Once Upon A Time

It was inevitable, wasn't it? After such a disappointing start, and the current seeming inability to bulge the onion bag, we were always going out. Just a shame that there wasn't even a goal to celebrate against the youth of Dortmund, but truth be told we were probably lucky to get the penalty against the Toffees on Saturday, and the ignominy of the worst ever European campaign by an English side is ours to carry like a cross to Calvary. It is now with trepidation that we look to the big one on Sunday. Let's just hope that the Rags' largesse in front of goal continues so that we can at least bang one or two in, and have a happy Hanukkah. Enough of that. Time for a festive story to warm the hearts of my many readers.

Once upon a time, there was a wicked queen who lived in an ice castle in SW1. All in her land bowed down at her feet and did her bidding, in great fear of the spells she was capable of casting, when her eyes bulged and bore through the thick lenses of her glasses into the very souls of those over whom she ruled. An army of workers toiled for her throughout the year, from humble drones to cunning viziers, each one dropping everything to carry out her slightest whim, trembling at the prospect of the dreaded One to One Meeting.

Her trusted lieutenants whipped her dwarf slaves to hard labour in the dusty mines of the Ice Queen's caves which were spread thoughout the land, even unto the far reaches of SE10. The poor dwarves' fingers were nipped with frost and their backs were bent with the heavy weight of the sacks they carried hither and thither. In a clear sign of the wicked queen's cruelty, the dwarves were forced to listen to Heart FM (only the merry jester at the cave in SE1 dared to play a classic rock station, and somehow he escaped the Queen's wrath, using his Tottenham Hotspur laughing stick to distract her from her spells) all day as they laboured for the paltry rewards she threw down to them, as rancid scraps to whipped curs from the heaving feast table.

The only thing which gave the little men and women heart was the prospect of the one day of freedom in their long and wearying struggle which Christmas gave them. A day when they could cast off their cares, rest their aching bones and feel warmth and love in the bosom of their local pub. Now the queen hated Christmas, and wished in her cold and black heart that it did not exist. Yet even her great power was not equal to this sorcery, which only the mighty lords Tesco and Sainsbury were able to perform, so she seethed with anger and jealousy in her frosty tower and devised her plans. At last it came to her! Christmas would remain - for now - but Christmas Eve, which had by tradition been a short day, would become just another working day, with the dwarves held to their labour till darkness fell.

So it came that this year she summoned her lieutenant in charge of the dwarves to the feared One to One Meeting, and sat with her faithful raven, Stanton, perched upon her shoulder. Magnifying her eyes into the trembling lieutenant's lowered countenance, she spoke:

"What treachery are those loathsome dwarf swine plotting against me now, imbecile?" she snapped. Stanton blinked his black eyelid over his black eye and plucked the entrails from a small rodent, held down with one of his black claws. Stuttering, the poor lieutenant tried to answer:

"Ah yes, your majesty - ha ha... They are but lazy, conniving..."

"Enough!" shouted the queen in anger, causing Stanton to flutter up from her shoulder, trailing the mouse entrails across the breast of the queen's gown and leaving a red smear as he did so. Lightning flashed through the tower's arrow slits and thunder rumbled in the Mountains of Victoria in the distance. The lieutenant cowered and clasped his hands across his chest, waiting for the pronouncement.

"You will tell those... pathetic beasts... that Christmas Eve is cancelled!"

The queen smiled, Stanton squawked and swallowed his bloody entrails, and the lieutenant gasped in amazement.

"But... Your majesty... This is... Too much...!"

"Too much?" screamed the queen. "Too MUCH??!! When half the world is grateful for any work, when children are begging for food, when the dying are forced from their beds to seek labour, and when the great Lord Osborne takes away more of my feeble hoard for his steaming money forges each year? Do not tell me 'Too Much'! Go and set those feckless fools to work!" Suddenly she became still, stroking Stanton's midnight feathers and smiling as she rose to her feet. "Unless you wish to join... Them!" The sleeve of her gown billowed as she pointed through the arrow slits to the shambling, shuffling souls outside. Huddled against the cold, their scrawny arms outstretched, they waited for the leavings of the fortunate ones, their eyes hollow with hunger and the death of hope. The queen turned away, and the lieutenant dropped his head into his hands and wept.

And they all lived happily ever after. The End.

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.

Shuffle

Now that the natural order in Westminster has been restored, the Coalition can really get down to business. I'm hearing figures of between 80 and 94 (!) % of cuts still to come, so there will be some tears before bedtime, is all I can say. The silence of Miliband and crew is testament enough to the fact that the established order has no answer to this mire we're in, and we look set to follow Greece down the road to abject poverty, 6 day weeks and foraging in the woods.

Yet I fail to see how promoting that little turd Jeremy Hunt can be defended by anybody, even (especially) the deranged kleptocrats currently in charge. Finding out that he supports homeopathy was just another reason to despise him. Not to mention his vote on shortening the abortion time to 12 weeks. Chris Grayling, he of the unpaid youth work thanks to buying a drink from an Aussie barman, is another fucking cunt. That's all the incisive political comment I can muster at this point. Only the brief joy of Osborne getting booed at the Paralympics leavened the recent dark mood.

Said Paralympics on C4 is almost unwatchable, sad to say. Frigging adverts every two or three minutes mean that it's just so stuttering, and you lose the thread of the events. There have been (and are) some good presenters and pundits - Clare Balding is excellent as ever, and I like Ade Adepitan - so it's a shame I think that it's ended up like that, but they (like everyone else in this bright future of ours) have to make money, dont they? Also disappointing is that C4 don't have that cool moving yellow world record bar in the swimming, which marks it down from the superb BBC coverage. I'll be at the Olympic Park myself tomorrow, so perhaps first hand experience will help to change my perception.

Football is football, and City are more like the City we know and love. Defensively, we've been terrible, and clearly needed quite a few of those deadline day signings to bolster us up. I won't comment on any of them till I've seen them play, but will say a few words about the performances I have seen. Tevez has been great - full of energy and desire - and if Kun hadn't been injured, I believe more end product would have been forthcoming. We should have put 5 past QPR in the first 20 minutes, but almost paid dearly for switching off and letting them come at us. Dzeko had loads of the ball on Saturday and worked hard, but his touch and finishing let him down too many times. Silva was tired and ordinary looking at first, but showed a good deal more after half time. Lescott has regressed to the player he was before last season, and the rest of the back line (even including Vinny to a point) appear nervous, slow and out of touch with each other. Hart (with the exception of a good save from Andy Johnson) hasn't been excellent...

I could go on, but I won't. Seven points in the bag and some potentially exciting new players, as well as Agüero hopefully back soon (don't let him play for Argentina please!) and we've got to be optimistic. In any case, we've had some cracking games, and you can't ask for more than that.

I need somebody

Suitably refreshed (or completely knackered, whichever you prefer) after my trip to Oswestry, thoughts turn with dread to work once again. My last post was all about my first shift as a TA, and I will pick up the thread from there.

Firstly, there's been some discussion about the legacy the Games will leave behind. For me, it feels as if that - once the whole thing is over - reality will come crashing down on all our heads. It's bizarre that the BBC has wall to wall coverage, from 6am to 1am every day, and every single front page is about Team GB. Don't get me wrong, I have a great deal of respect for the sports people who have done so amazingly well for us, and I enjoy almost all of the sports I watch (I find the colour of the hockey pitch a bit dazzling, and I'm not huge on sailing or equestrianism, but the rest are all good) but it does create a rather surreal atmosphere, as though the events in the rest of the world are not actually happening. When it does come  to an end in a week's time, I think there will be a sense of flatness, and it will be necessary once again to confront the impossible conundrum of the European (and world) economic situation. People have also been continuing to die in Syria, and it doesn't seem as if the UN or anyone else has much of a solution  to that either.

Anyway, returning to my theme, the whole question of Olympic legacy was summed up for me when I went for my lunch break last Saturday. Wanting to take myself away a little from the madding crowds, I walked towards a chip shop I could see at the next junction. The man in there told me he was very disappointed because he had been told that the Olympics would make his area very busy, and he was clearly expecting a boost for his business. But it was not to be. Even though he could look out of his window and see the crowds streaming out of the tube station to get to the London Live site, the route there did not take them past his shop. After the Games are over, even those shops lucky enough to have been on an Olympic route will see things returning to their normal dismal routine. Oswestry - never perhaps the most vibrant area in the world - now seems to be in terminal decline, with most of the town centre comprised of empty shops, although the market was more lively than I have seen it for some years. Fundamentally, there just isn't the engine in the economy for things to turn around, and I believe we are set for some truly historic events in the coming months as we watch the disintegration of the Euro project. Sorry to be so depressing.

On my second shift, I have never known time to pass so slowly. The station I was at was designated as a possible Olympic route to the Lea Valley white water centre, but only one intrepid fan seemed to have chosen it on the day that I was there. There were two of us, along with three others from the Revenue Protection team, and we did bugger all the entire day. My colleague, keen to try out his new customer skills and bored out of his mind, asked an old man if he could help. The old man replied:

"Only if you've got a cure for cancer."

Need any help?

That was my strapline over the weekend. I found myself quite willing to speak to total strangers and ask them if I could help them. Quite often I consulted my iPad and found it to be an extremely useful tool once I had decided to not keep taking it out of my bag any more, instead clutching it to my chest. I counted 7 customers in the first 30 minutes, but had lost count by the end of the first hour.

I am not a particularly corporate person, and tend to do just enough, rather than ra-ra-ing like some, however I did feel good as a result of the way people were responding to me. One person even congratulated me on the Opening Ceremony, and I of course lapped it up, even though my only contribution was watching it on telly while gleefully reading the tweets about Danny Boyle's left-leaning extravaganza. Someone else said: 'You guys are so helpful! I think it's great what you're doing!' and that is a nice thing to hear, no matter how cyncical you might feel. I even tried out a bit of my poor and rusty French on one of the Games contingent, and he was - I could tell - very happy that I had at least had a go. Later, he came back to me specifically for further information. I learned that to actually ring the BBC (and not just one of the shows) costs £1.53, and this amused and enraged the (I assume) Russian (I also assume) journalist in equal measure.

The Counter Olympics Network also staged a march right past the station I was at, and a large number of queries were from protesters wanting to know where the march was assembling. I remained neutral, found the information, and guided them to where they needed to be, just the same as I directed groups of Americans to the Olympic Park. Some of the crusties did piss me off a little with their attitude, coming across as condescending, and assuming they knew what my political stance was just because I was wearing a shirt with a roundel on it. They were wrong, but despite their efforts to bait me, I did not tell them so. The boys in blue on the other hand were almost to a man idiots. There were a couple from Wales (one question I was asked was: 'What language is that?!') and some from Tayside, and they were largely clueless - not knowing where the march was going to end until I told them.

Station staff were variable. All very friendly and with a good sense of humour, but some were a little institutionalised in their attitude to customers. One of them (a superior of the station staff) was a bit of a tosser, thinking he was some kind of squaddie or something while smoking fags in his cupped hand.

Seven hours on my feet, and I certainly felt it at the end of the day, though my working week was far from over as I was due at my next location for 7 o'clock the next morning. More anon.

Schtum

Monday, in the pissing rain and freezing cold, to a training session. Its subject is something about which I am sworn to secrecy. Tweets will only be allowed via an authorised account, as will Facebook updates. As a result, I missed the first 15 minutes of the England match, which was not ideal. On that, as I also missed much of the second half – catching only the last 10 minutes or so through a pub window whilst sheltering under an umbrella – I don’t really know what to say. The press seemed quite upbeat on the following day, even though others have since said that we spent much of the latter part of the match on the back foot. Without Rooney (though it pains me to say it) I can’t see that much special about the team, and we look no more than adequate. Still, Greece perhaps excepted, it’s all wide open so you never know. I have a horrible feeling however that everything will depend on the final group game, and will maybe even be out of England’s hands by then. Neither Greece nor Ukraine are going to be easy to beat.

But, back to some general observations for you on my top secret mission in West Kensington. There were two presenters – one male and one female – from Learning & Development standing on the stage when we trooped in. The man looked like Alastair McGowan and sounded like Rob Brydon, or could have been McGowan doing a Brydon impression. Who knows? They spoke for getting on for two hours, and then guest presenters came on from the Security teams, from Occupational Health and from the senior management sponsor. After that it was on to 30 minute breakout sessions – six in all – covering the different areas in which we might end up working. At the end of each of these 30 minute sessions, a ship’s bell sounded, meaning we had to move from the one we were in to the next one along. Much of the information was repeated in each of the breakouts, making the day fairly hard going, although there was some light relief when we got to play with the iPads and iPhones with which we will be equipped for our duties. I was told that over 2500 iPads and over 800 iPhones have been purchased for the project, and this certainly does make me think about money. And priorities. And redundancies. And much else.

Along with the nearly 3000 of us taking part in the forthcoming event, I discovered that there will also be 8000 other volunteers from another part of our organisation, and this is even more mind-boggling because I’m guessing that this means almost the entire workforce will not be doing their day jobs for a few weeks. Other key staff are also being stood down from their normal activities for the duration, though I cannot go into this either due to the confidentiality issues I mention above. Suffice to say that the absence of that particular group will be a boon to those who prefer to travel without the benefit of a ticket. Nudge nudge.

More is to come. I will soon be meeting my team leader, will be collecting my technology at the beginning of July, and my uniform in the middle of July. My shifts have been allocated, and I will be familiarising myself with the locales before I turn up for my shift. I am expecting some anger and confusion (recently, in the street near my office, an American lady asked me where the nearest toilets were, and though I was not wearing any kind of tabard or badge, she looked away in disgust when I told her truthfully where they were. I sarcastically said: ‘You’re welcome!’ before going on my way. It wasn't my fucking fault that she was 15 minutes walk away from McDonald's, was it?) from dim witted members of the public, and am trying to remember the many pearls of wisdom which were scattered before me on Monday.

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?

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.

Samson Posey

Here we go again with Samson Posey, a 'meek' criminal who is 'sentenced to death by hanging for the accidental killing of a G.I. in a bar room brawl' (I love that. What an excellent crime). Clint was best known for his role in Cheyenne during the 1950s, one of those strange phenomena, the cowboy weekly series - like Bonanza and High Chapparal - which were all the rage once upon a time.

Today was just running around and running around. Contradictions and challenges, not a moment to myself. You know the kind of thing: struggling through the fuckers at Victoria; receiving a phone call when you finally get there telling you that the meeting's delayed by twenty minutes; sitting in a meeting, tense as a piece of cheese wire, which goes on and on and on; getting back to the office and eating a cardboard egg sandwich; traipsing back through the fuckers at Victoria; sitting in a meeting where people point their faces at you; and back through the fuckers; and then again to play pool and darts in false bonhomie. Victoria Line delayed and the phone rings when you're getting your keys out. And Payroll fucks up and doesn't release your HR fucking record so you don't get your (first) pay cheque with a week till fucking Xhristmas.

Merry Clint-mas fuckers.

R*y

His name was R*y. And right from the off, you could see that he wanted a fight. Little did it matter to him the actual outcome of the process about which the meeting was taking place; little did he really - truthfully - care about the welfare and well-being of those he was there to represent (I know this to be a fact because he had never met them prior to this meeting, though they had been in limbo for years, and paying their subs dutifully every month, without so much as a phone call or visit. I may be wet behind the ears, but I do feel that this - in itself - is not right) The one thing, the only thing, on his agenda was scoring points against those ranged across the table from him. It was clear that this was a game in which the two opposing parties were well rehearsed. A dance, if you will, to the age-old beat of workers and bosses, employed and employer. Neither side (and curiously, though an employer at this meeting, I was not directly involved in the scrap. My participation was almost incidental) particularly covered themselves in glory.

There was a tension in the air from the off, and at last, with some dread, I prepared to speak. The aggression was palpable and astonishing, stemming from nowhere. R*y pounced on the most innocuous comment as if it were a declaration of war. And let me assure you that every statement I made was genuinely innocuous, because there was nothing in our plans which was intended to have a negative impact on any of the people involved. I promise you that. And yet... R*y fixed me with his gimlet eyes and sneered his questions at me:

"Opportunities for development?" he barked, "Like what?"
"Like a new Supervisor post we'll be advertising," I said
"What else?"
"Well... We're a big department... There could be plenty of opportunities for those who are interested..."
"Like what?"

At this point, my boss interjected, pointing out that there were many areas in which we - as a department - worked, and anyone would be considered on merit if they wished to seek advancement. I had been expecting some potential clashes, but was dumbfounded to be attacked on this one. It was a true statement, and did indeed provide some potential benefits to the staff in question. Why was R*y making such an issue out of it? I never did find out. By some twists and turns of employee relations and rules on Union representation, he was effectively taken out of the equation after the meeting, though he did ring me once. I did not return his call.

As we move into the Coalition future, of frightened public sector workers, huddled like timid prey animals at grey, rain-lashed bus stops; of Housing Benefit claimants boarding buses to their B&Bs in Shoeburyness, we can only begin to imagine how many meetings R*y will be present at. I wish him luck.

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.