onionbagblog
White Man in H'smith Palais Distillers
Another wet Wednesday night, another midweek gig from yer man, Brian Houston, this time in West London. Woe, woe and thrice woe. But Brian really is wonderful and deserves a trip across town to see him strut his stuff. This was a bit of a weird one though...
The venue was the Regal Room - a posh name for a backroom above a boozer. But don't forget Hammersmith is the stomping ground for The Man.
Back in the day and I have arse licked The Man, aka Mr Music Industry Big Wig, around the hallowed halls of the Hammersmith record company conglomerates. A bit of bum licking with Mr BMG? Brown pants over a meeting with Mr Polydor? Or perhaps even some anal action with Mr Arista, all in the name of you scratch my back and The Man won't fuck you over as much as the next freelancer waiting in line.
Yep, the music industry is full of knobber supremes, and it seemed that most of them were upstairs in the Regal Room on Wednesday enjoying a bottle of bolly on the company account and talking about 'ME! ME!!!! ME!!!!!!!!'
And here's me thinking it's all about the music.
The premise for the evening is that four 'artists' (oh yes!) are paraded in front of The Man who is looking for the Next Big Thing. And here's a tip - I very much doubt you will find the Next Big Thing down your trousers mate. Not with your knob growing on your forehead and all that.
A bill of pretty boys had been assembled. Poor Brian didn't stand a chance. Ponced up prima donnas singing second rate power ballads that wouldn't look out of place on a Bon Jovi out take from '88.
The Man fucking loved it. You see he can sell the pretty boys to the teenage pant wetters, as well as Fifty Quid Bloke. Two For the Price of One, but even then I'd still feel short changed. For all his charm, Brian is thankfully not teenage pant wetting material.
But hey hoe - here I was in Hammersmith with the fragrant mrs onionbagblogger and we were determined to have a good night out.
It all started off a bit strange when we ordered some food in the bar downstairs.
'Which card would Sir like to use? Or perhaps a tab?' suggested the Ketchup Kid.
'Um, I thought I would pay with cash actually.'
Cue much confusion and a conversation with a superior Ketchup Kid.
‘Cash? CASH?!’
Truth be told and any small change out of a grubby fiver would have been too little for the blandness of the stodge that had been served up.
But here comes a little light entertainment with a pre-gig chat with Brian. The set list was being scribbled down on the back of a stodge menu, and in true back in the DPW day form, a nod and a wink had me changing the running order for the evening. I'm not expecting a repeat performance when I meet up with The Artist on August 17th.
The Regal Room was now filling up with useless tossers who probably decided that what the world needs right now to end global suffering is a Take That reunion. Despite the poncey West London pretensions, it was still a chicken in basket back room with wallpaper that looked more like a shag pile. I was half expecting (and hoping) for Tony Clifton to be the opening act.
'Hello Hammersmith!' welcomed the maitre d, a posh bird with an air of self importance, and probably a music industry salary to match.
'We are now webcasting live from the Regal Room to the world!'
Nathan Barley on a bike!, etc. Live Aid this wasn't, but I bet Brian's aunt back in Belfast was enjoying the chat room fun.
The maitre d was actually alright. She seemed to be in it for the music, which is as much as you can hope for. Except I reckon if we were to accidentally swap iPod's for the day, I would probably be put on suicide watch well before she reached my Crazyhead back catalogue.
'If you've got a myspace account, I hope you've added us as a friend!'
And here sums up the emptiness of the evening. It was myspace offline. Sterile, self-important and shitty music that you can't turn off.
Except for Brian of course. He blew the pretty boys away with his spirit alone. The Man Don't Give a Fuck, both Brian and The Man. The Belfast Boy did his thing, and The Man made his excuses and ordered some more bolly.
A rare moment of inspiration from mrs obb as The Man walked back from the bar with his bottle of bolly.
'That Brian was bloody brilliant!' she bellowed out, even louder than the maitre d having just relaised that she has a new myspace friend.
'If he was signed to a major, I'd buy his album!'
Steady the buffers, mrs obb, even I would have to agree that this was a little OTT.
But The Man wasn't interested. He was discussing the inner demons of Pretty Boy #1 ('I ran out of hair gel this evening') and calculating how he could make some more cash from chaos.
'If Adolf Hitler flew in today,
They'd send a limousine anyway.'
Etc...
Ze crazy world of rock 'n roll.
wot the regal room cameras missed
The Man enjoys the opening act at The Regal Room
technorati: brian houston
| Thursday 31 May, 2007 |
Another wet Wednesday night, another midweek gig from yer man, Brian Houston, this time in West London. Woe, woe and thrice woe. But Brian really is wonderful and deserves a trip across town to see him strut his stuff. This was a bit of a weird one though...
 Brown pants with Mr Polydor |
Back in the day and I have arse licked The Man, aka Mr Music Industry Big Wig, around the hallowed halls of the Hammersmith record company conglomerates. A bit of bum licking with Mr BMG? Brown pants over a meeting with Mr Polydor? Or perhaps even some anal action with Mr Arista, all in the name of you scratch my back and The Man won't fuck you over as much as the next freelancer waiting in line.
Yep, the music industry is full of knobber supremes, and it seemed that most of them were upstairs in the Regal Room on Wednesday enjoying a bottle of bolly on the company account and talking about 'ME! ME!!!! ME!!!!!!!!'
And here's me thinking it's all about the music.
The premise for the evening is that four 'artists' (oh yes!) are paraded in front of The Man who is looking for the Next Big Thing. And here's a tip - I very much doubt you will find the Next Big Thing down your trousers mate. Not with your knob growing on your forehead and all that.
A bill of pretty boys had been assembled. Poor Brian didn't stand a chance. Ponced up prima donnas singing second rate power ballads that wouldn't look out of place on a Bon Jovi out take from '88.
The Man fucking loved it. You see he can sell the pretty boys to the teenage pant wetters, as well as Fifty Quid Bloke. Two For the Price of One, but even then I'd still feel short changed. For all his charm, Brian is thankfully not teenage pant wetting material.
But hey hoe - here I was in Hammersmith with the fragrant mrs onionbagblogger and we were determined to have a good night out.
It all started off a bit strange when we ordered some food in the bar downstairs.
'Which card would Sir like to use? Or perhaps a tab?' suggested the Ketchup Kid.
'Um, I thought I would pay with cash actually.'
Cue much confusion and a conversation with a superior Ketchup Kid.
‘Cash? CASH?!’
Truth be told and any small change out of a grubby fiver would have been too little for the blandness of the stodge that had been served up.
But here comes a little light entertainment with a pre-gig chat with Brian. The set list was being scribbled down on the back of a stodge menu, and in true back in the DPW day form, a nod and a wink had me changing the running order for the evening. I'm not expecting a repeat performance when I meet up with The Artist on August 17th.
The Regal Room was now filling up with useless tossers who probably decided that what the world needs right now to end global suffering is a Take That reunion. Despite the poncey West London pretensions, it was still a chicken in basket back room with wallpaper that looked more like a shag pile. I was half expecting (and hoping) for Tony Clifton to be the opening act.
'Hello Hammersmith!' welcomed the maitre d, a posh bird with an air of self importance, and probably a music industry salary to match.
'We are now webcasting live from the Regal Room to the world!'
Nathan Barley on a bike!, etc. Live Aid this wasn't, but I bet Brian's aunt back in Belfast was enjoying the chat room fun.
The maitre d was actually alright. She seemed to be in it for the music, which is as much as you can hope for. Except I reckon if we were to accidentally swap iPod's for the day, I would probably be put on suicide watch well before she reached my Crazyhead back catalogue.
'If you've got a myspace account, I hope you've added us as a friend!'
And here sums up the emptiness of the evening. It was myspace offline. Sterile, self-important and shitty music that you can't turn off.
Except for Brian of course. He blew the pretty boys away with his spirit alone. The Man Don't Give a Fuck, both Brian and The Man. The Belfast Boy did his thing, and The Man made his excuses and ordered some more bolly.
A rare moment of inspiration from mrs obb as The Man walked back from the bar with his bottle of bolly.
'That Brian was bloody brilliant!' she bellowed out, even louder than the maitre d having just relaised that she has a new myspace friend.
'If he was signed to a major, I'd buy his album!'
Steady the buffers, mrs obb, even I would have to agree that this was a little OTT.
But The Man wasn't interested. He was discussing the inner demons of Pretty Boy #1 ('I ran out of hair gel this evening') and calculating how he could make some more cash from chaos.
'If Adolf Hitler flew in today,
They'd send a limousine anyway.'
Etc...
Ze crazy world of rock 'n roll.
The Man enjoys the opening act at The Regal Room
technorati: brian houston
| #permalink |
Two Line Poetry
Forest promoted,
Derby not.
Bugger - I got that wrong, didn't I?
And so on Bank Holiday Monday, I had the misfortune to be at the 'Venue of Legends.' Precisely what the Sheepshaggers were doing there, I don't know. More to the point, precisely what was I doing there?
Apart from bigging up the Baggies and baring my backside to my A52 friends whilst wearing my Forest top, I managed to blag a corporate box at the nu Wembley.
Don't look a gift horse (or even sheep) and all that, but now would not be a good time to be given a banning order for Wembley, what with all those future Forest visits coming up over the next few years.
Oh, bugger it; here you are Mr Baaaaa - look at my hairy backside. It may not be the same as one of your beloved sheep, but it's put a smile on my Bank Holiday blues face anyway.
'There's a rumour in the town, in the town,
Robert Maxwell is a clown, is a clown...'
Blimey - was it really fifteen years ago since I last I enjoyed such nonsense at Wembley? And whatever happened to the Tin Man, anyway? Maybe Psycho did break his legs after all?
*golly gosh* not too far off the mark...
And so my Bank Holiday bust up was switched from Brighton to a shithole in North West London. The nu Wembley may by a wonderful stadium, but the outskirts of HA9 still have a no-man's feel about them.
An email on the eve of the match from an old work colleague (remember the onionbagblog work mantra: make genuine friends that will remain with you for life) came up trumps with an invite to Club Wembley. I thought my mate was talking about a strip joint at first, but instead it was an obb big day out overlooking the sheep dip.
Wembley became Forest's second home between '88 - '92. We started to take our day out in North London somewhat for granted. Careful what you wish for, and all that.
I most certainly didn't wish for a mid-morning tube journey stuck in a carriage stuffed full of Sheepshaggers. Thankfully I had observed the old obb pre-Wembley preparation; pissed out of my head on whiskey the night before, belting out DPW classics on thebetamax DVD.
I was too hungover to hit a Sheepshagger.
I felt physically sick when I encountered my first Sheepshagger face to face at Baker Street; the East Midlands retard was only an 11 year-old as well.
The cattle carriage finally pulled into Wembley Park and I observed the nu Wembley ritual of posing for a photo on the steps of the station. Straight out of the ticket barrier and the beautiful Wembley arch greets you. So does a not so beautiful Met Boy in Blue, requesting that 'Sir kindly moves along.' I bet he gets tired of saying that for the 90,000th time, but the station exit aligned with London's latest iconic view has all the forward planning of some of my old Forest boys actually booking London hotels for the Bank Holiday.
Bugger.
I mingled a bit with the Baggies boys and took a liking to them. I didn't take a liking to a couple of East Midlands birds with Derby flags draped around their arses. Sums it all up, really.
But now it was time to clean my act up and do the corporate waltz. We were met outside Club Wembley and escorted through an entrance that looked more like an out of town shopping centre than a football stadium. Which in a weird sort of way, I suppose that's what Wembley is.
onionbagblog doesn't do commercials but if it did, I walked straight into the middle of a film shoot sometime around 2pm on Monday. A private box overlooking the goal, booze on demand and a personal waiter ready to serve my every need. Plus a gathering of charming corporate girls who more than made up for the Derby arse wipe women back at Wembley Park.
Fuck the football - I've got a fridge full of booze with my name on the front.
'I'm terribly sorry, I wasn't sure what everyone would be drinking,' apologised charming corporate girl #1.
'I only ordered beer and wine.'
I think I've just sold out faster than Forest did back in '93 when the club did the dirty on Brian.
On the piss, eating posh sarnies and making polite conversation; all was well in my world until my personal waiter drew the blinds in our box just before kick off. I may have become a corporate sell out, but I'm certainly not part of the prawn sarnie brigade. Salmon sarnie, maybe...
Ah, I see - Mr Wembley doesn't allow wall-to-wall vomiting whilst the game is taking place. But technically it's OK if you leave the blinds drawn, open out the patio style windows and forget that the Carlsberg is going to wake up the whiskey from the night before still sleeping in your stomach.
I think I feel sick. Never mind - I'll blame it on the Sheepshaggers.
The game was no Forest 4, Everton 3, 1989 Simod Cup final thriller. But it wasn't half bad (and by now I shouldn't have to explain which particular half I had little time for.)
Full time and fuck it - they'll go straight back down anyway.
We stayed and watched the sheep dip clear, and soon the Stadium was empty. The temptation was of course to take to the pitch for a quick kick about. But we didn't have a ball, or the balls.
Back in the sheep carriage and I overheard a Sheepshagger recalling the events of his big day out:
'It's even better than Burton town centre!'
Premier League? You're 'avin a laugh.
wot the motd cameras missed
All aboard the Cattle Carriage - Baaaaa.....
technorati: derby county
| Tuesday 29 May, 2007 |
Forest promoted,
Derby not.
Bugger - I got that wrong, didn't I?
Fuck the football |
Apart from bigging up the Baggies and baring my backside to my A52 friends whilst wearing my Forest top, I managed to blag a corporate box at the nu Wembley.
Don't look a gift horse (or even sheep) and all that, but now would not be a good time to be given a banning order for Wembley, what with all those future Forest visits coming up over the next few years.
Oh, bugger it; here you are Mr Baaaaa - look at my hairy backside. It may not be the same as one of your beloved sheep, but it's put a smile on my Bank Holiday blues face anyway.
'There's a rumour in the town, in the town,
Robert Maxwell is a clown, is a clown...'
Blimey - was it really fifteen years ago since I last I enjoyed such nonsense at Wembley? And whatever happened to the Tin Man, anyway? Maybe Psycho did break his legs after all?
*golly gosh* not too far off the mark...
And so my Bank Holiday bust up was switched from Brighton to a shithole in North West London. The nu Wembley may by a wonderful stadium, but the outskirts of HA9 still have a no-man's feel about them.
An email on the eve of the match from an old work colleague (remember the onionbagblog work mantra: make genuine friends that will remain with you for life) came up trumps with an invite to Club Wembley. I thought my mate was talking about a strip joint at first, but instead it was an obb big day out overlooking the sheep dip.
Wembley became Forest's second home between '88 - '92. We started to take our day out in North London somewhat for granted. Careful what you wish for, and all that.
I most certainly didn't wish for a mid-morning tube journey stuck in a carriage stuffed full of Sheepshaggers. Thankfully I had observed the old obb pre-Wembley preparation; pissed out of my head on whiskey the night before, belting out DPW classics on the
I was too hungover to hit a Sheepshagger.
I felt physically sick when I encountered my first Sheepshagger face to face at Baker Street; the East Midlands retard was only an 11 year-old as well.
The cattle carriage finally pulled into Wembley Park and I observed the nu Wembley ritual of posing for a photo on the steps of the station. Straight out of the ticket barrier and the beautiful Wembley arch greets you. So does a not so beautiful Met Boy in Blue, requesting that 'Sir kindly moves along.' I bet he gets tired of saying that for the 90,000th time, but the station exit aligned with London's latest iconic view has all the forward planning of some of my old Forest boys actually booking London hotels for the Bank Holiday.
Bugger.
I mingled a bit with the Baggies boys and took a liking to them. I didn't take a liking to a couple of East Midlands birds with Derby flags draped around their arses. Sums it all up, really.
But now it was time to clean my act up and do the corporate waltz. We were met outside Club Wembley and escorted through an entrance that looked more like an out of town shopping centre than a football stadium. Which in a weird sort of way, I suppose that's what Wembley is.
onionbagblog doesn't do commercials but if it did, I walked straight into the middle of a film shoot sometime around 2pm on Monday. A private box overlooking the goal, booze on demand and a personal waiter ready to serve my every need. Plus a gathering of charming corporate girls who more than made up for the Derby arse wipe women back at Wembley Park.
Fuck the football - I've got a fridge full of booze with my name on the front.
'I'm terribly sorry, I wasn't sure what everyone would be drinking,' apologised charming corporate girl #1.
'I only ordered beer and wine.'
I think I've just sold out faster than Forest did back in '93 when the club did the dirty on Brian.
On the piss, eating posh sarnies and making polite conversation; all was well in my world until my personal waiter drew the blinds in our box just before kick off. I may have become a corporate sell out, but I'm certainly not part of the prawn sarnie brigade. Salmon sarnie, maybe...
Ah, I see - Mr Wembley doesn't allow wall-to-wall vomiting whilst the game is taking place. But technically it's OK if you leave the blinds drawn, open out the patio style windows and forget that the Carlsberg is going to wake up the whiskey from the night before still sleeping in your stomach.
I think I feel sick. Never mind - I'll blame it on the Sheepshaggers.
The game was no Forest 4, Everton 3, 1989 Simod Cup final thriller. But it wasn't half bad (and by now I shouldn't have to explain which particular half I had little time for.)
Full time and fuck it - they'll go straight back down anyway.
We stayed and watched the sheep dip clear, and soon the Stadium was empty. The temptation was of course to take to the pitch for a quick kick about. But we didn't have a ball, or the balls.
Back in the sheep carriage and I overheard a Sheepshagger recalling the events of his big day out:
'It's even better than Burton town centre!'
Premier League? You're 'avin a laugh.
All aboard the Cattle Carriage - Baaaaa.....
technorati: derby county
| #permalink |
Run, Sodden & the Dash*
Swimming, cycling and running - the three disciplines that make up a modern day triathlon. Trying enough for most athletes, but you try completing a course in South London that is underwater.
Crystal Palace Park on Sunday was perfect for canoeing. It was the kind of weather under which that nice Mr Fish use to warn us to 'not leave home unless you absolutely have to.'
I absolutely had to, seeing as though I had pulled in enough sponsorship money to build my own outdoor pool in SE19. But what with the weather having done all the hard work for me, I may as well have hit the boozer and drowned my sorrows, rather than my bicycle.
This wasn't cricket weather. It also wasn't cycling, running or even scuba diving weather. It was the sort of climate that makes you curse the corporate tossers at Thames Water when they remind you about the water drought after sending out a bill bigger than my sponsorship money.
I left Not So Sunny Stockwell shortly after 7am for the cycle up Central Hill. By 7:15 I was praying for a puncture; 7:30 saw me wondering if my bike was amphibious; by 7:45 and I was half expecting the Sea King helicopter being sent out to South London to come and rescue me.
But I wasn't born a Piscean for nothing. Overlooking a pathological astrological personality disorder, I decided to let my physique do the talking. I could have sung Wet Wet Wet's Greatest Hits, but there was already enough of a downer at Crystal Palace when I arrived.
To be a successful tri-athlete, it's all about planning rather than lung capacity. The all important transition area is where you arrange your gear that you need for the switch from swimming to cycling, and then peddling to puffing and panting around the running track.
The more experienced runners came prepared with waterproof storage crates to keep their cycling shoes, cardo drinks and energy boosting bars in. I had to blag a bin bag to put in my change of pants. Except the transition area was of course outdoors and the last thing the semi-pro athletes wanted was a visual interpretation of Wet Wet Wet's Love Is All Around as I pulled my pants down after the swim.
I'm not pulling your leg when I say that I was branded with the legend '69,' on my leg. And my arm, and my torso. It could make for an interesting party gambit should I be attending a South London swingers party later in the evening, but for now, #69 had some serious swimming to do.
My fish like Piscean attributes (I was born with webbed feet) saw me through the swim. I elbowed a fellow competitor in the ribs as I overtook him, and then ended up being stuck staring up the backside of some breastroking old boy who wouldn't let me pass him. Didn't stop him passing wind for the final few lengths though.
Swim swum, time to transform. The tri was now all making sense to me. The transition area is not where you slip out of your swimming gear into your running shoes; it's a pruning parlour for self-conscious male 30-something athletes who are weary of the official race photographer out on the cycle track.
Hair was swept back, chests were shaved (males, not females) and one particularly peacock strutting alpha male even found the time to place a shuttlecock down his shorts. I put my bin bag to use and did my best early '80s (swimming, cycling & running) Goth impression.
I think I've just made a Killing Joke.
On reflection, it wasn't a wise move to remove my mudguards the day before in a bid to gain an extra few streamlining seconds on my bike. I now know what it's like to cycle 20km with a hosepipe wedged up your backside. The Thames Water tossers would no doubt fine me, but at least I've got a clean bottom.
Cycling around the old park and I reflected that I've had happier days at Crystal Palace. You know what a downer the day must have been when I say that I've also suffered a Coldplay concert in SE19.
I became locked in a peddling pursuit with a sprint rider. I was King of the Crystal Palace Climb, ploughing through the field (quite literally) on the up; come the downwards sprint part of the course and my combatant overtook me every time. This pattern was repeated for nine laps until we both thought bugger it and broke out into a duet singing Wet Wet Wet's wonderful Hold Back the River.
I just had time for the short run before the Thames cascaded into Crystal Palace. A slight misunderstanding of the route saw me finishing somewhere in the top order as I put in a sprint finish at the old stadium. I was denied my podium place when it was pointed out that my running top wasn't quite as saturated as the tri-athletes who had finished behind me, and had hence been on the track longer.
Wishing I was Lucky, as Marti Pellow might say.
*ouch
technorati: triathlon
| Sunday 27 May, 2007 |
Swimming, cycling and running - the three disciplines that make up a modern day triathlon. Trying enough for most athletes, but you try completing a course in South London that is underwater.
Crystal Palace Park on Sunday was perfect for canoeing. It was the kind of weather under which that nice Mr Fish use to warn us to 'not leave home unless you absolutely have to.'
I absolutely had to, seeing as though I had pulled in enough sponsorship money to build my own outdoor pool in SE19. But what with the weather having done all the hard work for me, I may as well have hit the boozer and drowned my sorrows, rather than my bicycle.
This wasn't cricket weather. It also wasn't cycling, running or even scuba diving weather. It was the sort of climate that makes you curse the corporate tossers at Thames Water when they remind you about the water drought after sending out a bill bigger than my sponsorship money.
I left Not So Sunny Stockwell shortly after 7am for the cycle up Central Hill. By 7:15 I was praying for a puncture; 7:30 saw me wondering if my bike was amphibious; by 7:45 and I was half expecting the Sea King helicopter being sent out to South London to come and rescue me.
But I wasn't born a Piscean for nothing. Overlooking a pathological astrological personality disorder, I decided to let my physique do the talking. I could have sung Wet Wet Wet's Greatest Hits, but there was already enough of a downer at Crystal Palace when I arrived.
To be a successful tri-athlete, it's all about planning rather than lung capacity. The all important transition area is where you arrange your gear that you need for the switch from swimming to cycling, and then peddling to puffing and panting around the running track.
The more experienced runners came prepared with waterproof storage crates to keep their cycling shoes, cardo drinks and energy boosting bars in. I had to blag a bin bag to put in my change of pants. Except the transition area was of course outdoors and the last thing the semi-pro athletes wanted was a visual interpretation of Wet Wet Wet's Love Is All Around as I pulled my pants down after the swim.
I'm not pulling your leg when I say that I was branded with the legend '69,' on my leg. And my arm, and my torso. It could make for an interesting party gambit should I be attending a South London swingers party later in the evening, but for now, #69 had some serious swimming to do.
My fish like Piscean attributes (I was born with webbed feet) saw me through the swim. I elbowed a fellow competitor in the ribs as I overtook him, and then ended up being stuck staring up the backside of some breastroking old boy who wouldn't let me pass him. Didn't stop him passing wind for the final few lengths though.
Swim swum, time to transform. The tri was now all making sense to me. The transition area is not where you slip out of your swimming gear into your running shoes; it's a pruning parlour for self-conscious male 30-something athletes who are weary of the official race photographer out on the cycle track.
Hair was swept back, chests were shaved (males, not females) and one particularly peacock strutting alpha male even found the time to place a shuttlecock down his shorts. I put my bin bag to use and did my best early '80s (swimming, cycling & running) Goth impression.
I think I've just made a Killing Joke.
On reflection, it wasn't a wise move to remove my mudguards the day before in a bid to gain an extra few streamlining seconds on my bike. I now know what it's like to cycle 20km with a hosepipe wedged up your backside. The Thames Water tossers would no doubt fine me, but at least I've got a clean bottom.
Cycling around the old park and I reflected that I've had happier days at Crystal Palace. You know what a downer the day must have been when I say that I've also suffered a Coldplay concert in SE19.
I became locked in a peddling pursuit with a sprint rider. I was King of the Crystal Palace Climb, ploughing through the field (quite literally) on the up; come the downwards sprint part of the course and my combatant overtook me every time. This pattern was repeated for nine laps until we both thought bugger it and broke out into a duet singing Wet Wet Wet's wonderful Hold Back the River.
I just had time for the short run before the Thames cascaded into Crystal Palace. A slight misunderstanding of the route saw me finishing somewhere in the top order as I put in a sprint finish at the old stadium. I was denied my podium place when it was pointed out that my running top wasn't quite as saturated as the tri-athletes who had finished behind me, and had hence been on the track longer.
Wishing I was Lucky, as Marti Pellow might say.
*ouch
technorati: triathlon
| #permalink |
Still We Ride
It's been exactly a year since I last took a spin around town as part of Critical Mass. No major ideological reason for my sabbatical; simply booze and wanky work commitments. And so I returned to underneath Waterloo Bridge on Friday, sometime around 6.30 and whadya know - I found a random gathering of fellow London cyclists, all wanting to take a cycle around town to kick start their weekend.
But I wasn't part of Critical Mass you understand. Oh no. There isn't actually a concept of Critical Mass. I was just cycling as part of a pelaton. A particularly large pelaton. And no Your Honour, this was far from organised, and even if it was, I'm not the organising sort of guy, guv.
You may have read recently that this concept called Critical Mass has been receiving a bit of legal attention. Hang 'em High Appeal Court Judges ruled 2:1 in favour of arresting the organsisers of Critical Mass this week. Only problem is that you're about as likely to find an organiser of the monthly ride as you are about as likely to find a High Court Judge not wearing a silly rug on his head.
The Met's finest have a problem with Critical Mass and that problem is Fun on a Friday Night. But how to stop the traffic? WE ARE the traffic etc.
A week of mainstream knobber media whore headlines led to the perfect recruiting campaign for May's Mass. More than a 1,000 cyclists joined the hunt for the illusive organiser along the South Bank.
'I'm the organiser.'
'No I'M the organiser.'
'I'M the organsier,' etc.
We've been here before, of course, but how to stop 1,000 plus happy-go-lucky peddlers? If you can't beat them... And so we joined on Friday night by around twenty or so lycra loving Bobbies. It surly beats handing out parking tickets at the weekend.
Even the world of two wheels goes through fashion spins. Twelve months away, and fixies are all the rage. There was more fixed wheel freaks than Coppers, but for once I wasn't a dedicated follower. Mr Fixie was left back at onionbagblog HQ II - all that stop and starting 'aint good for a cleat virgin. The reliable Mr Marin was made for the Mass, although I must remember next time that trying to un-cleat your absent cleats looks a little silly in the middle of the city.
Seeing 1,000 or so cyclists spin around the Imax roundabout makes the city come alive. It was a wonderful site ahead of the Great Summer of Cycling, although somehow I don't think Le Tour riders will be racing in flip flops.
Down The Strand and a short cycle towards the Palace. Polluting Petrol Heads in their Chelsea Tractors were picketed with unsuitable signs. Last Train to Skaville could be heard on one of the sound systems and I really couldn't think of a better way to get the Bank Holiday weekend underway.
A cut through to Parliament Square and the illegal ride undertook an illegal act - protesting around Parliament. Except that we weren't organised and we weren't - protesting. Phew - I'm pleased that I've cleared that one up.
'I'll have some of that,' I thought, as the pace of the Mass picked up and the circuit became a makeshift track race.
'We're on a road to nowhere...' was the music for the mass, and true to form, PC Plod failed to see the funny side and tried to put a stop to the cycling with a road block.
And here lies the problem with Kuddly Ken's vision to turn London into Cycling City; pro peddling, pro 'proper' mass processions, but when it comes to ordinary Londoners wanting to appreciate THEIR city on a cycle, The Establishment want to control the action.
The Mass soon attracted the attention of a Police helicopter.
That was money well spent, then.
We picked up some peddling Yoof along the Euston Road, who kept pace with the pelaton on their BMX's for a few minutes.
'Fuck this - this is gay,' was the official verdict from Yoof.
See ya next month, guys. The last Friday of the month underneath Waterloo Bridge. Write it in your diary, but don't dare try to organise it.
Still we ride.
technorati: critical mass
| Saturday 26 May, 2007 |
It's been exactly a year since I last took a spin around town as part of Critical Mass. No major ideological reason for my sabbatical; simply booze and wanky work commitments. And so I returned to underneath Waterloo Bridge on Friday, sometime around 6.30 and whadya know - I found a random gathering of fellow London cyclists, all wanting to take a cycle around town to kick start their weekend.
But I wasn't part of Critical Mass you understand. Oh no. There isn't actually a concept of Critical Mass. I was just cycling as part of a pelaton. A particularly large pelaton. And no Your Honour, this was far from organised, and even if it was, I'm not the organising sort of guy, guv.
You may have read recently that this concept called Critical Mass has been receiving a bit of legal attention. Hang 'em High Appeal Court Judges ruled 2:1 in favour of arresting the organsisers of Critical Mass this week. Only problem is that you're about as likely to find an organiser of the monthly ride as you are about as likely to find a High Court Judge not wearing a silly rug on his head.
The Met's finest have a problem with Critical Mass and that problem is Fun on a Friday Night. But how to stop the traffic? WE ARE the traffic etc.
A week of mainstream knobber media whore headlines led to the perfect recruiting campaign for May's Mass. More than a 1,000 cyclists joined the hunt for the illusive organiser along the South Bank.
'I'm the organiser.'
'No I'M the organiser.'
'I'M the organsier,' etc.
We've been here before, of course, but how to stop 1,000 plus happy-go-lucky peddlers? If you can't beat them... And so we joined on Friday night by around twenty or so lycra loving Bobbies. It surly beats handing out parking tickets at the weekend.
Even the world of two wheels goes through fashion spins. Twelve months away, and fixies are all the rage. There was more fixed wheel freaks than Coppers, but for once I wasn't a dedicated follower. Mr Fixie was left back at onionbagblog HQ II - all that stop and starting 'aint good for a cleat virgin. The reliable Mr Marin was made for the Mass, although I must remember next time that trying to un-cleat your absent cleats looks a little silly in the middle of the city.
Seeing 1,000 or so cyclists spin around the Imax roundabout makes the city come alive. It was a wonderful site ahead of the Great Summer of Cycling, although somehow I don't think Le Tour riders will be racing in flip flops.
Down The Strand and a short cycle towards the Palace. Polluting Petrol Heads in their Chelsea Tractors were picketed with unsuitable signs. Last Train to Skaville could be heard on one of the sound systems and I really couldn't think of a better way to get the Bank Holiday weekend underway.
A cut through to Parliament Square and the illegal ride undertook an illegal act - protesting around Parliament. Except that we weren't organised and we weren't - protesting. Phew - I'm pleased that I've cleared that one up.
'I'll have some of that,' I thought, as the pace of the Mass picked up and the circuit became a makeshift track race.
'We're on a road to nowhere...' was the music for the mass, and true to form, PC Plod failed to see the funny side and tried to put a stop to the cycling with a road block.
And here lies the problem with Kuddly Ken's vision to turn London into Cycling City; pro peddling, pro 'proper' mass processions, but when it comes to ordinary Londoners wanting to appreciate THEIR city on a cycle, The Establishment want to control the action.
The Mass soon attracted the attention of a Police helicopter.
That was money well spent, then.
We picked up some peddling Yoof along the Euston Road, who kept pace with the pelaton on their BMX's for a few minutes.
'Fuck this - this is gay,' was the official verdict from Yoof.
See ya next month, guys. The last Friday of the month underneath Waterloo Bridge. Write it in your diary, but don't dare try to organise it.
Still we ride.
technorati: critical mass
| #permalink |
Trying
It's a trying time training for a Triathlon. Sunday will see me swimming, cycling and running around Crystal Palace Park. The final event involves falling asleep somewhere in the grounds of SE19 having hopefully completed the Crystal Palace Triathlon. Collapsing in South London will become an Olympic event by
2012. Some of the Brew Crew are already in serious training.
I only entered the race to get me out of another Sunday morning DIY session back at base. 'You're not even trying,' said the fragrant mrs onionbagblogger. I don't know if she was referring to my jogging, my joinery or even my bedroom gymnastics. I know which one I find more trying, and yes, it does involve banging away for little reward.
The swimming is sorted; 25 lengths at Clap'ham each morning has built up my stamina, as well as my immune system. If I can survive a daily dose of drinking kiddie piss in the pool before I eat my Cornflakes, Crystal Palace will be a dive. Which funnily enough, is exactly what mrs obb said when I offered her a romantic Sunday morning watching me running around SE19.
I should be up for the cycling, but I fear I'm going to come a cropper. The cleats aren't becoming any easier. I've managed to contain it to just a couple of crashes a day, but what the hell - I look as cool as fuck.
Swimming and cycling sorted, my attention has now turned to running. This was made easier when mrs obb approached me with yet another screw driver.
'That shelf has fallen down for a third time,' she said.
If at first you don't succeed, try, try and try again...
technorati: triathlon
| Friday 24 May, 2007 |
It's a trying time training for a Triathlon. Sunday will see me swimming, cycling and running around Crystal Palace Park. The final event involves falling asleep somewhere in the grounds of SE19 having hopefully completed the Crystal Palace Triathlon. Collapsing in South London will become an Olympic event by
2012. Some of the Brew Crew are already in serious training.
I only entered the race to get me out of another Sunday morning DIY session back at base. 'You're not even trying,' said the fragrant mrs onionbagblogger. I don't know if she was referring to my jogging, my joinery or even my bedroom gymnastics. I know which one I find more trying, and yes, it does involve banging away for little reward.
The swimming is sorted; 25 lengths at Clap'ham each morning has built up my stamina, as well as my immune system. If I can survive a daily dose of drinking kiddie piss in the pool before I eat my Cornflakes, Crystal Palace will be a dive. Which funnily enough, is exactly what mrs obb said when I offered her a romantic Sunday morning watching me running around SE19.
I should be up for the cycling, but I fear I'm going to come a cropper. The cleats aren't becoming any easier. I've managed to contain it to just a couple of crashes a day, but what the hell - I look as cool as fuck.
Swimming and cycling sorted, my attention has now turned to running. This was made easier when mrs obb approached me with yet another screw driver.
'That shelf has fallen down for a third time,' she said.
If at first you don't succeed, try, try and try again...
technorati: triathlon
| #permalink |
Cycling, Swimming & Snapping
And so how do you celebrateselling out landing your dream job? Watching Forest fuck it up on Friday night in your local bonkers bible basher boozer? Getting sloshed on Saturday with four cans of Carling in 40 minutes during a DPW DVD? Or how about the more sedate pursuits of cycling, swimming and snapping?
What do you think?
Following the Forest farce, I took out my frustration on Mr Fixie, with a 50 lap time trial at the velodrome on Saturday morning.
'NO RACING! NO RACING!' ordered the track Coach. I can handle that. But 45 laps in and I bonked. The VCL boys were restless and wanted more of a challenge than a Fakenger still carrying his four cans of Carling from the night before.
A five lap sprint broke out. I was left high and dry, bonking on the banking.
And so more cycling on Sunday. The early morning spin was a challenge on two fronts. First there was the sortie to Crystal Palace ahead of the triathlon next Sunday. Memory serves me that there is a short, but particularly painful climb mid-course. My Marin managed it with ease last time, but would Mr Fixie be so forgiving in seven days time?
The second Sunday cycling challenge was all about the cleats. iPod, fixed wheel AND cleats in London traffic? King Knobber #1 would be putting me up for a citizen's arrest if only he knew.
Cleats are class. Cleats are also for fools. I like them. Why utilise only half of your peddling capacity on the down stroke when you can put on some more power on the follow though as well? The downside (quite literally) is that you are strapped firmly into Mr Fixie. If he's falling over, then so are you.
It's a rite of passage to make a prick of yourself at a set of lights and come a cropper with a comedy slow motion crash to the ground. I knew this was coming. And so I got it over and done with outside onionbagblog HQ II on Saturday afternoon. Another cycling scar to add to the collection; another stereotype confirmation for King Knobber #1.
It's no more hazardous than cycling in high heels, a sight you often see around the city. It doesn't look half as silly though.
Sunday's sprint up to SE19 was fine. Mr Fixie performed fine up the Croxted Road climb, and soon I was spinning around Crystal Palace Park.
And here comes that particularly painful climb...
Arse - closed off to the public with a makeshift security fence. I clambered over and thought I would attempt the climb from a standing start. This was truly atypical circumstances; if I could become King of the Crystal Palace Climb from a stationary position, then the triathlon would be mine for the taking next Sunday.
Remember the cleat rite of passage? I didn't. How the hell can you have a standing start when you're strapped in?
CRASH!
Doh!
I did complete the climb, and so roll on next Sunday, scars and all.
Crystal Palace climbed, time to take on North London. It's me and you (Mr Fixie) against the world, kid.
Through the Yummy Mummy territory of Lordship Lane, sailing through somewhere in SE17, The Elephant and then crossing at London Bridge.
I was asked by some Geezer on the edges of The City 'is your bike British? He had taken a shine to Mr Fixie and I had 45 seconds before the lights changed to fill him in. Spread the word - the Great Summer of Cycling is almost upon us.
Through The City, along the Shoreditch Strip and soon I was in Hackney, all set for a lido swim at the lovely London Fields. It's Tooting time next week (Brrrrr!) and so this could well be my last swim for sometime in the heated Hackney pool.
Not a lot to say about the Lovely Lido. Fifty lengths and then I fell asleep.
And so the cycle back down to the Beautiful South. A quick detour in the City for a change of scenery - Change Alley, actually, with a Way We See It shoot.
With freelance wanky work commitments coming up, time was tighter than my arse after a day in the saddle. Sometimes these shoots are the best sort. No buggering about, straight in, shoot, and then straight out.
Gotta love a bit of Lomo.
It had been a beautiful day, but it was about to end on a bit of a bummer. Across London Bridge and I found myself following the wheel of a fellow member of the Cleat Elite. A keen cyclist (those thighs!) and a true gentleman of the road, even allowing a cabbie to move into his space at a junction.
We were wheel to wheel all the way down to The Elephant, and then the siren started.
'GET IN THE BACK OF THE VAN!' (almost) barked PC Plod.
Not me, but my new found cycling friend. He kept his cool, and very politely asked why Plod was showing an interest in him.
'Sir, you should know - you've been jumping red lights all the way down from London Bridge.'
What?
I had been following the accused road abuser for the past mile. We both kept to the Highway Code, and I even made a mental note that he was a good, thoughtful cyclist.
Plus why the other peddler and not me?
Is it 'cos I is black, etc?
Impossible to prove, but it seemed obvious to me. With dreadlocks flowing about underneath his helmet, it seemed that PC Plod wanted something to do on a quiet Sunday afternoon.
I stepped in and made the Met's finest aware that I hadn't seen the situation he was describing.
A bit of conversation with his Tweedle Dee colleague, and then PC Plod declared:
'Right you are - carry on.'
Fucking racist cunts.
Back at obb HQ II and it was time for the freelance wanky work commitments. The celebratory mood was now a little mooted. More so than after Forest's fuck up on Friday night.
But another day, another dollar somewhere in SE17 tomorrow. Not for much longer, but I'm determined to leave with a smile on my face.
technorati: cleat elite
| Sunday 20 May, 2007 |
And so how do you celebrate
What do you think?
Following the Forest farce, I took out my frustration on Mr Fixie, with a 50 lap time trial at the velodrome on Saturday morning.
'NO RACING! NO RACING!' ordered the track Coach. I can handle that. But 45 laps in and I bonked. The VCL boys were restless and wanted more of a challenge than a Fakenger still carrying his four cans of Carling from the night before.
A five lap sprint broke out. I was left high and dry, bonking on the banking.
And so more cycling on Sunday. The early morning spin was a challenge on two fronts. First there was the sortie to Crystal Palace ahead of the triathlon next Sunday. Memory serves me that there is a short, but particularly painful climb mid-course. My Marin managed it with ease last time, but would Mr Fixie be so forgiving in seven days time?
The second Sunday cycling challenge was all about the cleats. iPod, fixed wheel AND cleats in London traffic? King Knobber #1 would be putting me up for a citizen's arrest if only he knew.
Cleats are class. Cleats are also for fools. I like them. Why utilise only half of your peddling capacity on the down stroke when you can put on some more power on the follow though as well? The downside (quite literally) is that you are strapped firmly into Mr Fixie. If he's falling over, then so are you.
It's a rite of passage to make a prick of yourself at a set of lights and come a cropper with a comedy slow motion crash to the ground. I knew this was coming. And so I got it over and done with outside onionbagblog HQ II on Saturday afternoon. Another cycling scar to add to the collection; another stereotype confirmation for King Knobber #1.
It's no more hazardous than cycling in high heels, a sight you often see around the city. It doesn't look half as silly though.
Sunday's sprint up to SE19 was fine. Mr Fixie performed fine up the Croxted Road climb, and soon I was spinning around Crystal Palace Park.
And here comes that particularly painful climb...
Arse - closed off to the public with a makeshift security fence. I clambered over and thought I would attempt the climb from a standing start. This was truly atypical circumstances; if I could become King of the Crystal Palace Climb from a stationary position, then the triathlon would be mine for the taking next Sunday.
Remember the cleat rite of passage? I didn't. How the hell can you have a standing start when you're strapped in?
CRASH!
Doh!
I did complete the climb, and so roll on next Sunday, scars and all.
Crystal Palace climbed, time to take on North London. It's me and you (Mr Fixie) against the world, kid.
Through the Yummy Mummy territory of Lordship Lane, sailing through somewhere in SE17, The Elephant and then crossing at London Bridge.
I was asked by some Geezer on the edges of The City 'is your bike British? He had taken a shine to Mr Fixie and I had 45 seconds before the lights changed to fill him in. Spread the word - the Great Summer of Cycling is almost upon us.
Through The City, along the Shoreditch Strip and soon I was in Hackney, all set for a lido swim at the lovely London Fields. It's Tooting time next week (Brrrrr!) and so this could well be my last swim for sometime in the heated Hackney pool.
Not a lot to say about the Lovely Lido. Fifty lengths and then I fell asleep.
And so the cycle back down to the Beautiful South. A quick detour in the City for a change of scenery - Change Alley, actually, with a Way We See It shoot.
With freelance wanky work commitments coming up, time was tighter than my arse after a day in the saddle. Sometimes these shoots are the best sort. No buggering about, straight in, shoot, and then straight out.
Gotta love a bit of Lomo.
It had been a beautiful day, but it was about to end on a bit of a bummer. Across London Bridge and I found myself following the wheel of a fellow member of the Cleat Elite. A keen cyclist (those thighs!) and a true gentleman of the road, even allowing a cabbie to move into his space at a junction.
We were wheel to wheel all the way down to The Elephant, and then the siren started.
'GET IN THE BACK OF THE VAN!' (almost) barked PC Plod.
Not me, but my new found cycling friend. He kept his cool, and very politely asked why Plod was showing an interest in him.
'Sir, you should know - you've been jumping red lights all the way down from London Bridge.'
What?
I had been following the accused road abuser for the past mile. We both kept to the Highway Code, and I even made a mental note that he was a good, thoughtful cyclist.
Plus why the other peddler and not me?
Is it 'cos I is black, etc?
Impossible to prove, but it seemed obvious to me. With dreadlocks flowing about underneath his helmet, it seemed that PC Plod wanted something to do on a quiet Sunday afternoon.
I stepped in and made the Met's finest aware that I hadn't seen the situation he was describing.
A bit of conversation with his Tweedle Dee colleague, and then PC Plod declared:
'Right you are - carry on.'
Fucking racist cunts.
Back at obb HQ II and it was time for the freelance wanky work commitments. The celebratory mood was now a little mooted. More so than after Forest's fuck up on Friday night.
But another day, another dollar somewhere in SE17 tomorrow. Not for much longer, but I'm determined to leave with a smile on my face.
technorati: cleat elite
| #permalink |
Le Grand Depart
And so farewell somewhere in SE17. Well, not for another four weeks actually. Yes - in the week in which I was officially labelled as 'outstanding,' I have also landed a new job. Just what I wanted as well, in gainful employment with Her Majesty’s popular prints.
Mainstream knobber media whore, etc.
And so four weeks of South London fun left. Fuck - three actually with half term approaching.
I shall miss somewhere in SE17; the work / lifestyle balance, Boy Y and blimey - that was close.
But my work is done. Professional pencil sharpening wasn't my pursuit. Happy days though.
So long, SE17 friends.
technorati: mainstream knobber media whore
| Friday 18 May, 2007 |
And so farewell somewhere in SE17. Well, not for another four weeks actually. Yes - in the week in which I was officially labelled as 'outstanding,' I have also landed a new job. Just what I wanted as well, in gainful employment with Her Majesty’s popular prints.
Mainstream knobber media whore, etc.
And so four weeks of South London fun left. Fuck - three actually with half term approaching.
I shall miss somewhere in SE17; the work / lifestyle balance, Boy Y and blimey - that was close.
But my work is done. Professional pencil sharpening wasn't my pursuit. Happy days though.
So long, SE17 friends.
technorati: mainstream knobber media whore
| #permalink |
Outstanding!
'I always knew you were outstanding,' I told her after Mr Ofsted delivered his official verdict and departed somewhere in SE17.
'But you've never seen me teach,' she replied.
'I wasn't talking about your teaching...'
And so another day, another dollar. But it wasn't all about the Benjamin's on Thursday. Flirting with fellow SE17-ers aside, it has been something of a strange day.
It didn't get off to a good start at Clap'ham at 8am this morning. Google 'Clap'ham+crap+can-I-please-crawl-back-to-bed' and you'll probably be presented with any number of South London blogs.
But my particular SW4 woe was bike centred. Blimey - who'd have thought it? Fifty fantastic lengths in the pool and I was all set to showboat my pencil sharpening skills to Mr Ofsted. But wait - what's this? My bloody bike lock is buggered.
Arse.
The locking mechanism had jammed and I was left without any wheels in SW4, and with Mr O expecting my arrival somewhere in SE17, sometime very soon.
It's times like these when you found out the true meaning of South London friendliness. Some geezers digging up the road (they're alright by me) saw me struggling and sprayed half a can of the wonderful WD40 all over my frame (and my thighs.) Is there no job that a can of WD40 can't carry out?
Um, yes - unlocking a buggered bike log.
My head was in a spin, but my wheels weren't. A tube to Elephant and then a long walk down the Walworth Road to somewhere in SE17? A bus back to onionbagblog HQ II, pick up bike #2 in the fleet and then speed through the back streets of South London? Or maybe even back to bed?
I wasn't helped by not having my moby with me. Step forward the guiding hand of South London friendliness once more. The lovely lady on reception at Clap'ham pool who ushers me in every morning without any payment was at hand. A use of the reception phone and all was well with Mr O.
I bussed it back to obb HQ II, tossed for either Mr Fixie or Mr Marin (which ISN'T a cycling obsessed wet dream for me) and five minutes later, Mr Fixie had me on familiar ground.
I was looking rather resplendent in my Brixton Cycles touring top, but Badly Dressed Boss ushered me into a cupboard:
'Sort yourself out,' she barked at me.
Not for the first time, I might add.
Collared and cuffed up (TRUE!) and I was indeed outstanding. Shame about my shit pencil sharpening skills.
And so Thursday was a bit of a breeze. Word went round shortly after lunch that Mr O had left the building, not before spraying some graffiti in the playground (innit) proclaiming: OUTSTANDING.
Happy, happy, joy joy. It's going to be one hell of a piss up tomorrow.
But I had the unfinished business of a bike to rescue from a backstreet of SW4. I was armed with a lethal wire cutter as supplied by the 'Premise's Officer' (oh yes!) from somewhere in SE17. Talk about a sledgehammer to crack a nut, but the bolt cutters are going nowhere near my Buster Gonads.
I stopped off first back at base to pick up my bike receipt. Outstanding planning indeed - I didn't want a South London PC Plod asking me why the Bike Bloke of SW8 has somehow morphed into a Bike Thieving Scum overnight.
I've never actually nicked a bike before, but blimey - it was bloody easy. Worryingly easy. A quick snip and the bike was back in safe hands. So were my Buster Gonads as I grimaced as to what might have been.
Fifty Quid Man made off with a new fifty quid lock, alarmed at the ease at which the buggered lock buckled.
And so back to obb HQ II, and waiting on the welcome mat was a copy of Time Out. Ah yes, I did cancel the subscription after crowning Michael Hodges King Knobber #1. But mrs onionbagblogger rather likes the Lonely Hearts section and so she re-started the subscription.
I fingered Hodges, so to speak, like a schoolboy flicking through the pages of Penthouse in some suburban newsagents. The decree as declared by King Knobber #1 this week is something of an apology. I appreciate that he is paid to be a prick, and it seems that he has been stacking up people he has pissed off over the weeks, and then as a cop out, offering a mass apology.
Ninth para in, and there it was:
'Talking of the road, let's have some respect for London's cycling community, a fine body of men and women whose websites and blogs are the source of so much eloquent and mature comment.'
Outstanding!
In terms of U-turns then it has to be up there with the Standard's new found love of cycling.
Or maybe the cheeky cunt is just taking the piss?
Eloquent and mature comment, etc.
Flirting finished, bike back, it was time to catch up on the cricket. So so up at Lord's, eyes down for the South coast: Christ on a bike! Butch and Mr Ramps slogging a 445 partnership against Sussex.
Outstanding!
I fear that Friday won't live up to what has been a truly outstanding Thursday, but I better be braced with some superior chat up lines and better bike locks, just in case.
technorati: outstanding!
| Thursday 17 May, 2007 |
'I always knew you were outstanding,' I told her after Mr Ofsted delivered his official verdict and departed somewhere in SE17.
'But you've never seen me teach,' she replied.
'I wasn't talking about your teaching...'
And so another day, another dollar. But it wasn't all about the Benjamin's on Thursday. Flirting with fellow SE17-ers aside, it has been something of a strange day.
It didn't get off to a good start at Clap'ham at 8am this morning. Google 'Clap'ham+crap+can-I-please-crawl-back-to-bed' and you'll probably be presented with any number of South London blogs.
But my particular SW4 woe was bike centred. Blimey - who'd have thought it? Fifty fantastic lengths in the pool and I was all set to showboat my pencil sharpening skills to Mr Ofsted. But wait - what's this? My bloody bike lock is buggered.
Arse.
The locking mechanism had jammed and I was left without any wheels in SW4, and with Mr O expecting my arrival somewhere in SE17, sometime very soon.
It's times like these when you found out the true meaning of South London friendliness. Some geezers digging up the road (they're alright by me) saw me struggling and sprayed half a can of the wonderful WD40 all over my frame (and my thighs.) Is there no job that a can of WD40 can't carry out?
Um, yes - unlocking a buggered bike log.
My head was in a spin, but my wheels weren't. A tube to Elephant and then a long walk down the Walworth Road to somewhere in SE17? A bus back to onionbagblog HQ II, pick up bike #2 in the fleet and then speed through the back streets of South London? Or maybe even back to bed?
I wasn't helped by not having my moby with me. Step forward the guiding hand of South London friendliness once more. The lovely lady on reception at Clap'ham pool who ushers me in every morning without any payment was at hand. A use of the reception phone and all was well with Mr O.
I bussed it back to obb HQ II, tossed for either Mr Fixie or Mr Marin (which ISN'T a cycling obsessed wet dream for me) and five minutes later, Mr Fixie had me on familiar ground.
I was looking rather resplendent in my Brixton Cycles touring top, but Badly Dressed Boss ushered me into a cupboard:
'Sort yourself out,' she barked at me.
Not for the first time, I might add.
Collared and cuffed up (TRUE!) and I was indeed outstanding. Shame about my shit pencil sharpening skills.
And so Thursday was a bit of a breeze. Word went round shortly after lunch that Mr O had left the building, not before spraying some graffiti in the playground (innit) proclaiming: OUTSTANDING.
Happy, happy, joy joy. It's going to be one hell of a piss up tomorrow.
But I had the unfinished business of a bike to rescue from a backstreet of SW4. I was armed with a lethal wire cutter as supplied by the 'Premise's Officer' (oh yes!) from somewhere in SE17. Talk about a sledgehammer to crack a nut, but the bolt cutters are going nowhere near my Buster Gonads.
I stopped off first back at base to pick up my bike receipt. Outstanding planning indeed - I didn't want a South London PC Plod asking me why the Bike Bloke of SW8 has somehow morphed into a Bike Thieving Scum overnight.
I've never actually nicked a bike before, but blimey - it was bloody easy. Worryingly easy. A quick snip and the bike was back in safe hands. So were my Buster Gonads as I grimaced as to what might have been.
Fifty Quid Man made off with a new fifty quid lock, alarmed at the ease at which the buggered lock buckled.
And so back to obb HQ II, and waiting on the welcome mat was a copy of Time Out. Ah yes, I did cancel the subscription after crowning Michael Hodges King Knobber #1. But mrs onionbagblogger rather likes the Lonely Hearts section and so she re-started the subscription.
I fingered Hodges, so to speak, like a schoolboy flicking through the pages of Penthouse in some suburban newsagents. The decree as declared by King Knobber #1 this week is something of an apology. I appreciate that he is paid to be a prick, and it seems that he has been stacking up people he has pissed off over the weeks, and then as a cop out, offering a mass apology.
Ninth para in, and there it was:
'Talking of the road, let's have some respect for London's cycling community, a fine body of men and women whose websites and blogs are the source of so much eloquent and mature comment.'
Outstanding!
In terms of U-turns then it has to be up there with the Standard's new found love of cycling.
Or maybe the cheeky cunt is just taking the piss?
Eloquent and mature comment, etc.
Flirting finished, bike back, it was time to catch up on the cricket. So so up at Lord's, eyes down for the South coast: Christ on a bike! Butch and Mr Ramps slogging a 445 partnership against Sussex.
Outstanding!
I fear that Friday won't live up to what has been a truly outstanding Thursday, but I better be braced with some superior chat up lines and better bike locks, just in case.
technorati: outstanding!
| #permalink |
Leg Over
It's the double whammy of an Ofsted / SATS week somewhere in SE17. That must also make it The Way We See It week around here as I'm too shagged to summon up any wordy inspiration.
A bit like Boy Y this morning...
I've got a backlog of images to post up. Nothing inspiring; in fact I've been a little disappointed of late with my travels around town with the lens.
When the muse is lacking, make a cup of tea and allow the healing power of sweet soul music to make it all better.
It worked a treat somewhere in SE17 on Tuesday night sometime around 9pm. Mr Ofsted was a-coming-a-calling in twelve hours time and the place was a bloody tip.
Time to get on the good foot with the onionbagblog Northern Soul Jukebox. Sharpening pencils and listening to Sam & Dave really does go together rather well. Shame that all the somewhere in SE17 staff-ers turned up on Wednesday looking like they had come straight from an all-nighter at the Wigan Casino, but it has given me an idea for the (fingers crossed) leaving party that I hope to be hosting soon.
But enough of Mr Ofsted - bring on Bresseden Place, SW1E.
It's the cut through from Buckingham Palace Gate and Victoria Street, and also the scene of my first serious crash on Mr fixie.
I forgot about all of this during my recent visit and spent a rather chilly half hour or so snapping away. 'Satisfactory' was the official outcome.
Expect more of the same when Mr Ofsted delivers his dreaded verdict tomorrow.
technorati: bresseden place
| Wednesday 16 May, 2007 |
It's the double whammy of an Ofsted / SATS week somewhere in SE17. That must also make it The Way We See It week around here as I'm too shagged to summon up any wordy inspiration.
A bit like Boy Y this morning...
I've got a backlog of images to post up. Nothing inspiring; in fact I've been a little disappointed of late with my travels around town with the lens.
When the muse is lacking, make a cup of tea and allow the healing power of sweet soul music to make it all better.
It worked a treat somewhere in SE17 on Tuesday night sometime around 9pm. Mr Ofsted was a-coming-a-calling in twelve hours time and the place was a bloody tip.
Time to get on the good foot with the onionbagblog Northern Soul Jukebox. Sharpening pencils and listening to Sam & Dave really does go together rather well. Shame that all the somewhere in SE17 staff-ers turned up on Wednesday looking like they had come straight from an all-nighter at the Wigan Casino, but it has given me an idea for the (fingers crossed) leaving party that I hope to be hosting soon.
But enough of Mr Ofsted - bring on Bresseden Place, SW1E.
It's the cut through from Buckingham Palace Gate and Victoria Street, and also the scene of my first serious crash on Mr fixie.
I forgot about all of this during my recent visit and spent a rather chilly half hour or so snapping away. 'Satisfactory' was the official outcome.
Expect more of the same when Mr Ofsted delivers his dreaded verdict tomorrow.
technorati: bresseden place
| #permalink |
