Out of my way!

On the back of the bus: "Can I make an appointment for this morning please?... I can't hear you... 9825831... It's for my son, Linford... Why are you asking me that?... No, why are you taking my details if no appointments are available?... There's no point in me giving you my date of birth and everything else if there are no appointments... No, he has to see someone... Thank you."

The woman who made this call is clearly angry all the time. She picked up the phone angry and confirmed her feelings by having the conversation with some hapless receptionist, almost certainly an elderly lady who spends her days dealing with anger and shock and whatever else from the thousands of people who call the particular surgery she works in.

I wondered about Angry Phone Woman as I got off the bus, watching her brow crease as she put the phone back into her handbag. Assumptions I know, but I felt that this was not just a bad day; rather, it was her modus operandi. Doubtless she was on her way to work, and I pondered on what sort of job she might do. I thought perhaps the civil service, or a law firm, either in administration, or - perhaps - ironically as a receptionist or shop manager. I can't be sure, but something about the way she dressed, the way she spoke, made me think that. Too smart for cleaning, not posh enough for senior management, not funky enough for marketing or sales. In any case what, I wondered, were the reasons for such a pugnacious attitude to life? A tough upbringing, with a strict mother and father? An abusive husband or partner, bullying her so that she has to pass the nasty on? A cruel boss, or an impossible job? A sick son? Whatever the reason, there's a hell of a lot of it about.

Maybe I will be Angry Phone Man today, after watching the hapless Villa at the Etihad, but somehow I doubt it. I've predicted 2-0 to City, and feel that we may get more than that. Famous last words, and my failure always to heed my own advice about not crowing may strike again, but my lead of 8 points at the top of our predictions mini league has filled me with a cocky bravado. Merlin is back at last; Carlos is surely due a goal, and Dzeko and Kun are both deadly.

Tower

I like an observation tower as much as the next human, don’t get me wrong, but there are limits. The limit is not only £15, but definitely £10 and maybe even £5, depending on the tower and my temporal position in relation to payday. Fifteen quid (£15!) is the amount one must pay to take a trip up the ArcelorMittal Orbit tower in the Olympic Park, the foot of which being where I was based this week on my latest stint as an unpaid crowd control lackey.

While I’m on the subject, safe in the anonymity of this blog (i.e., no-one reads it) I would like to have a little rant about TfL and the Olympics before returning to my theme. My objection, and I speak as someone on the inside, is that people have been infantilized by the way in which the pedestrian traffic is controlled during the Games, and this is something which the organisation does a lot. There is a feeling that they know best, and that the travelling public are congenital idiots, which is not always true. Punters are told which way to go home, and are not allowed to behave as independent adults. West Ham station is bloody miles from the Park, and, I’m reliably informed, Stratford is so well served that it can easily handle the numbers. Plus, I have not needed to be told to stop because there’s a car coming since I was about seven years old. Thank you. Now, back to the main story…

Of course, like all ‘public art’ in this country (I use inverted commas to highlight the debate over the project during and since its launch) it had a painful birth by committee and stands now to prove itself as art that can turn a profit. Boris has said that the entry fee ‘may’ come down once the Games are over, and the restaurant starts taking in corporate parties, but time will tell on that one.

Like a lot of the gumf surrounding these bloody games, the whole commercial element is perhaps  the most troubling aspect. In the park, the dominance of the main sponsors is there for all to see. Visa, McDonalds and Coke are literally everywhere, in your face, down your throat and up your ass. I was lucky enough to get a backstage pass to eat in the staff mess tent (it had a strong resonance with M*A*S*H for me)  and Coca Cola products are there arrayed for all to see. Take a Sprite Light™

 or a Coke Zero with your lunch; have a Sainsbury’s chocolate brownie for dessert; watch the Paralympic events via the BT feed… And on it goes.

The Olympic Park resembled nothing so much as one of the big theme parks. I’ve been to Disneyland Paris and to Portaventura in the Costa Daurada, and there were strong elements of both over at Stratford. Crowd controlled spaces, concessions all around, music playing to set the mood, corporate groups led by someone holding up a paddle emblazoned with the EDF logo, and thousands of people wondering around sucking it all up and showing off their privilege by spending their £15 on going up in a lift and walking back down a set of stairs. As I stood in the queue for the water fountains, with massive McDonalds restaurants to either side of me, I couldn’t help thinking (like the good Guardian reader I am) about the impending (current in some areas, of course) global water crisis, about the food catastrophe in sub Saharan Africa, and the looming food crisis caused by climate change in the USA, and it all seemed so… sick, really.

Putting aside the very valid debates about the Paralympics and their effect on the image and daily life of disabled people in these trying times, it’s hard to see how an event such as the Olympic Games can have any relevance to these issues. How are they contributing to making the world a better place? At lunch, I spoke to a security officer, employed by G4S. He told me that he had worked 16 consecutive shifts of 16 hours, and how he had not yet been paid for them. Around us were hundreds of others in white shirts or orange or yellow tabards, overalls and hairnets – everyone ‘making the Games’ – and I was almost awe-struck by the sheer numbers of people involved, beetling away to hold it all together.

In a day or two, the whole edifice will start to be taken down, famously recycled through the Commonwealth Games and other events, with the people left behind. To what? A big open space with an unused stadium, a large swimming pool and a piece of ‘public art’ that has to make a profit.

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?

Cups

It was one of those days which seemed to develop a theme of its own volition. The theme was litter, and it started in the early (ish) morning on my way into the office. A couple of guys were walking towards me and one of them casually tossed a small crumpled ball of paper on the floor, into a space at the foot of a balustrade. He smiled and walked on, laughing with his friend. Just behind me, a man who was probably a civil servant wearing a suit and trainers snorted in disgust:

"Litter bug!" and looked back in stern disapproval at the men. He turned back to look at me and said:

"Did you see that? Disgraceful!"

I nodded, clutching my Pret a Manger coffee cup in my hand and he went on:

"I hate that!"

"So do I," I mumbled and watched him stomp away in his trainers, shaking his head in disbelief.

I perched my now empty coffee cup on the bus ticket machine and left it there.

On the way home, as I was walking along the road, a chap came out of one of the shops and simply tossed a waxed paper drinks cup into the street. A small woman noticed him and said:

"Don't you have a bin?"

The man simply shook his head, smirking as he did so, and this response certainly got the woman's dander up:

"Disgusting!" she spat out, placing her hand on her hip in a challenging sort of way. I saw her point - frowning, imploring - toward a bin not 20 yards distant. This did not elicit a response from the loutish yob (whom I took to be something to do with the shop) in the doorway.

She carried on remonstrating with the belligerent shopkeeper as I moved out of earshot, surreptitiously tossing my empty pack of crisps to the floor as I went.

Little Dramas

This morning on the bus - that delicious ache when you could just stay where you are, reading your book; when a long, slow journey would be just the thing you needed, but you know it has to end. Rain pelting down and dirty brown puddles gathered around the feet. Each time the bus came towards a stop, a great rushing wash as the deep pools of water displaced and the doors opened.

I glanced ahead and to my right as my time on the machine was ending, saw a large man reading the Metro and snorting at one of the stories. Opposite him, two or three seats away from me, a woman's ID card (she was young and wearing glasses) had been abandoned on the seat. I contemplated picking it up and handing it to the driver, but it was just a little too close to the legs of the man, so I decided against it as doing so would have meant a) invading his private space and b) possibly entering into conversation. So I stood up and carefully moved towards the exit doors.

"Hello," came a voice behind me, "Hello!" I turned and saw the man pointing at the card. "Did you leave this?" Of course I did, you stupid cunt! Can't you see that the picture looks exactly like me? Why would I be carrying an ID card which belongs to a young woman with glasses on? Or maybe you think I dress in drag, whilst also undergoing extensive plastic surgery? Did you also notice that I was sitting 3 seats away from where the card was left?

It reminded me of a similar scene I witnessed on the same route, in almost the same location, some months ago, when someone picked up a phone which had been left on the seat. The owner had just got off, but was already out of sight, and so the person who found it was unsure about what she should do. A man standing near her said that he knew where the woman was going, and that he would be more than happy to run after her with the phone. As an observer, I was sceptical about this course of action, and the finder didn't seem too convinced either.

"Give it to the driver," I said, but nobody seemed to hear me, and the guy became a little indignant, thinking that he was being considered untrustworthy.

"I'm not going to nick it," he said, "I can get it back to her in a couple of minutes..."
"I don't know..." said the finder "I really shouldn't..."

I disembarked and left it all behind me.

Rubbish Day

Tuesday is rubbish day in Enfield. The lorries start rumbling before 7 o'clock, and there are two runs - one for the landfill, and one for the recyclables. Folks put their waste outside on a Monday night in anticipation of the Vultures' arrival. My walk up the hill to catch the bus to work starts at around the same time as the collection. Something, for some reason, depresses me greatly about the bits of trash strewn across the pavement. Not so much the fact of rubbish being on the streets - after all, this is hardly Mumbai or any other ravaged Third World city with populated dumps - it's more the lonely, random quality of the items themselves. It's difficult to describe why, but perhaps a simple list of the things I've seen might convey the sense of desolation I feel.

Empty pack of fusilli pasta
Box of 10 dinner candles
Pack of Ülker wafers
Sachet of Felix premium cat food
Müller Rice pot

The sight of these random articles, ever so slightly soiled, lying on the floor before me, fills me with an intense sense of melancholy.

Tube Lines

I use the London Underground a LOT. I commute to and from work every day, and - being a live-away Dad with a guilt complex - travel to and from my kids almost every day as well. It (the Tube, I mean) really is a fascinating world all of its own; a place full of intriguing tableaux and atmospheres which can change every couple of minutes as people get on or off.

The other night the train was crammed as I boarded for my second homeward journey of the day (I usually go to see the kids first, and then head home from there. It makes for a long day sometimes, but I don't mind too much) and I stood in the middle of the main door area, near the central pole. Two women were chatting directly in front of me, and one of them kept casting curious glances at a young man, who was sweating slightly, earphones in, tapping and sliding on his smartphone as he stood at her side. I thought perhaps he was with the women, but soon realised that he was not; the woman who was looking at him was switching her attention from his phone screen to his face, and it was clearly the content of the former which had piqued her curiosity. Then, the women got off, and I manoeuvred around, ending up by accident next to smartphone boy. I could see that he was typing a diary entry, and then I could make out the words he was entering:

"Remind prime minister that meeting with CIA tommorrow (sic) has been moved to 4 o'clock"

It may be of course that this young chap was some kind of Diary Secretary for David Cameron, but somehow I doubt it. He had written the note in an ostentatiously visible way, ensuring that those around him could see it, and was checking for reactions. He did so with me, wiping away a bead of sweat and making sure that I had clocked this nonsense.

Why, I asked myself, was he doing this? Did he hope perhaps to impress people, maybe pick someone up? Or was he living in a genuine fantasy world, thinking that he was moving through the corridors of power when in fact he was selling mobile phones in a shop in Oxford Street? I will never know, and that's what makes it all so interesting. Don't you think?

Getting there

The chap's face was almost comical. His eyes were half-lidded and a slightly crooked smile seemed to be playing on his lips. It's a dangerous game to make assumptions I know, but we all do it, and I had him taped as a cross between Harry Belafonte on the Muppet Show and a sardonic geezer you might meet down the pub, sipping on a rum and coke. The tube carriage was absolutely packed, and people were trying, as best they could, to squeeze on and get to work. A stressful time for all. But, as the train was pulling into Turnpike Lane and the doors opened to admit yet more people on, Mr Belafonte began to make grumbling noises.

"For fuck's sake!" he moaned, grudgingly making way, upsetting some of those poor souls who had committed no crime greater than getting the tube at Turnpike Lane instead of Arnos Grove or Wood Green. One man, a slightly battered looking ginger bloke with long hair and a balding pate, looked as if he might take further umbrage and start some vebal aggression at the very least. But it didn't happen. Everyone just got a little prickly and the journey continued.

(I'm sure Kun looks tired in this photo. Can you see the bags under his eyes?)

None of this was touching me too much after last night's stirring fightback against Chelsea; a game in which Samir Nasri at last started to justify some of his enormous transfer fee and showed that he can indeed be a world class player if the mood takes him. Typically French, one might say. All the headlines, for a team which has never been too far from the limelight in any case, were naturally about the Argentine prodigal son (if that is the right term to use) and his sumptuous lay-off enabling Nasri's dink to win the match. I didn't manage to watch, and yet again Talk Sport had the exclusive radio rights, which I find absolutely infuriating. Despite my support for Collymore in the recent racist tweet episode, I can't rate him as a commentator. He talks over his (even more irritating) co-commentator and regularly stumbles over and fluffs his lines in a feeble attempt at football commentary poetry. What's worse, and a sad sign of the times, is the way in which ads are woven into the stuff they say, rather than being suitably quarantined. In the middle of reporting a phase of play, they will suddenly mention some betting shop or other, urging us to punt our hard-earned cash on the next goalscorer or some other shite.

Anyway, the first hurdle is overcome, but there are many more to face before we can rest on our laurels. I can begin to feel a little more confident. Come on City!

Thicker, faster, harder

This week I was priveleged to be given a tour of the Olympic Park at Stratford. It was part of a drive within my organisation to get everyone geared up for the event (as well as to give us the latest 'be prepared for change' corporate indoctrination) because it will have such a big impact on us, more so perhaps than other Londoners. It was an impressive sight on what was a gloriously sunny day. Somewhat amusingly, the double decker red bus we were on broke down as we were exiting through the security gates at the end of the tour, but this didn't detract from a fascinating bit of sightseeing. Facts and figures from the irritating tour guide were coming thick and fast as we trundled around watching - and being watched by (at least in the case of the younger females on the bus) the gangs of workers dotted around the site.

The media centre, to be equipped with its own post office, launderette, shops and catering facilities, could accommodate 5 Jumbo Jets, wing tip to wing tip, across its floor;

the 17,000 flats built for the athletes were not fitted with kitchens, in order to avoid the risk of unnecessary fire alarm activations in the middle of the night; all heating and ventilation for the athletes' village was produced at a central CHP plant - contributing to the aim of making these the greenest Games ever; the cedar roof of the velodrome, designed with input from Sir Chris Hoy, was stained red by rhubarb juice;

the velodrome itself was naturally ventilated, causing spectators at a recent test event to complain of melting - though this again was the result of Sir Chris's involvement, and something to do with maximising speeds on the track; the lights on the main stadium, set to optimise high definition TV, were so expensive that they were only on loan for the duration of the Games;

200,000 condoms were being supplied for the athletes, and this translates to (ahem) roughly 8 shags per athlete. (although there are certain to be at least some of those with holes, and no allowance is made for lesbians or celibates in this number); trees to the number of around 40,000 were in the process of being planted.

I'm with Will Self, and think that the whole thing is despicable in the extreme, but it was hard not to be impressed - by the desperation if nothing else. Arriving at the venue, I opted not to wait 10 minutes for the DLR to Stratford International, but instead walked through the living hell of the Westfield shopping centre from Stratford regional station. Just like the millions who will flock to the Games come July. Here was the glorious end time of our consumer age writ large in neon and bold yet tasteful colour schemes. Here were play areas for the kids, classic rock favourites coming out of the loudspeakers, even outside the centre, and everything in the world you could possibly imagine and hope for. Most of the buildings (though probably not the world's biggest McDonald's)

on the Park are temporary and will be pulled down after the event, but of course the velodrome will remain, and either Spurs or West Ham or neither will call the stadium home. The pool will nestle in its stingray splendour among the 'greening' that is left behind.

The nation holds its breath, realising that the great Olympic dream is just a short term scam, and fuck knows where the economy will go once it's all over. But it's too late now.

Hamburger

Last night went to see Neil Hamburger at the Soho Theatre. The very fact of venturing into the West End on a Saturday night was a genuine novelty for me, and I was amazed at how busy it was around there. Quite a good atmosphere though, and a decent venue - downstairs at the theatre. The audience was a little on the thin side and truth be told, I didn't know what I was going to see. I felt a bit like Bob & Terry (once again!) in the famous episode: not wanting to find out the result. To be on the safe side, I eschewed the front row out of a sense of fear.

I used to go to comedy a lot, before and during the period when my friend Charlie was trying his hand at making people laugh, and have had a couple of memorable moments heckling. Phill Jupitus once called me Knife Boy at the Comedy Store, because I looked at him with what he described as a psychotic expression on my face. That night, I was as much a prop for him as anything else, and he got a great deal of mileage out of me. An example of how to deal with a heckle. Another time (this time I can't remember the comic's name) I threw in a mocking 'ho ho' at a weak-ish punch line, and this really upset the guy. He became fixated on me after that, and was reduced to mocking my (admittedly awful) stripy jumper. An example of how not to deal with a heckle.



Last night, having never heard of Hamburger before, I didn't know what to expect. He shuffled on to the stage, very much in the mold of Johnny Vegas, dissolute and disgusting, clearing his throat, hair plastered over his forehead, and conducting a long, cumbersome business with 3 glasses of spirits under his arm. I have since read a little about the guy, and have heard him described as 'anti comedy', deliberately alienating his audience, and being subjected to bombardment by small change at rock gigs. His jokes are corny and vitriolic, mostly aimed at easy targets, and very few of them made me laugh. Two did - both of which were about Michael Jackson, and one of those was - IMO - the pick of the night's entertainment. It went as follows:

"What do you call a group of black men, wandering lost in the desert; lost, desolate, abject, hopeless meaningless and pointless...?


The Jackson 4."

The other was a pleasingly repulsive dig at Jackson and his baby dangling stunt, which made me laugh loud & long. Other than that, I failed to really get his schtick, and felt as if I was waiting for the act to really take off. Which it never did. I love irony, don't get me wrong, but this felt too contrived and without much of a point. The Hamburger character seemed ill-defined, and one could not quite grasp him. The small audience was undoubtedly a factor, and there wasn't a great deal of energy in those that they were there, comprised as it was of those (like me) who didn't know what they were going to get, and others (like the fucking annoying, constantly braying twat in front of us) who were pure fanboys. It appears to me that the character would really thrive on a genuinely hostile crowd such as those I've read about when he has gigged at Tenacious D concerts.

In all, an interesting evening, but not an unqualified success.

My Self

Realising that I have far too much Will Self in my book collection, I nonetheless embarked on The Butt  recently. Not one of his best (he can be patchy, though I love the best - Great Apes, for example. Or The Book of Dave, whilst I found Liver a bit of a drag) it is nonetheless redolent of Graham Greene - it even has an Honorary Consul, as well as plenty of sweaty hat brims - and JG Ballard, creating a dystopian, nightmarish land (Australia? Not quite. Which is odd) with ridiculous, overblown laws and customs, and strangers who bear uncanny resemblances to family members. Yet it is somewhat rambling; does not hold the attention well enough, does not have the same terrifying believablilty of Ballard at his best, the same depth of feeling of Greene at his best, and fails - I would venture to suggest - to strike the right balance of black humour and terror. Needless to say, there is also the obligatory over-use of the thesaurus. Far be it from me to pejoratively cast anyone as 'brainy' for using big words. Heaven knows, I used to go through back issues of the Reader's Digest like a whirling Dervish looking for the 'It Pays To Improve Your Wordpower' section. But still, there's a slight clunkiness about the sprinkling of 'empurplement' and 'ever-ramifying' throughout the text which - I daresay - lessens the narrative power of the tale.

The most unsatisfying aspect of the novel by far though is Self's decision to take on an American voice in his main character, the anti-hero Tom. Will is nothing if not quintessentially English, and I feel that the device (of having Tom come from the USA) in order to contrast the power of this nation with the faded and pathetic post-colonial England as emodied by Prentice hardly seems worth it. Tom does not come across as a real American, despite Self having him use words like 'mall' and 'buddy' and one squirms a little on these occasions, it has to be said. Maybe it wouldn't have been possible for an Englishman to have had the limitless credit facilities which Tom seems able to draw on or some other such consideration, but I must register my protest.

Nonetheless, I wouldn't wish to suggest that this is a gimcrack book. There are some excellent sequences, and Self frequently captures the moment in a few choice words (particularly his descriptions of off-season tourist locales - sad, jaded and corrupt. Wonderful) and there are occasions when - sweltering on the 329 bus as it crawls up Green Lanes with its mad cargo of London folk - like the buildings - thrust haphazardly against one another that I struggle to discern where the book ends and reality begins. An Asian girl chatters non-stop into her mobile phone, a family of fat kids stare intently across the aisle, a baby wails incessantly and the automated voice tells all that 'seats are available on the upper deck'.

Costa Coffin

How saddened I was to pass what was the Gaff (before that, it was the King's Head) only to see it miraculously transformed into a fucking Costa Coffee shop. I feel, along with Mark Steel - and I'm sure plenty of other people - that the homogenisation of our town and city centres is one of the more depressing aspects of the modern world. It's not that I was a particular fan of the Gaff, though I did occasionally pop in when it was still the King's Head, and was at least happy that - even just a few months ago - the place hosted such luminaries as the UK Subs at live gigs. The fact that it is now yet another link in an unwanted chain, in an area which has managed to retain at least a relative level of localism, sort of crushes the soul a little bit.

Why - how - do we need a coffee shop on the Holloway Road, when we have so many places doing just that already? I regularly get a coffee at a Moroccan place near the Coronet, and it's always good, and reasonably priced at £1.25. If you wish, you can have cream cakes for around a quid, crepes, croissants, trifles, sandwiches, baked potatoes... All the time, people of North African descent drop in and chat animatedly over an espresso, thankfully drowning out the sound of Heart FM on the radio. As with Caledonian Road not far away, ludicrously equipped with 5 mini supermarkets in the space of a few hundred yards, it won't be long before the smaller independents are driven out of business by the thundering juggernaut of Tesco or whichever other multinational corporation.

Costa Coffee will never - despite its weasel words on Rainforest Alliance and corporate responsibility - host a UK Subs gig. Another nail in the coffin of British pub life, this will not enrich our lives. Don't even get me started on the sodding Sainsbury opening up under the student flats...

Pushing

Sometimes this city is so enervating. The relentless push to get somewhere; the lack of understanding that there could potentially be others occupying the space into which you are about to charge; the queues and the unsmiling unhappy faces. My work now regularly takes me down Buckingham Palace Road, from Victoria train station to the coach station, where the office in which my management team are located (I being mercifully - if temporarily - ensconced in far more salubrious surroundings at St. James's Park) and back again, managing to mostly deflect the offers of logging on at the desk opposite my line manager so that she can indulge her whimsy by asking me questions which are to say the least difficult to answer, and where I am forced to listen till gone 5 o'clock to the arrogant pontificating of my elders (OK then - youngers) and betters and where I watch open-mouthed as yet another disparaging remark undermines everything we are told at 'team briefings' and 'workshops'. When I was younger, I relished the chance to work on a split site because it offered lots of opportunities to skive, because nobody really knows what you're up to. A quick fag in the park, a cup of coffee to make the day pass more easily... Now I am judged on my results, and not by the hours I put in (though I feel I must point out that presenteeism is pretty rife here, as if merely sitting at your desk is somehow an indicator of good performance. Natural I suppose, in a largely operational company) so I am resentful of the continual packing of bags, gathering up of notes, interminable waits for network profiles to load, lost browsing history and all of that jiving (second reference to The Chelsea Hotel indicates an earworm) around.

As I was saying... My mini commute takes me up and down Buck House Road, and this has to be one of the worst places in London (though I do realise that the competition is pretty stiff in this regard) to be when you are actually trying to get somewhere. It starts at the top, near Grosvenor Gardens, where there is a bus stop and the pavement is very narrow. Many's the time I have been unable to move in any direction for several seconds, hemmed in as I have been by Japanese tourists, suitcase dragging rucksack twisting coach station bound youth and the usual mix of London folk from all points east and west, north and south going about their business, and the roaring of buses and taxis and men in vans blocking off the step-into-the-gutter dodge.

This hectic jumble continues as you slog up the street, those damnable suitcases two abreast blocking your path, and traffic converging from all angles as you try to cross the street. Up as far as 123 Buckingham Palace Road, the Oxford Tube buses lining the road and confused people peering up at the coaches' electronic display boards - not realising that they are not even at the coach station yet. Reaching at last the heady stench of fried food pushing its way through some vent in the wall at VCS. It always seems to be raining or there is a biting wind stabbing into your jacket, and you are always forgetting to bring at least one vital piece of Excel with you, rendering yet another question unanswerable. Into the reception and the lift is out of service; a sign is stuck on with duct tape, saying 'MENS TOILET' and the swing doors rub slightly together as you enter the murmur of a working office.

Tomorrow Never Knows

Tomorrow Never Knows was playing on the jukebox, but the volume was just too low for the music to be heard properly.  The sign outside said:

THIS AREA IS FOR PAYING CUSTOMERS ONLY. IT IS NOT FOR ANYONE ELSE.

Inside, although she had been across the other side of the bar when I came in, the barmaid suddenly appeared right in front of me.  There were a couple of teeth missing at the front, although she had nice enough hair.  She was wearing a Guinness t shirt.

"What can I get you?"

"Foster's please," I said as she bobbed her head down and picked up a carton of milk with which to make tea.  Next to me, a man wearing a shirt with the legend:

LIFEGUARD

ILFRACOMBE

was playing the poker machine.  He was wearing a dolphin earring.

I shuffled the coins in my hand... Two sixty? Two eighty? Maybe even three quid...

"Two pound please," said the barmaid with her toothless smile.  I smiled back approvingly - a paying customer - and moved towards the outside area.  Two Irishmen were sharing cod and chips out of the paper beneath the umbrella, and the aroma of salt and vinegar filled my nostrils as I passed.  One of the men had very small hands.

Tomorrow Never Knows had finished playing.

Carnie

There are plenty of people who tut and shake their heads, who point to the violence and the high costs associated with policing of the event (Indeed the righteous opprobrium, such as I overheard between two office workers the other lunchtime - "two stabbings... Well, I’m sorry, but.." - fuelled by the very thinly veiled racism in the Sun and the Daily Mail, could be said to have watered down the spirit of the thing over the years. For at each Carnival, there seem to be more police involved, fewer freedoms as a result of the strict marshalling, and of course the ever-present curse of the modern world - surveillance everywhere. I feel less in danger than when I first started going - though that could just as easily be about my own maturity as it is about the protection of PC Plod...) but I'll have none of that.

Carnival is a glorious shout of self expression from London’s black communities; a splendid and magnificent display of pride and vigour of which anyone who lives in this metropolis should be hugely proud, and in which everyone should participate for as long as they feel able. This year, as last, I felt able, and I don’t regret a moment of it.

Although I do think it’s a struggle for young children who are not actually in the carnival parade itself. There are just too many people and not enough space. If it were me, I would be absolutely terrified of losing the kids, and there would be no way I could enjoy the day (I’m not sure they would either) but I am especially heartened by the sight of older people throwing themselves into the spirit of the thing.

Perhaps it makes me feel a little less guilty about indulging when I have reached such a responsible age.

A young girl in full costume sits on the side of a float lorry, her eyes half-lidded and an almost empty bottle of E&J in her hands. Her large breasts are pushing out of the top of her feather-adorned bra top. Someone tells her to adjust herself, but she only succeeds in making things worse. An old man wearing a cannabis leaf scarf with a long greying dread snaking down his back rolls and smokes a spliff, smiling coolly, beatifically, as he walks slowly alongside the truck which blasts out a chest vibrating beat while the followers bob or thrust inside the ropes behind.

People sitting on balconies or squatting on pillar boxes with a million plastic cartons, chicken bones, corn cobs, brandy bottles, Rizla card and beer cans strewn on the ground beneath them. A middle-aged woman - undoubtedly a mother, but perhaps also a civil servant - grinds in the middle of the road. Against the odds, people meet in the throng, throwing their arms around each other and exchanging a few words. Groups of pensioners sit in doorways sipping Red Stripe, suddenly rising to their feet as a particular beat catches them.



Professional photographers are intent only on their shots, stepping into the road before an extra vibrant, or extra sexy dancer and then moving on, their cargo of images intact, and immune to the swirl of music and human joy and grass and alcohol all around them. A teenage boy in only shorts and a t shirt lies foetal behind the low wall of a church, his hair dripping with bits of twig and soil.

Long roads lined with their expensive white houses and black balconies carry vast numbers of revellers while clouds of smoke from all the little barbies form a single heavy heat haze overhead. The smoke seems to be feeding into the clouds above and carries the aromas of chili sauce ‘on its breath’. Severe faced armoured coppers sporting blue corded earpieces suddenly emerge walking purposefully, staring everyone down as they move towards their target. Impossibly dense crowds gather around a sound stage and watch a man dressed as a giant pineapple bobbing on a scaffold outside a cafe. The police are nervous, and for a moment the MC teases with the threat or promise of an encore, before dissolving the crowd in its own whistling by turning off the speakers.

Yet how quickly the smell of smoke fades, how the horns and whistles are left behind, and how easily ‘normal’ London returns. The Carnival signals the end of summer of course. A last hurrah before the long and enervating slide to Christmas.

A walk to Paddington, a tube journey, and then it’s almost as if you weren’t there. Testament to the city’s resilience that such an enormous public event as the Notting Hill Carnival can so easily be folded into its skin.

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.

All hell

To the Post Office yesterday morning to sort out a Zip card for my daughter. All human life is there - especially on Holloway Road. We started to wait in a queue for change for the Photo Me machine before realising that we would need more than our lifetimes in order to get anywhere near the desk, and so (after exchanging a few good-natured words with an old lady) went to a nearby newsagent to get the change, returning a few moments later to finish the photo session.

It was after we joined the main queue to submit the form that the fun really began. Really, I've been in worse Post Office queues in my time; although only 3 counters were open, the line was moving reasonably quickly, and there were about four people in front of us.

'Cashier number 8 please,' came the jaunty voice from the machine. The man at the front moved quickly forward, but then a middle-aged black woman suddenly appeared out of nowhere and stepped up to the free window.

'Excuse me,' said the man incensed, 'There's a queue here!' and he gestured with his arm behind him. The black woman said nothing but pointed at a sheet of A4 paper stuck to the window, which informed all that this was a Passport Check and Send window, and as such customers were given special exemption from joining the queue.

'Cashier number 7 please.' The man moved to the adjacent free window and said:

'Don't show me that, you stupid prat! It's not fair, I've been standing here for 20 minutes!'
'You're a prat!' said the woman, 'Read the sign.'
'I read the sign.'
'Shut up!'
'You shut up!'
'Fuck off!'
'You fuck off!'
'You fuck your mother!'
'You're a cunt!'
'You're a cunt! Look in the mirror, you'll see a cunt!'

This went on for several minutes, and surprisingly, given the vehemence of the words being spoken, the two who were arguing did not seem to be nearing an escalation to physical violence. It was almost as if this were a game that they were enjoying playing. The people in the Post Office looked on with differing reactions. Some were amused and some were shocked, and yet nobody did anything about it. The man finished his business and walked quickly out, while the woman continued her check and send.

As we left, the children said to me:

'Daddy, what's a cunt?'

Crotchety

There's a guy across the road. Thankfully, he's not about every night, but when he is, you don't half notice it. He stands in some unseen walkway of the sprawling block of flats near my house smoking and expectorating. Loudly. At intervals of between 5 and 10 seconds, he sucks in what sound like large quantities of mucus and flobs them on to the small patch of grass beneath his hidden perch, like a repulsive metronomic bird thing.



Unsuspecting people (some of them occasionally reasonably attractive-looking) are often surprised by the noise, flicking a quick glance upwards as they walk by, and then directing their gaze towards the ground where the large green object has just slapped itself.

My own feelings are of a creeping nausea, slowly turning to revulsion and anger. I like to sleep with the window open - even on chillier nights - and this utterly disgusting soundtrack turns my stomach. What can I do?

I am amazed that somebody could have reached this point in their life, and almost harbour a sneaking sense of admiration for the invisible phlegm producer. It must, after all, have taken some effort to reach this point in the man's life - to find it somehow acceptable to stand on a concrete walkway repeatedly spitting on the floor throughout the night. This is a special kind of dedication.

C10H5ClN2

Continuing the theme of the modern fascist state (while also - at the end - providing the long-awaited answers to my capital cities teaser) I must report that I witnessed a terrible thing today.

The title of this post (reliably as ever ripped straight out of Wikipedia) is the chemical formula for the substance commonly known as CS gas. It will be instructive, I think, to rip (from the link above) in a bit more detail the effects of this chemical on a human being:

"The chemical reacts with moisture on the skin and in the eyes, causing a burning sensation and the immediate forceful and uncontrollable shutting of the eyes. Effects usually include tears streaming from the eyes, coughing, running nose full of mucus, burning in the nose and throat areas, disorientation, dizziness and restricted breathing.It will also burn the skin where sweaty and or sunburned. In highly concentrated doses it can also induce severe coughing and vomiting. Almost all of the immediate effects wear off in a matter of minutes."

I saw this stuff deployed straight into the eyes of a guy today by an undercover policeman, who was part of a group of initially 3 police, which rapidly became 5 and quite soon as many as 10. I was waiting for a bus, carrying three bags of shopping, and listening to AIOTM (AIOTM...) on my iPod, and at first I thought I was watching an argument between some guys take that sudden turn towards physical violence. And sudden it was. In just a few moments, as I walked along, a little bit of a scuffle just erupted before me into a flurry of flailing arms and legs. One of the men turned as if to run away, and then suddenly turned back and squirted a good quantity of liquid into the eyes of one of the others, while what I later knew to be his colleagues, took advantage of his reflexive grasp at his eyes to grapple him to the ground. He struggled quite ferociously, but at last cuffs were applied and his legs were twisted and sat on.

The reinforcements in the squad car had pulled right in front of my bus, and the driver could go nowhere, and everyone in the vicinity was watching what was going on. The police were going through the guy's pockets, telling him to calm down (I had by now switched off the iPod) and then I noticed one of them walk towards an old lady and ask her if she had seen what had happened. She simply shook her head. The policeman then came towards me.

"Did you see what happened?" He asked me. I studied him carefully. He could have been Greek or Turkish, mid 30s with cropped hair, acne pocks on his face, and an amount of stubble. He was wearing track suit bottoms and a hooded jumper, but there were phones, radios and all kinds of technology stuffed into every pocket.
"I only saw the last bit," I said, "When you... brought him down."
"What? You saw the CS and all that, yeah?"
"Yeah... Kind of... It all happened really quick."
"Would you mind if I took some details, then?"

Oh fuck...

"Sure..." I hesitated. At the very least, I didn't want to have to deal with my shopping at the police station, and at the very worst I definitely did not want to get involved in any sort of dispute over police brutality.

"Did you think we treated him fairly? Used a bit too much force. Or was he having a go at us - putting up a struggle?" he went on.

"I really couldn't say. At first, I didn't even realise you were, er, police. Just thought it was a bit of aggro, and I was waiting for my bus (which was pulling away even as I spoke, thanks to the squad car being moved out of the way by one of the now many officers now on the scene) which I've just missed..."

He seemed to change his mind, and nodded at me before moving away. Another bus pulled up and I lugged my shopping bags to the door.

All very grim, so I will now share the current rundown of the capital cities playlist as mentioned in a previous post.

It's too long to write out here, so please visit this link for a spreadsheet.

I thank yew.

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.