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
| #permalink |
My Little Pony
Bloody Sunday drivers.
technorati: why the long face?
| Monday 15 October, 2007 |
Bloody Sunday drivers.
technorati: why the long face?
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
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.
'We're beating ourselves!' shouted out the Wolves coach to his team during a time out. I know how he felt. I once managed to beat myself at a game of I-spy. The something began with an I, and I later found out that it was Idiot.
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.
technorati: brixton topcats
| 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.
|
technorati: brixton topcats
| #permalink |
Means to an End
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 Orderman boy - MUCH more of a New Order man.
Suicide isn't anything to joke about, but I was left feeling a little down when asked to pay £8.50 at the Clap'ham Picturehouse. I wasn't alone, although actually I almost was alone with only two other people watching the film for the lunchtime showing.
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
| 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
| #permalink |
Chilled
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.
The BLU AGM is the chance each year for the hardcore Lido users to come together outside of the utopia summer season bubble that the lido provides. It's time to assess the season under objective conditions and plan ahead for the year ahead.
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 theleisure lifestyle nonsense fitness and well being centre is already starting to subsidise the summer season.
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 lifestyleknobbers friends a rough ride in recent years, but my lovely lido summer has ended up with me as a flag waver for Fusion. But you can't please all of the people all of the time. Strong feelings from the floor emerged over the air conditioning unit now on the roof of the new South Wall. The changing rooms were seen as a sham and even observations over the lack of seating were strong.
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 andeat more jammy dodgers in a Council meeting mention it to the knobbers at the Town Hall.
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
| 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
| #permalink |
Return to Sender
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
| 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
| #permalink |
Managing
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.
And so there I was, about to tell you all about the OAP Indoor Bowling Championships live from Brixton Rec, when...
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 DivisionThree One was never going to be enough to save lovable Willie. Still – at least he’s got a better goals per game ratio than Steve Claridge.
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.
technorati: gis a job
| 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.
technorati: gis a job
| #permalink |
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.
technorati: 137 clapham road
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
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.
But seven years later and I've now seen NBA action in South East London, not to mention the NHL and The Kid. I'm no flag waver for the big tent on the peninsula, but it doesn't get any better than this.
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 wasmrs onionbagblogger bangin' on about the price of a pint - £3.50! was Kevin Garnett in the starting line up for Boston. Having traded from the Timberwolves in the close season, this was the ex-Minnesota man's first game against his old club. With All Star favourite Ray Allen also making his debut for Boston (can't you tell I've been reading the free programme,) the big guns of the NBA were playing under the big tent in South East London.
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.
technorati: nba
| 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.
|
technorati: nba
| #permalink |
Buzzin'
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.
technorati: dying fly
| 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.
technorati: dying fly
| #permalink |
In the City
And so on the eve when the great Turbine Hall at the Tate Modern miraculously metamorphoses intoyet more modern art wank a subterranean chasm, I thought it about time I posted up my pictures from the Global Cities exhibition from the summer months.
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.
technorati: tate modern
| 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.
technorati: tate modern
| #permalink |
Back to the Old School
Only three good things have ever come out of Colchester: Blur, the last train back to Liverpool Street and the meeting between mrs onionbagblogger and me. And so seventeen years (!) to the day since the happy couple first met in a North Essex shithole, I took the fragrant one back to Constable country for a romantic weekend away.
But with Blur sort of having split, and a replacement bus service back to Liverpool Street, the signs weren't looking that good. Still, at least we got to argue over who keeps the joint Blur CD collection as the replacement boneshaker rattled its way out of Colchester.
I wasn't really looking for girls who are boys who like boys to be girls in the Essex Student Union bar on Saturday night. There's not a lot of demand for cross-dressing in Colchester. But I do maintain that the eighteen-year-old female undergraduate approached me first. It was Fuck a Fresher week, after all.
But first of all there was the anticipation. Fourteen years away from Sunny Colchester and what would have changed? Never go back, etc, but mrs obb and I were only playing at being part-time weekend students; one week of the year to disregard all adult responsibilities and party like it's 1990.
Disappointing then to discover that the Oliver Tambo Room is now a knobber 'lifestyle' bar, the legendary Saturday night Psychedelic Disco now plays cheesy house and whaddya mean you haven't got any Jesus Jones, Mr DJ?
What Not to Wear as well. mrs obb's Ned's Atomic Dustbin T-shirt (tour T-shirt from Colchester Leisure World '91!) didn't quite fit in with the skinny jeans look of the female freshers. I floated the idea of wearing my Forest '90 replica top, something that was a permanent fixture on campus back in the day. But Forest have seen better days, and so has my replica top. I went with the pink 'n blue Dulwich Hamlet kit instead.
'Are you interested in joining the Gay, Lesbian and Bisexual Group?' asked an awfully polite chap as we arrived on campus right in the middle of the Fresher's Faye. I was buoyed by the inclusion of the Bisexual tag, but broke the poor fella's heart by letting him down gently.
Most of the fresh-faced Freshers had just been born when mrs obb first caught my eye across a smoke filled Marxist Group meeting. Maybe it was the smoke that made me see things slightly differently?
I was also seeing things slightly differently at the Fresher's Fare, 07 style. No Marxist comrades to discuss the good old days of rent strikes with, but a worrying number of Conservative Future T-shirts being worn by silly fuckers whose idea of high jinx student pranks is probably not to turn off the standby button on their TV.
We checked out the rest of the campus. The phone booth room ('er hi Dad, yeah, great - send us some more money...') was now redundant with knobber mobile phone companies making up most of the Fresher's stalls. Back in the day and it was BT incoming calls only.
The Student Poster Sale, the arbiter of personal identity for generations of students ('I've got that Betty Blue poster on my wall as well!') was doing good business. But non-ironic Che Guevara posters have now been transformed into politics free Tooting Front / Pete Doherty / Homer Simpson mash ups.
We retired to the Union Bar for an early lunch, a return to the scene where I spent three years of my life, and a place that I genuinely believed would remain as the centre of my world for all eternity. But the longest Union Bar in all of Europe (it must have been a campus myth) was now replaced by fruit machines. Cheers SU people, that makes financial sense as you campaign against student cuts.
A dreaded Juice Bar took up half of the available bar space. That's just taking the piss. Nope - it really is JUST TAKING THE PISS.
We were nourished with our staple nosh from some seventeen years earlier. A baked beans and cheese JP for me, a three bean chilli one for the lady. £2.25 each, but wot no paper plate?
mrs obb and I were actually impressed that we were still allowed access to the Union Bar. This is probably the last time that we can get away with faking it for the weekend. That Ned's T-shirt is going to look even more dated in seventeen years time.
We sneaked in a cheeky look around the old SU Dance Hall down below in the basement. Now re-branded as Sub-Zero (to match the temperature,) memories ofknobber behaviour in the extreme high student spirits were recalled.
And there it was! There was the very same stage where I saw such musical legends as Lush, the Weddos and, um, Sultans of Ping!
For those of you that may have a spare few hours in Sunny Colchester on Monday evening (not to mention a spare thirteen quid,) Sophie Ellis Bloody Bextor is headlining this week.
The Times They Are A Changin'
We took a walk around Wivenhoe Park, a genuine treasure in the Essex landscape. But when you're a twenty-year old piss head, you don't have much time or inclination to appreciate a historic park of such natural beauty. The Frisbee Golf course (first in the UK!) was still chronically under-used, and the rabbits have been breeding like, rabbits.
Early afternoon and we had Wivenhoe in our sights. This is where the Essex academics live, and it's where I watched non-league football for three years of my life. The Dragons had a home game on Saturday, but a return to the Wivenhoe Run (five pubs, five pints) sounded much more appealing.
We started off in The Flag. The flag that was flying was a Union Flag and now wouldn't have been a good opportunity to remember the finer details of my European Politics easay: Why Britain Must Reject Isolationism.
I downed my Guinness in less time it took me to actually write the essay and we headed for the Rose and Crown down by the lovely Wivenenhoe Quay. Technically not the Wivenhoe Run then, but at least we passed the other three pubs on our way down to the water.
Watching the sun set across this stunningly beautiful part of Essex, pint of Guinness in hand, and it all started to make sense. This is somewhere I could happily take (very) early retirement to and live out the life of a delusional dreamer.
And so how does a middle-aged man about town occupy his Saturday evening in Sunny Colchester? We resisted the urge to head for The Hippodrome (New Year's Eve tickets now on sale) to re-enact that first date - and no, I didn't wear my '80s yuppies braces once again either.
The plan was to go on the piss in the Union Bar. But the days of 'two pints of Tetley and two double JD's and coke (plus a white wine foor the lady)' are long gone. And so is the Tetley actually, my given excuse for not sticking around with The Kids. I did manage to down some Tetley on Saturday night, but it was back in the hotel and was made with UHT milk.
The weekend could have gone one of two ways; extreme jealousy of the laissez faire student lifestyle, or thank fuck we've moved on and got the double mortgage.
It ended up with a bit of both to be honest. Boozing away in the Union Bar with the only immediate concern was where the pennies would come for the next pint was pretty cool. Catching the train back to onionbagblog HQ II (MY house, MY rules, MY spotlessly clean kitchen that I am responsible for and no lazy arsed Student Grant sort is going to be sick in) was a relief.
Sunday was spent harassing a poor undergraduate working in Wivenhoe House for 'more tea and toast,' and then with time to kill, a leisurely stroll from campus all the way to North Station for the replacement bus service.
Many of the local Colchester shops remained, something that was reassuring, as Colchester hasn't got a great deal else going for it to be honest. We passed old haunts such as the Oliver Twist, scene of a 'legendary' DPW gig back in '92. The capacity of 100 was a little on the top side for Leicester's finest back in the day, and a return to Sunny Colchester for the Diesel's would probably mean playing in a down-sized venue.
'Is that the army barracks or the prison?' enquired mrs obb as we strolled past a new build block radiating all the warmth of an ice cube.
'Neither - it's new University accommodation' I informed her.
Our weekends as undergraduates were spent escaping Colchester for London. Affordable football and gigs in the Big Smoke were a fine way to spend your student grant. Strange then that our weekend away in the autumn of '07 was the opposite, escaping London for Colchester.
But we're also reaching the autumn of our gigging days, whilst the affordable football has long gone the way of the dear old Oliver Tambo Room. Escaping to the Essex countryside is the way forward. Certainly not Colchester, but Wivenhoe Quay is a place I could happily see out the rest of my days. It's a shame that like affordable football, it's financially out of reach right now.
And so that was undergraduate Essex University out of our system. Next year: post-graduateCity of Death Leicester University. Shit. Don't go there. Nope - really DON'T GO THERE, etc.
PLUS: Essex memories ahoy over HERE.
technorati: university of essex
| Monday 8 October, 2007 |
Only three good things have ever come out of Colchester: Blur, the last train back to Liverpool Street and the meeting between mrs onionbagblogger and me. And so seventeen years (!) to the day since the happy couple first met in a North Essex shithole, I took the fragrant one back to Constable country for a romantic weekend away.
No Jesus Jones? |
I wasn't really looking for girls who are boys who like boys to be girls in the Essex Student Union bar on Saturday night. There's not a lot of demand for cross-dressing in Colchester. But I do maintain that the eighteen-year-old female undergraduate approached me first. It was Fuck a Fresher week, after all.
But first of all there was the anticipation. Fourteen years away from Sunny Colchester and what would have changed? Never go back, etc, but mrs obb and I were only playing at being part-time weekend students; one week of the year to disregard all adult responsibilities and party like it's 1990.
Disappointing then to discover that the Oliver Tambo Room is now a knobber 'lifestyle' bar, the legendary Saturday night Psychedelic Disco now plays cheesy house and whaddya mean you haven't got any Jesus Jones, Mr DJ?
What Not to Wear as well. mrs obb's Ned's Atomic Dustbin T-shirt (tour T-shirt from Colchester Leisure World '91!) didn't quite fit in with the skinny jeans look of the female freshers. I floated the idea of wearing my Forest '90 replica top, something that was a permanent fixture on campus back in the day. But Forest have seen better days, and so has my replica top. I went with the pink 'n blue Dulwich Hamlet kit instead.
'Are you interested in joining the Gay, Lesbian and Bisexual Group?' asked an awfully polite chap as we arrived on campus right in the middle of the Fresher's Faye. I was buoyed by the inclusion of the Bisexual tag, but broke the poor fella's heart by letting him down gently.
Most of the fresh-faced Freshers had just been born when mrs obb first caught my eye across a smoke filled Marxist Group meeting. Maybe it was the smoke that made me see things slightly differently?
I was also seeing things slightly differently at the Fresher's Fare, 07 style. No Marxist comrades to discuss the good old days of rent strikes with, but a worrying number of Conservative Future T-shirts being worn by silly fuckers whose idea of high jinx student pranks is probably not to turn off the standby button on their TV.
We checked out the rest of the campus. The phone booth room ('er hi Dad, yeah, great - send us some more money...') was now redundant with knobber mobile phone companies making up most of the Fresher's stalls. Back in the day and it was BT incoming calls only.
The Student Poster Sale, the arbiter of personal identity for generations of students ('I've got that Betty Blue poster on my wall as well!') was doing good business. But non-ironic Che Guevara posters have now been transformed into politics free Tooting Front / Pete Doherty / Homer Simpson mash ups.
We retired to the Union Bar for an early lunch, a return to the scene where I spent three years of my life, and a place that I genuinely believed would remain as the centre of my world for all eternity. But the longest Union Bar in all of Europe (it must have been a campus myth) was now replaced by fruit machines. Cheers SU people, that makes financial sense as you campaign against student cuts.
A dreaded Juice Bar took up half of the available bar space. That's just taking the piss. Nope - it really is JUST TAKING THE PISS.
We were nourished with our staple nosh from some seventeen years earlier. A baked beans and cheese JP for me, a three bean chilli one for the lady. £2.25 each, but wot no paper plate?
mrs obb and I were actually impressed that we were still allowed access to the Union Bar. This is probably the last time that we can get away with faking it for the weekend. That Ned's T-shirt is going to look even more dated in seventeen years time.
We sneaked in a cheeky look around the old SU Dance Hall down below in the basement. Now re-branded as Sub-Zero (to match the temperature,) memories of
And there it was! There was the very same stage where I saw such musical legends as Lush, the Weddos and, um, Sultans of Ping!
For those of you that may have a spare few hours in Sunny Colchester on Monday evening (not to mention a spare thirteen quid,) Sophie Ellis Bloody Bextor is headlining this week.
The Times They Are A Changin'
We took a walk around Wivenhoe Park, a genuine treasure in the Essex landscape. But when you're a twenty-year old piss head, you don't have much time or inclination to appreciate a historic park of such natural beauty. The Frisbee Golf course (first in the UK!) was still chronically under-used, and the rabbits have been breeding like, rabbits.
Early afternoon and we had Wivenhoe in our sights. This is where the Essex academics live, and it's where I watched non-league football for three years of my life. The Dragons had a home game on Saturday, but a return to the Wivenhoe Run (five pubs, five pints) sounded much more appealing.
We started off in The Flag. The flag that was flying was a Union Flag and now wouldn't have been a good opportunity to remember the finer details of my European Politics easay: Why Britain Must Reject Isolationism.
I downed my Guinness in less time it took me to actually write the essay and we headed for the Rose and Crown down by the lovely Wivenenhoe Quay. Technically not the Wivenhoe Run then, but at least we passed the other three pubs on our way down to the water.
Watching the sun set across this stunningly beautiful part of Essex, pint of Guinness in hand, and it all started to make sense. This is somewhere I could happily take (very) early retirement to and live out the life of a delusional dreamer.
And so how does a middle-aged man about town occupy his Saturday evening in Sunny Colchester? We resisted the urge to head for The Hippodrome (New Year's Eve tickets now on sale) to re-enact that first date - and no, I didn't wear my '80s yuppies braces once again either.
The plan was to go on the piss in the Union Bar. But the days of 'two pints of Tetley and two double JD's and coke (plus a white wine foor the lady)' are long gone. And so is the Tetley actually, my given excuse for not sticking around with The Kids. I did manage to down some Tetley on Saturday night, but it was back in the hotel and was made with UHT milk.
The weekend could have gone one of two ways; extreme jealousy of the laissez faire student lifestyle, or thank fuck we've moved on and got the double mortgage.
It ended up with a bit of both to be honest. Boozing away in the Union Bar with the only immediate concern was where the pennies would come for the next pint was pretty cool. Catching the train back to onionbagblog HQ II (MY house, MY rules, MY spotlessly clean kitchen that I am responsible for and no lazy arsed Student Grant sort is going to be sick in) was a relief.
Sunday was spent harassing a poor undergraduate working in Wivenhoe House for 'more tea and toast,' and then with time to kill, a leisurely stroll from campus all the way to North Station for the replacement bus service.
Many of the local Colchester shops remained, something that was reassuring, as Colchester hasn't got a great deal else going for it to be honest. We passed old haunts such as the Oliver Twist, scene of a 'legendary' DPW gig back in '92. The capacity of 100 was a little on the top side for Leicester's finest back in the day, and a return to Sunny Colchester for the Diesel's would probably mean playing in a down-sized venue.
'Is that the army barracks or the prison?' enquired mrs obb as we strolled past a new build block radiating all the warmth of an ice cube.
'Neither - it's new University accommodation' I informed her.
Our weekends as undergraduates were spent escaping Colchester for London. Affordable football and gigs in the Big Smoke were a fine way to spend your student grant. Strange then that our weekend away in the autumn of '07 was the opposite, escaping London for Colchester.
But we're also reaching the autumn of our gigging days, whilst the affordable football has long gone the way of the dear old Oliver Tambo Room. Escaping to the Essex countryside is the way forward. Certainly not Colchester, but Wivenhoe Quay is a place I could happily see out the rest of my days. It's a shame that like affordable football, it's financially out of reach right now.
And so that was undergraduate Essex University out of our system. Next year: post-graduate
PLUS: Essex memories ahoy over HERE.
technorati: university of essex
| #permalink |
Missing Links
As the fourth birthday (!) of onionbagblog approaches, it's time for a bit of house keeping. Scroll down the sidebar on the right hand side and eventually you'll come to a list of links for what rocks my world.
Or rather what rocked my world four years ago to the day when obb was an angry young man still seeking a blogging direction.
Times change and it's time for an update. It's surprising how energies evolve and motivations move on. And so I've spent the past hour or so addressing what I'm all about, and then condensing it down to a bite size Blog Roll (urgh! can't believe I actually typed that.)
New linkage includes a stand alone (nu meeja knobber ahoy!) cycling section. This has been the most accelerated change in my lifestyle in recent years (although not quite as accelerated as my current King of the South London Mountains claim.) Put simply, I'm All About the Bike. Critical Mass and the bastard offshoot, the Friday Night Ride are featured, as is the brilliant Moving Target messenger site, and recognition of the tireless work undertaken by Lambeth and Southwark Cyclists. Le Velo Club de Londre also get a look in. With superb management and running of Herne Hill, VCL are an inspiration to all South London cyclists.
But don't take my word for it - a picture tells a thousand words. Which is why obb has a photography heading as well now. It's been a bit of a three-pronged assault - cycling somewhere in London, taking photos and then blogging all about it - that's what I do. I'm still finding my feet (picture, not pedaling wise) but I get great inspiration from TWWSI, Dick's Daily (oh yes!) and urban75, amongst others.
I toiled with the idea of a Technology section, but it would be redundant within the month. Plus it's back to basic for me, making the switch from being a proficient PC user to a Mac bore. I may no longer be the life and soul of the party with my command prompt tall tales, but at least my machine no longer crashes on me.
The Sport section remains (>sport>london>subvert - as it said on the tin,) but scaling it down to South London Sport seems more appropriate. Within that we still have Dulwich Hamlet (testing my patience in pink ‘n blue yet again), Surrey CCC and the Streatham Redskins (just - I've lost my hockey head (and official club responsibilities) over the past year, although the NHL action at The Dome has started the fight back) The London Knights (five years of my life!) and the London Racers both RIP. Never invest financially or emotionally in a UK franchise for an American sport. It will break your heart, and your bank balance. The London Towers are now a third rate (literally) pub basketball team, but no longer a link on obb. Supernova Korfball Club (stop sniggering) and the Brixton Topcats (NBA talent spotters!) take their space as a space filler.
Music is still very much on my radar, but I've had a bit of amid-life crisis extreme makeover in the past year or so. I've gone back to digging in the crates for all things 60's soul. A great starting point is Downtown Soulville for the American spin, or Mary Fox for the, um, Stoke on Trent story. Leicester's finest DPW are back in favour (and back on form) and I truly hope the promotion of Brian Houston here is mirrored by being promoted to a wider audience. Alabama 3 are squatting online here and offline at Brixton. Weller! Weller! Weller! Upmh! I just had to really.
It's bye bye to the Broadcast section. Do people still boradcast? Isn't it all just a multi-platform, multi-convergence, nu meeja knobber web 2.0 with bells on bollocks? And if so, aren't we all self-facilitating knobber media nodes?
Not that the previous section selections such as Charlie Gillett, Dr Kershaw (crikey) and the good folk over at Late Junction are knobbers. But I think it's here where there's been the biggest obb mass exodus. I seem to have waved goodbye to the world of Womad and returned to my Soul Boy routes. See Music for current foot shufflin' tastes. Plus I’m pleased to report there’s no longer a need for londumb live. The site’s dead, but BBC London seems to be back on its feet once again. You know that a radio station is worth listening to when it has a dedicated non-league football show.
The Lifestyle section had to be killed off. This is a contemporary urban anarchist blog (arf!), not some shitty Sunday supplement.
The Beautiful South section (so good, they named a newspaper column out of it!) stays, albeit with a few cosmetic updates. South London is an ever-changing area. The Lido has undergone new management (and a new website,) Brockwell Park remains a genuine piece of South London beauty (but is under threat,) Larkhall Park is in transition; shame about the website, which had to go, simply because it's still showing photos of a now bulldozed section of the park (despite an eager local sort continually supplying the Friends groups with regular updates.) Stockwell continues to be regenerated, so much so that the Little Porto tag is almost being replaced by Little Poland. The Priory Arms may still be South London's finest boozer, but the website is currently being squatted by some knobbers wanting to sell me a mobile phone.
onionbagblog likes... Mmmm - a strange category, even given the nomadic direction of the blog back in the day. Should it Stay or Should it Go? With North Norfolk looking a likely permanent base in years to come (Lambeth North Norfolk knobbers has a nice ring to it,) the section's got to stay. A bit of internal jiggery pokery loses C4 News (can't stand the car ads that seem to spoil a good hour of TV,) and Ironmonger Row Turkish Baths; a BRILLIANT place, but my weekly steam sessions came to a nasty end when all of a sudden my bollocks became prone to extreme burning. I refuse to link (apart from here) to a webshite that proposes to destroy one of the Seven Wonders of South London and replace it with a Disney style Millennium Dome disaster all over again. Meanwhile, Eel Pie Island stays, simply for being an oddity in itself.
It would be interesting to repeat this exercise again in four years time. I’m surprised as to how much I have changed, but then comforted by finding out that some things remain the same. And so a changing of the links, and a changing of the guard.
And to celebrate, HERE's a new blog.
Now then – time to cull the Crap Picture Gallery...
technorati: welcome to my world
| Friday 5 October, 2007 |
As the fourth birthday (!) of onionbagblog approaches, it's time for a bit of house keeping. Scroll down the sidebar on the right hand side and eventually you'll come to a list of links for what rocks my world.
Or rather what rocked my world four years ago to the day when obb was an angry young man still seeking a blogging direction.
Sport, London, Subvert |
New linkage includes a stand alone (nu meeja knobber ahoy!) cycling section. This has been the most accelerated change in my lifestyle in recent years (although not quite as accelerated as my current King of the South London Mountains claim.) Put simply, I'm All About the Bike. Critical Mass and the bastard offshoot, the Friday Night Ride are featured, as is the brilliant Moving Target messenger site, and recognition of the tireless work undertaken by Lambeth and Southwark Cyclists. Le Velo Club de Londre also get a look in. With superb management and running of Herne Hill, VCL are an inspiration to all South London cyclists.
But don't take my word for it - a picture tells a thousand words. Which is why obb has a photography heading as well now. It's been a bit of a three-pronged assault - cycling somewhere in London, taking photos and then blogging all about it - that's what I do. I'm still finding my feet (picture, not pedaling wise) but I get great inspiration from TWWSI, Dick's Daily (oh yes!) and urban75, amongst others.
I toiled with the idea of a Technology section, but it would be redundant within the month. Plus it's back to basic for me, making the switch from being a proficient PC user to a Mac bore. I may no longer be the life and soul of the party with my command prompt tall tales, but at least my machine no longer crashes on me.
The Sport section remains (>sport>london>subvert - as it said on the tin,) but scaling it down to South London Sport seems more appropriate. Within that we still have Dulwich Hamlet (testing my patience in pink ‘n blue yet again), Surrey CCC and the Streatham Redskins (just - I've lost my hockey head (and official club responsibilities) over the past year, although the NHL action at The Dome has started the fight back) The London Knights (five years of my life!) and the London Racers both RIP. Never invest financially or emotionally in a UK franchise for an American sport. It will break your heart, and your bank balance. The London Towers are now a third rate (literally) pub basketball team, but no longer a link on obb. Supernova Korfball Club (stop sniggering) and the Brixton Topcats (NBA talent spotters!) take their space as a space filler.
Music is still very much on my radar, but I've had a bit of a
It's bye bye to the Broadcast section. Do people still boradcast? Isn't it all just a multi-platform, multi-convergence, nu meeja knobber web 2.0 with bells on bollocks? And if so, aren't we all self-facilitating knobber media nodes?
Not that the previous section selections such as Charlie Gillett, Dr Kershaw (crikey) and the good folk over at Late Junction are knobbers. But I think it's here where there's been the biggest obb mass exodus. I seem to have waved goodbye to the world of Womad and returned to my Soul Boy routes. See Music for current foot shufflin' tastes. Plus I’m pleased to report there’s no longer a need for londumb live. The site’s dead, but BBC London seems to be back on its feet once again. You know that a radio station is worth listening to when it has a dedicated non-league football show.
The Lifestyle section had to be killed off. This is a contemporary urban anarchist blog (arf!), not some shitty Sunday supplement.
The Beautiful South section (so good, they named a newspaper column out of it!) stays, albeit with a few cosmetic updates. South London is an ever-changing area. The Lido has undergone new management (and a new website,) Brockwell Park remains a genuine piece of South London beauty (but is under threat,) Larkhall Park is in transition; shame about the website, which had to go, simply because it's still showing photos of a now bulldozed section of the park (despite an eager local sort continually supplying the Friends groups with regular updates.) Stockwell continues to be regenerated, so much so that the Little Porto tag is almost being replaced by Little Poland. The Priory Arms may still be South London's finest boozer, but the website is currently being squatted by some knobbers wanting to sell me a mobile phone.
onionbagblog likes... Mmmm - a strange category, even given the nomadic direction of the blog back in the day. Should it Stay or Should it Go? With North Norfolk looking a likely permanent base in years to come (
It would be interesting to repeat this exercise again in four years time. I’m surprised as to how much I have changed, but then comforted by finding out that some things remain the same. And so a changing of the links, and a changing of the guard.
And to celebrate, HERE's a new blog.
Now then – time to cull the Crap Picture Gallery...
technorati: welcome to my world
| #permalink |
Tub Thumping| Thursday 4 October, 2007 |
A week is a long time in politics. It's a strange old world where that
Call my Bluff etc, and Windmill Dave looks like he has done it.
Meanwhile, back in the real world of household chores, dealing with the builders and buying in the groceries (phew - rock 'n roll!) a week is also a long time in trips to Sainsbury's / shooting with my new Holga toy.
And so seven days since the last Sunny Stockwell shoot, I took the short walk to Nine Elms, buoyed by the bright blue SW8 skies and set about more Beautiful South colour distortion with the new / old camera.
It's got to be better than either sitting in Gord's Big Tent or showing off your Oxbridge oratory skills (with an Establishment background like Windmill Dave's, it would indeed be alarming if the No Notes Man spoke utter nonsense during his false chest beating at the Big Tent Man.)
Whaddya mean he still sounded like a knobber?
Anyway, back in the real world of Sunny Stockwell and life is much more simpler. A spot of hoovering, being blokey with the builders and buying more bog roll; all balanced with the bright sky photography.
Same again next week (assuming the Big Tent Man hasn't marched his troops to the top of the hill and I'm out on the campaign trail - yeah, right...)
technorati: sunny stockwell
| #permalink |
Evans Above
Good Evans - Evans Cycles has only gone and opened up a store at Clap'ham. Well, it's Clap'ham North bordering on the boundary of Sunny Stockwell if we're being brutally honest, but still - the Waitrose of all things two wheels down here in South London.
It's a sign of the changing times around Clap'ham, plus many other London tube satellites, North and South. With the overpriced and under stocked laughable Tesco and Sainsbury Locals also within reach, West End Lite is now coming to Clap'ham.
Which is a shame as it puts many of the small, local shops out of business. But bikes aside, many of the small local shops were just shit anyway: £1.50 for four pints of milk as my local store tried to charge me last week? Fuck off, as I said with rather more diplomacy to the rip off crap 'convenience' storeowner within.
It's much the same with all the middle class shit invading pockets of South London as well.
'Ah, it's simply charming to have an independent and locally sourced patisserie / organic market / oldey worldy sweet shop.'
I'm not charmed by the silly prices though as I head for the tired and trusted pick 'n mix of Woolies in Clap'ham.
And so what to make of Evans Cycles along the Clap'ham Road? Not a lot, except to expect inflated prices should you ever want your tyres inflating. I was quoted £40 for a pair of Armadillos just off Blackfriars Bridge, and then... a further forty quid to actually fit the fuckers.
My bike building skills are basic, but then so again is my wallet. I bought the tyres and then took them down to my old mate Bob in SE17. A tenner later and the job's a good 'un.
And so what makes some small, local shops not shit and others worthy of an arse wipe tag? I would love to return to the old class warrior stereotypes (and I'm sure Gordon would as well if he could get away with it.) But it really is a case of common, decent values and expectations. Bob knows his customer base well and makes a decent living out of it. I wonder if the organic crew currently taking over Clap'ham understand their potential long-term customers so well, or are they just after a short-term profit with Tarquin and Tallulah being the current tenants?
Bring it back to the personal and tell it like it is...
The reason why I can't revert back to the good old days of Thatcherism (Miner's Strike! CND! Poll Tax Riots! What a laugh we had!) is because I have become a not so True Blue with my Buy to Let (except I didn't actually buy to let - I lived there first and then let it out. So that's OK. Phew.)
But I know my tenants well. I know that they won't stick for a 20% rent rise, and they know that I'm offering them a reasonable deal and so it's worth hanging around.
Likewise on the photo front. Bookings are coming in at a steady pace for weddings next summer. I offer a reasonable rate for a half decent service. And then along comes some chancer demanding a meet up somewhere off the AZ and tries to haggle down the price. He probably owns a sweet shop in Clap'ham, actually.
He loses a potential photographer and I sit on my arse in South London, relieved that I wasn't gullible enough to travel all the way up to North London knobber land purely for peanuts.
It's all about the market (I think.) And so back to Evans Cycles and what on earth are they doing in Clap'ham? The daily pelaton from SW4 to The City has been growing at an incredible rate over the past few months. Must be something to do with the Misery Line being particularly shit around these parts.
I can't help thinking though that the Clap'ham branch of Evans will need to adapt to the locality, much in the same way as my mate Bob does in Southwark. Stocking a few of the Condour style fakenger bikes [pdf] might be a good start, judging by the demand for all things fake and fixed wheel that I see around me each day.
Like the Freewheel, another bike shop in my little patch has to be a good thing. It's better than a bloody garage opening up.
I don't believe in coincidences (said the man who fell off his bike three times in three days,) but I arrived back at onionbagblog HQ II to find the latest Evans catalogue waiting for me on my doormat. Mmm - that smells like a bit of database manipulation that my mate Bob can only dream of.
It was all pretty much overpriced stuff, although the front cover of some Tallulah type looking as though she was about to go down on Tarquin was a bit weird for a bike catalogue. And I don't mean in a mountain bike descent sort of way either. Still - Tarquin looked to be enjoying himself with the smug look of a man who knows exactly how much air pressure he likes to be pumped into rear wheel.
And so where's all this heading? New bike shop in Clap'ham - get over it.
Next week: Mothercare in Brixton - what the fuck's that all about then?
technorati: evans bikes
| Wednesday 3 October, 2007 |
Good Evans - Evans Cycles has only gone and opened up a store at Clap'ham. Well, it's Clap'ham North bordering on the boundary of Sunny Stockwell if we're being brutally honest, but still - the Waitrose of all things two wheels down here in South London.
Tell it like it is |
Which is a shame as it puts many of the small, local shops out of business. But bikes aside, many of the small local shops were just shit anyway: £1.50 for four pints of milk as my local store tried to charge me last week? Fuck off, as I said with rather more diplomacy to the rip off crap 'convenience' storeowner within.
It's much the same with all the middle class shit invading pockets of South London as well.
'Ah, it's simply charming to have an independent and locally sourced patisserie / organic market / oldey worldy sweet shop.'
I'm not charmed by the silly prices though as I head for the tired and trusted pick 'n mix of Woolies in Clap'ham.
And so what to make of Evans Cycles along the Clap'ham Road? Not a lot, except to expect inflated prices should you ever want your tyres inflating. I was quoted £40 for a pair of Armadillos just off Blackfriars Bridge, and then... a further forty quid to actually fit the fuckers.
My bike building skills are basic, but then so again is my wallet. I bought the tyres and then took them down to my old mate Bob in SE17. A tenner later and the job's a good 'un.
And so what makes some small, local shops not shit and others worthy of an arse wipe tag? I would love to return to the old class warrior stereotypes (and I'm sure Gordon would as well if he could get away with it.) But it really is a case of common, decent values and expectations. Bob knows his customer base well and makes a decent living out of it. I wonder if the organic crew currently taking over Clap'ham understand their potential long-term customers so well, or are they just after a short-term profit with Tarquin and Tallulah being the current tenants?
Bring it back to the personal and tell it like it is...
The reason why I can't revert back to the good old days of Thatcherism (Miner's Strike! CND! Poll Tax Riots! What a laugh we had!) is because I have become a not so True Blue with my Buy to Let (except I didn't actually buy to let - I lived there first and then let it out. So that's OK. Phew.)
But I know my tenants well. I know that they won't stick for a 20% rent rise, and they know that I'm offering them a reasonable deal and so it's worth hanging around.
Likewise on the photo front. Bookings are coming in at a steady pace for weddings next summer. I offer a reasonable rate for a half decent service. And then along comes some chancer demanding a meet up somewhere off the AZ and tries to haggle down the price. He probably owns a sweet shop in Clap'ham, actually.
He loses a potential photographer and I sit on my arse in South London, relieved that I wasn't gullible enough to travel all the way up to North London knobber land purely for peanuts.
It's all about the market (I think.) And so back to Evans Cycles and what on earth are they doing in Clap'ham? The daily pelaton from SW4 to The City has been growing at an incredible rate over the past few months. Must be something to do with the Misery Line being particularly shit around these parts.
I can't help thinking though that the Clap'ham branch of Evans will need to adapt to the locality, much in the same way as my mate Bob does in Southwark. Stocking a few of the Condour style fakenger bikes [pdf] might be a good start, judging by the demand for all things fake and fixed wheel that I see around me each day.
Like the Freewheel, another bike shop in my little patch has to be a good thing. It's better than a bloody garage opening up.
I don't believe in coincidences (said the man who fell off his bike three times in three days,) but I arrived back at onionbagblog HQ II to find the latest Evans catalogue waiting for me on my doormat. Mmm - that smells like a bit of database manipulation that my mate Bob can only dream of.
It was all pretty much overpriced stuff, although the front cover of some Tallulah type looking as though she was about to go down on Tarquin was a bit weird for a bike catalogue. And I don't mean in a mountain bike descent sort of way either. Still - Tarquin looked to be enjoying himself with the smug look of a man who knows exactly how much air pressure he likes to be pumped into rear wheel.
And so where's all this heading? New bike shop in Clap'ham - get over it.
Next week: Mothercare in Brixton - what the fuck's that all about then?
technorati: evans bikes
| #permalink |
Vauxhall and I
A thoroughly depressing and damp day - and so here's some dull and dreary black and white pictures to cheer you up.
Hurrahhh!!!
It was with much surprise that Mr Way We See It chose a South London location for a recent shoot. And not only on the right side of the river, but within walking distance of onionbagblog HQ II as well.
I still cycled it.
Vauxhall Cross fascinates me. It also scares the shit out of me whenever I am forced to play Frogger on my fixie. Stay in lane and risk being shouted out by Knobber Petrol Heads? Or stay to the far left, and risk being shouted at even LOUDER by Knobber Petrol Heads as you make your move?
Everyone's a loser.
But the Cross is forever changing and transforming. The riverside penthouse suites that seemingly took forever to build are out of my budget. I bet I wouldn’t get on with the knobber neighbours anyway.
The Vauxhall club scene is, ahem, not my cup of tea, but the boys there seem to have a lot of fun. I doubt if it is cups of PG Tips that keeps them going on their weekend benders, so to speak, either. But with the area having a history of pleasure, it's pleasing to see this twenty first Century take on hedonism right on my doorstep.
And then there's the Bus Station; and boy - what a bus station! It's truly spectacular, if indeed you can write such a sentence and not feel as though you should be spending your weekends on platform 12 at Crewe station.
I remember being at first confused, and then in total awe as the ski jump was being constructed. The end result is a slick, modern and incredibly functional piece of architecture that probably wouldn't work in any other major city in the UK other than London.
The ski jump itself provides solar panels to power the station. We don't call it Sunny Stockwell for nothing.
Strange then that I opted for mainly black and white during my WWSI shoot. Armed with the v good V3, and a wide-angle lens, I like to think that I captured something of the feel for the area, September 2007. It will probably all change within the next ten years, which is one of the reasons I love living here so much.
Vauxhall and I:
technorati: vauxhall
| Tuesday 2 September, 2007 |
A thoroughly depressing and damp day - and so here's some dull and dreary black and white pictures to cheer you up.
Hurrahhh!!!
Everyone's a loser |
I still cycled it.
Vauxhall Cross fascinates me. It also scares the shit out of me whenever I am forced to play Frogger on my fixie. Stay in lane and risk being shouted out by Knobber Petrol Heads? Or stay to the far left, and risk being shouted at even LOUDER by Knobber Petrol Heads as you make your move?
Everyone's a loser.
But the Cross is forever changing and transforming. The riverside penthouse suites that seemingly took forever to build are out of my budget. I bet I wouldn’t get on with the knobber neighbours anyway.
The Vauxhall club scene is, ahem, not my cup of tea, but the boys there seem to have a lot of fun. I doubt if it is cups of PG Tips that keeps them going on their weekend benders, so to speak, either. But with the area having a history of pleasure, it's pleasing to see this twenty first Century take on hedonism right on my doorstep.
And then there's the Bus Station; and boy - what a bus station! It's truly spectacular, if indeed you can write such a sentence and not feel as though you should be spending your weekends on platform 12 at Crewe station.
I remember being at first confused, and then in total awe as the ski jump was being constructed. The end result is a slick, modern and incredibly functional piece of architecture that probably wouldn't work in any other major city in the UK other than London.
The ski jump itself provides solar panels to power the station. We don't call it Sunny Stockwell for nothing.
Strange then that I opted for mainly black and white during my WWSI shoot. Armed with the v good V3, and a wide-angle lens, I like to think that I captured something of the feel for the area, September 2007. It will probably all change within the next ten years, which is one of the reasons I love living here so much.
Vauxhall and I:
technorati: vauxhall
| #permalink |
