onionbagblog
This is History| Saturday 27 October, 2007 |
Well - that didn't take long, did it? Seventy years of glorious South London art deco architecture, reduced to rubble within two weeks. I knew the demolition of the old doughnut factory at 137 Clap'ham Road was coming, but seeing it up close was a truly sorry sight. No regard for what went before, just the 'vision' of future profits to come.
It's a similar story down the road in Brixton as the Clap'ham-isation of South West London continues. The old Queen's pub is currently being flattened for yuppie flats. One day we'll reminisce about all these wonderful old buildings, and how a sense of community was actually out there, sometime before we all hid indoors and blocked out the big bad world from the outside.
In some places in London and we're almost there already.
Which is why I hold so dear my little patch of South London. I do LOVE living here; it has everything I ever need or want. The summer months are spent cycling around the Velodrome and then either watching county cricket in my back garden or arseing around at the Lovely Lido; come the winter and I have a genuine local football club to support, and an ice hockey team down the road as well. Throw in a classic club night and the best public parks that London has to offer and you can see why I've made this my home for the past twelve years.
It's so much more than simply a place to live; something that I hope the new occupants at 137 Clap'ham Road will soon come to appreciate. I'm not naive enough to ignore the gun crime and stabbings that have recently hit the headlines, but they're not new. People were killing each other around South London when 137 was still making the daily doughnuts.
I support strongly the idea that a sense of community DOES exists around here - what do you expect with Albert Square just around the corner? My Postie asked about my weekend plans yesterday morning as he was delivering my daily eBay cycling top; Keef the ACE window cleaner of South London (mail me for his moby) filled me in with some proper local history as he climbed his ladder later in the morning. I was even offered bulk discount when I went to buy some razor blades down in Brixton later in the day ('cos you look like you need a faking shave, mate!')
Everyday situations, nothing spectacular but a different world away from the scare stories that I read about concerning my little corner of South London. It's situations like these that we need to cling on to as developments such as 137 starts to transform the area.
A bit of business to deal with later on in the day in Brixton, and I found myself queuing up for a swim at The Rec.
Oh dear.
Never again, I said a couple of weeks ago, not at least until the builders have finally buggered off. But it was handy and it was convenient. Or so I thought.
Five minutes of queuing to flash my membership card ('er, go right through, mate,) still no showers and the constant sound of an industrial drill as I put the lengths in. It wasn't clear if I was in Brixton nick or Brixton Rec.
I can't help thinking about whom the facilities were originally built for (the Rec, not the prison,) and who will actually benefit from the promised hydro-spa (what?) in the future. Certainly not the Brixton Boys now banished from the old heavy weights room, currently homeless and left without any decent leisure facilities in Lambeth.
Which brings me back to my Sunny Stockwell art deco dream home.
Changing times, changing community.
I choose to document it simply because I can. It serves no other purpose than capturing a little part of South London local history. My South London local history.
technorati: 137 clap'ham road
| #permalink |
Bugger
Living in South London and not liking rugby works for me. I've more chance of finding a friendly face in North London than I have of accidentally stumbling across a game of egg chasers South of the river on a Saturday afternoon. The game for brutes and bruisers has its South London heartlands in the Hooray Henry enclaves such as Barnes, Richmond and um, Beckenham. The only scrum you'll find in Brixton is when the doughnuts at Sainsbury's are reduced to half price around seven in the evening (see you there.)
Having suffered a Rugger Bugger school life, I've seen enough cabbage ears to last me a lifetime - and that was just the girl's rugby team. But the past month has seen the oval ball game start to make an impact around The Oval and my little patch of South London. Is nothing sacred? We do proper sports around here like korfball, Gaelic handball and throwing fireworks through letterboxes.
And then along came the Rugby World Cup. All of a sudden and South London geezers are turning up their shirt collars and trying to grab in-between the legs of the bloke in front of them at the bar. And what's the deal with the underpants on the head? The last time I tried that was as part of an E.T. style Halloween fancy dress costume. I didn't get to phone home, but then I didn't need to as I had an ambulance ride when the school Rugger Buggers gave me cauliflower ears and grabbed my crotch.
I spent all of October managing to avoid rugby. I was in the Sainsbury's scrum during England's group matches; I took the fragrant mrs onionbagblogger away for a romantic weekend to coincide with the Aussie quarter-final (a bit of a ruck, plenty of mauling but I least I got to keep my underpants on.) Le Crunch semi with France was spent in the cinema watching a film about suicide. Luckily I had the Samaritans number handy when the film finished and I found out the final score.
I wasn't looking forward to the Rugby World Cup final weekend. Football would be forgotten about in South London for one weekend only, whilst Marks & Sparks on Brixton Road experienced a run on Y-fronts (just like the England the week before when Sebastien Chabal came charging at them.)
Having already played the joker card of romantic weekend away, I was almost ready for the Ace in the pack - a proposal to mrs obb and a shotgun wedding, just so that I could avoid the egg chasers.
But I was experiencing more luck than England coach Brian Ashton. No need for my own nuptials when a wedding invite arrived for the World Cup final weekend! Always the bridesmaid, I told mrs obb, never the bride. She should get her cauliflower ears seen to.
And so Saturday arrived and I was suited and booted and all ready for a rugby free weekend. I blubbed during the service and even kissed the Groom at the reception – that's what a Rugger Bugger education does to a man.
All was fine in my rugby free world until the Best Man transformed the Bermondsey knees up into a scene from a Barnes wine bar. Out came the big screen and the Bride celebrated her big day by downing a pint of a Guinness and putting her pants on her head.
'If you can’t beat them...' I told mrs obb. Which is exactly what England couldn’t do to South Africa.
Never trust a sport that can't tell the difference between a ball and a leather pancake. Back to Dulwich Hamlet this weekend. Blimey – anyone want to be my Best Man?
technorati: rugger bugger bollocks
| Friday 26 October, 2007 |
Living in South London and not liking rugby works for me. I've more chance of finding a friendly face in North London than I have of accidentally stumbling across a game of egg chasers South of the river on a Saturday afternoon. The game for brutes and bruisers has its South London heartlands in the Hooray Henry enclaves such as Barnes, Richmond and um, Beckenham. The only scrum you'll find in Brixton is when the doughnuts at Sainsbury's are reduced to half price around seven in the evening (see you there.)
Having suffered a Rugger Bugger school life, I've seen enough cabbage ears to last me a lifetime - and that was just the girl's rugby team. But the past month has seen the oval ball game start to make an impact around The Oval and my little patch of South London. Is nothing sacred? We do proper sports around here like korfball, Gaelic handball and throwing fireworks through letterboxes.
And then along came the Rugby World Cup. All of a sudden and South London geezers are turning up their shirt collars and trying to grab in-between the legs of the bloke in front of them at the bar. And what's the deal with the underpants on the head? The last time I tried that was as part of an E.T. style Halloween fancy dress costume. I didn't get to phone home, but then I didn't need to as I had an ambulance ride when the school Rugger Buggers gave me cauliflower ears and grabbed my crotch.
I spent all of October managing to avoid rugby. I was in the Sainsbury's scrum during England's group matches; I took the fragrant mrs onionbagblogger away for a romantic weekend to coincide with the Aussie quarter-final (a bit of a ruck, plenty of mauling but I least I got to keep my underpants on.) Le Crunch semi with France was spent in the cinema watching a film about suicide. Luckily I had the Samaritans number handy when the film finished and I found out the final score.
I wasn't looking forward to the Rugby World Cup final weekend. Football would be forgotten about in South London for one weekend only, whilst Marks & Sparks on Brixton Road experienced a run on Y-fronts (just like the England the week before when Sebastien Chabal came charging at them.)
Having already played the joker card of romantic weekend away, I was almost ready for the Ace in the pack - a proposal to mrs obb and a shotgun wedding, just so that I could avoid the egg chasers.
But I was experiencing more luck than England coach Brian Ashton. No need for my own nuptials when a wedding invite arrived for the World Cup final weekend! Always the bridesmaid, I told mrs obb, never the bride. She should get her cauliflower ears seen to.
And so Saturday arrived and I was suited and booted and all ready for a rugby free weekend. I blubbed during the service and even kissed the Groom at the reception – that's what a Rugger Bugger education does to a man.
All was fine in my rugby free world until the Best Man transformed the Bermondsey knees up into a scene from a Barnes wine bar. Out came the big screen and the Bride celebrated her big day by downing a pint of a Guinness and putting her pants on her head.
'If you can’t beat them...' I told mrs obb. Which is exactly what England couldn’t do to South Africa.
Never trust a sport that can't tell the difference between a ball and a leather pancake. Back to Dulwich Hamlet this weekend. Blimey – anyone want to be my Best Man?
technorati: rugger bugger bollocks
| #permalink |
Let Him Dangle
Blimey - those Love Me I'm a Liberal lot are a little ruthless, even by the low standards of sandal wearers. Two leaders knifed in the back, and now they have only gone and hung up poor old Lloyd George, the last Liberal Prime Minister, in Parliament Square.
iz it cuz he released da worst pop single, eva!?
At least that's one less candidate for Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee to worry about.
*insert your own hung parliament jokes*
technorati: love me i'm a liberal
Blimey - those Love Me I'm a Liberal lot are a little ruthless, even by the low standards of sandal wearers. Two leaders knifed in the back, and now they have only gone and hung up poor old Lloyd George, the last Liberal Prime Minister, in Parliament Square.
iz it cuz he released da worst pop single, eva!?
At least that's one less candidate for Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee to worry about.
*insert your own hung parliament jokes*
technorati: love me i'm a liberal
| Tuesday 23 October, 2007 |
Blimey - those Love Me I'm a Liberal lot are a little ruthless, even by the low standards of sandal wearers. Two leaders knifed in the back, and now they have only gone and hung up poor old Lloyd George, the last Liberal Prime Minister, in Parliament Square.
iz it cuz he released da worst pop single, eva!?
At least that's one less candidate for Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee to worry about.
*insert your own hung parliament jokes*
technorati: love me i'm a liberal
Blimey - those Love Me I'm a Liberal lot are a little ruthless, even by the low standards of sandal wearers. Two leaders knifed in the back, and now they have only gone and hung up poor old Lloyd George, the last Liberal Prime Minister, in Parliament Square.
iz it cuz he released da worst pop single, eva!?
At least that's one less candidate for Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee to worry about.
*insert your own hung parliament jokes*
technorati: love me i'm a liberal
| #permalink |
Stroke
Another day, another dollar, another blog post. Not that I'm writing this shit to put basil and sun dried organic bread on the onionbagblog kitchen table, dahhhling.
I've been putting the hours in this week, a rarity in itself, but equally rewarding. I feel that I have kept the wheels of industry turning, and in return, the wheels of industry have afforded me to spunk away my weekly money on another new camera.
Something for the weekend Sir? Bollocks to the basil and sun dried organic bread. Let them eat cake and bring on another new toy for me.
Talking about the coalface is a blog faux pas. I could tell you all about how I was the sandwich filling between a Geek and a Muso's moment in the office yesterday morning. The pleasures of the new Apple OS X or a positive appraisal of Johnny Borrell's threatened solo career?
Strangely I found myself having my feet in the Geek camp, oblivious to ze crazy world of rock 'n roll, 07 style.
Knobbers.
I ended up walking out of the building directly behind the finest snapper you'll find working for the broadsheets right now. I was off for another lunchtime photo shoot; he was off for an egg sarnie.
Stick to what you know - tell it like it is, etc. Which is why today I shall be 'live blogging' (well, I'm doing it right now, aren't I?) on the political hot potato that is swimming pool provision in the Stockwell / Oval / Vauxhall Triangle of Intrigue.
Carving out a niche for myself is something that you could never accuse me of doing.
And so where do you go to put the lengths in whilst in Lambeth? Brixton Rec? Bugger off. It's still a bloody building site with NO working showers in the gents. I was unfortunate (and foolish) enough to give the Rec another dip last weekend ahead of the basketball. A so so swim, but then where to wash my short and curlies? Certainly not in full view of the fragrant females in the poolside communal showers.
I've fared better at Clap'ham of late. The trick is to time it just right - after the OAP aquatic aerobics (think: the Roly Polys in water,) and before the pool gets a fresh re-fill of kiddie piss with the school swim.
For such a poncey area, Clap'ham is a surprisingly no-nonsense pool. No waves, no shutes and no chlorine either. You have to rely on the acidic nature of urine for your cleanliness.
It's also a fine length, clocking in at 33 metres. All this is soon to change though with the Lambeth Council Leisure knobbers agreeing to lose eight metres off the pool length, for no other reason than to justify their self-appointed importance.
At least it should take me roughly 25% less time to complete my 50 lengths. There's logic in there, somewhere.
Away from the Big two of Brixton and Clap'ham, the Lovely Lido is in a world all of it's own. But only during the summer months. Boo Hoo. And strictly speaking it doesn't come under the jurisdiction of Lambeth Leisure, as I was corrected by the Man from the Council at the BLU AGM last Saturday. The Lido is part of the Parks Management, even though it's a great big bloody blue thing and you go swimming in it.
And so what of the private leisure pool opportunities in the Borough? Fifteen paras in and we finally get to the point of the post...
Within walking distance of onionbagblog HQ II we have two pools that I could use. Both are not strictly private, but affiliated to local schools, and then leased out to locals whenever the kids aren't 'adding some chlorine’ to the filtration system.
Horizons is hidden away on Liberty Street behind the Clap'ham Road, an extension of the Durand Primary School. I investigated signing up for membership over the summer months, but the timetable was even more complicated to work out than Lambeth's disjointed approach to Leisure.
Plus it's a piss poor pool, both chemically and physically with a length of only twenty metres.
Around the corner and Stockwell Park High School also has a pool. We received a survey through the letterbox a few years ago enquiring about local demand for the pool, should it ever be opened up to the public.
It hasn't, and my suspicions at the time that this was just a component in South London Yoof's Bizness Studies course, Bro, appear to have been proven right.
But now I hear news that the pool at Stockwell Park is disappearing for good. A £30m re-build of the school (hurrah!) hasn't found any money in the budget for a replacement pool (boo!)
The final plans for the new school go before Lambeth's Planning Committee at the end of the month. A nice new shiny Tech-Academy-Faith type thing, but no bloody pool.
Which all means that South London Yoof will either suffer the Brixton Rec building site, fight for space with the Clap'ham OAP aquatic Roly Polys or pay over the odds for a glorified duck pond at Horizons.
Or maybe South London Yoof will just think fuck it – swimming in Lambeth is shit. If they don’t teach it in schools then why should I think it’s an important life skill?
Admittedly I’ve not needed my tumble turn skills down at the coalface this week, but I was a bit out of my depth with Johnny bloody Borrell.
technorati: swimming, south london, shit
| Saturday 20 October, 2007 |
Another day, another dollar, another blog post. Not that I'm writing this shit to put basil and sun dried organic bread on the onionbagblog kitchen table, dahhhling.
I've been putting the hours in this week, a rarity in itself, but equally rewarding. I feel that I have kept the wheels of industry turning, and in return, the wheels of industry have afforded me to spunk away my weekly money on another new camera.
Something for the weekend Sir? Bollocks to the basil and sun dried organic bread. Let them eat cake and bring on another new toy for me.
Talking about the coalface is a blog faux pas. I could tell you all about how I was the sandwich filling between a Geek and a Muso's moment in the office yesterday morning. The pleasures of the new Apple OS X or a positive appraisal of Johnny Borrell's threatened solo career?
Strangely I found myself having my feet in the Geek camp, oblivious to ze crazy world of rock 'n roll, 07 style.
Knobbers.
I ended up walking out of the building directly behind the finest snapper you'll find working for the broadsheets right now. I was off for another lunchtime photo shoot; he was off for an egg sarnie.
Stick to what you know - tell it like it is, etc. Which is why today I shall be 'live blogging' (well, I'm doing it right now, aren't I?) on the political hot potato that is swimming pool provision in the Stockwell / Oval / Vauxhall Triangle of Intrigue.
Carving out a niche for myself is something that you could never accuse me of doing.
And so where do you go to put the lengths in whilst in Lambeth? Brixton Rec? Bugger off. It's still a bloody building site with NO working showers in the gents. I was unfortunate (and foolish) enough to give the Rec another dip last weekend ahead of the basketball. A so so swim, but then where to wash my short and curlies? Certainly not in full view of the fragrant females in the poolside communal showers.
I've fared better at Clap'ham of late. The trick is to time it just right - after the OAP aquatic aerobics (think: the Roly Polys in water,) and before the pool gets a fresh re-fill of kiddie piss with the school swim.
For such a poncey area, Clap'ham is a surprisingly no-nonsense pool. No waves, no shutes and no chlorine either. You have to rely on the acidic nature of urine for your cleanliness.
It's also a fine length, clocking in at 33 metres. All this is soon to change though with the Lambeth Council Leisure knobbers agreeing to lose eight metres off the pool length, for no other reason than to justify their self-appointed importance.
At least it should take me roughly 25% less time to complete my 50 lengths. There's logic in there, somewhere.
Away from the Big two of Brixton and Clap'ham, the Lovely Lido is in a world all of it's own. But only during the summer months. Boo Hoo. And strictly speaking it doesn't come under the jurisdiction of Lambeth Leisure, as I was corrected by the Man from the Council at the BLU AGM last Saturday. The Lido is part of the Parks Management, even though it's a great big bloody blue thing and you go swimming in it.
And so what of the private leisure pool opportunities in the Borough? Fifteen paras in and we finally get to the point of the post...
Within walking distance of onionbagblog HQ II we have two pools that I could use. Both are not strictly private, but affiliated to local schools, and then leased out to locals whenever the kids aren't 'adding some chlorine’ to the filtration system.
Horizons is hidden away on Liberty Street behind the Clap'ham Road, an extension of the Durand Primary School. I investigated signing up for membership over the summer months, but the timetable was even more complicated to work out than Lambeth's disjointed approach to Leisure.
Plus it's a piss poor pool, both chemically and physically with a length of only twenty metres.
Around the corner and Stockwell Park High School also has a pool. We received a survey through the letterbox a few years ago enquiring about local demand for the pool, should it ever be opened up to the public.
It hasn't, and my suspicions at the time that this was just a component in South London Yoof's Bizness Studies course, Bro, appear to have been proven right.
But now I hear news that the pool at Stockwell Park is disappearing for good. A £30m re-build of the school (hurrah!) hasn't found any money in the budget for a replacement pool (boo!)
The final plans for the new school go before Lambeth's Planning Committee at the end of the month. A nice new shiny Tech-Academy-Faith type thing, but no bloody pool.
Which all means that South London Yoof will either suffer the Brixton Rec building site, fight for space with the Clap'ham OAP aquatic Roly Polys or pay over the odds for a glorified duck pond at Horizons.
Or maybe South London Yoof will just think fuck it – swimming in Lambeth is shit. If they don’t teach it in schools then why should I think it’s an important life skill?
Admittedly I’ve not needed my tumble turn skills down at the coalface this week, but I was a bit out of my depth with Johnny bloody Borrell.
technorati: swimming, south london, shit
| #permalink |
Photo Friday
So how was your lunch hour? Did you get to take a full hour? Did you actually get to take a break?
I have always valued my time away from my desk during the middle of the working day. 'Lunch is for wimps,' but I'd rather take time out to ponder what is happening around me than be some posturing office cock who can 'close the deal' whilst simultaneously giving himself fellatio.
I've been fortunate in that most of my employers have felt the same. It was obligatory somewhere in SE17, whereas the lovely Liberal Elite up in North London also seem to value a break in the day.
Shame I'm stuck up in North London knobber land though. The rolling parks of South London are few and far between, whereas I can drink over-priced coffee during my lunch hour until it comes out of my arse (which it once did.)
I've managed to find a local park as such. Actually it's VERY local, occupied each weekday by local Yoof, OAP's and weirdoes. I fit in quite well. It's been my place of solace for a few months now, but with the weather changing (even I've given up on my morning lovely Lido swims,) there can't be many more weeks of sitting outside in North London left for me.
What a joy then to find crisp, blue skies for the past couple of days. My favourite kind of Autumnal weather - the sunlight radiates off the falling leaves bringing them back to life once again, and all with a backdrop of enough blue in the sky to make a sailor a pair of pants.
It's not quite enough to inspire me to pen some poetry in North London ('oh woe, the life of a knobber...') but I went into photo shoot mood earlier on Thursday afternoon.
It's hard too go wrong when working with natural life, and please God (yep, him) can we have some more of the same on Saturday when I've got a wedding booking?
Half an hour of pointing and pressing, fifteen minutes to feed my newly found flapjack addiction (it's a North London thing,) followed by fifteen minutes of making conversation with a local weirdo:
It's called a camera and not a computer, I've not been sent from the Council to spy on you and nope, I can't lend you a fiver so that you can go and buy a new lampshade (TRUE!)
That's the sound off the lunchtime bell ringing in his head.
Forget the flapjack, time for the fruitcake.
technorati: LOVE my lunchtime
| Friday 19 October, 2007 |
So how was your lunch hour? Did you get to take a full hour? Did you actually get to take a break?
I have always valued my time away from my desk during the middle of the working day. 'Lunch is for wimps,' but I'd rather take time out to ponder what is happening around me than be some posturing office cock who can 'close the deal' whilst simultaneously giving himself fellatio.
 'oh woe, the life of a knobber... |
Shame I'm stuck up in North London knobber land though. The rolling parks of South London are few and far between, whereas I can drink over-priced coffee during my lunch hour until it comes out of my arse (which it once did.)
I've managed to find a local park as such. Actually it's VERY local, occupied each weekday by local Yoof, OAP's and weirdoes. I fit in quite well. It's been my place of solace for a few months now, but with the weather changing (even I've given up on my morning lovely Lido swims,) there can't be many more weeks of sitting outside in North London left for me.
What a joy then to find crisp, blue skies for the past couple of days. My favourite kind of Autumnal weather - the sunlight radiates off the falling leaves bringing them back to life once again, and all with a backdrop of enough blue in the sky to make a sailor a pair of pants.
It's not quite enough to inspire me to pen some poetry in North London ('oh woe, the life of a knobber...') but I went into photo shoot mood earlier on Thursday afternoon.
It's hard too go wrong when working with natural life, and please God (yep, him) can we have some more of the same on Saturday when I've got a wedding booking?
Half an hour of pointing and pressing, fifteen minutes to feed my newly found flapjack addiction (it's a North London thing,) followed by fifteen minutes of making conversation with a local weirdo:
It's called a camera and not a computer, I've not been sent from the Council to spy on you and nope, I can't lend you a fiver so that you can go and buy a new lampshade (TRUE!)
That's the sound off the lunchtime bell ringing in his head.
Forget the flapjack, time for the fruitcake.
technorati: LOVE my lunchtime
| #permalink |
Fine
And so the sub-Standard's love affair of the bicycle lasted even less time than my up the arse peccadillo for knobber Petrol Heads. One leader column ahead of le Grand Depart, and then it's back to labelling all cyclists as 'Lycra Louts.'
On the same day that government advisers suggested that a 20mph speed limit for cars in cities would cut cycling injuries by 29%, The Paper that Likes to HATE Londoners chose instead to criticise cyclists:
'Parking attendants could hand out £100 fines to cyclists who are caught riding on London's pavements. More than 5,000 so-called Lycra louts have been given on-the-spot fines for riding on the capital's pavements in the past two years.'
What is it with this nasty little local newspaper and adjective style stereotypes?
Lycra Louts, Red Ken, Ugly Editors etc.
And the silly boy pictured on the webshite isn't even wearing lycra. Never let the facts get in the way of a good story.
Pavement cycling is necessary in some parts of London. It's either the Highway or My Way at Vauxhall Cross. One of them leads to Casualty. Do not pass go and so what if collect a fine for £100? At least you'll live to see another stupid fine slapped on you.
Ah, but what about the bike lanes I hear you ask? You mean the ones that are either covered in broken bottles, or are full of parked cars at the weekend, as is the case along Waterloo Bridge?
And so a £100 fine is just what we need - more reason to criminalise cyclists and spread the message that CYCLING IS DANGEROUS.
No it's not. It's silly fuckers like the sub-Standard with their scare stories that is the real danger. Plus you wouldn't catch me anywhere near the pavement with my fixie. No Sireee, not me; idiot pedestrians are bad enough jumping out ahead of me with their jay walking.
How about slapping a £100 fine on these knobbers for not obeying the Highway Code?
Thought not.
But all is not lost:
'The boroughs most affected are Westminster and Kensington & Chelsea.'
If silly boys who take their bikes on the pavement are gonna get slapped with a fine, at least make sure it's the arseholes like knobber 'Seven Bikes!' Johnson. Or even possibly sub-Standard journos. Better still if it's a Daily Mail silly cycling boy.
I'd like to see the Old Bill try and slap a £100 fine on Brixton's BMX Boy as he rides up and down the High Street selling his Rastafari tapes.
As you were, Sir.
technorati: knobber mainstream media whores: please can you stop criminalising cyclists. ta
| Wednesday 17 October, 2007 |
And so the sub-Standard's love affair of the bicycle lasted even less time than my up the arse peccadillo for knobber Petrol Heads. One leader column ahead of le Grand Depart, and then it's back to labelling all cyclists as 'Lycra Louts.'
On the same day that government advisers suggested that a 20mph speed limit for cars in cities would cut cycling injuries by 29%, The Paper that Likes to HATE Londoners chose instead to criticise cyclists:
'Parking attendants could hand out £100 fines to cyclists who are caught riding on London's pavements. More than 5,000 so-called Lycra louts have been given on-the-spot fines for riding on the capital's pavements in the past two years.'
What is it with this nasty little local newspaper and adjective style stereotypes?
Lycra Louts, Red Ken, Ugly Editors etc.
And the silly boy pictured on the webshite isn't even wearing lycra. Never let the facts get in the way of a good story.
Pavement cycling is necessary in some parts of London. It's either the Highway or My Way at Vauxhall Cross. One of them leads to Casualty. Do not pass go and so what if collect a fine for £100? At least you'll live to see another stupid fine slapped on you.
Ah, but what about the bike lanes I hear you ask? You mean the ones that are either covered in broken bottles, or are full of parked cars at the weekend, as is the case along Waterloo Bridge?
And so a £100 fine is just what we need - more reason to criminalise cyclists and spread the message that CYCLING IS DANGEROUS.
No it's not. It's silly fuckers like the sub-Standard with their scare stories that is the real danger. Plus you wouldn't catch me anywhere near the pavement with my fixie. No Sireee, not me; idiot pedestrians are bad enough jumping out ahead of me with their jay walking.
How about slapping a £100 fine on these knobbers for not obeying the Highway Code?
Thought not.
But all is not lost:
'The boroughs most affected are Westminster and Kensington & Chelsea.'
If silly boys who take their bikes on the pavement are gonna get slapped with a fine, at least make sure it's the arseholes like knobber 'Seven Bikes!' Johnson. Or even possibly sub-Standard journos. Better still if it's a Daily Mail silly cycling boy.
I'd like to see the Old Bill try and slap a £100 fine on Brixton's BMX Boy as he rides up and down the High Street selling his Rastafari tapes.
As you were, Sir.
technorati: knobber mainstream media whores: please can you stop criminalising cyclists. ta
| #permalink |
Golden Days
I cycled off looking for the streets that are paved with gold. I was North London bound and so there was to be no nuggets this side of the river.
Golden Lane Estate, EC1 was the location for a shoot with The Way We See It. Golden days with the weather, but with work commitments calling, I didn't have time to turn once, let alone twice or even thrice.
It was point and shoot, and then spend an entire afternoon arseing about with Photoshop the following day.
The Estate itself was nothing short of stunning, even for North London. A Grade II listed building, the 60's design benefits from a handy Barbican location and within easy reach of the City.
It's not for me, but the striking clash of colours at least means that you'd wake up each morning feeling as good as gold.
technorati: golden lane estate
| Tuesday 16 October, 2007 |
I cycled off looking for the streets that are paved with gold. I was North London bound and so there was to be no nuggets this side of the river.
Golden Lane Estate, EC1 was the location for a shoot with The Way We See It. Golden days with the weather, but with work commitments calling, I didn't have time to turn once, let alone twice or even thrice.
It was point and shoot, and then spend an entire afternoon arseing about with Photoshop the following day.
The Estate itself was nothing short of stunning, even for North London. A Grade II listed building, the 60's design benefits from a handy Barbican location and within easy reach of the City.
It's not for me, but the striking clash of colours at least means that you'd wake up each morning feeling as good as gold.
technorati: golden lane estate
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