How about a visit from the Queen?'
'I reckon I might get a month off work for this.'
A&E then explained to mrs obb that: 'he is likely to be highly irritable for the next six weeks.'
'Is this back-dated?' was her reply.
Despite my fall, I've got some big spins penciled in for the weekend, with possibly a Velodrome visit as well. It's like coming off a horse - I can't wait to get back on again.
I LOVE this lifestyle: the freedom to take me wherever my imagination (and A-Z) decides to take me, a rejection of crappy car culture and I get to wear my cut off combats for twelve months of the year as well.
2007 is all set to to be a GREAT year for London cyclists.
We have the Roller Cycle races in Shoreditch next month, London Bike Week at the start of the summer and the 15th Dunwich Dynamo under the full moon of late July.
Plus there's the small matter of some foreign race or other burning through my Borough mid-summer as well.
Cheers for all the messages of support that I have had in the past twenty four hours. Bad news travels even faster than my Mr Wilson of Peckham.
Chapeau!
technorati: on yer bike
| Friday 26 January, 2007 |
And so yeah, I fell off my bike. Bummer. I'm not sure how it happened, but it's been the worst accident that I've experienced in almost a decade of cycling around the capital.
Nice gash |
I was taking it very steady around Vauxhall on Mr Wilson of Peckham, my latest peddling purchase. I can remember the huge THUD as my forehead hit the road; I can remember the incredibly helpful Italian guys who acted as the Good Samaritans; I can even remember the woes I had about my latest Le Tour cycling top becoming blood stained.
I can't quite remember how it all happened though.
I went head first over the handlebars, but there was no other man or machine in sight. I must have hit something on the SW8 road, although a quick look later for potholes was fruitless.
Most strange, most sore.
I walked back to onionbagblog HQ II and left a handy trail of blood for any sympathetic female cyclist to follow. Please don't confuse this with an urban nu media knobber geographical art prank. It's my passport for pain, and believe me, I bloody felt it.
I tired a DIY dressing job at home, but then scared the shit out of the fragrant mrs onionbagblogger when she returned home from the corporate commute.
'Nice gash,' she said.
'Likewise,' I replied.
A South London re-make of the Thriller video was an option, but instead we opted for A&E and eight hours of
Casualty really is an awful place to spend the evening, but I don't suppose they do a roaring trade in guided tours, office outings, hen nights etc. If you want a snapshot of modern London life, leave the West End and you'll find it in the A&E department just off Westminster Bridge.
It really is quite depressing - drunkards, families with seriously ill young children failing to get to grips with the English language, ignorant retards who are rather fond of using the word 'disrespect,' but have no actual understanding of the word 'respect' themselves.
London is supposed to a tolerant city. Whenever asked to define a Londoner, my response is usually 'a person who shows tolerance.'
Not so last night with the agitated queue jumpers demanding to know from some poorly under-paid and over-worked staff nurse why their sprained arm injured during a rugby training session wasn't being seen to ahead of the poor sod crying in pain suffering with sickle cell.
mrs obb and I had the foresight to bring books along, and so we just sat there reading, touching up our gashes and getting on with it.
And so sometime around 2am, I was dressed down and dressed up.
'Silly boy,' said the good Doctor. 'You'll wear a helmet next time, won't you?'
Um, no.
Why spread the message that CYCLING IS DANGEROUS when we need to encourage more cyclists on to the streets of London and create a critical mass that will change the road habits of other users?
'Do you think I will make the news?' I asked the fragrant one?
'How about a visit from the Queen?'
'I reckon I might get a month off work for this.'
A&E then explained to mrs obb that: 'he is likely to be highly irritable for the next six weeks.'
'Is this back-dated?' was her reply.
Despite my fall, I've got some big spins penciled in for the weekend, with possibly a Velodrome visit as well. It's like coming off a horse - I can't wait to get back on again.
I LOVE this lifestyle: the freedom to take me wherever my imagination (and A-Z) decides to take me, a rejection of crappy car culture and I get to wear my cut off combats for twelve months of the year as well.
2007 is all set to to be a GREAT year for London cyclists.
We have the Roller Cycle races in Shoreditch next month, London Bike Week at the start of the summer and the 15th Dunwich Dynamo under the full moon of late July.
Plus there's the small matter of some foreign race or other burning through my Borough mid-summer as well.
Cheers for all the messages of support that I have had in the past twenty four hours. Bad news travels even faster than my Mr Wilson of Peckham.
Chapeau!
technorati: on yer bike
| #permalink |
Photo Friday
Foley or folly? Foley Street W1 for the Way We See It photographs, folly for my cycling skills:
'I'm only going out for a short ride,' I told the fragrant mrs onionbagblogger. 'Don't wait up.'
But she did - all the way through until 3am in A&E as a Junior Doctor debated if stitches in my forehead to help heal the gash (get in there!) would actually disfigure my rugged good looks further still.
I wasn't stiched up, but then again given the good Junior Doctor's bedside manner compared to the fishnetted staff nurse taking care of the chap next door, I was in every sense.
Hey hoe - nice pics, all the same.
technorati: foley street
| Friday 26 January, 2007 |
Foley or folly? Foley Street W1 for the Way We See It photographs, folly for my cycling skills:
'I'm only going out for a short ride,' I told the fragrant mrs onionbagblogger. 'Don't wait up.'
But she did - all the way through until 3am in A&E as a Junior Doctor debated if stitches in my forehead to help heal the gash (get in there!) would actually disfigure my rugged good looks further still.
I wasn't stiched up, but then again given the good Junior Doctor's bedside manner compared to the fishnetted staff nurse taking care of the chap next door, I was in every sense.
Hey hoe - nice pics, all the same.
technorati: foley street
| #permalink |
Wide Angle Wednesday| Wednesday 24 January, 2007 |
You can take the boy out of Sunny Stockwell, but you can't take Sunny Stockwell out of the boy.
I admit to having overlooked my little corner of South London since moving into The Oval / Vauxhall / Sunny Stockwell Triangle of intruige over the summer. A walk around SW8 on Sunday morning, and soon I was back in familiar onionbagblog territory.
PLUS:
It's the first appearance on onionbagblog of the Bonkers Bible Basher Boozer across the road.
You can take your amplified tambourine and shove it up your arse.
technorati: sunny stockwell
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Crap Match Report
Brixton Topcats 88 Hackney White Heat (I'm not making this up...) 51
You see the good thing about supporting your LOCAL basketball club rather than somescaled down pub ball team flagship Metropolitan franchise is that you get to use the local facilities beforehand. No more lugging my arse up Central Hill and forking out eight quid for some over-hyped claptrap on court. Brixton Rec bound I was, with just enough time for twenty five lengths in the kiddie piss pool before tip off.
Feeling 'refreshed,' I found myself towling down just as the Topcats were toning up in the changing room.
'So this is where the big knobs hang out...' didn't win me many new friends.
It was just as hostile on court. Hackney White Heat (PROPER name) came South of the river with little basketball love. They travelled with even fewer fans as well.
Brixton Turns up the Heat on Hackney is the kind of headline that Sub-Standard hacks could only dream of. They'd need an A-Z first to actually locate Brixton and Hackney, and then bash out 500 words of right wing twaddle from the safety (and shittiness) of High Street Kensington. At least I actually turned up in SW2.
Unlike the title of 'Worst Borough in the UK,’ the first and second quarters belonged to Brixton, taking a 34-29 lead into the break. Half time was spent inhaling the inner city smell of cheeseburgers and large fries. Thatnice knobber Dave Cameron could construct the entire Shadow Cabinet's domestic policy around such events: Feel the love of the ghetto, understand the circumstances that lead to a 'non-traditional Sunday lunch' and Hug a Hoodie at EVERY opportunity. But not in a homo-erotic sense, you understand. That doesn't go down too well back in the blue blood constituencies.
Knobber.
Topcats turned it on in the third with some big three pointers. There was more 'Woooop!!!!' on court than was experienced after Michael Jackson was given the not guilty verdict in some downtown LA court room. But it wasn't to be a Thriller as Topcats turned over Hackney 88-51.
wot the motd cameras missed
Inner City Love.
technorati: brixton topcats
| Tuesday 23 January, 2007 |
Brixton Topcats 88 Hackney White Heat (I'm not making this up...) 51
You see the good thing about supporting your LOCAL basketball club rather than some
Hug a Hoodie... |
'So this is where the big knobs hang out...' didn't win me many new friends.
It was just as hostile on court. Hackney White Heat (PROPER name) came South of the river with little basketball love. They travelled with even fewer fans as well.
Brixton Turns up the Heat on Hackney is the kind of headline that Sub-Standard hacks could only dream of. They'd need an A-Z first to actually locate Brixton and Hackney, and then bash out 500 words of right wing twaddle from the safety (and shittiness) of High Street Kensington. At least I actually turned up in SW2.
Unlike the title of 'Worst Borough in the UK,’ the first and second quarters belonged to Brixton, taking a 34-29 lead into the break. Half time was spent inhaling the inner city smell of cheeseburgers and large fries. That
Knobber.
Topcats turned it on in the third with some big three pointers. There was more 'Woooop!!!!' on court than was experienced after Michael Jackson was given the not guilty verdict in some downtown LA court room. But it wasn't to be a Thriller as Topcats turned over Hackney 88-51.
Inner City Love.
|
technorati: brixton topcats
| #permalink |
