onionbagblog
Clap'ham Pool is Falling Closing Down?
The brand new Clap'ham leisure centre that our friends over at @lambeth_council have been bangin' on about in Lambeth Life, um, probably will still happen, but it's slightly more shaky than it was six months ago.
*that's why I no longer write headlines for a living*
In brief, the developers have run out of dosh. This splash (see what I've done there?) came straight from Labour Councillor for Claph'ham Town, Helen O'Malley. I'm not sure if the admission was on the record or not, but it's certainly scribbled down in my notes. So that's all right then.
'There is no fixed date for the closure of the existing facility,' said the good Councillor O'Malley. 'Planning application has been approved for the new centre, but it is all reliant upon the developers raising sufficient capital.'
Ah yes, the developers. This is Council speak for commercial partners who are propping up the whole project. You scratch my back, I'll build you a brand new leisure centre, not to mention some private apartments in a swanky SW4 postcode that we can then flog on for profit.
But the profit has taken a bit of a dive of late (see what I've done there?) The deal was good to go pre the crunching of the credit. Now the Council finds that it has got into bed with a company that can't deliver what was initially promised because of a lack of funds.
This is all so frustrating. I really want to back Labour led Lambeth Council in the building of a new facility. But, y'know, they aren't winning over many friends in the PR campaign.
Swimming in Clap'ham is actually a highly politicised issue. The three Clap'ham Town seats were won at the last election largely on a Labour promise to Keep Clap'ham Swimming. Ugly rumours were spread around that the previous LibDem ruling administration were going to close the Clap'ham pool.
And then along came our friends @lambethnews (that will be Lambeth Tories then, bless) with an equally ugly smear campaign last month, claiming that Labour were going to 'axe' swimming in Lambeth.
Arf!
Of course they're not - they're going to build a brand new pool. Aren't they? Um, aren't you, good Councillor O'Malley?
You might as well toss a coin on the outcome, it seems.
Plan B is in place - and that plan B is to... keep the existing leisure centre, close it for a couple of years and then renovate it. It is a bit of a dive, after all (see what I've... Oh, forget it.)
Elsewhere in the meeting and it was all lively, healthy debate. Ten of my fellow early morning swimmers showed up, which is ten more than last time. I didn't quite recognise them with their clothes on.
The cleanliness of the pool area was a major concern. The management team from Greenwich (don't ask) Leisure Limited accepted responsibility and took a hit on behalf of the Council. That's what happens when you pimp out your core services to a private contractor.
I raised my own bugbear point about having to pay twice to swim in Lambeth owned pools, once for a membership to swim indoors with GLL, and then once again for a season ticket for the Fusion managed lovely lido (four days and counting.) The answer was, as ever, fudged. Different facilities, different profit margins, same infrastructure.
There was plenty of lemon sucking for the poor GLL folk. I think diplomacy must be a key skill set in the GLL management job description.
I did pitch in for a brief podcast with Dave White, Centre Manager at Clap'ham. Yer man seemed like a decent chap, but he would have had to jump through various corporate hoops to have the all clear. GLL management, Lambeth Leisure management, a list of proposed questions to be asked in the pod, etc.
Mmm - it's all about the here and now, Dave; capture the moment whilst it is still fresh. And so I did the job myself from the back of Clap'ham Manor. As ever, a right of reply is open. Have bike, will travel, have iPhone, will podcast. Tweet tweet.
And so where does this leave the electorate with local Council elections looming next year? Labour need to make a move, one way or another about what they actually intend to do with Clap'ham. I fear the decision is out of their hands, having done the dirty deal with a nasty capitalist property developer (I fear the decision is even out of the hands of the nasty capitalist property developer.)
The LibDems sent out the message last time of wanting to close down the Clap'ham pool, with no viable alternative offered. Lambeth Tories seem happy to put out pointless press releases - pointless in that they contain a load of twaddle, and pointless in that Lambeth 'aint ever going to go True Blue.
Once again - it's all about the swimming, isn't it?
reply via twitter
| Thursday 30 April, 2009 |
The brand new Clap'ham leisure centre that our friends over at @lambeth_council have been bangin' on about in Lambeth Life, um, probably will still happen, but it's slightly more shaky than it was six months ago.
*that's why I no longer write headlines for a living*
In brief, the developers have run out of dosh. This splash (see what I've done there?) came straight from Labour Councillor for Claph'ham Town, Helen O'Malley. I'm not sure if the admission was on the record or not, but it's certainly scribbled down in my notes. So that's all right then.
'There is no fixed date for the closure of the existing facility,' said the good Councillor O'Malley. 'Planning application has been approved for the new centre, but it is all reliant upon the developers raising sufficient capital.'
Ah yes, the developers. This is Council speak for commercial partners who are propping up the whole project. You scratch my back, I'll build you a brand new leisure centre, not to mention some private apartments in a swanky SW4 postcode that we can then flog on for profit.
But the profit has taken a bit of a dive of late (see what I've done there?) The deal was good to go pre the crunching of the credit. Now the Council finds that it has got into bed with a company that can't deliver what was initially promised because of a lack of funds.
This is all so frustrating. I really want to back Labour led Lambeth Council in the building of a new facility. But, y'know, they aren't winning over many friends in the PR campaign.
Swimming in Clap'ham is actually a highly politicised issue. The three Clap'ham Town seats were won at the last election largely on a Labour promise to Keep Clap'ham Swimming. Ugly rumours were spread around that the previous LibDem ruling administration were going to close the Clap'ham pool.
And then along came our friends @lambethnews (that will be Lambeth Tories then, bless) with an equally ugly smear campaign last month, claiming that Labour were going to 'axe' swimming in Lambeth.
Arf!
Of course they're not - they're going to build a brand new pool. Aren't they? Um, aren't you, good Councillor O'Malley?
You might as well toss a coin on the outcome, it seems.
Plan B is in place - and that plan B is to... keep the existing leisure centre, close it for a couple of years and then renovate it. It is a bit of a dive, after all (see what I've... Oh, forget it.)
Elsewhere in the meeting and it was all lively, healthy debate. Ten of my fellow early morning swimmers showed up, which is ten more than last time. I didn't quite recognise them with their clothes on.
The cleanliness of the pool area was a major concern. The management team from Greenwich (don't ask) Leisure Limited accepted responsibility and took a hit on behalf of the Council. That's what happens when you pimp out your core services to a private contractor.
I raised my own bugbear point about having to pay twice to swim in Lambeth owned pools, once for a membership to swim indoors with GLL, and then once again for a season ticket for the Fusion managed lovely lido (four days and counting.) The answer was, as ever, fudged. Different facilities, different profit margins, same infrastructure.
There was plenty of lemon sucking for the poor GLL folk. I think diplomacy must be a key skill set in the GLL management job description.
I did pitch in for a brief podcast with Dave White, Centre Manager at Clap'ham. Yer man seemed like a decent chap, but he would have had to jump through various corporate hoops to have the all clear. GLL management, Lambeth Leisure management, a list of proposed questions to be asked in the pod, etc.
Mmm - it's all about the here and now, Dave; capture the moment whilst it is still fresh. And so I did the job myself from the back of Clap'ham Manor. As ever, a right of reply is open. Have bike, will travel, have iPhone, will podcast. Tweet tweet.
And so where does this leave the electorate with local Council elections looming next year? Labour need to make a move, one way or another about what they actually intend to do with Clap'ham. I fear the decision is out of their hands, having done the dirty deal with a nasty capitalist property developer (I fear the decision is even out of the hands of the nasty capitalist property developer.)
The LibDems sent out the message last time of wanting to close down the Clap'ham pool, with no viable alternative offered. Lambeth Tories seem happy to put out pointless press releases - pointless in that they contain a load of twaddle, and pointless in that Lambeth 'aint ever going to go True Blue.
Once again - it's all about the swimming, isn't it?
reply via twitter
| #permalink |
Jase'll Fix It
Flippin 'eck - so where did all the fixies around town suddenly come from then? A morning ride from Clap'ham to the West End, and I was the odd one out. Proudly pedalling along on my Moulton, I calculated that every other bike was a fixed wheel. Gears are for girlies, etc, but even the girlies about town have got in on the fakenger culture.
There's nothing so smug as a reformed ex-fixie, but it seems that the fixed wheel culture has peaked in London. It's now gone mainstream, with most major bicycle chains stocking their own brand of purpose built bikes.
Each to their own, but doesn't this somehow miss the point of the DIY ethos of riding fixed wheel? Purists would argue that track bikes are best kept for le velo. The geometry of a track frame doesn't translate well to the open road, even with the addition of a front break.
The fun of riding fixed wheel is all about customing the bike yourself. Take a 70's road frame, fit a fixed hub and throw out your back brake. But now it's all branded bikes that are technically not for the track, and culturally out of place in this whole fixed wheel pirates of the road fantasy. You may as well ride a powacycle, such is the worst of both worlds characteristics that these mass produced synthetic track machines show.
Yeah, yeah. I'm *sooo* over fixies. Actually I'm not. Despite selling the Fuji last month, I still have a couple of fixies in the fleet. The Bastard remains my bike of choice for the track (um, it’s a track bike,) whereas Sir Walter gets me around town whenever the weather conditions tell me not to risk riding out on the Moulton.
But since falling back into the classic bicycling habit of brakes and gears, I admit to having scorned somewhat at the legion of fixie boys (and girls) cycling off to the City each morning. Fakengers, every one of them.
Selling the Fuji was a great financial and freedom-enabling move. The bloke who bought it wanted hand delivery up in Kilburn. Bugger. I battled around Regent's Park with the stiff frame, having not taken the Fuji out for a spin for sometime. It was a struggle, and a rather uncomfortable one at that. I actually enjoyed the bus journey back into town.
Not quite as much as I enjoyed my first morning out on the Moulton, an experience that I anticipate more with each ride. I'm not sure if London is quite ready for a mass Moulton phase, and given the lack of frames currently on the market, I doubt if the bike shops are either.
But here lies the point: the bike snob within is proud to be riding a machine that wasn't mass-produced and isn't easy to come across. You can still buy decent fixed wheel bikes, although probably not from a major high street store. The City boys I see each morning are struggling along on a frame that may as well be a £79 Halfords boneshaker. It's all style over substance, and even then, they're pushing it, sometimes quite literally.
My Moulton was lovingly made, lovingly passed down generations, and now lovingly lusted over in a way which even I think is not quite healthy for a middle-aged man.
I'm happy to be back to my freewheelin' freedom days of traditional bicycling. It's not about the look; it's all about the enjoyment. Which is just as well, seeing as though more than one acquaintance has asked of my Moulton:
'Why are you riding a girly bike?'
It's got gears, my friend. Gears are good.
For the next six months, anyway.
reply via twitter
| Wednesday 29 April, 2009 |
Flippin 'eck - so where did all the fixies around town suddenly come from then? A morning ride from Clap'ham to the West End, and I was the odd one out. Proudly pedalling along on my Moulton, I calculated that every other bike was a fixed wheel. Gears are for girlies, etc, but even the girlies about town have got in on the fakenger culture.
There's nothing so smug as a reformed ex-fixie, but it seems that the fixed wheel culture has peaked in London. It's now gone mainstream, with most major bicycle chains stocking their own brand of purpose built bikes.
Each to their own, but doesn't this somehow miss the point of the DIY ethos of riding fixed wheel? Purists would argue that track bikes are best kept for le velo. The geometry of a track frame doesn't translate well to the open road, even with the addition of a front break.
The fun of riding fixed wheel is all about customing the bike yourself. Take a 70's road frame, fit a fixed hub and throw out your back brake. But now it's all branded bikes that are technically not for the track, and culturally out of place in this whole fixed wheel pirates of the road fantasy. You may as well ride a powacycle, such is the worst of both worlds characteristics that these mass produced synthetic track machines show.
Yeah, yeah. I'm *sooo* over fixies. Actually I'm not. Despite selling the Fuji last month, I still have a couple of fixies in the fleet. The Bastard remains my bike of choice for the track (um, it’s a track bike,) whereas Sir Walter gets me around town whenever the weather conditions tell me not to risk riding out on the Moulton.
But since falling back into the classic bicycling habit of brakes and gears, I admit to having scorned somewhat at the legion of fixie boys (and girls) cycling off to the City each morning. Fakengers, every one of them.
Selling the Fuji was a great financial and freedom-enabling move. The bloke who bought it wanted hand delivery up in Kilburn. Bugger. I battled around Regent's Park with the stiff frame, having not taken the Fuji out for a spin for sometime. It was a struggle, and a rather uncomfortable one at that. I actually enjoyed the bus journey back into town.
Not quite as much as I enjoyed my first morning out on the Moulton, an experience that I anticipate more with each ride. I'm not sure if London is quite ready for a mass Moulton phase, and given the lack of frames currently on the market, I doubt if the bike shops are either.
But here lies the point: the bike snob within is proud to be riding a machine that wasn't mass-produced and isn't easy to come across. You can still buy decent fixed wheel bikes, although probably not from a major high street store. The City boys I see each morning are struggling along on a frame that may as well be a £79 Halfords boneshaker. It's all style over substance, and even then, they're pushing it, sometimes quite literally.
My Moulton was lovingly made, lovingly passed down generations, and now lovingly lusted over in a way which even I think is not quite healthy for a middle-aged man.
I'm happy to be back to my freewheelin' freedom days of traditional bicycling. It's not about the look; it's all about the enjoyment. Which is just as well, seeing as though more than one acquaintance has asked of my Moulton:
'Why are you riding a girly bike?'
It's got gears, my friend. Gears are good.
For the next six months, anyway.
reply via twitter
| #permalink |
Folk Devils & Moral Panics in the Park
Having exchanged tweets with other South London twitterati bemoaning the constant presence of police helicopters the night before, I awoke Tuesday morning to find that a murder had taken place in my little patch of South London.
Details are currently skethcy, although police have confirmed that one teenager was stabbed to death overnight in Larkhall Park, whilst another is currently in a stable condition, having also been stabbed. Four men have been arrested.
Reports suggest (speculate?) that SW8 was the scene of a mass gangland fight, spilling over into the park. The entire perimeter of Larkhall was under a police cordon, come early Tuesday morning.
I was only thinking last week how the folk devil and moral panic agenda that the mainstream media whipped up last year over teenage stabbings seems to have disappeared. Time has proven that the reporting of teen crime leads to a self-fulfilling prophecy, with a continuation of related incidents appearing in quick succession.
The story of a teen stabbing ticks all the right boxes for the mainstream media. The youth of today are out of control; there's a personal angle to focus on and speculation as to what Yoof will do next is as wild as it is rife. He'll probably read the reports, tool himself up and then play up to the stereotype that the mainstream media has so conveniently created for him.
Or maybe, just maybe, Yoof is singular, not plural. Possibly Yoof actually has a mind of his own, and is able to dismiss such debase reporting by the fools who write the headlines. My personal experience of working with Yoof in South London certainly suggests so.
A trawl through my site stats in the past twenty four hours reveals that my archive of Larkhall Park pages have figured prominently. Someone has been snooping around. I hope they find a feeling of the true spirit of Larkhall Park within. Yes, it can be a slightly unnerving experience walking through the place at dark, but then so can walking through any city centre at night.
In an area that is often choking with constant traffic passing through Stockwell, Larkhall Park provides a welcome retreat for locals to go out and play. Families treasure the space, with Clap'ham Common slightly off their walking radar, not to mention being nothing but a big patch of barren land.
Larkhall Park has an almost amphitheatre like presence. The banking around the boundary provides a genuine ambience that blocks out the noise of the inner city. Plus any park that can boast the four chimneys of Battersea as a backdrop has to be something special.
I hope Larkhall is open again soon, with the same haste that I hope the injured youth recovers. Thoughts are with the family and friends of the deceased; not so with the in and out reporting of the mainstream media, happy to use the situation to keep their teens and stabbings stereotype high up on their agenda.
reply via twitter
| Tuesday 28 April, 2009 |
Having exchanged tweets with other South London twitterati bemoaning the constant presence of police helicopters the night before, I awoke Tuesday morning to find that a murder had taken place in my little patch of South London.
Details are currently skethcy, although police have confirmed that one teenager was stabbed to death overnight in Larkhall Park, whilst another is currently in a stable condition, having also been stabbed. Four men have been arrested.
Reports suggest (speculate?) that SW8 was the scene of a mass gangland fight, spilling over into the park. The entire perimeter of Larkhall was under a police cordon, come early Tuesday morning.
I was only thinking last week how the folk devil and moral panic agenda that the mainstream media whipped up last year over teenage stabbings seems to have disappeared. Time has proven that the reporting of teen crime leads to a self-fulfilling prophecy, with a continuation of related incidents appearing in quick succession.
The story of a teen stabbing ticks all the right boxes for the mainstream media. The youth of today are out of control; there's a personal angle to focus on and speculation as to what Yoof will do next is as wild as it is rife. He'll probably read the reports, tool himself up and then play up to the stereotype that the mainstream media has so conveniently created for him.
Or maybe, just maybe, Yoof is singular, not plural. Possibly Yoof actually has a mind of his own, and is able to dismiss such debase reporting by the fools who write the headlines. My personal experience of working with Yoof in South London certainly suggests so.
A trawl through my site stats in the past twenty four hours reveals that my archive of Larkhall Park pages have figured prominently. Someone has been snooping around. I hope they find a feeling of the true spirit of Larkhall Park within. Yes, it can be a slightly unnerving experience walking through the place at dark, but then so can walking through any city centre at night.
In an area that is often choking with constant traffic passing through Stockwell, Larkhall Park provides a welcome retreat for locals to go out and play. Families treasure the space, with Clap'ham Common slightly off their walking radar, not to mention being nothing but a big patch of barren land.
Larkhall Park has an almost amphitheatre like presence. The banking around the boundary provides a genuine ambience that blocks out the noise of the inner city. Plus any park that can boast the four chimneys of Battersea as a backdrop has to be something special.
I hope Larkhall is open again soon, with the same haste that I hope the injured youth recovers. Thoughts are with the family and friends of the deceased; not so with the in and out reporting of the mainstream media, happy to use the situation to keep their teens and stabbings stereotype high up on their agenda.
reply via twitter
| #permalink |
North London Martyrdom
Back in 1834 and 100,000 people protested about the deportation of the six Tolpuddle Martyrs, sentenced to transportation to Australia for setting up a friendly society. The Trade Union movement was born, and in celebration of this, a mass procession from Copenhagen Fields down to Kennington Common took place.
My Saturday afternoon re-traced the route in reverse, travelling South to North. I'm not a fan of North London, and as I approached the badlands along York Way, I was reminded why m'colleages at The Gruan bemoan the supposed regeneration of King's Cross, now creaking under the recession. NW1 is still a dump, despite the splendour of the nearby St Pancras trying to resurrect the area.
But then I turned the corner into Caledonian Road and snaked my way into Edward Square. The twee-ness was almost as intoxicating as the traffic fumes I choked on cycling through King's Cross.
It was like a scene from a 1984 TUC rally. Union banners were on show, proudly depicting scenes of struggles past; entry was free, but the traditional whip round of a bucket was paying the rent. Stalls somehow uniting the international struggle with the micro-economic division of labour is NW1 almost made sense.
Remembering the Tolpuddle Martyrs
But whereas the rallies and gatherings of my political past have had a hard, antagonistic edge, Tolpuddle in London day was like listening to Arthur Scargill speaking at the Big Chill.
Picnic blankets adorned the grass square with the traditional TUC picnic of home made sarnies and home brew keeping everyone entertained for the afternoon. The sun was shining and children were enjoying the face painting activities. Maybe this is where the Left went wrong back '85? A brightly coloured butterfly on the ginger bonce of Neil Kinnock would have surely seen off Thatcherism.
No left wing festival wouldn't be complete without a turn from Billy Bragg, and Tolpuddle in London didn't disappoint. I've seen the boy Bragg play over the years in all manner of venues; record shop counters, toilet venues, mid-size theatres, Clap'ham Common and the rolling fields of Somerset and Avon. Oh, and the Phoenix Festival. But this was without a doubt the most wonderful ambient arena that I have had the pleasure of experiencing the Bard in.
Sun, Cycling (sort of) and Bragg
England, Half English, There is Power in a Union and a rather misplaced strumming of Sexuality - it was all good stuff. And then just as I was contemplating upping sticks and moving to North London (it really was that lovely,) I was tapped on the shoulder by a complete stranger who then gave me a great big man hug.
Awwww.
There are very few situations where heterosexual males should embrace over, but a shared love (and ownership) of a Moutlon bike is just about acceptable.
Bragg, Booze and Moulton Bikes
And so I cycled back down to the Beautiful South, following in the footsteps of the 100,000 early Trade Unionist 175 years ago. I'm not sure if this mass of neo-Marxists then stayed and settled in South London, but I was flying the red flag and back on familiar home turf.
Few things get me excited in North London. Billy Bragg, Boris bashing and Moulton bikes were the perfect combination. I must remember to bring my own picnic blanket and home brew next time.
reply via twitter
| Sunday 26 April, 2009 |
Back in 1834 and 100,000 people protested about the deportation of the six Tolpuddle Martyrs, sentenced to transportation to Australia for setting up a friendly society. The Trade Union movement was born, and in celebration of this, a mass procession from Copenhagen Fields down to Kennington Common took place.
My Saturday afternoon re-traced the route in reverse, travelling South to North. I'm not a fan of North London, and as I approached the badlands along York Way, I was reminded why m'colleages at The Gruan bemoan the supposed regeneration of King's Cross, now creaking under the recession. NW1 is still a dump, despite the splendour of the nearby St Pancras trying to resurrect the area.
But then I turned the corner into Caledonian Road and snaked my way into Edward Square. The twee-ness was almost as intoxicating as the traffic fumes I choked on cycling through King's Cross.
It was like a scene from a 1984 TUC rally. Union banners were on show, proudly depicting scenes of struggles past; entry was free, but the traditional whip round of a bucket was paying the rent. Stalls somehow uniting the international struggle with the micro-economic division of labour is NW1 almost made sense.
Remembering the Tolpuddle Martyrs
But whereas the rallies and gatherings of my political past have had a hard, antagonistic edge, Tolpuddle in London day was like listening to Arthur Scargill speaking at the Big Chill.
Picnic blankets adorned the grass square with the traditional TUC picnic of home made sarnies and home brew keeping everyone entertained for the afternoon. The sun was shining and children were enjoying the face painting activities. Maybe this is where the Left went wrong back '85? A brightly coloured butterfly on the ginger bonce of Neil Kinnock would have surely seen off Thatcherism.
No left wing festival wouldn't be complete without a turn from Billy Bragg, and Tolpuddle in London didn't disappoint. I've seen the boy Bragg play over the years in all manner of venues; record shop counters, toilet venues, mid-size theatres, Clap'ham Common and the rolling fields of Somerset and Avon. Oh, and the Phoenix Festival. But this was without a doubt the most wonderful ambient arena that I have had the pleasure of experiencing the Bard in.
Sun, Cycling (sort of) and Bragg
England, Half English, There is Power in a Union and a rather misplaced strumming of Sexuality - it was all good stuff. And then just as I was contemplating upping sticks and moving to North London (it really was that lovely,) I was tapped on the shoulder by a complete stranger who then gave me a great big man hug.
Awwww.
There are very few situations where heterosexual males should embrace over, but a shared love (and ownership) of a Moutlon bike is just about acceptable.
Bragg, Booze and Moulton Bikes
And so I cycled back down to the Beautiful South, following in the footsteps of the 100,000 early Trade Unionist 175 years ago. I'm not sure if this mass of neo-Marxists then stayed and settled in South London, but I was flying the red flag and back on familiar home turf.
Few things get me excited in North London. Billy Bragg, Boris bashing and Moulton bikes were the perfect combination. I must remember to bring my own picnic blanket and home brew next time.
reply via twitter
| #permalink |
By George
Five scenarios in which to celebrate St George's Day:
Follow the example of the good folk of SE17 by flying the flag of St George from your Aylesbury balcony. The bicycle ride into school this morning was made all the more merrier with the sighting of the cross of St George being proudly displayed across the estate. OK, so some of the flags have been flying since the 2006 World Cup, but even a stopped clock tells the right time twice a day. I do hope that the overt patriotism from the good folk of SE17 is to celebrate a secular Saint, who is also celebrated by our brothers and sisters across many other continents. The flag flying isn't for me though.
Later in the morning of the 23rd and I received an invite to toast our patron saint in an SE17 pub that evening. 'A late bar, bangers 'n mash,' and even 'St George karaoke' were planned. Crickey. I wonder if the songs on offer include any traditional Ethiopian folk tunes, as we join together around the world to celebrate the international man of mystery that was St George? I had work commitments later in the evening, and so made my apologies for the pub party. Plus I was slightly weary that it was the same SE17 boozer that hosted the notorious work Christmas Party, gatecrashed by none other than Mad Frankie Fraser. No thanks.
Back in the (occasional) day job and the lovely kids of Somewhere in SE17 celebrated St George with an afternoon of face painting (plus a cheeky little podcast also thrown in.) A facial white background with a red cross was available to any child who wanted to show support for the patron saint of this land. We ended up running out of paint, such was the popularity of the public display of affection for St George. This activity came closest to connecting with my understanding of national identity.
'The school is larger than most primaries and serves an area of considerable deprivation. Many more pupils come from ethnic minority backgrounds than in most schools, and the proportion of pupils at the early stages of learning English is high.'
So said that nice Mr Ofsted, shortly before awarding the school an Outstanding status. I was on official photography duty for the face painting, trying to capture the moment for the school archives, not to mention avoiding a face paint for myself. I usually tend to think too hard in these situations about the ethnicity ratio of a group of children I am capturing on camera. Not so on St George's Day. Boys, girls, black, white and all shades in-between were bouncing for joy with their crosses of St George painted on their face. A true celebration of this international man of mystery.
A walk later in the afternoon through the back streets of Nine Elms, and I noticed The Gladstone celebrating St George in all its glory. The SW8 boozer is situated in a corner of Sunny Stockwell where everyday seems like St George's Day, such is the high density of Red Cross flags flying. The Gladstone chalkboard declared 'St Georges' Day Alldayer Today.' The punctuation and choice of words could have done with a slight re-write, but the sentiments seemed fine to me. If anyone was in any doubt as to how St George was being celebrated in SW8, then a brief look at The Gladstone would have cleared up the situation: You down a dozen or so pints of lager, and then play football in the small shopping area outside the pub. It's easy to smirk, but I think I was more jealous than judgemental. No sign of St George's karaoke, but once again, no sign of my participation. The football was fine, but I fear the twelve pints would have finished me off.
And so I ended up celebrating our patron saint by staying indoors and working. We're a nation of penny pinchers, and so this seemed like a frugal way to honour the strange, misunderstood man from the East. My fifth scenario for celebrating St George was tested out twelve months ago. I attended Billy Bragg's alternative St George's Day at The Barbican, an event that was so alternative it had me pining for the twelve pints back in The Gladstone. Uncle Bill was on fine form, as ever, but I couldn't help but think that even this Love Me I'm a Liberal event was painfully secular. The brilliant Kitty, Daisy and Lewis managed to find a Hawaiian angle to St George; the pained and dour performance from Rachel Unthank & the Winterset had even the mass audience of Guardianistas wanting something a little more gawblimeyguv to help pass along the performance.
And so I've struggled all day to find a form in which I can personally celebrate St George. I felt uncomfortable with all the flag flying around SE17. The karaoke with Mad Frankie wasn't for me. Face painting seemed the most fun, but I bruise too easily. Football and Fosters at The Gladstone seems a slightly strange way to celebrate a man who in all probability didn't take part in either of these activities. Preaching your point with the Barbican liberals trying a little too hard to map out their multi-cultural credentials left me feeling like a fraud.
It was only later in the evening that I finally realised that my failure to celebrate St George is borne out of my own personal identity. I don't see myself an Englander, whatever character traits this might incorporate. I'm a Londoner living in Europe. Sadly there isn't a patron saint to celebrate this particular identity.
I'm happy though for once a year to skate around the edges of the other Londoners that do feel the need to fly the flag, take part in crappy karaoke, paint their faces, drink booze and play football, if only for the reason that it keeps the agenda away from the nasty BNP [no linkage.] I only heard the term 'racial foreigners' once today, and that was enough for me to turn off my radio, paint my face and then go and play catch up with the Gladstone boys, both in booze and footballing ability.
Here's to you, oh mystery man of the East.
Cheers.
reply via twitter
| Thursday 23 April, 2009 |
Five scenarios in which to celebrate St George's Day:
Follow the example of the good folk of SE17 by flying the flag of St George from your Aylesbury balcony. The bicycle ride into school this morning was made all the more merrier with the sighting of the cross of St George being proudly displayed across the estate. OK, so some of the flags have been flying since the 2006 World Cup, but even a stopped clock tells the right time twice a day. I do hope that the overt patriotism from the good folk of SE17 is to celebrate a secular Saint, who is also celebrated by our brothers and sisters across many other continents. The flag flying isn't for me though.
Later in the morning of the 23rd and I received an invite to toast our patron saint in an SE17 pub that evening. 'A late bar, bangers 'n mash,' and even 'St George karaoke' were planned. Crickey. I wonder if the songs on offer include any traditional Ethiopian folk tunes, as we join together around the world to celebrate the international man of mystery that was St George? I had work commitments later in the evening, and so made my apologies for the pub party. Plus I was slightly weary that it was the same SE17 boozer that hosted the notorious work Christmas Party, gatecrashed by none other than Mad Frankie Fraser. No thanks.
Back in the (occasional) day job and the lovely kids of Somewhere in SE17 celebrated St George with an afternoon of face painting (plus a cheeky little podcast also thrown in.) A facial white background with a red cross was available to any child who wanted to show support for the patron saint of this land. We ended up running out of paint, such was the popularity of the public display of affection for St George. This activity came closest to connecting with my understanding of national identity.
'The school is larger than most primaries and serves an area of considerable deprivation. Many more pupils come from ethnic minority backgrounds than in most schools, and the proportion of pupils at the early stages of learning English is high.'
So said that nice Mr Ofsted, shortly before awarding the school an Outstanding status. I was on official photography duty for the face painting, trying to capture the moment for the school archives, not to mention avoiding a face paint for myself. I usually tend to think too hard in these situations about the ethnicity ratio of a group of children I am capturing on camera. Not so on St George's Day. Boys, girls, black, white and all shades in-between were bouncing for joy with their crosses of St George painted on their face. A true celebration of this international man of mystery.
A walk later in the afternoon through the back streets of Nine Elms, and I noticed The Gladstone celebrating St George in all its glory. The SW8 boozer is situated in a corner of Sunny Stockwell where everyday seems like St George's Day, such is the high density of Red Cross flags flying. The Gladstone chalkboard declared 'St Georges' Day Alldayer Today.' The punctuation and choice of words could have done with a slight re-write, but the sentiments seemed fine to me. If anyone was in any doubt as to how St George was being celebrated in SW8, then a brief look at The Gladstone would have cleared up the situation: You down a dozen or so pints of lager, and then play football in the small shopping area outside the pub. It's easy to smirk, but I think I was more jealous than judgemental. No sign of St George's karaoke, but once again, no sign of my participation. The football was fine, but I fear the twelve pints would have finished me off.
And so I ended up celebrating our patron saint by staying indoors and working. We're a nation of penny pinchers, and so this seemed like a frugal way to honour the strange, misunderstood man from the East. My fifth scenario for celebrating St George was tested out twelve months ago. I attended Billy Bragg's alternative St George's Day at The Barbican, an event that was so alternative it had me pining for the twelve pints back in The Gladstone. Uncle Bill was on fine form, as ever, but I couldn't help but think that even this Love Me I'm a Liberal event was painfully secular. The brilliant Kitty, Daisy and Lewis managed to find a Hawaiian angle to St George; the pained and dour performance from Rachel Unthank & the Winterset had even the mass audience of Guardianistas wanting something a little more gawblimeyguv to help pass along the performance.
And so I've struggled all day to find a form in which I can personally celebrate St George. I felt uncomfortable with all the flag flying around SE17. The karaoke with Mad Frankie wasn't for me. Face painting seemed the most fun, but I bruise too easily. Football and Fosters at The Gladstone seems a slightly strange way to celebrate a man who in all probability didn't take part in either of these activities. Preaching your point with the Barbican liberals trying a little too hard to map out their multi-cultural credentials left me feeling like a fraud.
It was only later in the evening that I finally realised that my failure to celebrate St George is borne out of my own personal identity. I don't see myself an Englander, whatever character traits this might incorporate. I'm a Londoner living in Europe. Sadly there isn't a patron saint to celebrate this particular identity.
I'm happy though for once a year to skate around the edges of the other Londoners that do feel the need to fly the flag, take part in crappy karaoke, paint their faces, drink booze and play football, if only for the reason that it keeps the agenda away from the nasty BNP [no linkage.] I only heard the term 'racial foreigners' once today, and that was enough for me to turn off my radio, paint my face and then go and play catch up with the Gladstone boys, both in booze and footballing ability.
Here's to you, oh mystery man of the East.
Cheers.
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Thames Hopper
'Another week, another bridge. This week we're off to Chelsea Bridge, one of the two most ornate bridges across the Thames. The original bridge was built in 1858. The one standing now dates back to 1937 and was designed by G. Topham Forest.
There used to be a famous tea stall here which was a hangout for Rockers who'd come looking for a 'bit of talent' from the local Battersea Fun Fair. Sadly the stall has gone the way of the Rockers, although at least it's been preserved in the Transport Museum.
If you get the tide right you can also see the exit to the river of one of North London's famous underground rivers, the Westbourne. If you are on the right walking towards Chelsea you should just be able to see it set into the wall of the Thames.'
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| Wednesday 22 April, 2009 |
'Another week, another bridge. This week we're off to Chelsea Bridge, one of the two most ornate bridges across the Thames. The original bridge was built in 1858. The one standing now dates back to 1937 and was designed by G. Topham Forest.
There used to be a famous tea stall here which was a hangout for Rockers who'd come looking for a 'bit of talent' from the local Battersea Fun Fair. Sadly the stall has gone the way of the Rockers, although at least it's been preserved in the Transport Museum.
If you get the tide right you can also see the exit to the river of one of North London's famous underground rivers, the Westbourne. If you are on the right walking towards Chelsea you should just be able to see it set into the wall of the Thames.'
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links for 2009-04-21
51st State
It's a mighty long way from the enclaves and gated enclosures of Mayfair to... the fruit 'n veg market at Nine Elms, Battersea, Guv. But it's a (proposed) move that the US Embassy is so keen to get kick-started, it has set up a website to document the process. Pros: great for the SW8 local economy. Cons: cowboy style takeovers of the streets of Sunny Stockwell, with diplomats declaring immunity from the driving laws of the land.
Cycle Proficiency
Forward thinking from @lambeth_council, instructing all drivers employed by the borough to take up cycle safety lessons. But even the cyclist within feels it slightly heavy handed. Cycle safety is a two way process, with cyclists having the power to protect themselves. It's simple: Never cycle side by side with a HGV, as the excellent Moving Target keeps on reminding us.
NIMBY
Following on from the Freedom of Information request that required @lambeth_council to tell the squatting community of South London where all the vacant residential properties are located, here comes a similar scheme from some a quick thinking scamp. I wonder if any Council owned buildings will show up in the search?
Epitaph
Heads up @cllr_robbins for pointing me in the direction of the online haterz.
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51st StateIt's a mighty long way from the enclaves and gated enclosures of Mayfair to... the fruit 'n veg market at Nine Elms, Battersea, Guv. But it's a (proposed) move that the US Embassy is so keen to get kick-started, it has set up a website to document the process. Pros: great for the SW8 local economy. Cons: cowboy style takeovers of the streets of Sunny Stockwell, with diplomats declaring immunity from the driving laws of the land.
Cycle ProficiencyForward thinking from @lambeth_council, instructing all drivers employed by the borough to take up cycle safety lessons. But even the cyclist within feels it slightly heavy handed. Cycle safety is a two way process, with cyclists having the power to protect themselves. It's simple: Never cycle side by side with a HGV, as the excellent Moving Target keeps on reminding us.
NIMBYFollowing on from the Freedom of Information request that required @lambeth_council to tell the squatting community of South London where all the vacant residential properties are located, here comes a similar scheme from some a quick thinking scamp. I wonder if any Council owned buildings will show up in the search?
EpitaphHeads up @cllr_robbins for pointing me in the direction of the online haterz.
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Thou Birthday Boy
The occasion is also used to usher in the new season at Bankside. Young Hearts is the theme for the following five months ahead. Expect plenty of hey nonny nonny, and not much of the old King Lear.
I took the opportunity on Sunday lunchtime to take in a freebie at The Globe. I wasn't alone, with queues for Sonnet's Day stretching all the way back as far as the Tate Modern.
It was rather lovely waiting patiently in the queue, being serenaded by a bloke with a dodgy beard reading me my own personal sonnet. Shane the moment was somewhat lost with the rude interruption of a bonkers bagpipe player standing on the Millennium Bridge.
Inside The Globe and it was a free for all for all things Jacobean. The sword fights were pretty spectacular, the singing of the sonnets, um, not quite my kind of thing. I edged away nervously to the rear of the Wooden O when the invite went out for groundlings to deliver their own sonnets on The Globe stage.
And so have a good one, Mr Bill, 445 years old.
Blimey.
'With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.'
Sonnet Sunday at Shakespeare's Globe
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| Sunday 19 April, 2009 |
The occasion is also used to usher in the new season at Bankside. Young Hearts is the theme for the following five months ahead. Expect plenty of hey nonny nonny, and not much of the old King Lear.
I took the opportunity on Sunday lunchtime to take in a freebie at The Globe. I wasn't alone, with queues for Sonnet's Day stretching all the way back as far as the Tate Modern.
It was rather lovely waiting patiently in the queue, being serenaded by a bloke with a dodgy beard reading me my own personal sonnet. Shane the moment was somewhat lost with the rude interruption of a bonkers bagpipe player standing on the Millennium Bridge.
Inside The Globe and it was a free for all for all things Jacobean. The sword fights were pretty spectacular, the singing of the sonnets, um, not quite my kind of thing. I edged away nervously to the rear of the Wooden O when the invite went out for groundlings to deliver their own sonnets on The Globe stage.
And so have a good one, Mr Bill, 445 years old.
Blimey.
'With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.'
Sonnet Sunday at Shakespeare's Globe
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Crap Boo Report
Surrey drew with Gloucestershire.
Sorry Surrey Collapse
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| Sunday 19 April, 2009 |
Surrey drew with Gloucestershire.
Sorry Surrey Collapse
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Chapeau!
'But I need to test out mapmyride,' I told the fragrant mrs onionbagblogger, early on Saturday morning as I rolled out for a spin with the Dulwich Paragon. Technology comes before household chores, and so I saddled up and sped (sort off) up College Road and towards the first rendez vous of Cafe St Germain at Crystal Palace.
I've been cycling with the lovely Paragon people since just after Christmas now. I'm still only a regular on the Saturday social ride; the Sunday race training of 80 miles plus would only, um, get in the way of all those household chores.
I love the freedom that road racing gives you, once you escape past the suburbs of Bromley and roll out into the Kent countryside. Fifteen minutes is all it takes until you get to see the cows of Kent.
But I'm exceptionally crap at either leading the route, or even knowing where the b***y hell we are. Which is where the GPS facility of my iPhone comes in. It may not be as meaningful as a restaurant tip calculator (can't believe Apple chose the most crappy app to plug in the TV ad,) but mapmyride does just that. And it draws pretty pictures for you, which you can then embed, as below.
The final data tells me that we cycled 27.89 miles on Saturday morning. It seemed more like 278 miles. Plus don't forget the ten-mile or so round journey to get to Cafe St Germain.
I was disappointed to see the data telling me that our average speed was a poxy 12mph. You need to take into account the numerous feeding stations along the route, plus the ten stationary minutes back at base where I forgot to stop logging my movements.
Whoops.
The Paragon roll out each Saturday morning at 9:15 from Crystal Palace Parade. All are welcome, just look out for the blokes in lycra looking all manly as they try and avoid household domestic duties.
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| Saturday 18 April, 2009 |
'But I need to test out mapmyride,' I told the fragrant mrs onionbagblogger, early on Saturday morning as I rolled out for a spin with the Dulwich Paragon. Technology comes before household chores, and so I saddled up and sped (sort off) up College Road and towards the first rendez vous of Cafe St Germain at Crystal Palace.
I've been cycling with the lovely Paragon people since just after Christmas now. I'm still only a regular on the Saturday social ride; the Sunday race training of 80 miles plus would only, um, get in the way of all those household chores.
I love the freedom that road racing gives you, once you escape past the suburbs of Bromley and roll out into the Kent countryside. Fifteen minutes is all it takes until you get to see the cows of Kent.
But I'm exceptionally crap at either leading the route, or even knowing where the b***y hell we are. Which is where the GPS facility of my iPhone comes in. It may not be as meaningful as a restaurant tip calculator (can't believe Apple chose the most crappy app to plug in the TV ad,) but mapmyride does just that. And it draws pretty pictures for you, which you can then embed, as below.
The final data tells me that we cycled 27.89 miles on Saturday morning. It seemed more like 278 miles. Plus don't forget the ten-mile or so round journey to get to Cafe St Germain.
I was disappointed to see the data telling me that our average speed was a poxy 12mph. You need to take into account the numerous feeding stations along the route, plus the ten stationary minutes back at base where I forgot to stop logging my movements.
Whoops.
The Paragon roll out each Saturday morning at 9:15 from Crystal Palace Parade. All are welcome, just look out for the blokes in lycra looking all manly as they try and avoid household domestic duties.
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Bonnington Boo
Back to Bonnington Square for a bit of audioboo podcast action. Much like the charming South London square itself, it was all rather anarchic and unplanned.
A spare five minutes in the working morning (brevity is the key for audioboo,) and I found myself walking along Langley Lane, having seen off my sister on her way back to St Pancras. Perfect for a brief peek at Bonnington, once the centre of the squatting scene in South London.
I've blogged before about Bonnington, but I wanted to see if the horticultural delight of SW8 has changed since. For all the talk of peace, love and understanding, we're still talking about property and ownership here. It's hard to have a love in over your lentil soup when your next-door neighbour is cashing in on one of the most desirable locations south of the river.
The community ethos is still evident around the Square. The Pleasure Garden is indeed a pleasure, even during a drizzly Friday morning meander. Property prices remain buoyant, despite the crunching of the credit.
And so Bonnington doesn't appear to have changed much in recent years. If anything, the Square and surrounding roads are even more overgrown with shrubbery. This is no bad thing. Bonnington Square remains a place of beauty, albeit a rather pricey one.
The Delights of Bonnington Square, SW8
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| Friday 17 April, 2009 |
Back to Bonnington Square for a bit of audioboo podcast action. Much like the charming South London square itself, it was all rather anarchic and unplanned.
A spare five minutes in the working morning (brevity is the key for audioboo,) and I found myself walking along Langley Lane, having seen off my sister on her way back to St Pancras. Perfect for a brief peek at Bonnington, once the centre of the squatting scene in South London.
I've blogged before about Bonnington, but I wanted to see if the horticultural delight of SW8 has changed since. For all the talk of peace, love and understanding, we're still talking about property and ownership here. It's hard to have a love in over your lentil soup when your next-door neighbour is cashing in on one of the most desirable locations south of the river.
The community ethos is still evident around the Square. The Pleasure Garden is indeed a pleasure, even during a drizzly Friday morning meander. Property prices remain buoyant, despite the crunching of the credit.
And so Bonnington doesn't appear to have changed much in recent years. If anything, the Square and surrounding roads are even more overgrown with shrubbery. This is no bad thing. Bonnington Square remains a place of beauty, albeit a rather pricey one.
The Delights of Bonnington Square, SW8
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Basket Case
'Over to see how the other half live this week as we're heading to Chelsea. In fact we're heading to one of the oldest streets, Old Church Street.
It's a very long, and in places very narrow road, and the only one in Chelsea to run from the Fulham Road to the river. It's a fascinating, mostly residential, place where you really can be incredibly nosy.
No. 53 was home to the young John Betjeman, and 46a used to be Sound Techniques Ltd, studios where the likes of Pink Floyd, T-Rex and Nick Drake all recorded.'
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| Thursday 16 April, 2009 |
'Over to see how the other half live this week as we're heading to Chelsea. In fact we're heading to one of the oldest streets, Old Church Street.
It's a very long, and in places very narrow road, and the only one in Chelsea to run from the Fulham Road to the river. It's a fascinating, mostly residential, place where you really can be incredibly nosy.
No. 53 was home to the young John Betjeman, and 46a used to be Sound Techniques Ltd, studios where the likes of Pink Floyd, T-Rex and Nick Drake all recorded.'
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Crap Boo Report
Surrey Vs Gloucestershire, close of play day 1, Gloucestershire 321-8.
Tea at the Cricket
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| Wednesday 15 April, 2009 |
Surrey Vs Gloucestershire, close of play day 1, Gloucestershire 321-8.
Tea at the Cricket
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Walk On
I can't speak for my friends, but for me personally, there seemed little point in recounting what was a very difficult day for us. Being in the 'other end' of course meant that our experiences as Forest fans were far different from those associated with Liverpool.
But Forest were very much part of 15th April 1989. Witnessing 96 deaths is not something that you are easily going to forget about. And so we don't talk about it, but the memories always remain.
Twenty years on, and I felt that I needed to try and make sense of my memories. I wanted to put together a chronological sequence from the day, so that it was there for the record whilst I still have the ability to recount all the details.
The plan was to place this in word form. But then there's a tendency for words to portray a fictional account of a story, whereas an oral account is as brutal and as honest as you can get when trying to Tell It Like It Is.
I'm hoping my Hillsborough memories will always remain within. They are part of what has shaped me as the man over the past twenty years. But just for the record, here's my public account of a day out at the football, twenty years ago today.
This is MY Hillsborough story. What is yours? Record over HERE, and I'd be happy to embed and create a Hillsborough oral archive.
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| Wednesday 15 April, 2009 |
I can't speak for my friends, but for me personally, there seemed little point in recounting what was a very difficult day for us. Being in the 'other end' of course meant that our experiences as Forest fans were far different from those associated with Liverpool.
But Forest were very much part of 15th April 1989. Witnessing 96 deaths is not something that you are easily going to forget about. And so we don't talk about it, but the memories always remain.
Twenty years on, and I felt that I needed to try and make sense of my memories. I wanted to put together a chronological sequence from the day, so that it was there for the record whilst I still have the ability to recount all the details.
The plan was to place this in word form. But then there's a tendency for words to portray a fictional account of a story, whereas an oral account is as brutal and as honest as you can get when trying to Tell It Like It Is.
I'm hoping my Hillsborough memories will always remain within. They are part of what has shaped me as the man over the past twenty years. But just for the record, here's my public account of a day out at the football, twenty years ago today.
This is MY Hillsborough story. What is yours? Record over HERE, and I'd be happy to embed and create a Hillsborough oral archive.
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Lost of London
'Excuse my selfish choice of location this week. Adelaide Street in all honesty is something of a horrible little pedestrian rat run into Charing Cross Station. It has a couple of saving graces, and one of those is why I have chosen it.
Maggie Hambling's sculpture A conversation with Oscar Wilde took a lot of campaigning to get erected.
Just up from the sculpture is a quite extraordinary urinal, quite who thought anyone would use it beggars belief. That said you do get rather nice views of the rear of St Martin's here, so there is some benefit.'
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| Tuesday 14 April, 2009 |
'Excuse my selfish choice of location this week. Adelaide Street in all honesty is something of a horrible little pedestrian rat run into Charing Cross Station. It has a couple of saving graces, and one of those is why I have chosen it.
Maggie Hambling's sculpture A conversation with Oscar Wilde took a lot of campaigning to get erected.
Just up from the sculpture is a quite extraordinary urinal, quite who thought anyone would use it beggars belief. That said you do get rather nice views of the rear of St Martin's here, so there is some benefit.'
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The Good, the Bad & the Bonkers
A strange Sunday lunchtime spent at Speaker's Corner, witnessing the good, the bad and the bonkers of British democracy. But it was all really about the brilliant audioboo, proving once again that the medium truly is the message. Which is just as well, given the freedom of speech at Speaker's Corner that allows incitement to racial hatred to surface on the streets of London.
Bonker's Speaker's Corner #1
Bonker's Speaker's Corner #2
Bonker's Speaker's Corner #3
Bonker's Speaker's Corner #4
Bonker's Speaker's Corner #5
Bonker's Speaker's Corner #6
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| Sunday 12 April, 2009 |
A strange Sunday lunchtime spent at Speaker's Corner, witnessing the good, the bad and the bonkers of British democracy. But it was all really about the brilliant audioboo, proving once again that the medium truly is the message. Which is just as well, given the freedom of speech at Speaker's Corner that allows incitement to racial hatred to surface on the streets of London.
Bonker's Speaker's Corner #1
Bonker's Speaker's Corner #2
Bonker's Speaker's Corner #3
Bonker's Speaker's Corner #4
Bonker's Speaker's Corner #5
Bonker's Speaker's Corner #6
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