onionbagblog
Countdown
All I Want For Christmas is my Two Front Men to Start Scoring Goals, as Neil Warnock memorably sung at the Crystal Pal-arse Christmas party. But with only twenty four shopping days left until the mince pie fest, what should you buy the football fan in your life this Christmas?
A sense of humour may be a good starting point if the football fan in your life works around SE25. The past twelve months have been mixed at Selhurst. The winter hibernation period continued throughout spring, summer and into the autumn as Peter Taylor played the type of football that makes even the Samaritans want to phone a friend. And then with all the seasonal joy of a camped up slap and tickle pantomime, along came... Neil Warnock. Ho! Ho! Ho! The Selhurst Saviour is here, receiving gifts from the Three Wise Men in the form of a red card, a seat in the stands and a three-match touchline ban. The FA's Laws of the Game is not available on amazon.com, but I'm sure any Palace fan pulling crackers this Christmas would see the funny side if the traditional joke was replaced by the seventeen governing laws.
Meanwhile, down at Millwall (and let's face it - one place above theDivision Three League One relegation zone really is down,) and the Lions would happily swap Three Ships Come Sailing In for three points this Christmas. Ba Humbug. Millwall fans have seen more managers over the past five years than Bermondsey Boy Andy Fordham has seen mince pies. But judging by recent pictures of the slimmed down darts man, lean times are ahead. Not exactly what Lions fans want to hear, but with a pre-Christmas away trip to Walsall, the Millwall WAGS will probably give the West Midlands shops a miss in favour of the West End. The myth of Christmas is that it's all about giving. Utter nonsense. It's about not letting the WAGS loose with your credit card around Regent's Street, and then come the New Year sales, and a bit of wheeling and dealing lands you a loan deal with some Northern workhorse as you push for the play-offs. The Championship Football and Real Ale Guide should be at the top of the Christmas list for all Millwall fans. Forget the football part, you'll need some decent boozer recommendations to get you through the year ahead.
Perhaps the most seasonal cheer in South London this Christmas can be heard coming from The Valley. It makes a rare change to hear anything coming out of the Valley, but Charlton are on course for a snap yo yo back to the Premiership. But all things that go up must come down. My childhood Christmas memories are of a cheap 'n cheerful yo yo bought from East Street Market. It was broken by Boxing Day and no chance of a refund either from the dodgy Del Boy type dealer. The Addicks have Norwich away on December 26th. Danny Mills Vs Darren Huckerby (round two) should have its ups and downs as well. Perfect Christmas present for Charlton fans: A friend.
Which leaves us with Dulwich Hamlet, the true star at the top of the South London Christmas tree. The Dulwich ghost of Christmas past was on display for the whole nation a few weeks back when Peter Crouch proved that despite effort, England fans are not very forgiving. Christmas present at Champion Hill is an honest team matched with honest fans: Let’s face it – Boxing Day away at Molesey isn't quite what Manchester United fans are use to. And Christmas future in SE22? The re-opening of the Supporters Trust shed would be a start. All I Want For Christmas is a DHST pen. Simple things please simple minds. As our friends over at Selhurst would no doubt agree.
| Friday 30 November, 2007 |
All I Want For Christmas is my Two Front Men to Start Scoring Goals, as Neil Warnock memorably sung at the Crystal Pal-arse Christmas party. But with only twenty four shopping days left until the mince pie fest, what should you buy the football fan in your life this Christmas?
A sense of humour may be a good starting point if the football fan in your life works around SE25. The past twelve months have been mixed at Selhurst. The winter hibernation period continued throughout spring, summer and into the autumn as Peter Taylor played the type of football that makes even the Samaritans want to phone a friend. And then with all the seasonal joy of a camped up slap and tickle pantomime, along came... Neil Warnock. Ho! Ho! Ho! The Selhurst Saviour is here, receiving gifts from the Three Wise Men in the form of a red card, a seat in the stands and a three-match touchline ban. The FA's Laws of the Game is not available on amazon.com, but I'm sure any Palace fan pulling crackers this Christmas would see the funny side if the traditional joke was replaced by the seventeen governing laws.
'What does yours say, Neil?'
'Law 12 - Fouls and Misconduct. Do you want some? Do you?'
Meanwhile, down at Millwall (and let's face it - one place above the
Perhaps the most seasonal cheer in South London this Christmas can be heard coming from The Valley. It makes a rare change to hear anything coming out of the Valley, but Charlton are on course for a snap yo yo back to the Premiership. But all things that go up must come down. My childhood Christmas memories are of a cheap 'n cheerful yo yo bought from East Street Market. It was broken by Boxing Day and no chance of a refund either from the dodgy Del Boy type dealer. The Addicks have Norwich away on December 26th. Danny Mills Vs Darren Huckerby (round two) should have its ups and downs as well. Perfect Christmas present for Charlton fans: A friend.
Which leaves us with Dulwich Hamlet, the true star at the top of the South London Christmas tree. The Dulwich ghost of Christmas past was on display for the whole nation a few weeks back when Peter Crouch proved that despite effort, England fans are not very forgiving. Christmas present at Champion Hill is an honest team matched with honest fans: Let’s face it – Boxing Day away at Molesey isn't quite what Manchester United fans are use to. And Christmas future in SE22? The re-opening of the Supporters Trust shed would be a start. All I Want For Christmas is a DHST pen. Simple things please simple minds. As our friends over at Selhurst would no doubt agree.
| #permalink |
That's Life
Taken from Lambeth Life, Nu Labour'spropaganda sheet dispersal of carefully selected information throughout the Rotten Borough:
Still no shower facilities though. You might as well charge people direct debit for a gym that is still being built.
Oh, I see - you already are...
Except Clap'ham already has a leisure centre, a swimming pool and library. Look a little deeper and you find that Super Steve's 'brand new leisure centre and swimming pool' actually means closing the wonderful 33m Clap'ham pool for over a year and filling in 8m of it.
Less is more is the wacky world of Nu Labour Lambeth politics.
Hold yer horses, mate. That's hardly front page news, is it? The St Reatham hub project is actually behind schedule (wanky local politics red tape,) and anyway, the 'plans' that Super Steve has 'agreed' were actually put in place by the previous Love Me I'm a Liberal Lambeth administration.
Still, it's nice to know that the Lambeth knobbers are leading on leisure. Just like down the road in Sunny Stockwell where the new £27m Stockwell Academy has been granted planning permission by Steve and his mates. Out with the old in with the new. No more nasty, um, swimming pool at Stockwell Academy. Fill it in and build a fancy (sponsor heavy) refectory instead.
Oh, and make sure that the school sports pitch receives planning permission, as long as South London Yoof clear off by 6pm. Some of the older boys look quite intimidating in those hoodies, dontcha know.
Alternatively, look at lambethlou, the website that was set up by some Lambeth Nu Labour 'insider' as part of an unofficial (yeah, right) campaign to document Super Steve's conquering of the soon to be vacated St Reatham Parliamentary seat.
And then like all good things in Lambeth, the website was... squatted.
Rotten borough indeed.
Friday update:
And just to prove how crap Lambeth leisure is... The Clap'ham pool was closed with no notice whatsoever early on Thursday morning for:
Seems like the old boiler (too many jokes) was down again.
But they weren't.
Friday evening and a phone call confirms that the pool won't now be open until sometime next week:
Ah, but GLL doesn't refuse my direct debit payment though.
Knobbers.
technorati: lambeth lou
| Thursday 29 November, 2007 |
Taken from Lambeth Life, Nu Labour's
Leader's Column with Steve Reed
'The past year has been a time for change in Lambeth. In Brixton, the Rec has been refurbished and reopened with the most advanced activity centre for children in Britain.'
Still no shower facilities though. You might as well charge people direct debit for a gym that is still being built.
Oh, I see - you already are...
'In Clap'ham, we're finalising plans for a brand new leisure centre, swimming pool and library.'
Except Clap'ham already has a leisure centre, a swimming pool and library. Look a little deeper and you find that Super Steve's 'brand new leisure centre and swimming pool' actually means closing the wonderful 33m Clap'ham pool for over a year and filling in 8m of it.
Less is more is the wacky world of Nu Labour Lambeth politics.
'In St Reatham, we've agreed plans for a new leisure centre, swimming pool and ice rink to replace the worn-out facilities currently available.'
Hold yer horses, mate. That's hardly front page news, is it? The St Reatham hub project is actually behind schedule (wanky local politics red tape,) and anyway, the 'plans' that Super Steve has 'agreed' were actually put in place by the previous Love Me I'm a Liberal Lambeth administration.
Still, it's nice to know that the Lambeth knobbers are leading on leisure. Just like down the road in Sunny Stockwell where the new £27m Stockwell Academy has been granted planning permission by Steve and his mates. Out with the old in with the new. No more nasty, um, swimming pool at Stockwell Academy. Fill it in and build a fancy (sponsor heavy) refectory instead.
Oh, and make sure that the school sports pitch receives planning permission, as long as South London Yoof clear off by 6pm. Some of the older boys look quite intimidating in those hoodies, dontcha know.
'Find out what Steve's been up to by visiting his *oh yes!* online diary at www.lambeth.gov.uk/leadersdiary.'
Alternatively, look at lambethlou, the website that was set up by some Lambeth Nu Labour 'insider' as part of an unofficial (yeah, right) campaign to document Super Steve's conquering of the soon to be vacated St Reatham Parliamentary seat.
And then like all good things in Lambeth, the website was... squatted.
Rotten borough indeed.
Friday update:
And just to prove how crap Lambeth leisure is... The Clap'ham pool was closed with no notice whatsoever early on Thursday morning for:
'temporary essential maintenence.'
Seems like the old boiler (too many jokes) was down again.
'We'll be open on Friday morning,' I was reassured.
But they weren't.
Friday evening and a phone call confirms that the pool won't now be open until sometime next week:
'The contractors refuse to work over the weekend.'
Ah, but GLL doesn't refuse my direct debit payment though.
Knobbers.
technorati: lambeth lou
| #permalink |
Champions League Lottery
If I were a betting man then I would be backing Gordon Brown to join Boyzone on their comeback tour. Stranger things have happened, such as Liverpool winning the Champions League. But like Big Gordy, I fancy a spot of speculation rather than a flutter. And so returning to Liverpool (which is something Tory politicians are sometimes ordered to do,) odds of 16-1 look a little tempting for Raffer's Reds to lift the big pot in the Russian capital come next May. The Reds in the Red city - what more could you want?
But then I look at Jamie Carragher and the romantic within is no longer turned on by Liverpool's love story with the European Cup. Money Can't Buy You Love, but it can buy you odds of 4-1 for Barcelona to win the Champions' League. It's difficult to see beyond the Brazilian Boy Goofy and that Terry Henry fella to do the business.
The British Big Three (not Rick Waller, Michelle McManus and Vanessa Feltz) are all hungry for European success. Manchester United come in at a generous 6-1, and with Rooney and Tevez linking up like cream and a doughnut, Fergie may just have his cake and eat it this season with success home and abroad.
Waiting in the wings with the pizza delivery is his old mate Arsene Wenger. Priced at 8-1 for the Champions League, Le Prof has taken Arsenal to a European final before. You don’t win anything with kids though, but with the Arsenal Yoof maturing quicker than a slice of cheddar in a microwave, the Gunners are going for it on all fronts this season.
Which leaves us with Chelsea. If I were a betting man then I would be backing Margaret Thatcher to join the Spice Girls on their comeback tour, etc. VERY Scary Spice might have strutted her stuff around Europe in blue, but she was never a fan of the continental system. Just as Europe divides the Conservative Party, it is also at the heart of Chelsea Football Club. The Special One felt the Night of the Long Knives / Empty Stands after Rosenberg. Roman may be from Moscow, but my money is on a team in red winning the Champions League this year. Just watch yer back, Rafa.
technorati: champions league
| Wednesday 28 November, 2007 |
If I were a betting man then I would be backing Gordon Brown to join Boyzone on their comeback tour. Stranger things have happened, such as Liverpool winning the Champions League. But like Big Gordy, I fancy a spot of speculation rather than a flutter. And so returning to Liverpool (which is something Tory politicians are sometimes ordered to do,) odds of 16-1 look a little tempting for Raffer's Reds to lift the big pot in the Russian capital come next May. The Reds in the Red city - what more could you want?
But then I look at Jamie Carragher and the romantic within is no longer turned on by Liverpool's love story with the European Cup. Money Can't Buy You Love, but it can buy you odds of 4-1 for Barcelona to win the Champions' League. It's difficult to see beyond the Brazilian Boy Goofy and that Terry Henry fella to do the business.
The British Big Three (not Rick Waller, Michelle McManus and Vanessa Feltz) are all hungry for European success. Manchester United come in at a generous 6-1, and with Rooney and Tevez linking up like cream and a doughnut, Fergie may just have his cake and eat it this season with success home and abroad.
Waiting in the wings with the pizza delivery is his old mate Arsene Wenger. Priced at 8-1 for the Champions League, Le Prof has taken Arsenal to a European final before. You don’t win anything with kids though, but with the Arsenal Yoof maturing quicker than a slice of cheddar in a microwave, the Gunners are going for it on all fronts this season.
Which leaves us with Chelsea. If I were a betting man then I would be backing Margaret Thatcher to join the Spice Girls on their comeback tour, etc. VERY Scary Spice might have strutted her stuff around Europe in blue, but she was never a fan of the continental system. Just as Europe divides the Conservative Party, it is also at the heart of Chelsea Football Club. The Special One felt the Night of the Long Knives / Empty Stands after Rosenberg. Roman may be from Moscow, but my money is on a team in red winning the Champions League this year. Just watch yer back, Rafa.
technorati: champions league
| #permalink |
Timber!
If the Sunny Stockwell Christmas tree is erect, it must mean it's time for onionbagblog to get anal. Regular readers may remember that it was this very same event some three years ago that almost signalled an end to this blog. I reflected that I was writing about the same situation I had blogged about twelve months previous, and came to the conclusion that onionbagblog is nothing but a cyclical beast.
I watch non-league football,basketball and ice hockey in the winter months; and then I blog about it. I arse around at the Lovely Lido and watch County Cricket during the summer; and then I blog about it. I celebrate Sunny Stockwell erecting a Christmas tree in early December, ponder a blog post and a cheap picture, and then realise that you've read it all before and I have nothing new to say.
Game over.
It's now become an annual event upon the erection of the tree to go anal and probe around within. You never know - you might actually enjoy it.
And so how have the past twelve months treated me? Like Elton (and the Sunny Stockwell Christmas tree,) I'm Still Standing. Make that sitting actually, with my knackered knee now clicking in and out of place more than my cleats on my SPD's.
The knackered knee pre-dates this blog - just. I've managed to tolerate it and hobble through weekly five-a-side football matches, but the time has come to see a specialist. 'Yep, yer knee's knackered,' was the best the good Dr Singh could say up at the St Reatham surgery. You never know, I may even get round to having my 'toe nail situation' sorted out sometime in the next twelve months as well.
To complete the hat trick of health woes, I had a severe case of the Do Run Runs over the summer period. So severe that it could even be classified as a minor health scare, and not just for the five metre radius around the sanitary facilities at obb HQ II either. The good Dr Singh sorted me after much probing.
I told you I was going to get anal.
The major event for me in 2007 was saying goodbye to Somewhere in SE17. Four happy years as part of a genuine caring, local community, and then I walked away with a book about bikes and a card stuffed full with enough cash to buy a new one. Yes it was emotional, although watching obb HQ II being trashed at the first house party I have ever hosted, helped the tears to remain within. It's My Party and I'll Cry If I Want To, but I was more likely to have a heart attack after I saw one guest blanking the obb buffet in favour of finger-picking some greasy KFC all over my new settee.
The mucky little pup.
I seriously do miss Somewhere in SE17. Mmmm. Hey hoe. Life at the coalface since has been a little 'mixed,' I think it would be fair to say, but I'm still managing to pay off two mortgages. Work to live, not live to work.
I'm pulling in some cash with my photography, something that I hope to take one step further in 2008. I experienced some wonderful summer fun and hospitality at Larkhall Park, pointing my seven-inch super zoom at the face of some photo friendly South London Yoof. This is what it's all about - showing South London Yoof (and hopefully those outside who should know better) that onionbagblog territory has a lot more going for it than the Guns 'n Grime headlines.
I've had a number of wedding bookings with more to follow next summer. I even got to ride with the bride (so to speak) in a Rolls through the back streets of Bermondsey a few months back. I can confirm that she wasn't a fake as she walked down the aisle in her wonderful white gown shortly afterwards.
I entered into some freakonomics (and a very dodgy deal involving cash stuffed in a brown envelope at the Old Street roundabout) by buying a 'new' camera. But it was an identical model to one that I already own, and 90% cheaper than the original cost I paid. Not so freak-o-nomical then. Earlier in the year and the Taxman provided me with perhaps the best camera I have ever handled. Plus I bought some wonderful new toys to to play with. But what the Taxman gives, he also takes away, and the size of that bloody bill that dropped on my doorstep a few weeks back probably means that I'm going to have to start papping to pay the bills.
I can justify all this extra lens action by taking great enjoyment out of my weekly shoots with The Way We See It. I’ve missed only two locations all year, and these were only because I couldn’t be arsed to go all the way up to North London.
My spending spree stretched to *gosh* TWO new bikes (although I did sell one. And so that's all right then.) The Bastard really is the bollocks, and I can't wait until early March when I will be seen once again coming up a cropper every Saturday morning at the velodrome.
My PC packed up on me and so I seamlessly switched to a Mac. Although it wasn't that seamless as I managed to lose a 40G iTunes library (like Steve Austin, I have rebuilt it as bigger, better and with even more Billy Bragg,) mess up the iPhoto settings (four years worth of photos now have more encryption than the American defence system,) as well as lose four years worth of blog pictures down the back of the modern interweb settee. But it's all just about back now.
I also bought a new set of darts.
And then came the summer...
If I wasn't watching first class County cricket in my back garden then I was at the Lovely Lido if I wasn't at the Lovely Lido then I was bonking at the velodrome. It's a mighty fine way to live your life for five months of the year. It almost makes up for the misery of watching Dulwich Hamlet during the winter months.
July saw Le Grand Depart being staged in London. This was a truly special weekend. Fine company staying over at obb HQ II and elite cycling action to catch over the course of two days. It even inspired me to accept that I'm no velo sprinter, and I took to mountain climbing instead. Well, the mountains of South East London anyway.
But perhaps THE event of the summer was Prince at the O2. Fuck me. And then some. I will always remember 2007 as the Summer of the Purple One. Not once, but twice. A stunning show each night and I only wish now that I hadn't made more of a run of it. I doubt that London will see anything similar again.
The O2 in fact turned out to be a happy hunting ground. If you had told me twelve months ago as I watched the Sunny Stockwell Christmas tree being erected that I would see an international superstar, a season opening NHL game and two NBA teams trading on court in South East London, then you would have heard a laugh louder than Prince's fashion sense. But seriously... I really shouldn't like the Dome. The history and the ethos behind the original project was pants. But it's fantastic now to see that the Dome With No Soul finally has some world-class substance to match the style of the building.
I've officially turned my back on Brixton Rec after twelve years of fitness and fun in SW9. The fitness side of it has all but disappeared with Brixton Rec now resembling a building site. I don't find any fun in sweating my arse off and not being able to take a shower afterwards. Shocking stuff from Greenwich Leisure Limited.
All sense of community has been sucked out of The Rec, and all in the name of a refurbishment.
Brixton's loss has been Clap'ham's gain. I'm sure the locals of SW4 welcome with open arms a late 30-something still trying to prove that he is actually twenty-one as he makes (and shows) an arse of himself in the swimming pool each morning. Strange that Clap'ham is also managed by GLL, but somehow the basics of a pool, working showers and a decent sized changing room seem to work.
I've missed less than a week of early morning swimming all year round. A healthy body is indeed a healthy mind and I can't recommend it highly enough. It also helps when your summer pool of choice is one of the Seven Wonders of South London.
It's back to Brixton once a week for five-a-side football, and just like my knackered left knee, I can just about manage it for an hour.
I set a new personal best at a very wet Crystal Palace tri-athlon during the first half of the year. 'YES!!!' I exclaimed to the fragrant mrs onionbagblogger as I sprinted through the finishing tape at the grand old stadium.
'Um, aren't you supposed to complete two laps of the running circuit?' she asked.
Arse.
Speaking of the fragrant one, I took her away for a romantic weekend in October to, um, Essex. The return to our previous undergraduate stomping ground left us looking clueless at the knobber nightclubs on campus, gasping at disbelief as traditional student life has been replaced with monetary gain and mobile phones, and tucked up in bed by 10am with a horrendous headache from the whole experience.
We also cycled the Freewheel together, although not on a tandem. It was fun, but not for me. I've got a cupboard full of freebie bidons as my souvenir. I remain a Critical Mass man at heart.
The annual obb trips on the Thames and Kew Gardens came and went, as sadly did the New Piccadilly. The Lambeth Show was a little wetter than usual, and there can't be many more obb outings to the Athletics Grand Prix at Crystal Pal-arse left, what with 2012 and all that. There was a slightly scaled down summer season at The Globe. Nothing to do with artistic merit, simply my knackered knee means that I find it hard to stand for longer than two hours.
The first new DPW album since, oooh, the last one ROCKS. Yer man Brian Houston has made me very happy and my (newly built) iTunes library is actually the Northern Soul Jukebox.
Tony Clifton has become my role model.
SHUT UP!!!! ...I TELL YOU
I've spent more time away from Sunny Stockwell in 2007 than I have in recent years. That's the work / life balance tipping away for you. I hope to change all this in 2008. I really do miss the grass roots level of belonging to a local community. Somewhere in SE17 was a very special place and I remain immensely proud of what I achieved there. Not so in North London.
And so 2007 comes to a close and I've just booked my tickets for two days back in the Fair City. It will mean that I get to experience The Splendour of St Pancras as a passenger, and not as a trainspotter.
What will the year ahead bring? I really can’t see beyond New Year's Eve and the onionbagblog big night out in Brixton. Some very special company and some very special tunes. Six pints of Guinness before midnight should add to the ambience as well.
Sure 2008 will see plenty of pink ‘n blue non-league football, basketball and ice hockey. The summer will signal the start of the cricket season (first week in April next year GGF!) and four months of procrastinating at the Lovely Lido. There's even talk of a mid-winter skinny dip at the Lovely Lido in December.
Black and blue I tell you, black and blue.
And then before you know it, the Sunny Stockwell Christmas tree is all erect and you realise that twelve more months have got behind you.
Here comes that starting gun.
Have a good one.
technorati: sunny stockwell christmas tree
| Sunday 25 November, 2007 |
If the Sunny Stockwell Christmas tree is erect, it must mean it's time for onionbagblog to get anal. Regular readers may remember that it was this very same event some three years ago that almost signalled an end to this blog. I reflected that I was writing about the same situation I had blogged about twelve months previous, and came to the conclusion that onionbagblog is nothing but a cyclical beast.
I watch non-league football,
Game over.
It's now become an annual event upon the erection of the tree to go anal and probe around within. You never know - you might actually enjoy it.
And so how have the past twelve months treated me? Like Elton (and the Sunny Stockwell Christmas tree,) I'm Still Standing. Make that sitting actually, with my knackered knee now clicking in and out of place more than my cleats on my SPD's.
The knackered knee pre-dates this blog - just. I've managed to tolerate it and hobble through weekly five-a-side football matches, but the time has come to see a specialist. 'Yep, yer knee's knackered,' was the best the good Dr Singh could say up at the St Reatham surgery. You never know, I may even get round to having my 'toe nail situation' sorted out sometime in the next twelve months as well.
To complete the hat trick of health woes, I had a severe case of the Do Run Runs over the summer period. So severe that it could even be classified as a minor health scare, and not just for the five metre radius around the sanitary facilities at obb HQ II either. The good Dr Singh sorted me after much probing.
I told you I was going to get anal.
The major event for me in 2007 was saying goodbye to Somewhere in SE17. Four happy years as part of a genuine caring, local community, and then I walked away with a book about bikes and a card stuffed full with enough cash to buy a new one. Yes it was emotional, although watching obb HQ II being trashed at the first house party I have ever hosted, helped the tears to remain within. It's My Party and I'll Cry If I Want To, but I was more likely to have a heart attack after I saw one guest blanking the obb buffet in favour of finger-picking some greasy KFC all over my new settee.
The mucky little pup.
I seriously do miss Somewhere in SE17. Mmmm. Hey hoe. Life at the coalface since has been a little 'mixed,' I think it would be fair to say, but I'm still managing to pay off two mortgages. Work to live, not live to work.
I'm pulling in some cash with my photography, something that I hope to take one step further in 2008. I experienced some wonderful summer fun and hospitality at Larkhall Park, pointing my seven-inch super zoom at the face of some photo friendly South London Yoof. This is what it's all about - showing South London Yoof (and hopefully those outside who should know better) that onionbagblog territory has a lot more going for it than the Guns 'n Grime headlines.
I've had a number of wedding bookings with more to follow next summer. I even got to ride with the bride (so to speak) in a Rolls through the back streets of Bermondsey a few months back. I can confirm that she wasn't a fake as she walked down the aisle in her wonderful white gown shortly afterwards.
I entered into some freakonomics (and a very dodgy deal involving cash stuffed in a brown envelope at the Old Street roundabout) by buying a 'new' camera. But it was an identical model to one that I already own, and 90% cheaper than the original cost I paid. Not so freak-o-nomical then. Earlier in the year and the Taxman provided me with perhaps the best camera I have ever handled. Plus I bought some wonderful new toys to to play with. But what the Taxman gives, he also takes away, and the size of that bloody bill that dropped on my doorstep a few weeks back probably means that I'm going to have to start papping to pay the bills.
I can justify all this extra lens action by taking great enjoyment out of my weekly shoots with The Way We See It. I’ve missed only two locations all year, and these were only because I couldn’t be arsed to go all the way up to North London.
My spending spree stretched to *gosh* TWO new bikes (although I did sell one. And so that's all right then.) The Bastard really is the bollocks, and I can't wait until early March when I will be seen once again coming up a cropper every Saturday morning at the velodrome.
My PC packed up on me and so I seamlessly switched to a Mac. Although it wasn't that seamless as I managed to lose a 40G iTunes library (like Steve Austin, I have rebuilt it as bigger, better and with even more Billy Bragg,) mess up the iPhoto settings (four years worth of photos now have more encryption than the American defence system,) as well as lose four years worth of blog pictures down the back of the modern interweb settee. But it's all just about back now.
I also bought a new set of darts.
And then came the summer...
If I wasn't watching first class County cricket in my back garden then I was at the Lovely Lido if I wasn't at the Lovely Lido then I was bonking at the velodrome. It's a mighty fine way to live your life for five months of the year. It almost makes up for the misery of watching Dulwich Hamlet during the winter months.
July saw Le Grand Depart being staged in London. This was a truly special weekend. Fine company staying over at obb HQ II and elite cycling action to catch over the course of two days. It even inspired me to accept that I'm no velo sprinter, and I took to mountain climbing instead. Well, the mountains of South East London anyway.
But perhaps THE event of the summer was Prince at the O2. Fuck me. And then some. I will always remember 2007 as the Summer of the Purple One. Not once, but twice. A stunning show each night and I only wish now that I hadn't made more of a run of it. I doubt that London will see anything similar again.
The O2 in fact turned out to be a happy hunting ground. If you had told me twelve months ago as I watched the Sunny Stockwell Christmas tree being erected that I would see an international superstar, a season opening NHL game and two NBA teams trading on court in South East London, then you would have heard a laugh louder than Prince's fashion sense. But seriously... I really shouldn't like the Dome. The history and the ethos behind the original project was pants. But it's fantastic now to see that the Dome With No Soul finally has some world-class substance to match the style of the building.
I've officially turned my back on Brixton Rec after twelve years of fitness and fun in SW9. The fitness side of it has all but disappeared with Brixton Rec now resembling a building site. I don't find any fun in sweating my arse off and not being able to take a shower afterwards. Shocking stuff from Greenwich Leisure Limited.
All sense of community has been sucked out of The Rec, and all in the name of a refurbishment.
Brixton's loss has been Clap'ham's gain. I'm sure the locals of SW4 welcome with open arms a late 30-something still trying to prove that he is actually twenty-one as he makes (and shows) an arse of himself in the swimming pool each morning. Strange that Clap'ham is also managed by GLL, but somehow the basics of a pool, working showers and a decent sized changing room seem to work.
I've missed less than a week of early morning swimming all year round. A healthy body is indeed a healthy mind and I can't recommend it highly enough. It also helps when your summer pool of choice is one of the Seven Wonders of South London.
It's back to Brixton once a week for five-a-side football, and just like my knackered left knee, I can just about manage it for an hour.
I set a new personal best at a very wet Crystal Palace tri-athlon during the first half of the year. 'YES!!!' I exclaimed to the fragrant mrs onionbagblogger as I sprinted through the finishing tape at the grand old stadium.
'Um, aren't you supposed to complete two laps of the running circuit?' she asked.
Arse.
Speaking of the fragrant one, I took her away for a romantic weekend in October to, um, Essex. The return to our previous undergraduate stomping ground left us looking clueless at the knobber nightclubs on campus, gasping at disbelief as traditional student life has been replaced with monetary gain and mobile phones, and tucked up in bed by 10am with a horrendous headache from the whole experience.
We also cycled the Freewheel together, although not on a tandem. It was fun, but not for me. I've got a cupboard full of freebie bidons as my souvenir. I remain a Critical Mass man at heart.
The annual obb trips on the Thames and Kew Gardens came and went, as sadly did the New Piccadilly. The Lambeth Show was a little wetter than usual, and there can't be many more obb outings to the Athletics Grand Prix at Crystal Pal-arse left, what with 2012 and all that. There was a slightly scaled down summer season at The Globe. Nothing to do with artistic merit, simply my knackered knee means that I find it hard to stand for longer than two hours.
The first new DPW album since, oooh, the last one ROCKS. Yer man Brian Houston has made me very happy and my (newly built) iTunes library is actually the Northern Soul Jukebox.
Tony Clifton has become my role model.
SHUT UP!!!! ...I TELL YOU
I've spent more time away from Sunny Stockwell in 2007 than I have in recent years. That's the work / life balance tipping away for you. I hope to change all this in 2008. I really do miss the grass roots level of belonging to a local community. Somewhere in SE17 was a very special place and I remain immensely proud of what I achieved there. Not so in North London.
And so 2007 comes to a close and I've just booked my tickets for two days back in the Fair City. It will mean that I get to experience The Splendour of St Pancras as a passenger, and not as a trainspotter.
What will the year ahead bring? I really can’t see beyond New Year's Eve and the onionbagblog big night out in Brixton. Some very special company and some very special tunes. Six pints of Guinness before midnight should add to the ambience as well.
Sure 2008 will see plenty of pink ‘n blue non-league football, basketball and ice hockey. The summer will signal the start of the cricket season (first week in April next year GGF!) and four months of procrastinating at the Lovely Lido. There's even talk of a mid-winter skinny dip at the Lovely Lido in December.
Black and blue I tell you, black and blue.
And then before you know it, the Sunny Stockwell Christmas tree is all erect and you realise that twelve more months have got behind you.
Here comes that starting gun.
Have a good one.
technorati: sunny stockwell christmas tree
| #permalink |
Brixton in Bloom II
And so the onionbagblog week ends with a piece of symmetry. Bring me sunshine, bring me rain, and then bring me some more sunshine at as I've still got some pictures of Brixton Road (Westside) to take.
After some mid-week mishaps, Friday morning finally saw some blue skies over Brixton. Fifty lengths at the Rec (STILL no working showers) and I was out on the street just in time to catch the rising sun.
As mentioned on Monday, Brixton Road is a fascinating area to capture in full sunlight. There's so much history and detail, which when illuminated, exaggerates in fantastic detail every minor area of interest.
I walked the distance from The Academy to The Oval, camera in hand and returned back to onionbagblog HQ II feeling happy with my world. And then I heard from The Man With a Clipboard (bugger) and the nagging work emails came flooding in. Oh what a fun Friday it promised to be.
Sometimes life would be a lot simpler if it was all about the sunshine and snapping away.
Will she or won't she? Mss Winehouse has indeed sold out, in every sense, but I can't help thinking that the soap opera following her around isn't healthy for her in the long run. Still, cracking second album though.
Does as it said on the sign. The onionbagblog retailer of choice when it comes to furnishing a cheap and cheerful rented property.
Where Brixton meets Sunny Stockwell.
A gloriously lit up Brixton church.
One for the planespotters.
A grand old Brixton house. The area in Edwardian times was well respected and this stretch of Brixton Road is full of similar old property, now divided up into flats.
Possibly my favourite building in all of Brixton. It has a tremendous Mediterranean feel to it, without losing any South London identity. It's clearly seen better days, and being in a prime property spot, I fear the yuppie flats aren't far off. Not everyone is a fan though.
Sunshine in SW9.
Although the signage here makes for a striking picture (well, I like it anyway,) this garage on Brixton Road can be a right pain in the arse when you cycle past. Such is the haste for the knobber Petrol Heads to feed their oil addiction, anything on two wheels is forgotten about as the cars pull in sharpish on the left.
There doesn't seem to be much action from the Asian Community in Brixton right now if this building is anything to go by.
The last of the leaves hang on against a biting early Friday morning Brixton breeze.
It's here where we enter the stretch of Brixton Road that seems to specialise in selling fridges.
A fantastic old building, probably with a proud history, but now housing Ted & Joy's hairdressing business. Hair today... etc.
Here be another Nail Bar / Chicken Wings takeaway in a few months time. Because there's not enough of these already in Brixton of course.
*ahem*
Reggae and Jerk - something for everyone. This particular emporium was closed at 7:45 on Friday morning. If I had been two hours earlier I might have been in luck.
Fortress Brixton.
A sign of the times, although there's not been as many of these around Brixton in recent months compared to the past few years.
Men at work (although not at 7:45 on a Friday morning.)
It's not a seller's market right now.
Number 9 in particular has a nice name to it.
The old Russell Hotel. It's been boarded up for a couple of years and is falling into a serious state of disrepair.
A secret house hidden away behind the bushes. I had some strange looks as I poked my lens where it shouldn't be.
An old pulpit outside a grand old church on Brixton Road. I've not seen any tambourine shaking taking place here in the great outdoors, although opposite onionbagblog HQ I and it's a regular al fresco Sunday afternoon activity.
Getting very close to home ground here.
Cheers.
technorati: brixton road
| Saturday 24 November, 2007 |
And so the onionbagblog week ends with a piece of symmetry. Bring me sunshine, bring me rain, and then bring me some more sunshine at as I've still got some pictures of Brixton Road (Westside) to take.
After some mid-week mishaps, Friday morning finally saw some blue skies over Brixton. Fifty lengths at the Rec (STILL no working showers) and I was out on the street just in time to catch the rising sun.
As mentioned on Monday, Brixton Road is a fascinating area to capture in full sunlight. There's so much history and detail, which when illuminated, exaggerates in fantastic detail every minor area of interest.
I walked the distance from The Academy to The Oval, camera in hand and returned back to onionbagblog HQ II feeling happy with my world. And then I heard from The Man With a Clipboard (bugger) and the nagging work emails came flooding in. Oh what a fun Friday it promised to be.
Sometimes life would be a lot simpler if it was all about the sunshine and snapping away.
Will she or won't she? Mss Winehouse has indeed sold out, in every sense, but I can't help thinking that the soap opera following her around isn't healthy for her in the long run. Still, cracking second album though.
Does as it said on the sign. The onionbagblog retailer of choice when it comes to furnishing a cheap and cheerful rented property.
Where Brixton meets Sunny Stockwell.
A gloriously lit up Brixton church.
One for the planespotters.
A grand old Brixton house. The area in Edwardian times was well respected and this stretch of Brixton Road is full of similar old property, now divided up into flats.
Possibly my favourite building in all of Brixton. It has a tremendous Mediterranean feel to it, without losing any South London identity. It's clearly seen better days, and being in a prime property spot, I fear the yuppie flats aren't far off. Not everyone is a fan though.
Sunshine in SW9.
Although the signage here makes for a striking picture (well, I like it anyway,) this garage on Brixton Road can be a right pain in the arse when you cycle past. Such is the haste for the knobber Petrol Heads to feed their oil addiction, anything on two wheels is forgotten about as the cars pull in sharpish on the left.
There doesn't seem to be much action from the Asian Community in Brixton right now if this building is anything to go by.
The last of the leaves hang on against a biting early Friday morning Brixton breeze.
It's here where we enter the stretch of Brixton Road that seems to specialise in selling fridges.
A fantastic old building, probably with a proud history, but now housing Ted & Joy's hairdressing business. Hair today... etc.
Here be another Nail Bar / Chicken Wings takeaway in a few months time. Because there's not enough of these already in Brixton of course.
*ahem*
Reggae and Jerk - something for everyone. This particular emporium was closed at 7:45 on Friday morning. If I had been two hours earlier I might have been in luck.
Fortress Brixton.
A sign of the times, although there's not been as many of these around Brixton in recent months compared to the past few years.
Men at work (although not at 7:45 on a Friday morning.)
It's not a seller's market right now.
Number 9 in particular has a nice name to it.
The old Russell Hotel. It's been boarded up for a couple of years and is falling into a serious state of disrepair.
A secret house hidden away behind the bushes. I had some strange looks as I poked my lens where it shouldn't be.
An old pulpit outside a grand old church on Brixton Road. I've not seen any tambourine shaking taking place here in the great outdoors, although opposite onionbagblog HQ I and it's a regular al fresco Sunday afternoon activity.
Getting very close to home ground here.
Cheers.
technorati: brixton road
| #permalink |
England's Dreaming
The moment the boos sounded out ahead of the Croatian national anthem at Wembley, I knew I wanted England to lose. Seventy-odd thousand idiots disrespecting an entire nation; Ninety minutes later and the knobbers got what they deserved.
I make no apologies but I just fail to get turned on by Team England '07. It's been the same for the past fifteen years to be honest. Over-paid players (cliche, but true) who are penning their bland autobiographies before they reach the age of twenty-five are not representing my feeling of Englishness. Agents, endorsements and contact with the fans only if it as part of some shitty McDonalds family fun day is not something that I want to be associated with.
There is the odd exception; Paul Scholes has played for the same club his entire professional career, he hasn't got an agent and the thought of publishing his autobiography would probably turn his ginger hair white. Oh - and he refuses to play for England as well.
And so after the booing on Wednesday, we had the chest beating. I'm fine with that. I love to celebrate my country and the inclusive nature of it, but not with an Anthem that doesn't speak to me. Looking in the eyes of the players as the camera panned across the team and I failed to see a reflection of what football means to me as well.
The last England team that truly meant something to me was Pearce, Waddle and Beardsley. Oh, and Des Walker, Neil Webb, Steve Hodge and the Young Man. There's only one way to beat them: Get round the back, etc. It really is that simple, Second Choice Steve. Old Big 'ead would have told you so, after having kissed you on one cheek and then punched you on the other.
It's not that I felt a total nothing on Wednesday evening. Dulwich Boy Peter Crouch ran his lanky legs off, and it would be a shame if the former #7 doesn't get to reach a hundred caps for his country, one of the few players actually playing with some pride in his shirt.
And keeping with the inclusive theme, it wasn't all about England being bad. How bloody good were Croatia? That's what a genuine pride and passion for your country does to a player.
Listening to the increasingly irksome 606 (bring back the fun days of Danny Baker) and the national whinge-fest is underway. But I don't fall under that umbrella. I'm going to sleep just fine tonight, wake up, and then if the sun's shining then I'll probably not hibernate for a further five minutes in the morning. Life goes on, get over it. It paints a depressing picture of life in Britain under the Big Tent Man when the 'nation' enters mass depression because Second Choice Steve proved that the whingers were right all along.
'It will be a summer of misery,' so bemoaned the Professional Geordie Whinger on BBC1.
No it won't you knobber. I'm counting down the days until the Lovely Lido re-opens and the County Championship fixtures for the summer were published only last week. And did someone say velodrome? Yeah, I did. Summer of Misery my South London sunshine loving arse. Football tournaments during July are just an excuse to fly funny flags in your car and for Sainsbury's to sell more booze and barbecues.
My happiest England football team memory was down at dear old Meadow Lane. Graham Taylor was just starting his rehabilitation campaign from figure of fun to serious football manager, sometime during the early '90s. He brought his Wolves team to the Fair City and found that the old dugouts down the Lane weren't quite the same standard as those he had sat in on the international circuit.
Some joker spent the first half laying out a make-do vegetable store on top of the old concrete dug out. Not too many cabbages, but plenty of turnips. The Old Bill even loved it and let the Nottingham loon carry on with his business.
Remember when football was FUN? I didn't take much enjoyment from the morgue like atmosphere as the four men in black suits made primetime BBC1 seem like a repeat of the Diana funeral all over again.
Not for me, not for my understanding of nationality.
And so whom can we turn to too find the FUN factor in English football once again? A casual look at the weekend's fixtures and you'll find that D***y County are at home to Chelsea. Looks like I'll be on the laughing gas all weekend.
*ah, but why all the interest in the national agenda mr bandwagon jumping onionbagblogger, I hear you ask. Oh, you know - it's almost that time of year when the Sunny Stockwell Christmas tree is, um, erected and I turn all-inward on myself*
technorati: no euro 2008? great!
| Wednesday 21 November, 2007 |
The moment the boos sounded out ahead of the Croatian national anthem at Wembley, I knew I wanted England to lose. Seventy-odd thousand idiots disrespecting an entire nation; Ninety minutes later and the knobbers got what they deserved.
I make no apologies but I just fail to get turned on by Team England '07. It's been the same for the past fifteen years to be honest. Over-paid players (cliche, but true) who are penning their bland autobiographies before they reach the age of twenty-five are not representing my feeling of Englishness. Agents, endorsements and contact with the fans only if it as part of some shitty McDonalds family fun day is not something that I want to be associated with.
There is the odd exception; Paul Scholes has played for the same club his entire professional career, he hasn't got an agent and the thought of publishing his autobiography would probably turn his ginger hair white. Oh - and he refuses to play for England as well.
And so after the booing on Wednesday, we had the chest beating. I'm fine with that. I love to celebrate my country and the inclusive nature of it, but not with an Anthem that doesn't speak to me. Looking in the eyes of the players as the camera panned across the team and I failed to see a reflection of what football means to me as well.
The last England team that truly meant something to me was Pearce, Waddle and Beardsley. Oh, and Des Walker, Neil Webb, Steve Hodge and the Young Man. There's only one way to beat them: Get round the back, etc. It really is that simple, Second Choice Steve. Old Big 'ead would have told you so, after having kissed you on one cheek and then punched you on the other.
It's not that I felt a total nothing on Wednesday evening. Dulwich Boy Peter Crouch ran his lanky legs off, and it would be a shame if the former #7 doesn't get to reach a hundred caps for his country, one of the few players actually playing with some pride in his shirt.
And keeping with the inclusive theme, it wasn't all about England being bad. How bloody good were Croatia? That's what a genuine pride and passion for your country does to a player.
Listening to the increasingly irksome 606 (bring back the fun days of Danny Baker) and the national whinge-fest is underway. But I don't fall under that umbrella. I'm going to sleep just fine tonight, wake up, and then if the sun's shining then I'll probably not hibernate for a further five minutes in the morning. Life goes on, get over it. It paints a depressing picture of life in Britain under the Big Tent Man when the 'nation' enters mass depression because Second Choice Steve proved that the whingers were right all along.
'It will be a summer of misery,' so bemoaned the Professional Geordie Whinger on BBC1.
No it won't you knobber. I'm counting down the days until the Lovely Lido re-opens and the County Championship fixtures for the summer were published only last week. And did someone say velodrome? Yeah, I did. Summer of Misery my South London sunshine loving arse. Football tournaments during July are just an excuse to fly funny flags in your car and for Sainsbury's to sell more booze and barbecues.
My happiest England football team memory was down at dear old Meadow Lane. Graham Taylor was just starting his rehabilitation campaign from figure of fun to serious football manager, sometime during the early '90s. He brought his Wolves team to the Fair City and found that the old dugouts down the Lane weren't quite the same standard as those he had sat in on the international circuit.
Some joker spent the first half laying out a make-do vegetable store on top of the old concrete dug out. Not too many cabbages, but plenty of turnips. The Old Bill even loved it and let the Nottingham loon carry on with his business.
Remember when football was FUN? I didn't take much enjoyment from the morgue like atmosphere as the four men in black suits made primetime BBC1 seem like a repeat of the Diana funeral all over again.
Not for me, not for my understanding of nationality.
And so whom can we turn to too find the FUN factor in English football once again? A casual look at the weekend's fixtures and you'll find that D***y County are at home to Chelsea. Looks like I'll be on the laughing gas all weekend.
*ah, but why all the interest in the national agenda mr bandwagon jumping onionbagblogger, I hear you ask. Oh, you know - it's almost that time of year when the Sunny Stockwell Christmas tree is, um, erected and I turn all-inward on myself*
technorati: no euro 2008? great!
| #permalink |
Landlords and Tenants
A Back to Basics morning, heading back to onionbagblog HQ I. But it's no longer the sources of all things obb - I left Sunny Stockwell behind eighteen months ago and headed out to the glamour world of, um, The Oval, dahhhling. It's now base for my lovely tenants (and it's at this juncture that I feel I need to point out that I'm the caring / sharing sort of capitalist. I charge a happy happy joy joy rent, and in return I get happy happy joy joy tenants who give me no hassle. Phew - I'm pleased we've cleared that one up.)
But it's not all happy happy joy joy in the rest of the building. Property ownership never is. It's you and me against the world, kid, with the world being the other three flats who own our freehold. With sixty-six years left on the lease, my Legal Man tells me now is the time to buy into the freehold. I've not a fan of the funny wig wearers and fail to see how in sixty-six years time when I am squatting in the great re-possessed property up in the sky, a lapsed lease will be of any interest to me.
But my Legal Man laid down the law and told me to sort it.
And so a miserable Tuesday morning was spent showing A Man With A Clipboard around obb HQ I - ten minutes to justify a three figure fee and confirmation that all property (and property related sidelines) is theft. Which by default, also includes me. Yikes.
'Um, so how does this work then?' I enquired.
'I draw up a nice fancy report spelling out the delights of Sunny Stockwell, and then my final paragraph quotes a minimum and maximum figure for the freehold.'
And so a three figure fee and I don't even get the exact science of what the fucker is worth. It's like buying a Premiership player - it's all relative and the value of your commodity is only worth what you're actually prepared to pay for it. I felt like diving in, Robbie Savage style, and lamping the other freeholders in the flats down below.
But aside from all the bluff and counter-bluff, my first return to obb HQ I in a year and a half was actually rather enjoyable. I've very happy memories of living there and little had changed. I bought the best French stick on sale in South London from Di Lietos, a tax bill awaited me on the doormat and Vest Man managed to get in my way as I left the flat.
But best of all was seeing that the tradition of obb HQ I is still being continued. My Lovely Tennant #1 was sitting at the very same desk where this blog was born some four years ago, in front of his iMac, editing pictures in Photoshop.
'And so this freehold business,' I said to The Man With A Clipboard just before Vest Mad made his untimely entrance. 'If there's no exact science, can't you put in a quote based on the artistic value of the property?' I enquired?
'Art over science any day and in years to come, a blue plaque will be above obb HQ I in recognition of some of the finest Photoshopping to have taken place in Sunny Stockwell.'
Just like the quality of blog posts, your property value may go up or down.
technorati: rent boy
| Tuesday 20 November, 2007 |
A Back to Basics morning, heading back to onionbagblog HQ I. But it's no longer the sources of all things obb - I left Sunny Stockwell behind eighteen months ago and headed out to the glamour world of, um, The Oval, dahhhling. It's now base for my lovely tenants (and it's at this juncture that I feel I need to point out that I'm the caring / sharing sort of capitalist. I charge a happy happy joy joy rent, and in return I get happy happy joy joy tenants who give me no hassle. Phew - I'm pleased we've cleared that one up.)
But it's not all happy happy joy joy in the rest of the building. Property ownership never is. It's you and me against the world, kid, with the world being the other three flats who own our freehold. With sixty-six years left on the lease, my Legal Man tells me now is the time to buy into the freehold. I've not a fan of the funny wig wearers and fail to see how in sixty-six years time when I am squatting in the great re-possessed property up in the sky, a lapsed lease will be of any interest to me.
But my Legal Man laid down the law and told me to sort it.
And so a miserable Tuesday morning was spent showing A Man With A Clipboard around obb HQ I - ten minutes to justify a three figure fee and confirmation that all property (and property related sidelines) is theft. Which by default, also includes me. Yikes.
'Um, so how does this work then?' I enquired.
'I draw up a nice fancy report spelling out the delights of Sunny Stockwell, and then my final paragraph quotes a minimum and maximum figure for the freehold.'
And so a three figure fee and I don't even get the exact science of what the fucker is worth. It's like buying a Premiership player - it's all relative and the value of your commodity is only worth what you're actually prepared to pay for it. I felt like diving in, Robbie Savage style, and lamping the other freeholders in the flats down below.
But aside from all the bluff and counter-bluff, my first return to obb HQ I in a year and a half was actually rather enjoyable. I've very happy memories of living there and little had changed. I bought the best French stick on sale in South London from Di Lietos, a tax bill awaited me on the doormat and Vest Man managed to get in my way as I left the flat.
But best of all was seeing that the tradition of obb HQ I is still being continued. My Lovely Tennant #1 was sitting at the very same desk where this blog was born some four years ago, in front of his iMac, editing pictures in Photoshop.
'And so this freehold business,' I said to The Man With A Clipboard just before Vest Mad made his untimely entrance. 'If there's no exact science, can't you put in a quote based on the artistic value of the property?' I enquired?
'Art over science any day and in years to come, a blue plaque will be above obb HQ I in recognition of some of the finest Photoshopping to have taken place in Sunny Stockwell.'
Just like the quality of blog posts, your property value may go up or down.
technorati: rent boy
| #permalink |
Brixton in Bloom
After a thoroughly depressing, wet Sunday (eat> run> shower> eat> darts> work> darts> clean bike> look outside at the pissing rain and realise what a sodding waste of time that was...) I strive to bring some sunshine to your Monday morning.
The stretch of Brixton Road from The Oval down to The Academy has long been a happy hunting ground for me. It changes every 100 yards or so with the different businesses catering for the different communities passing through. I've always thought it important to document my little patch of South London as it changes every six months or so. Not in a grand social-historical context; but simply it fills my days and gives me great pleasure when looking back through my hard drive.
Brixton Road has yet to experience the Clap'ham-isation that other areas around here have fully embraced. It's never going to be the King's Road. I doubt it's ever even going to be Clap'ham Road, either.
The main business seems to be tyres and fridges - perfect for fast food on the move. There are a number of lovely local organisations within this stretch - community groups for kids, the Van Gough Cafe and the cheap as chip dally jumble sale put on by my local Church (as in it's near, not as in I'm a weekly tambourine shaker).
It's the people that make up a place, but geographically, it's the weather that also defines Brixton Road. It's located so as to catch the early morning sun in full flow on the West side, and then around eight hours later, the East side across the road is illuminated as the sun sets over Brixton.
This is the first set of sunny Brixton pictures, showcasing the sunset over the East. I've tried to catch the early morning glory for the past month, but I've have had a number of disasters, both photo and weather wise. I'm not holding my breath (or camera) for success sometime this week.
I'm not sure of the current ownership of this grand old red brick building, but if you peer through the windows you can see a magnificent collection of historical hats. It's either a theatre production company or the private residence for a family of bald men.
For all the 'raw, edginess' of Brixton, much of SW2 / SW9 is actually quite suburban. These houses wouldn't look out of place in the middle of Surrey. I know where I'd rather live.
Wonderful architectural symmetry. It reminds me of one of those Swiss clocks where the characters come out of the front door each hour.
Natural street lighting.
A futuristic style roof. Futuristic for Brixton, anyway. It reminds me of some sort of spaceship.
Brixton Road is a mixture of grand old town houses and new estates. Here's the former, boasting sizable windows for any local curtain twitcher.
An interesting colour scheme for a local playgroup hut.
These estates stretch back Eastwards all the way to Camberwell.
Pity the poor Postie.
A local tyre shop. It previously housed a Fagin's Den style bike shop a few years ago. I'm not normally in favour of seeing a bike shop give way to a Petrol Head premises, but this particular case was an exception.
I've no idea of the long-term history, but I reckon this building was originally a boozer, something that is sadly lacking along Brixton Road.
A familiar site to anyone in the Brixton / Camberwell / East Dulwich area. The all-important feature to focus on here is the registration plate. Ever think that this van follows you around South London? Ha! *there are at least half a dozen of them doing the rounds, all with an identical paint job*
Come and listen to a bald man play records.
Jamm has rejuvenated Brixton Road in recent years. As well as DJ sets by former Oasis chord churners, the pub / club puts on a truly diverse selection of nights. The ace Offline is always fun, as are the band nights organised by HDIF. Plus Jamm hosted the first ever Ska / Burlesque night in London. Golly gosh.
A building (on the Westside) that has clearly seen better days, but with a bit of TLC, could actually become something rather interesting.
And so that's the late afternoon Brixton Road Eastside. If the sun ever puts his hat on sometime around 7am on the Westside, I've got a wide angle wonder all ready to poke in his radiant face. More to follow, hopefully.
technorati: brixton road
| Monday 19 November, 2007 |
After a thoroughly depressing, wet Sunday (eat> run> shower> eat> darts> work> darts> clean bike> look outside at the pissing rain and realise what a sodding waste of time that was...) I strive to bring some sunshine to your Monday morning.
The stretch of Brixton Road from The Oval down to The Academy has long been a happy hunting ground for me. It changes every 100 yards or so with the different businesses catering for the different communities passing through. I've always thought it important to document my little patch of South London as it changes every six months or so. Not in a grand social-historical context; but simply it fills my days and gives me great pleasure when looking back through my hard drive.
Brixton Road has yet to experience the Clap'ham-isation that other areas around here have fully embraced. It's never going to be the King's Road. I doubt it's ever even going to be Clap'ham Road, either.
The main business seems to be tyres and fridges - perfect for fast food on the move. There are a number of lovely local organisations within this stretch - community groups for kids, the Van Gough Cafe and the cheap as chip dally jumble sale put on by my local Church (as in it's near, not as in I'm a weekly tambourine shaker).
It's the people that make up a place, but geographically, it's the weather that also defines Brixton Road. It's located so as to catch the early morning sun in full flow on the West side, and then around eight hours later, the East side across the road is illuminated as the sun sets over Brixton.
This is the first set of sunny Brixton pictures, showcasing the sunset over the East. I've tried to catch the early morning glory for the past month, but I've have had a number of disasters, both photo and weather wise. I'm not holding my breath (or camera) for success sometime this week.
I'm not sure of the current ownership of this grand old red brick building, but if you peer through the windows you can see a magnificent collection of historical hats. It's either a theatre production company or the private residence for a family of bald men.
For all the 'raw, edginess' of Brixton, much of SW2 / SW9 is actually quite suburban. These houses wouldn't look out of place in the middle of Surrey. I know where I'd rather live.
Wonderful architectural symmetry. It reminds me of one of those Swiss clocks where the characters come out of the front door each hour.
Natural street lighting.
A futuristic style roof. Futuristic for Brixton, anyway. It reminds me of some sort of spaceship.
Brixton Road is a mixture of grand old town houses and new estates. Here's the former, boasting sizable windows for any local curtain twitcher.
An interesting colour scheme for a local playgroup hut.
These estates stretch back Eastwards all the way to Camberwell.
Pity the poor Postie.
A local tyre shop. It previously housed a Fagin's Den style bike shop a few years ago. I'm not normally in favour of seeing a bike shop give way to a Petrol Head premises, but this particular case was an exception.
I've no idea of the long-term history, but I reckon this building was originally a boozer, something that is sadly lacking along Brixton Road.
A familiar site to anyone in the Brixton / Camberwell / East Dulwich area. The all-important feature to focus on here is the registration plate. Ever think that this van follows you around South London? Ha! *there are at least half a dozen of them doing the rounds, all with an identical paint job*
Come and listen to a bald man play records.
Jamm has rejuvenated Brixton Road in recent years. As well as DJ sets by former Oasis chord churners, the pub / club puts on a truly diverse selection of nights. The ace Offline is always fun, as are the band nights organised by HDIF. Plus Jamm hosted the first ever Ska / Burlesque night in London. Golly gosh.
A building (on the Westside) that has clearly seen better days, but with a bit of TLC, could actually become something rather interesting.
And so that's the late afternoon Brixton Road Eastside. If the sun ever puts his hat on sometime around 7am on the Westside, I've got a wide angle wonder all ready to poke in his radiant face. More to follow, hopefully.
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