Showing posts with label london. Show all posts
Showing posts with label london. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
Monday, September 10, 2012
Wednesday, March 07, 2012
Thursday, August 04, 2011
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Mayors and graces
I received my London Mayoral elections booklet in the post yesterday. The 32-page pamphlet is being sent out to all those in the capital registered to vote and includes the two-page miniature manifestos of each of the candidates standing (minus one, who presumably couldn't afford the £10,000 contribution fee).
It's interesting to see which words the candidates are keen on pushing. Ken Livingstone's section, for example, shows that he is the city, using the words "London" or "Londoners" a total of 16 times. While that figure's the same in Liberal Democrat candidate Brian Paddick's section, the name "Brian" also appears 13 times. Just in case you forget who he is. And Boris Johnson – can it be a coincidence that the word "serious" crops up four times?
It's interesting to see which words the candidates are keen on pushing. Ken Livingstone's section, for example, shows that he is the city, using the words "London" or "Londoners" a total of 16 times. While that figure's the same in Liberal Democrat candidate Brian Paddick's section, the name "Brian" also appears 13 times. Just in case you forget who he is. And Boris Johnson – can it be a coincidence that the word "serious" crops up four times?
Sunday, April 06, 2008
Yesterday's pictures
St Paul's Cathedral, taken from inside Jean Prouvé's Maison Tropicale
Alex through the wine glass
Mini hidden by branches
Melting staircase
Sunday, March 09, 2008
Saturday, January 05, 2008
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Bad news
21 November 2014: Winter is setting in, and the freesheet distributors have intensified their reign of terror on the London streets. The chill darkness arrives earlier and earlier; each evening brings with it the pack of thirsty marauders and a new stack of damned newspapers. They thrust the fresh edition into your gloved hands and woe betide those who hesitate before accepting. There was once a time – oh so distant, now! – when refusing a copy of Thelondonpaper or its one competitor, London Lite, was acceptable, even common. But now, with over twenty different evening freesheets competing fiercely against one another, a walk home is like dashing through a forest of wolves. The old havens – tube stations, buses, coffee shops, pubs – are now patrolled heavily by vendors and it is a lucky man who reaches the safety of his home with a wad of newspaper less than ten inches thick. Some are duplicates; they do not care.
Do not accuse me of exaggerating the truth with frivolous verbal furbelows. I have seen first-hand the savagery of these creatures. Writing these words, my gnarled hand shakes as I hold the pen; mine eyes dart from side to side as I recall the events, which occurred this very day, almost to the hour, two years ago. Finishing work one dreary Wednesday evening, I deviated from my usual route for no particular reason that I can remember. Perhaps I was trying to avoid a tiresome colleague, or maybe I merely wished for a change of scenery. But how I wish I had never flinched from the safe monotony which drives us all forward! As I walked down that Fitzrovia alley – a place which lurks constant in my dreams – I espied five vendors heading toward my direction. Before they saw me, and knowing I could be in trouble if they spotted the rival newspapers I had accumulated, I quickly ducked behind a nearby bin. Holding my breath as they approached, I suddenly sensed that I had misjudged the situation. My suspicions that this was no normal distribution job were confirmed as I noticed, with jerk of panic, that the largest of them, a pale, greasy bruiser of a man, had streaks of blood on his shirt. He was silent, eyes to the ground; the others were babbling to each other in words that seemed, in my delirious trepidation, almost nonsensical. Still crouching, my hands gripped my shins in fear. Then they passed, and I was safe. This was, I am afraid, not the end of my ordeal.
After waiting a good few minutes to ensure the quintet had indeed left the scene, I continued down the alley. What I saw will remain with me until the final day of my life. The man, dressed in what I guessed to be his work suit, was lying in an odd, nightmarish position, utterly still. His clothes were in disarray: the tie pulled tight into a knot, the jacket suffering a large rip. Certain that I beheld a corpse, I suddenly understood the awful events that had transpired - he had refused to take the newspapers which had been offered him. Perhaps I am being dishonest, dear reader: there was an additional detail which helped me understand what had occurred, although the word "detail" does perhaps underplay the stark and ugly quiddity of this killing. The man's eyes had been gouged. Terrible enough, you might think. But protruding from the sockets, rolled up, were two newspapers he had refused.
At this time, in this city, just denying the vendors was a wild act of rebellion for which the deceased had paid the ultimate price. As the popular saying goes: there is no such thing as a free paper.
More on the freesheets
Do not accuse me of exaggerating the truth with frivolous verbal furbelows. I have seen first-hand the savagery of these creatures. Writing these words, my gnarled hand shakes as I hold the pen; mine eyes dart from side to side as I recall the events, which occurred this very day, almost to the hour, two years ago. Finishing work one dreary Wednesday evening, I deviated from my usual route for no particular reason that I can remember. Perhaps I was trying to avoid a tiresome colleague, or maybe I merely wished for a change of scenery. But how I wish I had never flinched from the safe monotony which drives us all forward! As I walked down that Fitzrovia alley – a place which lurks constant in my dreams – I espied five vendors heading toward my direction. Before they saw me, and knowing I could be in trouble if they spotted the rival newspapers I had accumulated, I quickly ducked behind a nearby bin. Holding my breath as they approached, I suddenly sensed that I had misjudged the situation. My suspicions that this was no normal distribution job were confirmed as I noticed, with jerk of panic, that the largest of them, a pale, greasy bruiser of a man, had streaks of blood on his shirt. He was silent, eyes to the ground; the others were babbling to each other in words that seemed, in my delirious trepidation, almost nonsensical. Still crouching, my hands gripped my shins in fear. Then they passed, and I was safe. This was, I am afraid, not the end of my ordeal.
After waiting a good few minutes to ensure the quintet had indeed left the scene, I continued down the alley. What I saw will remain with me until the final day of my life. The man, dressed in what I guessed to be his work suit, was lying in an odd, nightmarish position, utterly still. His clothes were in disarray: the tie pulled tight into a knot, the jacket suffering a large rip. Certain that I beheld a corpse, I suddenly understood the awful events that had transpired - he had refused to take the newspapers which had been offered him. Perhaps I am being dishonest, dear reader: there was an additional detail which helped me understand what had occurred, although the word "detail" does perhaps underplay the stark and ugly quiddity of this killing. The man's eyes had been gouged. Terrible enough, you might think. But protruding from the sockets, rolled up, were two newspapers he had refused.
At this time, in this city, just denying the vendors was a wild act of rebellion for which the deceased had paid the ultimate price. As the popular saying goes: there is no such thing as a free paper.
More on the freesheets
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Flat out
Me and Sarah are moving in together. It's great! But first we need to find somewhere to move to, and in this great and fraught city, that's no easy cabbages.
The whole thing's made harder by the fact that when it comes down to it, we really don't know where to live. Here are the criteria:
Oh, and yes, this will mean the end of the Stockwell Flats project. I'm sorry. It was just their time.
Any ideas?
* Update: We've found somewhere! It's in Kennington, which satisfies all the above criteria. Score!
Must be in London (yes, that rules out Hill Valley)Should be in zone 1 or 2, in the vicinity of some kind of tube station (preferably a good one)Can't be in Stockwell or BrixtonTravelling to both Paddington and Brixton must be manageableArea should not resemble hell, but nor should it resemble Mothercare
Oh, and yes, this will mean the end of the Stockwell Flats project. I'm sorry. It was just their time.
* Update: We've found somewhere! It's in Kennington, which satisfies all the above criteria. Score!
Monday, February 12, 2007
Camera + London + Me = Pictures of London
As Sarah's friends Becky and Chris were visiting from Manchester this weekend, I went all touristy, which meant doing some fun things I'd never done before. I ate an overpriced Argentine Steak sandwich in Camden. I bought a Jesus and Mary Chain album. I had a cup of tea in the Tate Modern cafe. And I went on the London Eye.
The London Eye is an excellent addition to the city's tourist activity roster, because it means you get to see views of London from a great height, without having to throw yourself out of a plane or waste time and money building your own jet pack. You can even capture your own images of the city from the movable pods, using portable photographic devices known as 'cameras'. Below are some of the images I extracted from the world using the aforementioned device.
The Millennium Bridge, named, of
course, after the Robbie Williams song
(it's clearly Brunel's Hungerford Bridge)
County Hall, which used to be a Roman amphitheatre
before pranksters moved Rome to London
The London Eye is an excellent addition to the city's tourist activity roster, because it means you get to see views of London from a great height, without having to throw yourself out of a plane or waste time and money building your own jet pack. You can even capture your own images of the city from the movable pods, using portable photographic devices known as 'cameras'. Below are some of the images I extracted from the world using the aforementioned device.
course, after the Robbie Williams song
(it's clearly Brunel's Hungerford Bridge)
The London Eye: basically made out
of cleverly linked white pipecleaners
of cleverly linked white pipecleaners
County Hall, which used to be a Roman amphitheatre
before pranksters moved Rome to London
Monday, December 04, 2006
Saturday's gone
Go to the pub with James on Saturday after an efficient house-moving operation. But throughout, I feel concerned about the fact that he is wearing green trainers and a red hoodie, and I'm wearing red trainers and a green hoodie, and how this might look.
Hop over to the White Horse on Brixton Hill for Toby's birthday drinks. Weirdly, despite its, er, 'trendy bar vibe', a number of the clientele are quite old. I point out a guy who resembles a 70-year-old Tony Blair. "There's a guy who looks like Prescott playing pool," says Johnny.
Toby tells me about the sadistic evening he inflicted on himself recently. Along with Ben (who harbours the most amazing Alan Lamb anecdote ever – I'll have to tell it to you sometime) he went on a pub crawl of London station pubs. And that's not pubs that are just outside stations, or pubs called 'The Paddington'. No, they had to be the hellish drinking establishments that are actually on the concourse. "We were the only people who were actually there out of choice," he explained. "Bonaparte's in Waterloo is an amazing place."
As I'm swiping my Oyster card coming out of the tube station, a plastic splinter of the yellow touch pad somehow comes off and lodges itself in my right thumb, between the side of the nail and the skin. It really hurts, and there's blood. I'm totally suing someone for that.
So this was fun: then I went to a (okay, another) pub to meet up with some bloggers. There was Huw (My Thoughts Exactly), Monica (An American in London), Astrid (*The Amazing Adventures & Untold Stories of Astrid*), Leonie (Sometimes Funny is All I Have), Curly (Hairy Tales), and Curly's friend Sud. All good people, and blogging is barely mentioned.
As closing time closes in, an extraordinary thing happens. The barmaid whose been telling us to get out comes up to our table wielding a signed Barry Manilow LP. "Is this anybody's?" she says, incredulously. Later we find the culprit and ridicule her.
We traipse off to Thirst in Soho. At first, it's pure hell, packed and musically upsetting. But then – and I don't think I was alone in this – it starts to become, like, enjoyable. But then all the booze I've drunk starts to weigh on me and it's time to go.
Feeling highly wrecked, I leave the bar. Unable to face the horrors of the Saturday evening night bus, I decide to walk home. On the way down Whitehall, two girls are dancing in the street. They suddenly start running and, without any consultation at all, jump onto the podium beneath the large statue of Field Marshall the Viscount Alan Brooke and start grinding against him, each with a hand on his nether regions. It is highly disrespectful, but bloody hilarious.
Reaching the Houses of Parliament, I stare up at the extraordinary architecture of the Victoria Tower Sovereign's Entrance, misty-eyed with drunken wonder and think, yeah, this is why you walk home.
And this is why you don't: going along Millbank, six guys are coming towards me. As they pass, refusing to alter my course, I brush against the coat of one of them with my arm. Weirdly, neither of us register this at the time, but a good ten seconds later, and a fair distance apart, we both look back. "Watch where you're fucking walking, you cunt!" he yells. "Come back here!" I glare, but silently turn down his kind offer. I have quite a lot of attitude sometimes.
Reaching Stockwell – the walk's taken just under an hour - I'm not that hungry, but I do need something, so, like the dirty addict I am, decide to indulge and pay a visit Millennium Fried Chicken. It's almost impossible to convey the look of amazement that appears on Shiva's face when I respond to his "the usual - two pieces of chicken and chips?" question in the negative. The poor man's eyes widen in horror and confusion. But I put in an order for a chicken burger, and he's appeased.
Fortunately, I have a new Tamil word to try out: 'Parkalam' ['See you later']. It works: Shiva returns to his usual state of intense jolliness and throws in a free can of Coke with my chicken burger. Heady times.
Another fun Saturday
And another
Other accounts of the evening:
Curly
Leonie
Astrid
***
Hop over to the White Horse on Brixton Hill for Toby's birthday drinks. Weirdly, despite its, er, 'trendy bar vibe', a number of the clientele are quite old. I point out a guy who resembles a 70-year-old Tony Blair. "There's a guy who looks like Prescott playing pool," says Johnny.
***
Toby tells me about the sadistic evening he inflicted on himself recently. Along with Ben (who harbours the most amazing Alan Lamb anecdote ever – I'll have to tell it to you sometime) he went on a pub crawl of London station pubs. And that's not pubs that are just outside stations, or pubs called 'The Paddington'. No, they had to be the hellish drinking establishments that are actually on the concourse. "We were the only people who were actually there out of choice," he explained. "Bonaparte's in Waterloo is an amazing place."
***
As I'm swiping my Oyster card coming out of the tube station, a plastic splinter of the yellow touch pad somehow comes off and lodges itself in my right thumb, between the side of the nail and the skin. It really hurts, and there's blood. I'm totally suing someone for that.
***
So this was fun: then I went to a (okay, another) pub to meet up with some bloggers. There was Huw (My Thoughts Exactly), Monica (An American in London), Astrid (*The Amazing Adventures & Untold Stories of Astrid*), Leonie (Sometimes Funny is All I Have), Curly (Hairy Tales), and Curly's friend Sud. All good people, and blogging is barely mentioned.
***
As closing time closes in, an extraordinary thing happens. The barmaid whose been telling us to get out comes up to our table wielding a signed Barry Manilow LP. "Is this anybody's?" she says, incredulously. Later we find the culprit and ridicule her.
***
We traipse off to Thirst in Soho. At first, it's pure hell, packed and musically upsetting. But then – and I don't think I was alone in this – it starts to become, like, enjoyable. But then all the booze I've drunk starts to weigh on me and it's time to go.
***
Feeling highly wrecked, I leave the bar. Unable to face the horrors of the Saturday evening night bus, I decide to walk home. On the way down Whitehall, two girls are dancing in the street. They suddenly start running and, without any consultation at all, jump onto the podium beneath the large statue of Field Marshall the Viscount Alan Brooke and start grinding against him, each with a hand on his nether regions. It is highly disrespectful, but bloody hilarious.
***
Reaching the Houses of Parliament, I stare up at the extraordinary architecture of the Victoria Tower Sovereign's Entrance, misty-eyed with drunken wonder and think, yeah, this is why you walk home.
***
And this is why you don't: going along Millbank, six guys are coming towards me. As they pass, refusing to alter my course, I brush against the coat of one of them with my arm. Weirdly, neither of us register this at the time, but a good ten seconds later, and a fair distance apart, we both look back. "Watch where you're fucking walking, you cunt!" he yells. "Come back here!" I glare, but silently turn down his kind offer. I have quite a lot of attitude sometimes.
***
Reaching Stockwell – the walk's taken just under an hour - I'm not that hungry, but I do need something, so, like the dirty addict I am, decide to indulge and pay a visit Millennium Fried Chicken. It's almost impossible to convey the look of amazement that appears on Shiva's face when I respond to his "the usual - two pieces of chicken and chips?" question in the negative. The poor man's eyes widen in horror and confusion. But I put in an order for a chicken burger, and he's appeased.
***
Fortunately, I have a new Tamil word to try out: 'Parkalam' ['See you later']. It works: Shiva returns to his usual state of intense jolliness and throws in a free can of Coke with my chicken burger. Heady times.
Another fun Saturday
And another
Other accounts of the evening:
Curly
Leonie
Astrid
Friday, November 10, 2006
Ghostsign of the times
Girlfriend's housemate's boyfriend, aka Ghostsign Sam, got some pics published in Time Out this week, as part of an article entitled Disappearing London.Sam's been collecting pictures in London of 'ghost signs', with the noble intention of writing a book. Ghost signs, by the way, are those old skool style fading adverts you occasionally see on walls above shops (move your eyes leftwards for one of Sam's), reminders of an era when there were shops that weren't either Starbucks or Tescos. No, I didn't realise there was such a time either, but I've been assured there was.
Anyway, if you know the location of any good ghost signs or have a photo of your own that he could publish, drop Sam an email at ghostsigns@gmail.com. If your picture doesn't look like a piece of crap, you could be featured in his book!
Read the Time Out article
Sunday, September 24, 2006
thelondonpaperwars
"Get yourself a proper paper! Proper newspapers here for 50p!" shouts the man selling the Evening Standard outside Euston station. With the recent release of both Standard-offshoot London Lite and new kid on the block thelondonpaper, and distributors on every major street corner and office thoroughfare, the evening newspaper wars are well underway.
Because there's only a London Lite seller on my particular office route, I often take it, though I do frequently hanker after the beautifully-designed and stupidly-named thelondonpaper, a shrewd cross between the Guardian and Funday Times, with an interactive bent (you can vote off columnists you don’t like) and fun colours (purple! green! other colours!). But when I’m taking a different route through town, I often get both, which is probably deeply annoying for the sales and circulation department of both organs.
Last night I discovered that my friend Rick gets not one, but four free papers a day – he picks up both the aforementioned newbies in the evening, a Metro for the tube in the morning and City AM, a free rag for city business types. He apparently goes for the latter because he feels sorry for the largely-ignored vendors, and gets worried they might feel discouraged. And well they might, facing such fierce competition.
The content of both new freesheets is so very superficial (celebs, gossip, silly news stories), one can't help thinking that if they got any 'liter' (perhaps with the launch of London Very Lite or thelondonpaperlite), they'd probably consist of the words ‘YOU ARE IDIOT’ printed in large letters in the centre of a plain white sheet. Maybe then you’d want a proper paper.
Because there's only a London Lite seller on my particular office route, I often take it, though I do frequently hanker after the beautifully-designed and stupidly-named thelondonpaper, a shrewd cross between the Guardian and Funday Times, with an interactive bent (you can vote off columnists you don’t like) and fun colours (purple! green! other colours!). But when I’m taking a different route through town, I often get both, which is probably deeply annoying for the sales and circulation department of both organs.
Last night I discovered that my friend Rick gets not one, but four free papers a day – he picks up both the aforementioned newbies in the evening, a Metro for the tube in the morning and City AM, a free rag for city business types. He apparently goes for the latter because he feels sorry for the largely-ignored vendors, and gets worried they might feel discouraged. And well they might, facing such fierce competition.
The content of both new freesheets is so very superficial (celebs, gossip, silly news stories), one can't help thinking that if they got any 'liter' (perhaps with the launch of London Very Lite or thelondonpaperlite), they'd probably consist of the words ‘YOU ARE IDIOT’ printed in large letters in the centre of a plain white sheet. Maybe then you’d want a proper paper.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Spare time
Generally I hate Wednesdays, but this one was swell. Finished work at 5 and tubed down to Oxford Circus; I was due to review a film at 6.30 in Soho. Walking round Noho looking for a guitar shop, I spied two hipster with instruments and asked them. They pointed me in the way of a place.
The guy behind the counter, as rude as you'd expect, was on the phone, so his assistant helped me out. I got some electric guitar strings (I have highly corrosive sweat, meaning I have to change them frequently) and he asked the guy on the phone how much they cost, and tilled it up. Then I annoyingly decided to get acoustic strings too. He had to ask which ones were best, then totallled it up. Then I realised I needed a cable. He didn't know where the cables were, so had to ask the guy. I picked one and he totalled it up again. Then I spied the plectrums (plectra?). Unfortunately he didn't know how much they cost (even the plectra! How humiliating!), so had to ask the rude guy the price yet again.
I headed along to the new Fopp on Tottenham Court road with my paraphernalia. The shop's massive, so big that they have a budget ambient minimalism section. Another nice touch: their 24 box sets cost £24. I bought R.E.M.'s Life's Rich Pageant on CD for £5. You can't pay any more than that for something you already have on tape, it'd be incredibly extragvagent.
Then on to the press screening. Went up to the screening room bar, where there were some highly pretentious movie reviewers hanging out and talking about who won the Oscar for best supporting actor in 1996, and so on. I sat down and did the London Lite sudoku. After a bit, we went in; the film was called Sleeping Dogs Lie and it's a low-budget indie romcom about a girl who once **** a dog * **** *** and her dilemmas about whether she should tell her fiance about what she did. Weirdly, it was directed by the guy who played Zed in the Police Academy films, who goes by the odd name of Bobcat Goldthwait. It was rather good. (Trailer here.)
After the film I dashed to an empty late night coffee shop and scribbled out some review notes with a pot of tea. I quite liked that image of myself, I should have taken a picture. Would've been better with cigarettes, of course.
As I walked to the Underground, popping into a few shops on the way (book shopping at 8.30pm! Thank you London!), I saw a guy riding a bike going down down Oxford Street with his girlfriend sitting on the crossframe, both laughing, and I felt a wave of happiness.
Did the Metro sudoku on the tube home - finished it by Pimlico, yesssss - and stopped off at Millennium fried chicken back in Stockwell. There was a delivery man in there wanting £60, but the boys didn't have the money for him as he was a day early. "Problem with The Man?" I asked Shiva. "Yes - normally they are come Thursdays then now they are come today," he said sounding unperturbed. I vaguely considered offering to pay the £60, thus earning myself around 25 chicken meals on credit. But that could be highly dangerous to my health. "Nandri, Shiva," I said as I took my meal and walked out. The chicken shop is one of the few times that London lets me feel part of a community, as well as allowing a short burst of linguistic posing, so I relish it. "Vannakam!" I shout, to Shiva's delight. A few words of Tamil goes a long way in this crazy city.
I got home. Jamie was watching a programme on More4 presented by transvestite potter Grayson Perry about how people spend their spare time.
The guy behind the counter, as rude as you'd expect, was on the phone, so his assistant helped me out. I got some electric guitar strings (I have highly corrosive sweat, meaning I have to change them frequently) and he asked the guy on the phone how much they cost, and tilled it up. Then I annoyingly decided to get acoustic strings too. He had to ask which ones were best, then totallled it up. Then I realised I needed a cable. He didn't know where the cables were, so had to ask the guy. I picked one and he totalled it up again. Then I spied the plectrums (plectra?). Unfortunately he didn't know how much they cost (even the plectra! How humiliating!), so had to ask the rude guy the price yet again.
I headed along to the new Fopp on Tottenham Court road with my paraphernalia. The shop's massive, so big that they have a budget ambient minimalism section. Another nice touch: their 24 box sets cost £24. I bought R.E.M.'s Life's Rich Pageant on CD for £5. You can't pay any more than that for something you already have on tape, it'd be incredibly extragvagent.
Then on to the press screening. Went up to the screening room bar, where there were some highly pretentious movie reviewers hanging out and talking about who won the Oscar for best supporting actor in 1996, and so on. I sat down and did the London Lite sudoku. After a bit, we went in; the film was called Sleeping Dogs Lie and it's a low-budget indie romcom about a girl who once **** a dog * **** *** and her dilemmas about whether she should tell her fiance about what she did. Weirdly, it was directed by the guy who played Zed in the Police Academy films, who goes by the odd name of Bobcat Goldthwait. It was rather good. (Trailer here.)
After the film I dashed to an empty late night coffee shop and scribbled out some review notes with a pot of tea. I quite liked that image of myself, I should have taken a picture. Would've been better with cigarettes, of course.
As I walked to the Underground, popping into a few shops on the way (book shopping at 8.30pm! Thank you London!), I saw a guy riding a bike going down down Oxford Street with his girlfriend sitting on the crossframe, both laughing, and I felt a wave of happiness.
Did the Metro sudoku on the tube home - finished it by Pimlico, yesssss - and stopped off at Millennium fried chicken back in Stockwell. There was a delivery man in there wanting £60, but the boys didn't have the money for him as he was a day early. "Problem with The Man?" I asked Shiva. "Yes - normally they are come Thursdays then now they are come today," he said sounding unperturbed. I vaguely considered offering to pay the £60, thus earning myself around 25 chicken meals on credit. But that could be highly dangerous to my health. "Nandri, Shiva," I said as I took my meal and walked out. The chicken shop is one of the few times that London lets me feel part of a community, as well as allowing a short burst of linguistic posing, so I relish it. "Vannakam!" I shout, to Shiva's delight. A few words of Tamil goes a long way in this crazy city.
I got home. Jamie was watching a programme on More4 presented by transvestite potter Grayson Perry about how people spend their spare time.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Saturday
Due to the paucity of posts of late, I thought I'd document a day in my life in minute detail. I had no idea it would happen like this. But that's life I guess...
(With insincere apologies to Ian McEwan.)
8.51am Wake up, go to toilet and fill empty water bottle.
9am Ponder why I’m unable to lie in any more. I used to be able to sleep for hours and hours. Get annoyed about this.
9.20am Sit up and start reading the next chapter of James Robinson’s The Gospel of Gideon Mack. At the moment this vicar – who is about to go mad after meeting Satan – is talking about long-distance running. I used to run a lot when I was 17, 18, 19. But no more.
9.40am Decide to go for run. Make necessary preparations.
9.45am Walk out the door of the flat and start stretching. Go outside and start running towards Clapham High Street. I'm running! I aim for the Common, but I'm pretty knackered by the time I get there. I run across the Common, go into the library and look through the books. I think it’s just an excuse to have a rest. I walk up the high street then hop on an empty bus which carries me back towards Stockwell.
10.30am Get back. Drink lots of Orange juice. Have shower. Get dressed. Feel quite empowered thanks to the run – like I can have a genuinely productive day. Wow!
11.05am Flick TV on. Music videos are playing on E4. I don't normally watch music videos, but The Smiths' There is a Light that Never Goes Out is playing. Lots of shots of Morrissey and Morrissey look-alikes riding bikes through Salford.
11.10am Make tea and beans on toast.
11.20am Stick on Bob Dylan DVD. Watch it eating beans on toast. Things Have Changed video is fab. It nicely intercuts shots of Dylan singing with scenes from the Wonderboys film, making it look like he's turning into Michael Douglas's character and back. It nicely sums up the role of the artist - both living a life but also outside of life commenting on it. Another great thing about the video: Bob tries to 'do facial expressions'.
11.31am Phone rings. A foreign lady says "Good morning." Pause while I wait for the sell. Realise I'm expected to say 'good morning' before this can proceed. "Good morning," I say. She's trying to get hold of someone whose name I will never be able to spell. Something like, "Mr Dhordonashyenaleandethon". Wrong number, I say and hang up.
11.33am Phone rings again. The woman is crazy! "Who is this? This is the number they give me to ring." We try to work things out, but her poor grasp of English means we don’t really get anywhere. I start to get annoyed that she doesn’t seem to believe I’m not harbouring this Dhordonashyenaleandethon character. "I'm afraid you're going to have to sort this out for yourself," I say. She doesn’t understand. "Goodbye," I say emphatically, and hang up.
11.38am Phone rings again. I wonder whether to answer it. I decide not to.
11.39am I give in and answer it. "I want to speak to Tony."
"There's no Tony here!" I say.
"Dhoni, dhoni."
"No! Wrong number!"
"Okay," she says in a resigned voice.
11.51am Watch more music videos. Radiohead’s Just. Radiohead playing guitars! Those were the days. Then Work It by Missy Elliot - "It's yr fribaderba yep yep".
12.05pm Hear the key in the door. Jamie is back from a night in Glasgow. Work flew him up there to go drinking with XFM people. No, I don't know how he does it either.
12.07pm Try to finish off this review I’m writing. It’s 400 words about the new album by an obscure ambient electronica duo called Infantjoy. Not particularly easy to write.
1.15pm Dan arrives at the flat – we're going to see Onto the Streets, an exhibition of contemporary London street photography in Brixton. Apparently there's a house party later in Marylebone, which I have inexplicably not been invited to.
1.30pm Me, Jamie and Dan leave the house to go to Photofusion ("London's largest independent photography resource centre"). The exhibition is great - particularly the pictures by Nick Turpin and Matt Stuart - but small. We're only there for about 10 minutes. What now? I unwisely suggest the pub.
2.20pm We go to Living and get some beers in. No one has change, so we have to do rounds. Jollity ensues. For three hours.
5.25pm Get to Circle bar to watch England v Andorra. We meet Badger who's annoyed because we're late. He tells us about a recent holiday where missed a flight and had to spend 15 hours at the airport. To survive, he got wrecked on vodka and because of a lack of space, ended up trying to sleep on an air hockey table, loading it up with pound coins because he thought it would be more comfortable with air blowing out the holes. Badger is in the anecdotal zone. Later, Dan to Badger: "So you're onstage in Moulin Rouge getting off with a girl? Shut up! Shut up!"
6.35pm England are winning 5-0. I leave Circle bar and get the tube to Charing Cross. Wow, I'm quite drunk. That's what happens when you drink on an empty stomach, apparently. I'll never learn.
7.05pm Get to Fire and Stone trendy pizza restaurant – we're celebrating Macca's last day in London (he's moving to Bristol). Macca knows I'm pished, so introduces me to people quickly and ushers me away from them so I don't say anything that'll offend them or embarrass him. The restaurant serves pizzas all named after different places in the world. I order a Peking. Service is slow. Spend most of the time talking to someone called Julia about myself. Poor girl.
10.15pm We all split the bill. Ian is livid. "Twenty-three quid for a pizza and a glass of wine?" he rages. I knew this would happen. That's why I had a starter.
10.30pm We walk to Soho and go to a barclub called Lupos. The promised lashings of Bon Jovi are not forthcoming. But the shots of sambuca are. Now I'm really drunk. I tell Macca's brother's girlfriend that I own the single I Like to Move It Move It by Real 2 Real featuring the Mad Stuntman on cassette. She is well impressed. The music begins to get cheesier.
12.58am The DJ plays Johnny B Goode. I phone Dan and yell down the phone "Chuck? Chuck! This is Marvin! Your cousin? Marvin Berry? You know that new sound you’re looking for? Well listen to this!"
1am Most of the group have left, and it’s all gone a bit coupley. Me and Hugh Dennis lookalike James stand at the bar smoking Lucky Strikes. I leave, hoping to head up to Marylebone for a house party. Phone Dan, but he says the party's over. Doh.
1.02am Start drunken dialling while walking down Oxford Street. Phone Sarah, Kearns, Sharma, Birdy and Jamie. None pick up.
1.12am Birdy phones back from a noisy club and yells, "Will! I’m in Po Na Na! In Brighton! Will! I can't hear you! Goodbye!"
1.40am Text from Jamie. "We're back at the flat, have booze & poppers. Expect mess."
2am I get home. I stagger into the kitchen and see Jamie and Eddie and two girls I don't know. Jack Daniels is being drunk and poppers sniffed. I talk shit for about an hour, and lurch around.
3.15am I've sobered up a bit now, though all is relative. Go into the lounge and play the guitar while Run Lola Run plays on the TV. As I watch the flame-haired German running through city streets, I realise that I was doing the same thing 18 hours earlier.
4.02am I say my goodnights to the kitchen revellers, who're trying to work out how to get home. I go to bed.
(With insincere apologies to Ian McEwan.)
8.51am Wake up, go to toilet and fill empty water bottle.
9am Ponder why I’m unable to lie in any more. I used to be able to sleep for hours and hours. Get annoyed about this.
9.20am Sit up and start reading the next chapter of James Robinson’s The Gospel of Gideon Mack. At the moment this vicar – who is about to go mad after meeting Satan – is talking about long-distance running. I used to run a lot when I was 17, 18, 19. But no more.
9.40am Decide to go for run. Make necessary preparations.
9.45am Walk out the door of the flat and start stretching. Go outside and start running towards Clapham High Street. I'm running! I aim for the Common, but I'm pretty knackered by the time I get there. I run across the Common, go into the library and look through the books. I think it’s just an excuse to have a rest. I walk up the high street then hop on an empty bus which carries me back towards Stockwell.
10.30am Get back. Drink lots of Orange juice. Have shower. Get dressed. Feel quite empowered thanks to the run – like I can have a genuinely productive day. Wow!
11.05am Flick TV on. Music videos are playing on E4. I don't normally watch music videos, but The Smiths' There is a Light that Never Goes Out is playing. Lots of shots of Morrissey and Morrissey look-alikes riding bikes through Salford.
11.10am Make tea and beans on toast.
11.20am Stick on Bob Dylan DVD. Watch it eating beans on toast. Things Have Changed video is fab. It nicely intercuts shots of Dylan singing with scenes from the Wonderboys film, making it look like he's turning into Michael Douglas's character and back. It nicely sums up the role of the artist - both living a life but also outside of life commenting on it. Another great thing about the video: Bob tries to 'do facial expressions'.
11.31am Phone rings. A foreign lady says "Good morning." Pause while I wait for the sell. Realise I'm expected to say 'good morning' before this can proceed. "Good morning," I say. She's trying to get hold of someone whose name I will never be able to spell. Something like, "Mr Dhordonashyenaleandethon". Wrong number, I say and hang up.
11.33am Phone rings again. The woman is crazy! "Who is this? This is the number they give me to ring." We try to work things out, but her poor grasp of English means we don’t really get anywhere. I start to get annoyed that she doesn’t seem to believe I’m not harbouring this Dhordonashyenaleandethon character. "I'm afraid you're going to have to sort this out for yourself," I say. She doesn’t understand. "Goodbye," I say emphatically, and hang up.
11.38am Phone rings again. I wonder whether to answer it. I decide not to.
11.39am I give in and answer it. "I want to speak to Tony."
"There's no Tony here!" I say.
"Dhoni, dhoni."
"No! Wrong number!"
"Okay," she says in a resigned voice.
11.51am Watch more music videos. Radiohead’s Just. Radiohead playing guitars! Those were the days. Then Work It by Missy Elliot - "It's yr fribaderba yep yep".
12.05pm Hear the key in the door. Jamie is back from a night in Glasgow. Work flew him up there to go drinking with XFM people. No, I don't know how he does it either.
12.07pm Try to finish off this review I’m writing. It’s 400 words about the new album by an obscure ambient electronica duo called Infantjoy. Not particularly easy to write.
1.15pm Dan arrives at the flat – we're going to see Onto the Streets, an exhibition of contemporary London street photography in Brixton. Apparently there's a house party later in Marylebone, which I have inexplicably not been invited to.
1.30pm Me, Jamie and Dan leave the house to go to Photofusion ("London's largest independent photography resource centre"). The exhibition is great - particularly the pictures by Nick Turpin and Matt Stuart - but small. We're only there for about 10 minutes. What now? I unwisely suggest the pub.
2.20pm We go to Living and get some beers in. No one has change, so we have to do rounds. Jollity ensues. For three hours.
5.25pm Get to Circle bar to watch England v Andorra. We meet Badger who's annoyed because we're late. He tells us about a recent holiday where missed a flight and had to spend 15 hours at the airport. To survive, he got wrecked on vodka and because of a lack of space, ended up trying to sleep on an air hockey table, loading it up with pound coins because he thought it would be more comfortable with air blowing out the holes. Badger is in the anecdotal zone. Later, Dan to Badger: "So you're onstage in Moulin Rouge getting off with a girl? Shut up! Shut up!"
6.35pm England are winning 5-0. I leave Circle bar and get the tube to Charing Cross. Wow, I'm quite drunk. That's what happens when you drink on an empty stomach, apparently. I'll never learn.
7.05pm Get to Fire and Stone trendy pizza restaurant – we're celebrating Macca's last day in London (he's moving to Bristol). Macca knows I'm pished, so introduces me to people quickly and ushers me away from them so I don't say anything that'll offend them or embarrass him. The restaurant serves pizzas all named after different places in the world. I order a Peking. Service is slow. Spend most of the time talking to someone called Julia about myself. Poor girl.
10.15pm We all split the bill. Ian is livid. "Twenty-three quid for a pizza and a glass of wine?" he rages. I knew this would happen. That's why I had a starter.
10.30pm We walk to Soho and go to a barclub called Lupos. The promised lashings of Bon Jovi are not forthcoming. But the shots of sambuca are. Now I'm really drunk. I tell Macca's brother's girlfriend that I own the single I Like to Move It Move It by Real 2 Real featuring the Mad Stuntman on cassette. She is well impressed. The music begins to get cheesier.
12.58am The DJ plays Johnny B Goode. I phone Dan and yell down the phone "Chuck? Chuck! This is Marvin! Your cousin? Marvin Berry? You know that new sound you’re looking for? Well listen to this!"
1am Most of the group have left, and it’s all gone a bit coupley. Me and Hugh Dennis lookalike James stand at the bar smoking Lucky Strikes. I leave, hoping to head up to Marylebone for a house party. Phone Dan, but he says the party's over. Doh.
1.02am Start drunken dialling while walking down Oxford Street. Phone Sarah, Kearns, Sharma, Birdy and Jamie. None pick up.
1.12am Birdy phones back from a noisy club and yells, "Will! I’m in Po Na Na! In Brighton! Will! I can't hear you! Goodbye!"
1.40am Text from Jamie. "We're back at the flat, have booze & poppers. Expect mess."
2am I get home. I stagger into the kitchen and see Jamie and Eddie and two girls I don't know. Jack Daniels is being drunk and poppers sniffed. I talk shit for about an hour, and lurch around.
3.15am I've sobered up a bit now, though all is relative. Go into the lounge and play the guitar while Run Lola Run plays on the TV. As I watch the flame-haired German running through city streets, I realise that I was doing the same thing 18 hours earlier.
4.02am I say my goodnights to the kitchen revellers, who're trying to work out how to get home. I go to bed.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
"This city desert"
Made Sarah a "you're moving to London" CD this week – she's got a flat in Archway and a job in Brixton for September - but when I'd finished compiling it, I realised there were some really anti-London lyrics in there. I hope she doesn't get the wrong message. Here are the tracks, followed by some of the deliciously depressing lyrics.
1. Ldn – Lily Allen
"A fella looking dapper, but he's sitting with a slapper / Then I see it's a pimp and his crack whore"
2. Chelsea Morning – Joni Mitchell
3. Whippin' Piccadilly - Gomez
4. London Calling – The Clash
5. Upon Westminster Bridge – Half Man Half Biscuit
6. Come Back to Camden - Morrissey
"Where taxi drivers never stop talking / Under slate-grey Victorian sky"
7. London Loves – Blur
"London loves / The way people just fall apart / London loves / The way you just don't stand a chance"
8. Mornington Crescent – Belle and Sebastian
9. London Still – The Waifs
"Today I dream of home and not of London any more"
10. Blue Room in Archway – Boo Radleys
11. The Only Living Boy in New Cross – Carter USM
"Hello, good evening, welcome, to nothing much"
12. Mile End - Pulp
"It's a mess alright / yes it's Mile End" (and the entire song)
13. Waterloo Sunset – The Kinks
"People so busy, make me feel dizzy…"
14. Baker Street – Gerry Rafferty
"This city desert makes you feel so cold / It's got so many people, but it's got no soul"
15. London's Burning – The Clash
"London's burning / With boredom now"
16. Chelsea Girls – Nico
P.S. Yes, I know, there are three songs here which aren't actually about London. Boo hoo.
1. Ldn – Lily Allen
"A fella looking dapper, but he's sitting with a slapper / Then I see it's a pimp and his crack whore"
2. Chelsea Morning – Joni Mitchell
3. Whippin' Piccadilly - Gomez
4. London Calling – The Clash
5. Upon Westminster Bridge – Half Man Half Biscuit
6. Come Back to Camden - Morrissey
"Where taxi drivers never stop talking / Under slate-grey Victorian sky"
7. London Loves – Blur
"London loves / The way people just fall apart / London loves / The way you just don't stand a chance"
8. Mornington Crescent – Belle and Sebastian
9. London Still – The Waifs
"Today I dream of home and not of London any more"
10. Blue Room in Archway – Boo Radleys
11. The Only Living Boy in New Cross – Carter USM
"Hello, good evening, welcome, to nothing much"
12. Mile End - Pulp
"It's a mess alright / yes it's Mile End" (and the entire song)
13. Waterloo Sunset – The Kinks
"People so busy, make me feel dizzy…"
14. Baker Street – Gerry Rafferty
"This city desert makes you feel so cold / It's got so many people, but it's got no soul"
15. London's Burning – The Clash
"London's burning / With boredom now"
16. Chelsea Girls – Nico
P.S. Yes, I know, there are three songs here which aren't actually about London. Boo hoo.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Tube analysis
Thought my London readers might enjoy this passage from David Mitchell's excellent Ghostwritten, which I finished at the weekend. So here it is.
As the fine denizens of London town know, each tube line has a distinct personality and range of mood swings. The Victoria Line, for example, breezy and reliable. The Jubilee Line, the young disappointment of the family, branching out to the suburbs, eternally having extensions planned, twisting round to Greenwich, and back under the river out east somewhere. The District and Circle Line, well, even Death would rather fork out for a taxi if he’s in a hurry. Crammed with commuters for King’s Cross or Paddington, and crammed with museum-bound tourists who don’t know the craftier short-cuts, it's as bad as how I remember Tokyo. I had a professor once who asked us to prove that the Circle Line really does go in a circle. Nobody could. I was dead impressed at the time. Now what impresses me is that he'd persuaded someone to pay him to come up with that sort of tosh. Docklands Light Railway, the noveau riche neighbour, with its Prince Regent, West India Quay and its Gallions Reach and its Royal Albert. Stentorian Piccadilly wouldn’t approve of such artyfartyness, and nor would his twin uncle, Bakerloo. Central, the middle-aged cousin, matter-of-fact, direct, no forking off or going the long way round. That's about it for the main lines, except the Metropolitan which is too boring to mention, except that it’s a nice fuschia colour and you take it to visit the dying.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Be Your Own Betjeman
Not sure why this happened - maybe I was temporarily possessed by the ghost of John Peel - but the last three albums I've bought have all been ridiculously eclectic. On Tuesday, Britpop-era Welsh medieval-folk in the form of Barafundle by Gorky's Zygotic Mynci. Wednesday: dissonant '80s Icelandic pop from The Sugarcubes' Life's Too Good. But the strangest of the three has to be Sir John Betjeman's Banana Blush.
Banana Blush, originally released in 1974, is twelve tracks of erstwhile poet laureate John Betjeman reading poems while a backing band play the kind of old-style jazz that may ring a bell if you've ever heard the theme tune to Jeeves and Wooster or The House of Elliot; the sort of tuneful jazz you get over the credits of Woody Allen films (tuneful jazz – ain’t that a thing!).
Betjeman has one of those English churchyard voices that don't seem to exist any more – a wistful, gentil grandfatherly lilt that comes from another time. When he mentions Camden and Finsbury Park, you know he's talking about a London that's no longer there.
Viva l'ecclectic!
Banana Blush, originally released in 1974, is twelve tracks of erstwhile poet laureate John Betjeman reading poems while a backing band play the kind of old-style jazz that may ring a bell if you've ever heard the theme tune to Jeeves and Wooster or The House of Elliot; the sort of tuneful jazz you get over the credits of Woody Allen films (tuneful jazz – ain’t that a thing!).
Betjeman has one of those English churchyard voices that don't seem to exist any more – a wistful, gentil grandfatherly lilt that comes from another time. When he mentions Camden and Finsbury Park, you know he's talking about a London that's no longer there.
Viva l'ecclectic!
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Rise against racism (and Iraq, and Coca Cola)
Went to Rise on Saturday, the London anti-racism festival. There was a scary moment when I thought it might have been a pro-racism festival as I thought the MC said, "Put your hands in the air if you're in the BNP!" and a load of people put their hands up. Then I realised he'd said "if you hate the BNP", and worried that because I hadn't put my hands in the air, everyone would think I was a racist, and beat me up.
But then I remembered that the guy had shouted earlier, "Make some noise for TRUTH!" and I had remained silent. And when he’d said, "Put your middle finger in the air against people who spread hate!" I hadn't raised my middle finger. I don't think I'm cut out for bringing down the system through body language.
I hope this doesn't count as 'spreading hate', but I hate the way these events always get hijacked by supposedly compatible causes. You turn up because you hate racism (or want to see Roy Ayres), and end up having to buy Socialist Worker, denounce the war in Iraq, back Ken Livingstone's reign as mayor, and censure Coca Cola (but not Pepsi Max, who co-sponsored the event). As if anyone who's not a Pepsi-drinking anti-war Ken-loving Socialist is automatically a racist.
Good music though. The Buzzcocks and Graham Coxon were great. What's that? Do I have any pictures on file of me and Graham Coxon having a friendly chat? Funnily enough, yes I do.
But then I remembered that the guy had shouted earlier, "Make some noise for TRUTH!" and I had remained silent. And when he’d said, "Put your middle finger in the air against people who spread hate!" I hadn't raised my middle finger. I don't think I'm cut out for bringing down the system through body language.
I hope this doesn't count as 'spreading hate', but I hate the way these events always get hijacked by supposedly compatible causes. You turn up because you hate racism (or want to see Roy Ayres), and end up having to buy Socialist Worker, denounce the war in Iraq, back Ken Livingstone's reign as mayor, and censure Coca Cola (but not Pepsi Max, who co-sponsored the event). As if anyone who's not a Pepsi-drinking anti-war Ken-loving Socialist is automatically a racist.
Good music though. The Buzzcocks and Graham Coxon were great. What's that? Do I have any pictures on file of me and Graham Coxon having a friendly chat? Funnily enough, yes I do.
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