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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
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Bugger
| 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
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Let Him Dangle
| 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
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Stroke
| 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
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Photo Friday
| 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
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Fine
| 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
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Golden Days
| 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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My Little Pony
| Monday 15 October, 2007 |
Bloody Sunday drivers.
technorati: why the long face?
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Crap Match Report
| Monday 15 October, 2007 |
Brixton Topcats Vs Worcester Wolves (scoreboard buggered - no idea of the final points but Brixton lost,) 14/10/07
Bugger the NBA - it was back to basketball basics at Brixton Rec on Sunday. But first a swim. I shared the locker room (too much North American sport of late) with the Worcester Wolves. An intimate experience, what with the never-ending refurbishment of the Rec. The visitors also shared some of the toe jam, a sweaty pair of Y-fronts left on the floor and a blocked toilet.
Welcome too Brixton.
Timber! The Wolves of, um Worcester had lost the wooden prefix of the Wolves from Minnesota. They still played like planks in the first quarter, trailing the Topcats 21-8.
Who wants it? |
The plug was almost pulled on the ball game in the second quarter. Not the notorious Rec refurbishment, but the scoreboard having to be reset after a cable became unplugged. But there was no 0-0 reprieve for the Wolves, chasing a 33-24 Brixton lead at the break.
The second half of the game was spent trying to find the most comfortable sitting position on the Brixton benches. It's a scientific problem that so far remains unsolved. My latest position - reclining with the back of my head resting against the thighs of some Brixton Honeyz - had no complaints from me.
Wolves pulled it back to 41-36 in the third, and then a two-point lead in the fourth. Now would be a good time for the Brixton scoreboard to be buggered again.
'Four minutes too play - who wants it?' asked the Wolves coach. Meanwhile, on the Brixton team bench and I spy with my little eye, something beginning with I...
The final buzzer went and the scoreboard was indeed broken. Wolves celebrated and I don't think it was after having survived the SW9 toe jam hell.
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Means to an End
| Sunday 14 October, 2007 |
With the football and the egg chasers still to come, the first leg of onionbagblog Super Saturday was... a film all about suicide - GREAT! Actually it was a film all about Joy Division, with a final ending that is the worst kept secret in popular entertainment since someone leaked the spoiler in the New Testament that Jesus meets his maker at the end.
I was always a generation just a little too early for Joy Division. Love Will Tear Us Apart for me was a dodgy cover on a Paul Young album. I was more of a New Order
Happy Happy Joy Joy |
I arrived on time for the adverts and trailers - a rarity as usually I manage to miss the first fifteen minutes of most films. I've not exactly been missing much, have I? Loud music and knobbers SHOUTING out from the screen at me isn't going to make me by some mobile phone shit, mate.
When will these marketing knobbers ever understand their audience and the changing technology that will soon send them the same way as the music industry dinosaurs?
And so yeah, I was left feeling slightly suicidal as the bleak opening shots of mid-70's Macclesfield came on the big screen. The story of course is gripping and Control works for both Joy Division believers and casual film fans alike.
In-jokes ('we'll all get fuck off rich and one day buy big houses and live in Cheshire') were intertwined with Ian Curtis' utter desperation as a failed marriage, an affair and his worsening epilepsy reached that fatal conclusion.
But it was the power of producer Anton Corjbin's imagery that took control for me. The plot became irrelevant as I marvelled at scene after scene of glorious black and white pictures. It was more like flicking through an extended photo album with added words and music.
John Cooper's Clarke Chicken Town was a nice surprise, but there was too be no happy ending. It's not where you're from, it's where you're at etc, and New Order '07 don’t appear to be a happy place at all.
Keeping with the Uppers and Downers feel, I followed up Control with 24 Hour Party People back at base on DVD, sandwiched in-between the football and the egg chasers. £6 (including p&p) and no bloody ankle biters creating a carpet of popcorn, as was the case at Clap'ham earlier in the day.
'Are you feeling alright?' asked the fragrant mrs onionbagblogger.
Happy Happy Joy Joy.
technorati: joy division
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Chilled
| Sunday 14 October, 2007 |
An early start Saturday morning and my seventh AGM of the Brockwell Lido Users Group. Blue Sky Thinking for a blue sky (of sorts) day - come on in - the water's... don’t even go there. I certainly didn't with an indoor dawn dip at Clap'ham instead.
Taste a Teenager |
We always end up saying 'the best - EVER!' before looking out across a pool preparing for the winter months and then hibernating ourselves. Lido are LOVELY when the weather is in their favour, but they can also be utterly depressing when you are reminded of the winter months ahead.
This has been the first season since Fusion completed the building work to the South side of the Lido. Twelve months ago and I feared for the future of the Lido; an entire art deco wall was about to be demolished, replaced by treadmills and pumping R&B bollocks - the antithesis of arseing around at a Lido. Those long winter months can't sustain a summer season of swimming alone, and the plan was for the leisure lifestyle nonsense to pull in the pounds.
With the building work completed surprisingly on time and on budget, I returned to the Lido in July, over-joyed to find that my fears were totally misguided; behind the scenes and the Lido had a new leisure lifestyle life. MY Lido however remained intact, holding onto the ambience of the original 1930's building and providing me with my own little piece of South London paradise to waste away the summer months.
Fusion Chief Executive Peter Kay delivered his verdict on the season to the BLU members. A poor season weather wise, although you can't quantify lido life; it's a qualitative experience, unique to every individual user.
The Lido still broke even, with 22,000 visits (200 plus from me.) 15% of these were for the 6:45 early swim, and 3,200 of these alone took place on 5th August, a rare Phew Wot a Scorcher South London summer day this year. The pool temperature averaged 19 degrees - perfect.
Fusion is proud of the opening up of the Lido with the new reception allowing a view inwards of the wonderful pool from Brockwell Park. This keeps the building alive in the winter, and the plan is to delay draining the pool for as long as possible.
Kay admitted that the new shoebox changing rooms underestimated the space required, and this is a project that is being re-addressed over the winter months. The art deco cafe is the final piece in the jigsaw to undergo development, and discussions are in progress to find a long-term purpose and partner to manage this facility.
The loudest cheers from the floor came when Kay announced that the season next summer would hopefully run from the start of May through until the end of October. Brrrrr - great! (I think.)
Lido Manager Jeremy Lake confirmed that it has been a positive season from his perspective and the
And so lido life is evolutionary. At the centre of it all is a great big bloody pool, but it's the people and the community that meet up around this great public space that give Brockwell Lido such a unique identity. The growth will continue next summer with the appointment of Gethen Dick as the first Education Officer for Brockwell Lido. Amongst her plans are for a series of Lido Lates sessions. Back in the day and we use to call these skinny-dipping.
The business end of the AGM was next on the agenda. Hands raised For, Against and Abstentions, and in the carrot cake world of luvvie duvvie local SE24 politics, it's always a foregone conclusion.
But wait! An objection to the re-election of the Herne Hill Society to the BLU Steering Group! As far as the grand mechanisms of real politik goes, it's not quite the TUC withdrawing the block vote for the Big Tent Man, but blimey - I almost choked on my latté. I look forward to twenty years time when I mature to become an argumentative South London local politics old git. Good work, fella.
The feedback session for Fusion came next. I thought I'd given my leisure lifestyle
All very strange - the Lido '07 has been pretty much perfect for me.
A bonkers Brixton moment when some dapper old boy from the floor delivered his rant. I lost something of the flow of his thread, but he appeared to be speaking in favour of a United Nations resolution, taking control of Lambeth Council, fat kids and better domino facilities.
The Lido is a unique experience for everyone...
Suggestions for Fusion to consider in the future included a Christmas Day dip (YES!!!!) a film festival and the annual BLU AGM red herring of heating the pool.
WE SWIM IN AN UNHEATED POOL BECAUSE WE HATE THE STERILE ENVIRONMENT OF INDOOR SWIMMING.
It's as simple as that.
More community use was encouraged, with the Lido becoming the hub of Herne Hill; much more than simply a pool, but a meeting point for local groups to network and build something positive for the local area.
Teenager Taster Sessions had my ear (and tongue) pricking. I hope's she's over sixteen...
After a positive Saturday morning celebrating the work of the past few months, we left feeling slightly depressed as the pricing structure was discussed. £5.20 is indeed excessive for a daytime swim, although this is priced more along the lines of a swim, and then arseing about all day by the poolside. Not so encouraging when it's overcast, as has been the case for the past summer.
There was much concern that local families have been out-priced. The Lido is too expensive for the 'hard working families' that surround the park. Meanwhile the Bright Young Things of SE24 have been queuing up to sign up for the leisure lifestyle nonsense.
Not all business is good - the Lido and what it represents would disappear overnight if the 'hard working families' were excluded for good. For a local authority that is having a few problems with South London Yoof, excluding the kids rather than inviting them in does seem a little disjointed.
As does the Lambeth swimming policy in general. Having prostituted the service out to the highest bidders, why should I have to pay GLL a monthly subscription to swim indoors at Clap'ham, as well as Fusion for the summer months? Both pools are owned by Lambeth, but I'm paying double the price for three months a year.
I can't cancel my Clap'ham subscription over the summer because there are some days when even I find the Lido conditions a little extreme. Plus the knobbers would only put my price up once I started paying once again.
The Man From the Council promised to go away and
And so that's the AGM for another season. We still have a lovely lido - reason to celebrate itself. It's down to the passionate and sometimes uncompromising attitude of BLU that not only do we have a wonderful open-air pool in South London, but in a world of corporate nonsense and silly marketing and sponsorship 'opportunities,' the lovely lido remains a rare place of peaceful procrastination.
Time to hibernate until next summer.
technorati: brockwell lido
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Return to Sender
| Saturday 13 October, 2007 |
I've quite enjoyed the postal strike and will be sorry too see it go. It's focussed my mind on what Postman Pat's job actually is in the modern world: delivering junk mail and bloody bills. I can quite happily live without these, thank you very much.
But the Postie's lot is a poor one. If the early starts weren't bad enough, working for that knobber supreme Adam Crozier must be a nightmare.
What has surprised me over the past ten days is how Postie has become demonised as a Marxist radical that is holding the country to ransom. No he's not - he's just striving for better conditions in the workplace, a human principle that is hopefully the bedrock of any civilised society.
Over a hundred years of workplace struggle to improve the lot of the working class and it comes down to this - self-smug sod you jack knobbers phoning shitty 5live phone-ins, complaining how their letter from the clap clinic has been lost in the post and Postie should be shot.
I wonder if it is just Postie that has been demonised as a dangerous militant holding the country to ransom, or industrial disputes in general? I remember the ambulance driver's strike in the early '90s as probably the last industrial action that seemed to generate a wave of public support. Would the bucket shakers in the town centres on a Saturday morning still receive such a favourable reception now?
And don't forget that we live in the caring, sharing world of the Big Tent Man, a conviction politician with a 'Socialist' agenda (my hand is still bleeding after punching the TV in protest of that useless tosser Kelvin McKenzie and his performance on Question Time this week.)
Britain's industrial landscape may have changed (disappeared) but have our social values? It's saying something when exercising your democratic right to withdraw your labour is lambasted by your fellow workers.
And so the solution is to package up all the junk mail that you receive when the backlog of deliveries finally comes through, and then forward it on in a pre-paid envelope to knobber McKenzie and his retard chums at Wapping.
First class twat.
technorati: knobber kelvin mckenzie
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Managing
| Saturday 13 October, 2007 |
One of the joys of writing a South London sports based blog is that there is never a shortage of sports stories to cover. If it's not non-league football then it's the under-10's ice hockey in Streatham.
No One likes us |
BONG! Millwall sack manager Willie Donachie!
BONG! Crystal Pal-arse sack manager Peter Taylor!
BONG! Dulwich Hamlet hand out a trial to unsettled Barcelona star Ronaldinho!
Be careful what you wish for. I never did rate that Ronaldinho, anyway.
To lose one South London manager in unfortunate, but to lose two on the same day is just bloody funny to be honest. Of course the cynic within suggests that the two big clubs South of the river (with apologies to Charlton and, um, Dulwich) were just puffing up their chests to see who could get the biggest back page headline. I hate to call a false start on your sack race, fellas, but Dulwich Hamlet win every time in a game of South London football scrabble.
'This decision was taken with a heavy heart,' Millwall executive deputy chairman Heather Rabbatts is quoted as saying. 'We all love and deeply admire Willie Donachie.'
No One Likes Us, etc, and golly gosh – I really would hate to get on the wrong side of Heather if she hands out a P45 to someone who she loves.
Taylor found it hard to see eye to eye with his chairman Simon Jordan. But then so would you if your boss resembled a bottle of orange juice.
In a results driven business, a 4-0 away defeat at Carlisle, and a 1-1 home draw against Hull ended with the two men being asked to empty their desk. Or in the case of Donachie, to quickly vacate the conveyor belt, as like the 363 bus route down the Old Kent Road, Millwall have a new manager every five minutes.
The Lions have got through more managers in the past three years than they have scored away goals since the start of the season. Six managerial changes compared to four goals away from home in the Division
Peter Taylor meanwhile is the anti-Sven. He worked wonders for the national team, but at club level he was a little crap. You’d find more excitement in the Y-fronts of the 59 year-old Swede than Palace supporters have seen around Selhurst this season.
And so Millwall and Palace fans can both look forward to new men at the top. Except the real power amongst both clubs remains at board room level with the unfortunate incoming 'managers' having less control than my bladder after five pints on a Friday night.
Look across the river to see how Arsene Wenger controls EVERYTHING about Arsenal; likewise for Sir Alex up at Old Trafford. Sackings and short term gains gives you away fixtures at Carlisle and home games against Hull. Seventeen years ago and both South London clubs were playing in the top division of English football. Manchester United meanwhile were holding their nerve as Sir Alex was turning up the heat on his hairdryer.
Fast-forward to 2007 and The Lions have had thirteen 'loveable' managers in this period (fourteen if you include Dennis Wise.) Palace seems too treat their managers with the same disrespect the clubs hold for supporters with rip off replica kits – an incredible eighteen in just under seventeen years (that’s club managers, not kits.)
Which all leaves us with another season of under-10 ice hockey and OAP bowling from Brixton before I can recycle this post once again. Good luck to the incoming benchwarmers, but I’ve got to dash – some chap called Ronaldinho is running out for the Dulwich reserves.
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Homeless| Friday 12 October, 2007 |
And so its bye bye to Sunny Stockwell's Art Deco old doughnut factory along the Clap'ham Road - boarded up and about to become a 'superb choice of luxury residences designed around an open landscaped square peppered with cafe's and restaurants.'
Can't fucking wait.
A 'fashionable address!' boasts the knobber marketing bumph.
Sky high SW9 insurance premiums.
'Vibrant!
Not a black face in sight on the corporate webshite.
'An influx of young executives and professionals!'
And so where do the locals now live?
'The streets of Clap'ham are buzzing!'
Um, but it's actually in Sunny Stockwell, you know, where there's been a bit of gun crime over the summer months. Oh, that's what you mean by buzzing...
Life is often like a cream doughnut. Without the cream. Or the doughnut.
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Crap Match Report
| Thursday 11 October, 2007 |
Boston Celtic 92 Minnesota Timberwolves 81, 10/10/07
My last NBA game was over in Chicago where I paid $10 to see Shaquille O'Neal and Kobe Bryant do the business against the Bulls. World class sporting entertainment at a bargain price. If you had told me at the time that I would watch an NBA ball game back home in London, it would have seemed about as laughable as the budget price I paid for the seats back at the United Centre.
How's Jose? |
Boston Celtics tipping off against the Minnesota Timberwolves on Wednesday evening wasn't played for points, but more of a training camp experience. As part of NBA Live 07, four teams from the top league have been on tour across six European cities ahead of the big tip off later this month. It's the way ahead for American sport, 'growing the brand' and treating North American sports fans in Europe to some of the imported action. It's the same as Chelsea going on tour to California, but without a Russian megalomaniac with a crap haircut calling all the shots. I know which event I'd rather pay top dollar to go and see.
With a record sixteen NBA Championship banners hanging from the rafters of Banknorth Garden, the Boston franchise is the most successful in the NBA. Meanwhile, over in Minnesota and I find it hard to take any team called the Timberwolves seriously. So did much of the O2 Arena on Wednesday evening with the green and white of the Celtic making this pretty much a home ball game for Boston.
Adding some extra tension ahead of tip off was
The two giant shirts suspended from the ceiling of the O2 had me checking the programme to see if Chester's Billy Boy Singleton wasn't a late addition to the starting line up. Such attention to detail was mighty impressive. Two teams weren't simply packaged up and put on a plane and told to play; the entire operation for both franchises were on tour - cheerleaders, mascots and even the poor chap who has a job title of Professional Sweaty Towel Collector were in town. The timekeeper’s bench alone boasted a bigger crowd than the average home gate at Dulwich.
The players and coaches were introduced to the London crowd. Timberwolves head honcho Randy Wittman looked more Mafia than Minnesota, dressed even sharper than the Canary Wharf corporate Suits out on a work night jolly at the O2. Meanwhile, back in Blightly and gypo Neil Warnock crawled out of a hedge and was introduced to the 'world's press' as the new manager of Crystal Pal-arse.
We finally tipped off and there was plenty of fouls for a friendly. This was the first time that two NBA teams had been on court in London for twelve years, and both clearly wanted to put on a show.
Speaking of which, the Las Vegas Hot & Cold Elvis Challenge during a Time Out (blindfolded bloke in the crowd has to locate an Elvis and two Las Vegas showgirls on court - obviously...) was great fun, although I can't quite see it catching on at half time down at Dulwich.
23-22 to Boston at the first quarter and it was game on. At least I think it was, but I was sitting behind a human giraffe that wouldn't have looked out of place with the other human freaks on court. And sitting in the best seat in the house down on courtside with the human freaks on court was... Didier Drogba. Kids were queuing to get the autograph of the great diver. The half hour waiting time seemed excessive, but I thought it worth the investment, just to ask the Chelsea man: 'How's Jose?' and then wait for the flood of tears to force the abandonment of the game.
50-43 at the break and it was hard work out there - and that was just the O2 catering staff keeping up with the demand for three cheeseburgers per under-ten. It won't make you into a six foot six NBA-er, little Joey, but it may make you look like a giraffe.
Three NBA Hall of Fame old timers were introduced to the O2 at the break. They received a fine reception. Basketball may bring you respect, but judging by their hobbling movements on court, it will also bring you dodgy knees in later life.
Time to show boat in the third quarter ahead of the big tip off at the end of the month. Boston pulled away to 63-75, dunking more balls than mrs obb dunked French fries with her ketchup.
Attention turned to the big screen as Lewis Hamilton was picked out by the cameras. The Ferrari F1 driver can do no wrong right now, although he did make a little girl cry after signing her programme (bless - he's only just out of school himself and has recently learnt how to join up his letters.)
A final score of 92-81 saw Boston take the game and applause at the end.
The NBA in London? I reckon it's time Dulwich Hamlet 'grows the brand' over in the Land of the Free. I bet there's a market for those pink 'n blue shirts in downtown San Francisco.
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Buzzin'
| Wednesday 10 Octber, 2007 |
I came to the rescue of another life form yesterday evening. It may not have been up on par with Saint Bob, but rescuing a fruit fly that had become stuck on a sticky surface in the kitchen left me with a warm glow.
The little fella was doing the Dying Fly thing just below the top right hand hob after I had done the washing up. A fresh surface of Fairy Liquid water was about to become his downfall.
In years gone by I would have probably poured some pure Fairy Liquid on the little fucker to finish him off. But no, I am now a much more caring, Man About the Planet sort of guy.
I intervened with a piece of cardboard (from the recycling sack, natch) and scooped the fly up ready for the release into the great outdoors. I could have bonded with nature and used my bare hands, but my fudge fingers would have probably finished him off.
'What are you doing?' asked the fragrant mrs onionbagblogger as I took a little longer than necessary to make her a cup of tea.
'I'm getting friendly with a fly,' I replied.
'Oh, that's lovely, dear.'
She's had a problem with her hearing of late (mrs obb, not the fly) and though that I was getting trendy with a tie.
But by now her tea was cold and the fly was flapping about on the piece of cardboard. I didn't want to get too close to nature, but I noticed that his front two legs were fine flapping away, whereas the back four were buggered.
What a dilemma. Should I release my new fly friend outdoors and let nature (and the big garden spider) take its course, or should I finish him off with a good old-fashioned thumb squeeze?
It's questions like this that keep me awake at night.
But who am I to take away the life of a fly, partly disabled or not? I balanced my new friend on the cardboard with the same hand I was holding mrs obb's cup of tea. With my other hand I opened the back door, in preparation for the great escape.
But bugger - I dropped the piece of cardboard on the patio and the cup of tea on top of it. If there's any consolation for fellow fly lovers out there, the cause of death was drowning rather scolding, as the tea was now luke warm.
So that's all right then.
'How's your tie?' asked mrs obb as I handed over a fresh cup of tea.
Best knot to ask.
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In the City
| Tuesday 9 October, 2007 |
And so on the eve when the great Turbine Hall at the Tate Modern miraculously metamorphoses into
The dilemma facing artists chosen to curate at the Turbine Hall is how to fill such a vast, open space. A subterranean chasm is the cop out option; Global Cities offered something to actually think about instead.
Not exactly a modern art exhibition as such, more an educational piece exploring the changing face of modern, urban cities. Ten such monster sprawls were chosen for a compare and contrast experiment. Size, speed, form, density and diversity were all under consideration.
These five facets were also under consideration after I read about the subterranean chasm and then took a trip to the toilet.
And relax...
London has a lot to thank Patrick Abercrombie for, having established London's Green belt back in 1943. Size isn’t everything, and the last thing I want is to live in a city that includes Slough as a suburb.
I learnt that despite my proximity to the Chinese bible bashers on one side off onionbagblog HQ II, and the Swedish nurses on the other (the Devil and the deep blue sea,) Tokyo, Mexico City and Sao Paulo make London look like a village in comparison. And if you live in leafy Dulwich, you may actually start to believe your own hype.
Business brings in the majority of this change of pace, but I reckon the Daily Mail (Cairo edition) wouldn't be too happy with an official population of 7.8 million, and an unofficial population of 18 million.
The opposite is true of Tokyo. Prone to typhoons, earthquakes and floods, the city has expanded away from the waterfront, leading to the high rise, concentrated culture. Give me beautiful Brockwell Park any day.
Yeah, but you try getting broadband connected in Brixton.
Whereas London has 4,500 people per km2, Mumbai can 'boast' 34,000 - seven times the density of London.
For such a vast topic, the vast space in the Turbine Hall was left to feel a little empty. There wasn't any WOW! factor as in previous exhibitiions, but then elitism rather than education has often been the inspiration behind much modern art.
Back to the concrete and clay as from tomorrow.
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