Life is cheep

I’ll always remember it, I think. Time was when I used to ride my bike along the Grand Union canal as far as Camden Lock, and sometimes a bit further, for a spot of R&R. Enjoying the bohemian atmosphere at the Lock, I would sit and sip from a can or two, smoke a couple of fags and just watch the people doing what they do. For a variety of reasons, I don’t do this anymore, but it did used to be a regular event for me.


Anyway, on this particular day, I had stopped as usual at the Lock just behind the market and lowered my bike to the ground. I stood up and looked over the edge at the murky water turning into a shimmering curtain as it gushed through the old teeth and black painted blocks of the mechanism. I noticed a flurry of activity from some small birds (tits, I think, though I can’t be sure) who had made their nest in the sheer bank of the cut. There was a pair of them and they were fluttering their wings madly to stay in a hover and chirruping with all their might. I looked closer and noticed that a chick had fallen into the water, which was now boiling around it as the lock contents emptied themselves. It soon became clear that – whether because it had fledged too soon, or because its feathers were not waterproof enough – the chick was struggling to free itself from the grip of the canal. The parents were desperately trying to encourage their offspring up and out of the clutches of death, but could do no more than twitter loudly and repeatedly fly as close to the youngster as possible. It was a futile endeavour, I could see that, and the chick was clearly doomed.

This terrible tragedy was playing itself out in front of me, and I was as helpless as the adult birds. The nest (and no doubt this was ironically the reason why they had chosen to build it there) was set in such a place that it was very difficult to reach if you didn’t have wings and a body no more than 5 inches long. I looked around, and the usual crew of Goths and punks, rockers and Dutch tourists, were all oblivious to the life-and-death struggle going on so close to their stacked leather boots. Haltingly, a little embarrassed, I tried to draw the attention of those nearest to me, but I was simply ignored. I considered (but only for a moment) getting into the water to help the little bird; I looked around for a stick, but there were none long enough.

Then, in a matter of seconds, the chick was gone for good, buffeted away by the rushing deluge relentlessly cascading towards it, pushed under the water one too many times, finally and cruelly breaking its so recently developed spirit. A great sadness came over me at that point. I had witnessed the frantic efforts of two creatures, animals not credited with any of the so called higher qualities, trying with all their might to save their child; had seen new life struggle to resist the reaper’s scythe – and fail. Perhaps foolishly, I considered the life of the parent bids now that they had lost their chick. Would they (metaphorically) shrug philosophically and carry on, perhaps going through their mating rituals again and laying a new clutch in their precarious home, or would they be thrown into despair, perhaps splitting up and never seeing each other again?

Boris and his bikes

Thanks to a blogger for the image

Well, Boris is bragging yet again about his bikes. A quarter of a million journeys completed yesterday, so they say, and - obviously - a roaring success.



My thoughts so far? Well, the damned things are chunky enough. I haven't ridden one yet, but did check one over thoroughly on Kensington High Street on launch day. They have motorbike style wheels, and all of the fairings to hide the mechanism and prevent vandalism also add to the mass. They don't seem too slouchy, however, and I have been passed by a couple myself before indignantly (and with much puffing and panting) hitting my pedals and returning the favour. It helps of course that the cycles are the ultimate urban accessory, and so far I have not seen one (being ridden anyway - the little trucks that marshal them during the dead hours have passed Cally Road tube on more than one occasion) outside Zone 1.

Clearly, the intention is for the 'customers' to make short journeys, so a schlep up the far reaches of the Seven Sisters Road would not fit the bill. But I must admit that this also feels a little exclusive, as if the 'initiative' is too good for the ordinary crack smoking, white cider glugging, scooter joyriding inner suburbanites.

I do wonder as well - amid the sabre rattling Boris hoorahs - how many of the metal monsters have been nicked or damaged so far. This information may not be released with the same alacrity as the popularity figures.

Invisible

Apologies to Gerard Manley Hopkins.

I caught this morning Metropolitan’s minion
sad, twisted little turd of a non-official
jumped-up social inadequate with a cheap uniform
and an even cheaper mobile phone in his pocket
which he checked in order to record the time
of his pettifogging admonishment of my transgression.

PCSO Little was his name, and little indeed was his mentality as his barely literate scrawling carbon copied the shocking and heinous details of my crime.

‘CYCLING ON A WALKWAY’

I’m not – don’t get me wrong – one of these people who believe that speed cameras are the devil’s work, and neither do I condone the crazy behaviour of some of my fellow two wheelers who jump red lights with abandon. In 20 years of cycling in London, this is the first time that I have ever been sanctioned (and [touching wood] for the record, I have never had an accident in that time either. Surely that counts for something?) and I do feel that some context is necessary.

My bike, as is the case every day I ride, was locked to a cycle stand in Wilcox Place whilst I had my regular Caffe Nero fix before heading into the office. Wilcox Place is a pedestrianised strip of road opposite Westminster City Hall on Victoria Street, and there are a number of cycle racks ranged along it, which are all normally full by 9am. It is my habit to unlock the bike and slowly cycle the ten or so yards to the dropped kerb before launching into the traffic and heading to St. James’s Park station and the underground car park where I leave the bike for the day.

PCSO Little interpreted this action as breaking the law (somewhat amusingly pointing out to me that TfL have recently been ‘coming down hard’ on this type of thing) and was keen to point out the proximity to the council offices, as this somehow made the crime more serious. I protested that I had just unlocked the bike (indeed I can have travelled no more than 5 yards when he stopped me. I in fact thought at first that he was going to ask me a question, before the realisation dawned that I was being booked) and was taking it towards the road. Furthermore, I said that everyone did what I had done – pointing out another cyclist who wheeled past as we went through the ludicrous pantomime of noting down my details. I thought it unwise to present my TfL security pass as proof of identity, fished out my bank card, and toyed with giving him spurious address details, substituting a 4 for a 7 in my postcode for example. Something prevented me from doing so (knowing as I do that this kind of thing can spiral out of control with a quick call on the radio and an address check) and I watched him rip off he sheet and hand it to me before pedalling on. By the time I reached the office, the shower was already occupied.

I will appeal, I think, pointless as this will be, out of a sense of outrage at this pathetic man and his ludicrous jobsworth attitude. Especially in light of the recent furore around Jon Snow, and the less recent exposes of Messrs Johnson and Cameron.

But. Almost as promised, there will follow the answers to the capital cities question in my next post. I promise.

Dripping

It's like God (I do realise that precipitation is not a divine phenomenon, ta very much. Do you mind if we go with it?) is a repressed fucker standing at the urinal in the local after a couple of Fosters, praying (can He do that?) that the bloke next to Him will not have a bladder the size of Canada and will finish sometime soon so that he can have a little privacy. He could of course unleash a thunderbolt, or - if the Zeus thing is a bit crass for Him - just be omnipresent and move (simultaneously and instantaneously) to a time when He is pissing. Like a Horse. At the same time, He could be having sex with a virgin I suppose, which does throw up some interesting (if not already well explored - even hackneyed - via internet pr0n) ideas

But He doesn't. The dark clouds loom above and I left my bike in the underground garage at work for no good reason (apart from a nagging pain in the small of my back) in anticipation of a Noah-esque deluge. Then it was down the park with the kids for a kick about, and the odd spot made a pathetic attempt to douse the scorched earth, but never produced that Peter North moment. I settled down to watch a decent bit of 5 a side in the court, but didn't get anything there either. Blacks v whites and it was shite - largely because of some really annoying fans sitting close by me.

As I write, the sky is still lowering and the only dampness in the house (and even outside) is down to my sweat glands.

Bang!

I would like to point out that this post was published without knowledge of the Cumbria killings.

'Gun Salute at 12' the sign said, with the Royal Parks crown logo displayed beneath it. I thought: 'Fuck that!' and carried on cycling. But then a further sign appeared ahead of me, and a Bobby stood next to it in his short sleeved shirt. For a brief moment I contemplated an act of rebellion by zooming past the copper and pretending I could not hear his shouts. But then I thought: 'Fuck that,' again, though without the exclamation mark this time. A few sad people had started gathering, and I could see some boxes or some such laid out on the grass in front of a roped-off area, so I slowed the bike and rolled to a stop, laying it on the ground and easing myself off.

It was 11.52, and a few more people began to gather and watch the nothing that was going on in the park. I could see some 'soldiers' (you know the ones, all fancy costumes, bugles and horses, as opposed to the sandy types with built in video cameras that we've now grown used to) standing away to the left and was startled slightly when a large contingent of cavalry suddenly thundered across the grass, lugging six field guns, which they swiftly deposited before racing back to whence they had come.

The six guns (not 'six guns', if you see what I mean. They were a bit large to be pulled out of a holster) were laid out in some sort of Charge of the Light Brigade formation, with a group of cockaded troopers kneeling in perfect toy soldier stances next to each one. Bugles and drums sounded, and on the stroke of 12.00 a man, who was undoubtedly at least a colour sergeant, shouted:

'NUMBER 1... FIRE!!!'

A plume of smoke appeared from the muzzle of the gun, and - though there had been plenty of time to prepare - a split second later when the sound of the 'shell' came, it was absolutely immense. It resounded across the walls of Kensington and Knightsbridge and any bird nearby immediately took flight.

'NUMBER 2... FIRE!'

The blast was repeated, each time bringing the sound closer to where I was standing. After 6 volleys (I assumed this was to be a 21 gun salute, because that's the only kind of gun salute I know) children were beginning to cry and run away, holding their hands over their ears. I myself was already tiring of the show (it was rather repetitive) and started to wheel my bike away along the closed cycle path.

NUMBER 5... FIRE!'

To my left, I noticed a man (probably in his fifties, I would guess) who seemed to be fooling around, staggering theatrically and falling to the ground in the aftermath of the explosion in a pretend 'You got me!' kind of way. But I looked around, and couldn't see an audience for this amusing bit of mime. Then I noticed a worried look on the man's face, his brow furrowing as he struggled to stand up.

'Are you all right?' I asked him, pushing my bike towards him. He didn't answer, but continued to loll at the foot of the tree. I was by now convinced he was having a heart attack or a stroke and began to move a little more urgently, trying desperately to remember my first aid at work training.

'Are you OK?' I asked again. At last, he regained his feet and - looking half sheepish and half angry - replied:

'Yes... Fine... Thank you.' before scuttling away.

PC Plod suddenly appeared and flashed a beatific - almost bovine - smile. I asked him if he thought the man was all right, and he gave me the quite ridiculous response that it was 'probably the vibration' of the guns which had knocked him over.

'I don't think he's very well.' I said, as I watched the man walk off, glancing furtively around him the whole time.

'I'll keep an eye on him,' said the copper none too convincingly.

Torpor

Fuck this arctic weather pattern, rendering a coffee outside impossible. Fuck this snow, causing the old and infirm (and occasionally the young and fit - you know who you are) to fall down and strain, sprain or break things; leaving trails of salt all up the stairs; turning to filthy brown slush; balling itself up so that kids can throw it at buses; turning the news into endless pieces to camera by some idiot standing on a bridge over the M1 saying how cold it is in the Yorkshire Dales. Fuck it.

But worst of all are the postponements. The stupid bloody weather has stolen one of the few beacons of joy in the bleak, post-solstice world we find ourselves in by forcing the risk-averse 'managers' (I choose my words carefully) who seem so prevalent in life these days to cancel football matches. There is no justice. As some twat said on the BBC yesterday or one other day in the recent past - 'This is the 21st Century, and people want to know why we can't function normally just because a bit of snow falls'. Comparisons have been made with Novosibirsk, where everything runs smoothly in temperatures of minus 200 and octogenarians skip about in 6 feet of snow carrying 40lb backpacks full of coal. Which they will eat, rather than burn. Personally, I blame Fearne Cotton.

Anyway, as the City site says - somewhat dramatically - tonight's game GOES AHEAD! So, in the absence of any Gooner shite to show, I think I will take a punt that the local might manage to tune into ESPN and hie me down there to watch it.

Then tomorrow, with my injured ankle slowly improving, I will strive to emerge from the shell. If Carol on the weather this morning is to be believed, the temperature should be slowly climbing as we head through the week, so it will be time to put some air in the tyres, tighten the brakes a bit, don the gloves and hat and hit the road. I've had an idea to cycle to the end of each of the tube lines (with the exception of the Heathrow end of the Piccadilly, due to horrendous roads, though I may change my mind on that one, depending how the project goes) starting with the northern end of the Victoria Line. That shouldn't be too arduous from here, and will be a good introduction to the project. I will follow that with the northern end of the Piccadilly and work my way round from there, taking the odd picture and writing a few bits on here. Well, that's the plan anyway.

Turtles

So I have started to cycle in to the office again for the final few days I'm here. All well and good, except that there's a refurbishment of the changing rooms taking place at the moment. This means that I am forced to use one of the smaller showers located around the building. The one I like the best always seems to be occupied (for, I suppose, fairly obvious reasons) so I then just go to the next nearest one, which is actually inside one of the gents' toilet blocks on the 6th floor. It's not ideal, because the space in which to change is so cramped. It's almost impossible to arrange comfortably one's cycle bag, office clothes, towel, sweaty shirts and shorts and all the other paraphernalia, and it is very difficult to squeeze into one's shirt.

This morning did not constitute the best way to start the day. In order to make some space, I stepped into the shower before turning on the water. I was about to turn the lever when I thought better of it. Conscious of the potential freeze/scald hazard, I quickly stepped out again, carefully avoiding the clothes lain on the floor just outside, and turned the lever, allowing the water to cascade safely and checking the temperature with my hand before stepping in again. However, in doing so, I forgot about the lip at the bottom of the shower cubicle, and caught the third toe of my left foot as I stepped back in. Looking closely a little later, I saw that I had actually slightly cut my toe, which really pissed me off. But worse than that, I was becoming aware of an urge which I had thought was safely suppressed, realising with alarm that this was definitely not the case. Indeed, the head of the turtle was beginning to emerge from its shell, and no amount of buttock clenching was about to prevent its stately progress. I was in a quandary (almost a quagmire, one might say) but could not dilly dally too long, so I quickly grabbed my underpants and dashed into the toilet area butt naked, making a beeline for the WC. I was in luck. There was nobody else around, and I safely made it to the point of evacuation, doing my best to hurry the process so that I could get back to the shower before somebody did arrive. Again, I was in luck, and was of course even able to fully clean up any collateral damage under the hot stream.




So, relatively speaking, and notwithstanding the slightly gashed toe, all well and good. I contorted my middle-aged body as best I could into my clothes and gathered my belongings together, heading back to the now smelling WC to put on my shoes and socks, where one last surprise awaited me. I have been caught out before, but it's easy to forget when in a hurry. This being the Department of the Environment, there are many sustainability initiatives in place. One such is the installation of infrared flush activation in many of the toilets, and it is too easy to accidentally waggle one's arse or arms across the beam, causing the bloody thing to flush. Which is not so good when one is wearing one's trousers.

Jungo Merry

Took a ride today through the city to that most romantic of places. Peckham.

Nothing particularly inspiring about the ride there, apart from the Richard Herring podcast I was listening to as I pedalled, which happened to run for exactly the right amount of time (including a brief stopover for a Greenall's pre-mixed g&t. Fortitude was needed as I was attending a 6th birthday party. As if I have to explain myself to you lot anyway) If you are the podcast type, I heartily recommend subscribing. If you are not the podcast type, then quickly become so. Alternatively of course, there's YouTube things and websites and even live performances you can go to. If you are the comedy type, you will laugh, I promise, and if you don't, then you have no soul. The whole thing around 'cumpkin' is worth it in itself.

But, the ride back. Now that was something else. I chose naked ears for this return journey, because:

a) the podcast had finished and;
b) sometimes I like to soak up the atmosphere (which includes sound) as I ride.

London on a winter's night - weather permitting - can be a truly wondrous place, and a bike telescopes everything, allowing one to flit from one reality to another in the blink of an eye. Or perhaps just a little longer. Instead of simply carrying out the same journey in reverse, after passing Burgess Park, the Old Kent Road, Bricklayers and the Elephant, I unwittingly got caught up in the madness of Waterloo, and followed an RV1 bus into the road which leads to the London Eye 'launch pad' or whatever the hell they call it.

Cynical I may be, but the wheel is certainly an arresting sight as it heaves into view.

Then, faced with the choice of turning around and heading for one of the road bridges, I decided to dismount and push the machine along the South Bank to Hungerford Bridge and over it. Anyone who's been there will know that it comes alive in the early evening, with some great street performers and a marvellous light show laid out in front of you. All the way to the top of Villiers Street I went, breathing it all in.

Nice way to finish the weekend off.

Renewed faith?

Don't get me wrong, but I was pleasantly surprised to see one of our top politicians practicing what he preaches yesterday. I was on the bus heading towards the Angel, and we approached a set of traffic lights just as they were changing to green. Two cyclists were slightly caught out by this and started a little slowly, but one - riding a sleek racer - soon picked up speed and kept pace with the bus for a few yards. The other, who was perched on a far more utilitarian model, struggled slightly and laboured up the incline as the bus passed him. Something about him caught my attention; sticking out of his German army style cycling helmet could be seen unruly strands of platinum blond hair, and his head was moving from side to side as he pedalled.

I turned in my seat to look closely and was almost inclined to say something to my fellow passengers when I saw that it was your favourite and mine - Boris Johnson - muttering away to himself. Of course, along with that twat Cameron, old BJ has made a big deal out of the fact that he rides a bike, though he could hardly be called a champion of green causes, so I did wonder why he bothered. Cynical as I am, I just assumed that he didn't really ride around unless there was a posse of paps on his tail, thus maximising the photo opportunity. Like Dave, I believed that if and when he did cycle, he was supported by a large retinue of assistants, carrying his important papers and protecting him from assassination attempts.

I was mistaken. I hold my hand up. But as I said, don't get me wrong. I have no time for the man and his politics, his privileged upbringing and his lovable buffoonery.

It did strike me however, that Gordon Brown would never be seen dead on a bicycle (I hope I'm not being too horrid when I say that, for the sake of other Londoners' safety, I suppose this is a good thing) and it would indeed be an incongruous sight if he ever did get on one. As you all probably know, I do work in the Whitehall area, so often see old GB in and out of Downing Street, led by tough looking motorbike cops and a couple of Daimlers, and followed by blacked out people carriers and yet more motorbikes. So, the PM can't move without a major security operation, but the Mayor of London is OK to ride around like a naked baby through the capital's mean streets.



(sorry about the size of the pic - I'm new to yfrog and haven't worked out its mysteries yet)

It's a funny old world, I reckon.

Get on!

In this strangely balmy weather (I was extremely proud of my boss-dodging on the journey and - especially - arrival at Crewe for today's meeting, but turned up only 5 minutes behind him, sweating like a rapist, and was forced to bury my head in the sodding spreadsheet for about half an hour before I had managed to control my mortification enough to stop perspiring madly) I am considering pulling out Old Faithful again tomorrow.



As I sat on the sweltering 91 on the way home (at 8 o'clock, FFS!) observing the movements of the roads around me, my mind wandered back to a strange incident.

It was many years ago, when I was, for mostly economic reasons, a year-round cyclist. I can't remember why I was there; I only know that I wasn't returning from work, and that it was early afternoon; but I was riding north on Hampstead Road, on the stretch just before the 'Craven A' [I realise that this is wrong, but I will always think of them as 'Craven A' cats. Can't help it] cats factory (now a gym equipment company's HQ, I believe) when I saw a businessman, complete with briefcase, walking along. He was noticeable by the fact that he was mouthing invective to himself as he walked. I cycled along the road - enjoying the ride, as it were - giving him only a cursory glance.

Suddenly, and without any warning, he launched a huge gob at me, which flopped on the road just ahead of my front wheel. I was shocked, and didn't really take in what had happened at first, but I quickly began to feel angry. Anyone who knows me will testify that I never hesitate to avoid confrontation, but this time my dander was up! I whacked my handlebars with the spongy bits on my cycling gloves, and - gritting my teeth - turned the machine around before pedalling furiously towards my antagonist.

As I approached, I raised my voice and shouted 'Oi!' towards him.

He froze in his tracks and turned to face me, briefcase swinging loosely by his side. He reminded me of someone, and my courage began to falter. Ever so slightly. I stood up on the pedals and wagged my finger at him, saying:

"What the fuck d'ya think you were doing? I didn't do anything! There's no need to spit!"

He said nothing, but grinned at me manically. As I approached him, he suddenly swung his briefcase towards me, and then swung it back to try again. He yelled:

"Fuck off!"

and started laughing. At that, I began pedalling quickly back in the direction I had come from whilst almost muttering, only a little bit louder:

"You're a nutter, mate. Off yer 'ead..."

And the moral of the story is...

Incapacitated

Due to a ridiculous injury sustained whilst trying to negotiate the entry ramp to the underground car park at work with my bike, I find myself unable to function normally. I was attempting to put my security pass in my mouth so that I could ride safely down the steep ramp before the barrier came down. No doubt the bloody thing has sensors, but I'm always afraid it's going to bop me on the head as it takes a few seconds to sort oneself out before riding on. Anyways, the bike got away from me a bit and I could feel that I was going to over-balance and fall in a heap of sharp metal and concrete face first, so I took emergency action and yanked hard on the anchors, which stopped the topple, but meant that the bike caromed into my achilles tendon at some velocity, dislodging the chain and giving me a sharp intake of breath and a jabbing pain at my ankle.

Now, a pedal bash (sounds similar to pebble dash, doesn't it?) is an occupational hazard for any cyclist, and I'm almost always carrying a cut, graze or bruise on my lower leg, but I could tell immediately that this was going to be a sore one - though I did manage to ride the bike back home at the end of the day. This was probably a mistake.

The next day when I awoke, it was painful to walk, and so I hobbled onto the tube. As is always the way when you have a limp, you seem to come across someone else who also has one, and I was afraid, when the guy opposite me painfully struggled to get off the train, that he would think I was taking the piss. Luckily, the morning crowd at Victoria soon swallowed him up and so I could hop my way to the escalator without fear of such things.

Needless to say, everyone has been offering advice (see a doctor, use Deep Heat - er, no - take anti-inflammatories - er, yes) and needless to say I have ignored most of it, thinking that it would wear off in a matter of days. It hasn't though, and I have just started taking some ibuprofen, which seems to help a little for a brief period. If there is no improvement by Monday, I will force myself to attend at the quack.

It seems such a trifling thing, but is in such a vital place (I have previously suffered from a couple of stress fractures in my foot, so I am not unaware of the hassle of a foot injury) that it impacts on almost all areas of your life. Except using a computer, thank god. More than usual, however, the injury has made me think about getting old. Despite the systematic abuse I subject it to, my body has held up reasonably well so far, and though I'm no Daley Thompson, I can at least manage to ride to work most days, swim 42 lengths (soon to be 43) every Sunday and generally run around with the kids, playing footie or 'what have you'. As time goes by, I am of course likely to suffer from longer term and more serious mobility problems, and that scares the living crap out of me. I really value my independence (cycling is a true expression of that) and shudder to think how I would cope with either a mobility chair or simply lying in bed, waiting for the meals on wheels to arrive.

Tramps Like Us

So The Boss is on his second night up the Arse. Last night, I was caught up in the stream of humanity attempting to find its way to the stadium, and what a Motley Crue they were. I was standing at the bar (and, oddly, the pub didn't do the plastic glasses they normally do for football matches, though it was probably no less likely that one of the customers might have stuck one in the face of another) studiously trying to avoid making eye contact with the guy next to me, who was ordering JD and coke, Amaretti, straight Beams and scotch on the rocks (his phrasing) I know him of old and was more than a little surprised to see him, but the bar was so chocka that I dared not lose my place. I was successful in my evasion tactics, or else he was as keen as I was to not make contact.

I was taken by the greyness and plumpness of the audience. Most commonly, they were married couples, well into middle age, and looking very well-heeled. Out the back, a couple of guys peeled the wrappers off their Cohibas and sipped Chenin Blanc in desert boots. One woman, who would have slotted nicely into a Surrey bridge club, sported a black t-shirt bearing the lyric:

TRAMPS LIKE US
BABY WE WERE BORN TO RUN

She couldn't have looked less like a tramp (in any sense of the word) whereas the chap I met this morning at Southwark Cathedral couldn't have looked MORE like one. He was wearing a red jumper with black smears around the neck band, what once may have been a Barbour jacket and his hands were blackened. He also stank. He told me that he had been sleeping under some bushes outside the entrance to the cathedral for four days without food, but that, as today was his 59th birthday, someone had very kindly bought him a bottle of Ice White cider. He offered me a glass, but as I was driving I politely declined. He also told me that he made models of witches, and showed me one. I didn't believe he had actually made it, but it was quite a nice witch. I told him that my kids would love it and he offered to give it to me. I again politely declined because I couldn't have got the thing home whilst riding my bike.

"I did offer, though, didn't I?" he said in his Neath accent, and indeed he did. After that, he began to reel off a number of one-liners, sticking his filthy thumb in his mouth after each punchline. Here's some samples:

"I said to the doctor: 'I slept under a bridge last night.'
'What came over you?' he said.
'Oh, cars, lorries, bikes...'
"A bloke said to me: 'My wife's an angel.'
'You're lucky' I said, 'Mine's still alive.'
"What do you call a judge with no balls? Justice Prick"
"Why do women rub their eyes when they wake up? They haven't got any balls."

I can hear the warm-up act for Bruce now, drifting in through the window.

As we were riding along

I had started a post on women - my take on them, and my views in general about the fairer sex - but it seems to have disappeared. I had chosen my words with extreme caution and kept the post in draft for 2 or 3 days, but yesterday, when I signed in to finish it and hit publish, only the title remained. I really didn't have the heart to try and re-create it, though it was a little disappointing that so much hard work had gone up in smoke. Perhaps it's all to the good, and maybe I'll have another bash at it sometime. Who knows?

Anyway, in an attempt to improve my fitness, and now that both of my daughters are at drama school for 3 hours, I have begun to strike out for a weekend cycle ride on a Saturday morning. Richmond Park has so far been favourite, and today the freakishly sustained spell of hot weather we've been enjoying made the ride a little more taxing. By the end of it, with my far more athletic and immeasurably better equipped companion barely breaking sweat, I was to say the least glad to get out of the saddle.



I will persevere, nonetheless, and it was truly wonderful in the park when we reached there, with parakeets flying around and a sense of peace rarely attained in this sprawling metropolis we call London. We were even engaged in conversation (country style) by a man and his wife about whether or not we had seen the deer. We hadn't and didn't.

Other prime locations I aim to ride to in the coming weeks:

Epping Forest
Windsor Great Park (will utilise trains)
Hampstead (need more leg and lung strengthening)
Berkshire, meaning Maidenhead, etc (will again use trains)

Right now I'm gently humming, from the face to the thighs and looking forward to a glass or two of Shiraz.

Tarred

I know people will just assume that I'm a fair weather cyclist.

Back on the bike today after a fairly rigorous workout over the weekend and of course the weather is drop-dead gorgeous. There really is nothing to beat riding through London on a sunny morning - even if Boris is in charge. Anyway, why should I worry? I've earned my cap badge after cycling throughout the entire year when I was working in Hammersmith. So - na na na na na na!

Spent a day in Southend yesterday - the first time I've visited the place - and it was a very pleasant day indeed, though I don't think I've ever seen so many Hammers tattoos (and you can be sure that a lot of those geezers are going to be sore today, after a long afternoon supping Fosters along the esplanade - the sun bouncing off their shiny pates) in my life. Though the presence of large numbers of Man United tops may help to explain the dire performance of the Irons over the weekend. Capitulation is the only word for it.

It's an interesting journey from Fenchurch Street on the Shoeburyness service, similar to the West Midlands conurbation in that human habitation hardly seems to relent, apart from a stretch (I think) just after Basildon with huge fields of rape and the odd herd of cows or horses. Then you come to the estuarine verges of the Thames. The tide was out as we approached, so the boats were all sticking out of the mud like so many kids' toys, and the odd bark could be glimpsed on the shimmering water far away. For me it evoked the South China Sea.

Easter my worries

I am bewildered, almost constantly. I stare at the computer screen, conscious that I have about a million tasks backed up, but still unable to take one solitary action. Events are as the sea, relentlessly rolling in and engulfing me while I pretend everything's OK. Money - and (oddly) there seems to be plenty of it - is not sufficient to prevent the meltdown, and my stern jeremiads, or pleas for help, go unheeded. There are insufficient hours in the day, and those which exist are hijacked by Machiavellian mountebanks and frivolous frippery.

I struggle to find joy in those things which used to buoy me, and the pelting of the pitiless storms about our sceptr'd isle gives no respite to its pitiful citizenry. All in all, a fairly grim prognosis, but at least I'm still standing.



Oh, to die. And be resurrected. Lucky bastard, that Jesus.

Glimmer

At last, a sign of some rays. The last couple of days have been nice and sunny - heralding the approaching springtime - and the days are starting just that little bit earlier.

Despite an horrendous week - possibly one of the worst in service terms of my entire career - I still feel optimistic, and I'm enjoying being in the thick of things, although I'm not sure how long it's going to last. But, while it does, I'll enjoy it.

Been back on the bike, though the journey to work isn't really long enough to work me out, so I'm thinking of starting a Saturday cycling routine. Epping has always appealed. Funny how life seems just that little bit better in the sun. Catch up with me again after I've been back to work, and see if the mood is still the same. Till then, 1958 and all that. For what it's worth, I think City fans should of course respect the minute's silence, but it's not that big a deal really, is it? A million worse things have happened (and not just at sea) over the last 50 years after all. Toodle pip.

Abandoned baby

Butter wouldn't melt in my mouth.

However, I found (not nicked) a bike the other day. It was leaning against the wall at the northern end of the bridge over the railway line. I passed it once, on the way to the shop, scoped it out, and saw that it was in a pretty sorry state. But then I started to think about it.



It was like holding a knob of butter in my mouth.

On the way back from the shop, blue plastic bag swinging at my side, I made a decision to take the thing home. Once, many years ago, my vegan friend (admittedly pissed out of his mind) took a broken piece of privet back to his flat, with the intention of nurturing it, and this memory somehow resonated with me. I acted on impulse and dragged the machine the few hundred yards back home. The front tyre was flat, and by the time I reached home, the inner tube was snagging on the brake blocks, so I had to lift up the front of the bike in order to move it. I stuck it in the bin store.

Today, I decided to start work on fixing it up.



My kids helped.

The main problem (and there are many) was with the gears. Somehow, the derailleur mechanism had been kicked in, so that the rear wheel could not turn without snagging on the spokes. After about 10 minutes, I had reached the point where I could bend back the metal to rectify this.

After that, the mudguards were priority number 1. Various bits had become loosened or fallen off, so the mudguards were snagging the wheels. Needless to say, it was not by any means easy to remove them, but I got there.



With the kids cleaning, lots of swearing, and blackened and scraped fingers, progress was made. I started thinking that there could be a future in this...



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Zimbabwe

Well, what a weekend.

Took part in a sponsored cycle ride to help with raising money for educational materials in Zimbabwe. I'm quite proud as it was the fact of me sending a link from the Grauniad to an expat Zim colleague at work which inspired him to organise the ride.

We went along the Thames Path from Richmond to Windsor (about 30 miles) with a brief stop at Walton-on-Thames. In all, it took about 3 and a half hours, and it was a stonking day. There was only one English person there other than me, with the rest comprised of Kiwis, Aussies and Zims. About 20 riders started out. I was handsomely supported at Hampton Court, bunting was strung from the bridge and a brass band played Kumbaya as we free-wheeled past. Then we stopped off at Walton for a burger and then on we went. One had to take an alternative route due to unsuitable tyres and one developed a puncture just outside Windsor, but a replacement bike was found, and she was able to complete the course. Two of the people on the ride had their bikes stolen (don't I know how that feels?) the night before we started out, but managed to hire some in time. I felt pretty knackered yesterday, but not too bad this morning. I will be posting a Flickr pool tomorrow, but here are a couple of shots:


On top of that, the best City performance for 30 years! Oh yes!!

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More Random Irritations

Ally Ross strikes again. Maybe I should make Fridays List Day, or Annoyances Day...

There are a lot of cyclists on the road at the moment. We are always reading (thanks Ken) that the numbers are going up year by year.

Two things.

People who ride with the saddle in too low a position. Can't they see it? I can. The knees up around the chest every time they turn the pedals. It hurts me just to look at it.

People who ride in too low a gear. For some reason I become infuriated when I see people riding along the flat on the lowest register imaginable. I could forgive them if they were doddery or infirm, but invariably they appear young and fit. Why do they do this? What do they do when confronted with a real hill?

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Crowing

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But, for me:



Aaahhh, bliss

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