London's Congestion Charge(one week in) The official information here.
The biased Evening Standard anti-viewpoint here.
One of the best ways to ride into the charging zone here.
Total disregard for the charging zone here.
Or just stay at home and play this instead. (Thanks Jon)
Blogging is a rapidly increasing global activity, but huge increases in online traffic are in danger of bringing the information superhighway to a halt. Every day large numbers of bored office workers attempt to log onto their favourite blog websites, creating lengthy queues and gridlock across the internet. Average download speeds on many websites are now under 10kb per second throughout the working day.
To tackle this problem, diamond geezer has decided to introduce congestion charging on this website. It is hoped that by discouraging people from entering Central Blogland, traffic will be increased on other periforal webpages, to the benefit of all. As of today, a £5 daily congestion charge will help to get diamond geezer moving. It will reduce traffic, making downloads more reliable, and save hundreds of wasted working hours each week.
The diamond geezer congestion charge applies from 10am to 12 midnight, Monday to Friday, excluding public holidays. The charge does not apply at weekends. Evidence from statistics suggests that these are the times during which page access overload is at its peak. By redistributing blog visits to quieter times such as 4am GMT, the congestion charge will ease traffic conditions for insomniacs and Americans, if for nobody else.
You can pay the congestion charge either in advance or on the day of your visit. The charge is £5 if you pay by midnight on the day of your visit. Payment of the congestion charge allows you to enter, click around, and leave the charging blog as many times as you wish that day. There are some exemptions and discounts, for which regular readers should apply by email.
If you are due to pay and don't, a Penalty Charge Notice will be issued. Tracking software will be used to read your IP address as you enter the congestion charging zone and check it against our database. Following a final check at midnight, the computer will track the IP addresses of readers that should have paid but have not done so. We will then issue a Penalty Charge Notice of £80 to the unregistered viewer. Failure to pay the penalty charge within 28 days will result in the penalty being increased to £120.
You should pay the diamond geezer congestion charge right here on this site.
Please enter your full bank account details below.Congestion charging - you know it makes moneychaos sense.
I spent this afternoon walking the streets of the East End. I wrapped up warm and joined the London Walks guided tour of the Unknown East End. Fascinating stuff. A rabble gathers outside Whitechapel tube station at 2pm every Sunday afternoon, waits for the guide to make him/herself known, pays a fiver, then sets off to hear about the real history of the area. It's one of many tours this company does and, after today, I'm tempted to go on a few more (but maybe only when it's a bit warmer).
Some things I learnt about the East End this afternoon: • Jack the Ripper's first victim, Polly Nicholls, was taken to a police mortuary that's now a McDonalds.
• Mile End is so called because London's Jews were once forbidden to live within one mile of the City of London.
• When Ronnie Kray shot George Cornell in the eye in the Blind Beggar pub, the record 'The Sun Ain't Gonna Shine Any More' was stuck on the jukebox.
• John Merrick, the 'Elephant Man', was exhibited as a freak on the Whitechapel Road until he was rescued by a compassionate local surgeon.
• Winston Churchill attended the Siege of Sidney Street, a famous shootout ending in the jewellery robbers' hideout burning to the ground.
• Joseph Stalin lived for three months at the gothic Tower House in Fieldgate Street, now boarded up and ripe for redevelopment.
• William Booth founded the Salvation Army in Whitechapel to fight the social injustice of Victorian times.
• The Liberty Bell was cast at the Whitechapel Bell Foundry, so I guess it's also their fault that it cracked.
Saturday, February 15, 2003
The Stop The War demo - your handy cut-out-and-march guide to the route
March A starts on the Embankment, not that far from:
• Bank station, where 117 civilians lost their lives in a direct hit from a German bomb in 1941.
• Monument, built to remember the firestorm that destroyed the capital in 1666.
• Cleopatra's Needle, a Middle-Eastern artefact deported miles from its cultural home.
• The Crimea Memorial, cast from Russian cannons captured at the Battle of Sebastopol.
The march passes through Parliament Square and up Whitehall, past statues to:
• Oliver Cromwell, instigator of a bloody civil war in Stuart times.
• Viscount Montgomery of Alamein, the celebrated desert fighter of World War Two.
• The Cenotaph, national memorial to the millions killed in World War One.
On through Trafalgar Square, home to:
• Nelson's Column, erected in honour of the admiral killed in battle while defeating the Spanish.
• Sir Henry Havelock, veteran of the first Indian mutiny and served in wars against Burma and Afghanistan.
• Sir Charles Napier, leader of the conquest of the hill tribes of Sindh, now part of Pakistan.
• Admiralty Arch, once home to the offices of the British Empire's all-conquering naval forces.
Meanwhile March B has passed by:
• Tottenham Court Road station, where a huge underground shelter was built in 1942 to protect Londoners during air raids.
• Eros, the famous statue of the Greek god of love, and therefore a bit out of place in this list.
The two marches join at Piccadilly Circus and proceed to Hyde Park, passing close to:
• The Wellington Arch, built to celebrate the Duke's defeat of the French at the battle of Waterloo.
• Marble Arch station, hit by a German bomb during the Blitz in 1940, killing 17 Londoners sheltering there.
• Tyburn, site of public executions for petty criminals and dissenters for over 600 years.
Friday, February 14, 2003
The Big Count: The 2001 Census figures are just out, and even the non-Jedi parts are strangely fascinating. Of the 376 boroughs in England and Wales, I've discovered I live in the most un-Christian of the lot, the third fastest growing, and the fifth most crowded. We're bottom of the home ownership league, third lowest for owning a car but definitely in the Top 10 for single people. Nice to know that, for round here, I'm almost average.
you're listening to the streets
you will bear witness to some amazing feats
bravery in the face of defeat
all line up and grab your seat
Geezers need excitement, so it was off down to Brixton to see The Streets as part of the NME Awards tour. "The who?" they asked at work when I told them where I was going. Never mind, you'll all hear about fresh-faced Mikey Skinner when he sweeps the Brit Awards in a fortnight's time.
The Brixton Academy filled up with lads in hoodies, dwarf girls fresh from Claire's Accessories, hip twenty-something music-lovers and gangs of weedheads from Billericay sixth form colleges. The ethnic mix inside the venue was exactly the opposite of that on the streets outside, more Beastie Boys than Grandmaster Flash. We had to stand through Killa Kela, the human beatbox (very very impressive, but just the once thanks) and the woefully miscast More Fire Crew. And finally, about 11, on came the original pirate material.
Mike Skinner's not a big bloke, but he had geezerly stage presence by the barrowboy-load. Cheeky and sharp, he smiled out from under his baseball cap, mesmerising the crowd into action. We were treated to 80 minutes of lager-fuelled suburban rapping, showcasing the whole of the last album. Turn The Page was a rabble-rousing crowd-pleasing opener, the sharp wit of Too Much Brandy hit the target audience square on, and the encore of Let's Push Things Forward merged perfectly with The Specials' Ghost Town, A video screen provided visual accompaniment - a moped ride across London, Hampstead Heath benchlife, spliffed-out sofa junkies, and a bloke dressed only in red y-fronts smashing up his car with an iron bar. Not every track worked live, and there were so many lyrics it was tough to chant along, but the gig was a triumph nonetheless. Genius.
blinded with the lights
blinded with the lights
dizzy new heights
Wednesday, February 05, 2003
Minute distances
In every other part of the country distances are measured in miles. In London, however, distances are measured in minutes.*
* Visitors to London should note that distances on the Underground are measured in Tube minutes. These are approximately 40% longer than normal minutes so that, for example, when the train indicator board suggests that the next train is due in 3 minutes, it will more probably turn up in 5.
Five miles along a motorway in the Midlands may take less than two minutes, but five miles across London can take a lifetime of traffic jams, one-way systems, waiting on platforms and changing trains. In London no form of transport, be it train, bus or car, is permitted to travel for more than two minutes without stopping at a station, in a tunnel, at a bus stop or at traffic lights.
I've just taken thirty minutes to travel less than two miles across East London. It would have been good to be able to travel in a straight line, only this is nigh impossible with a river, industrial estate, rugby ground and cemetery blocking the way. As a result I've actually travelled at least 50% further than necessary in order to get home. What's more, this time-wasting seemed perfectly normal for London and I thought nothing of it. When I was living in East Anglia I could have spent those same thirty minutes driving as many as thirty miles from Ipswich to Bury St Edmunds, rather than the miserly distance I've just travelled. The biggest difference between London and Suffolk, however, is that there never was any point in travelling to Bury St Edmunds, whereas two miles across London can be worth every minute.
I'll confess that I don't usually enjoy musicals. Usually the composer has merely written one great song surrounded by twelve duffers, the location is somewhere impossibly exotic like the South Pacific, New York, Chicago, Saigon or Paris, and all the characters have an annoying and unnatural tendency to burst into song at any tenuous opportunity.
"Hey Curly, see that surrey over there? What Laurey, the one with the fringe? Yup, the surrey with the fringe on top..." (enter dancing cowgirls, all of whom are mysteriously able to perform a synchronised dance routine whilst waving pitchforks).
I get especially concerned at the thought of any musical based on a top music artist's back catalogue. It's far too easy merely to scrape together the vaguest of plots in order to link together all the best songs, and yes Ben Elton, I am thinking of you.
"Say Agnetha, does your mother know there's a queen over there, dancing?" "What, the killer queen in that bicycle race? Mamma Mia, let her go!"
So, it was with some trepidation that I ventured to watch 'Our House', a musical set in London NW1 based around the greatest hits of 80s super group Madness. Would the theatre be a House of Fun, or instead would the show go One Step Beyond and be an Embarrassment? I needn't have worried - the show is very enjoyable. I was put in mind of an extremely good school play delivered fantastically well, and the young cast put everything into their performance.
The story follows our hero Joe Casey into two potential futures following a break-in on a local housing estate. Bad Joe runs off and ends up rich and successful (in a black tracksuit), while Honest Joe turns himself in and ends up in prison (in a white tracksuit). Star Trek scriptwriters please note, this is the way to handle a temporal distortion parallel timeline story.
It appears that Suggs and Co were deliberately writing songs with great descriptive lyrics 20 years ago with the sole intention of making a musical out of them, so seamlessly do they fit into the narrative. Baggy Trousers was always meant to be a classroom riot, My Girl remains perfectly descriptive of every teetering relationship, and Night Boat To Cairo just had to be part of a Las Vegas wedding ceremony (OK, maybe not the last one). Even though the entire audience knew that It Must Be Love had to be coming up at some crucial turning point in the second half, it was delivered with such originality that its impact was enormous. Driving In My Car was another particular favourite, with its humorous nods at Hollywood blockbusters, and the Mary-Poppins-esque dance routine to The Sun and The Rain down at Camden Lock market had the crowd in stitches.
Verdict: House of Fun
Saturday, February 01, 2003
01/02/03 @4:05 (and 6 seconds): Having been in America on 2nd January, I've already seen one 01/02/03 this year. However, today is the real one/two/three so I've celebrated with a slap-up pie and mash lunch in Greenwich, the home of time. I was delighted to discover that entrance to the Royal Observatory is now free, so it was possible to stand up there on the meridian line with one foot in the Western hemisphere and one foot in the Eastern hemisphere, surrounded by smiling foreigners. President Bush should consider doing a photoshoot up there.
Thursday, January 30, 2003
The 7pm puzzle: What comes next? 55, 19, 38, 1, 1, 242, 38, 19, 55, 1, 55, 38, 242, 1, ...
Answer: I don't know. After standing around at a bus stop in New Oxford Street freezing to death for twenty minutes waiting for a 25, I couldn't be bothered to wait any longer... so I wandered off in the direction of the nearest eastbound tube station, which was a mile away due to the general travel chaos and the Central Line still being shut down, so I got even colder, so I guess what comes next is pneumonia.
Wednesday, January 29, 2003
What happened next?
16/12/02 McBurgers: "Three weeks ago a drive-in McDonalds suddenly sprang up at the bottom of my road. Today they're serving burgers to the three customers who've noticed the restaurant has just opened." I have the misfortune to live exactly one burger's distance away from our new McDonalds. The pavement outside my house is therefore now littered with Big Mac wrappers, squashed french fries and discarded brown paper bags. McDonalds have been community-minded and put litter bins right outside their restaurant, except that nobody walking home has finished their burger by that point in their journey. The council have woken up and installed another new litter bin further up the road, but that's permanently full and most people walking home don't get that far while they're still eating. So, please, could someone stick a litter bin somewhere inbetween, like outside my house, just so that I don't have to walk round a spreading pool of strawberry milk shake every morning?
10/01/03 Going Underground: "My local station was 100 years old last year, and is rather less glamorous. It would be good to think that one day the politicians will stop arguing about how the tube is funded and just get on with improving the whole system so it actually works." They've finally decided to spend some money on improving conditions at my local station. They could have added another four seats on the platform, doubling the number available. They could have updated the 'next train' indicator so it tells us how many fictional minutes we have to wait for the next train. They could have staffed the ticket office so it's actually open occasionally. But no. Instead they've spent our money making room for 54 posters to be put up on the stairs, and they've filled every single one of these 54 spaces with the same advert advising us to stand on the right on escalators. Which would be great except that there are no escalators at my local station, nor are there any for at least two miles in either direction. In my humble opinion it would have been rather more useful to put up a poster saying 'If you can read this you're walking down the stairs too slowly - please get out of my way, I have a train to catch'.
Sunday, January 26, 2003
East London postcodes
In each London postcode area the postal district nearest the centre of London is given the number 1.
The remaining districts are numbered in alphabetical order of the main delivery office in each district.
E1 Whitechapel, Stepney, 1.6km End
E2 Hoxton, Shoreditch, arty trendy stuff
E3 Bow, Bromley-by-Bow, home
E4 unsafe ecstacy dosage
E5 Hackney, Ghetto, Gunbattle
E6 Beckton, World’s End
E7 Upton Park, relegation
E8 A hearty breakfast
K9 Barking, Isle of Dogs
E10 Posh school just north of Windsor
E11 Lleytonhewitt
E12 To The Manor Park
E13 Plaistow, pronounced Plarstow
E14 Docklands (Poplar), Millwall (unPoplar)
E15 Stratford, West Ham, Olympic Village
E16 Victoria Docks (no Beckham jokes please)
E17 Stay Another Day
E20 Walford, Angiesden
E25 the new name for the EU from 2004
E101 Riboflavin
E102 the chemical in Sunny Delight that sends kids hyper
Saturday, January 25, 2003
Newsflash: 32 people have been injured and hundreds more evacuated from Chancery Lane station after a train derailed and hit a platform. London Underground said the last three carriages of the train appeared to have left the track. Eye-witnesses said "Something snapped underneath when we were at Liverpool Street. When we got into Chancery Lane the doors just ripped off." "The windows caved in and the doors opened in the tunnel and we were just bouncing up and down." "There was smoke and everything and the driver came on and said everyone to get to the front of the train and started shouting 'mayday'."
The accident happened on the Central Line just before 2pm this afternoon. Fifteen minutes earlier I was coming back from the V&A on a train going through the same station... but in the opposite direction. Ulp. My thoughts are with the injured, and how glad I am not be amongst them.
Where better to head on a Saturday morning than South Kensington - home to most of London's top museums. It's great to have our national treasures on view for free again, and I don't make the effort to go and look at them as often as I should. I battled through crowds of middle class parents (it's surely no coincidence that the Piccadilly line goes direct from Islington to South Kensington) and their disinterested offspring, and headed to the delightfully child-free Victoria & Albert Museum.
I went to the V&A to see Rewind, an exhibition charting 40 years of developments in British design and advertising. Rewind covers a range of creative disciplines from graphic design to poster advertising, and from packaging to radio ads. On view, amongst other things, were posters for the film Trainspotting, the British Rail logo, old Radio Times covers, record sleeves from the Pet Shop Boys, Blur and Spritualized, tins of pears from Harrods, some Airfix-type football hooligans, a great online Compaq bird hunts worm game, Silk Cut posters and a suspiciously high number of Apple products. An unitentional additional exhibition was also on view - the fashions being worn by the creative types attending the show. So that'd be baggy shorts, NHS specs and facial hair trimmed into unfeasibly-stripped goatees.
My favourite exhibit was a showreel of the very best adverts and onscreen design of the last 40 years. I wouldn't normally sit in a gallery and watch a video presentation for 55 minutes, but this was creative nostalgia of the highest order and exceptionally watchable. What a joy to sit and wallow in the original 1960s Dr Who opening titles, the legendary frothy Cresta bear, classic ads for Heineken, Stella Artois and Holsten Pils, the 1982 Channel 4 and 1991 BBC2 channel logos, J R Hartley's Yellow Pages ad, the orange Tango man's facial slap, the Guardian 'point of view' ad with the skinhead (alas, not the Persil one), Parklife with Nike on Hackney Marshes, that Levis launderette ad, and the stunning Dunlop tyre ad with the Velvet Underground backing track. It's amazing how much creativity and effort is poured into products like cars, lager and jeans which without a brand profile would be virtually indistinguishable.
The exhibition's only on until next weekend. Should you want to visit there's a special late viewing next Friday, complete with pub quiz, debate and table football. It's a reminder that British creativity is amongst the very best in the world. And I love it.
Wednesday, January 22, 2003
Pressing problems
Dear DG
I have been standing at this pelican crossing for ages but the traffic hasn't stopped yet. Should I press the button? Yes There's nothing more annoying than arriving at a pelican crossing where somebody else is already waiting, standing around for what seems like an age, and then suddenly realising that the idiot has been standing there for ten minutes without pressing the button. The traffic doesn't stop all by itself you know. As the first person to arrive, it was your responsibility to press the button, to save you from the red-faced embarrassment of me having to walk over and press it for you.
Dear DG
There are lots of people standing at this pelican crossing but the traffic hasn't stopped yet. Should I press the button again? No The button at a pelican crossing only needs to be pressed once. Perhaps you are that special kind of person who believes the more often you press the button, the quicker the traffic will stop. Not so. Pressing the button more frequently and with increasing frustration merely goes to show that you are a stressed and impatient individual and are highly likely to die of a heart attack before the age of 45. Personally I'd like to wire up all pelican crossing buttons to the mains so that anyone pressing the button more than five times in three seconds receives a fatal electric shock.
Dear DG
I'm waiting to get onto an underground train but the doors haven't opened yet. Should I press the button? No It's a complete mystery why anyone ever decided to put 'Open' buttons on the outside of tube train doors. These are never used, not even at far flung suburban overground stations where all the doors still open automatically to let the cold wind whip through the carriage despite the fact that nobody wants to get on or off. Only tourists ever press the 'Open' button. They then stand their scratching their head wondering why the button doesn't work and end up getting their fingers smashed in the doors when they close too quickly afterwards.
Dear DG
I'm waiting to get onto a Docklands Light Railway train but the doors haven't opened yet. Should I press the button? Yes The doors on a DLR train only open if you press the button. This can be very confusing for those tourists who've finally managed to work out that you never press the button on tube train doors. These people tend to stand there like lemons waiting for the doors to open automatically, only for the train to glide off suddenly towards Canary Wharf. It can also be very difficult to reach the button on a very crowded DLR train, particularly if you've lost some of your fingers in an earlier door-closing accident elsewhere.
Dear DG
My name is George W Bush and I have a friend called Tony. Should I press the button? No Enough said.
I have just spent three hours watching the The Two Towers in your company, and I feel I need to write to you to explain the manner in which cinema audiences are supposed to behave.
Attending the cinema is not the same as watching a film on DVD on your own sofa. At home you can talk as much as you like, sneak out to the kitchen for more popcorn, even nuzzle the ear of the person sitting next to you if you so desire. In front of the big screen this behaviour is generally considered taboo.
When the film starts and the opening titles are rolling, you should not let rip with a noise like a giant raspberry. This is a childish reaction, demonstrating your uncomfortableness at experiencing a protracted silence in a public place, and especially unpleasant if there are children in the audience who may think this to be funny and laugh out loud.
You should ensure that your mobile phone is turned off so that it does not distract other punters during the performance. Admittedly the film was called 'Lord of the Rings', but a Cheeky Girls ringtone was not what the producer of the film had in mind as backing music.
Three hours is a long time to sit still in a cinema. If an airline were to try to force you to sit in similarly confined conditions for such a length of time they would undoubtedly leave themselves open to legal action. However, please exert a little bladder control and try not to file out to the toilet at regular intervals during the screening, particularly not passing in front of me.
It is certainly unusual to see a walking talking tree at the cinema, particularly one with that young detective out of Hetty Wainthropp Investigates sat precariously in one of the upper branches. However, the appearance of this tree should not have been the cue each time for some insane woman in Row K to shout something indecipherable at the screen. Please check that you are taking the correct medication before leaving home.
The Two Towers is not a comedy. Admittedly Gimli the dwarf did seem to be present in the film merely to deliver a number of supposedly-comic lines that certainly never appeared in the original book, but that is no excuse for two of you braying out loud every time he opened his mouth. Had I desired to hear an audience laughing hysterically at inopportune moments, I would have watched the film in America instead.
It is true that Mr Tolkien wrote very few parts for women in his book, and therefore there is little for female cinemagoers to relate to. In fact some reckon the relationship between Frodo and Sam to be particularly questionable, perhaps to fill that very gap. However, when the film's producer does spend three minutes on some romantic mushy angle of the story, this should not be the cue for yawning, snoring or standing up and stretching one's legs.
The cinema is never a substitute for a good baby-sitter. If you are a fat mother whose three obnoxious teenage daughters have no interest in the film whatsoever then you should leave them at home, not plonk them down in the seat in front of me. Should the middle daughter insist on leaving the auditorium on three separate occasions to brush her hair, you should give her a good slap and tell her to shut the hell up, not that you might possibly tell her off a bit once back at home. But what a good idea to have prepared a large collection of bags of sweets to pass to your daughters at regular intervals throughout the film. This will have kept them busy while they were not otherwise occupied texting their friends, and with further force-feeding they could potentially end up as obese as you.
To conclude, I attended today's screening with the intention of watching the film, which was clearly excellent. However, I spent too much of my time watching you, the audience, and your alternative epic performance. Next time that any of you decide to attend the cinema I would be most grateful if you could go on a Wednesday evening instead, so that I can go in peace on a Sunday afternoon and have the whole auditorium to myself. Many thanks.
Yours sincerely
Monday, January 13, 2003
It got a lot milder in London overnight, so all that freezing weather is at last behind us. However some people clearly never heard the weather forecast this morning and so dressed for work as if it was still Siberia out there... and this of course meant the tube was full of woolly hats. Black hats, pointy hats, hats with dangly flaps, pink hats, hats like gnomes, furry hats, balaclavas that only your eyes can peer out of, sad hats, hats clearly knitted by grandmothers using all the scraps left in the wool basket, and so on. These limp fashion disasters are surely worn by the same people who in six months time will be strutting down the beaches of Ibiza parading the latest designer gear. I can see only two advantages of wearing a woolly hat. Firstly it keeps your ears warm, and secondly you can't see how ridiculous you look wearing it.
Friday, January 10, 2003
Going Underground
The first underground railway in the world started 140 years ago today with the opening of London's Metropolitan Railway between Paddington and Farringdon on 10th January 1863.
This was the first railway line anywhere in the world built in tunnels under urban streets. The new railway was only three and a half miles in length but it was operated by smoky steam trains so the conditions in the confined tunnels weren't at all pleasant. No change there. The opening day also saw London’s first rush hour. So many people wanted to ride on the new railway that it was impossible to get on a train after it had left the Paddington terminus at Bishop’s Road. So, no change there either.
The underground map used to be very simple 140 years ago - see here. The tube map then evolved - seriously anorakky link here - until Harry Beck turned the map into a design masterpiece in 1931 - see that here. Today the map looks like this, and it's completely transformed the way Londoners and visitors view their city.
Back in 1863 there were only 7 stations and it took 33 minutes to chug from one end of the line to the other. Now there are 275 stations, and the record for visiting all of them in one day is 19 hours, 18 minutes and 45 seconds. ITV are screening a documentary about a recent attempt on this record next week (7.30pm on Thursday January 16th), which you can read all about here. The skills needed for this particular record are a mixture of detailed planning, athletic ability and sheer luck, plus of course an anorak with a fur-lined hood.
That very first underground line is now part of the Metropolitan, Circle and Hammersmith & City Lines, and the station at Baker Street has been magnificently restored to its former Victorian splendour. My local station was 100 years old this year, and is rather less glamorous. It would be good to think that one day the politicians will stop arguing about how the tube is funded and just get on with improving the whole system so it actually works. Having said that, there's nothing quite like the London Underground anywhere else in the world and I've always had a sneaking fascination for it. In fact, if any of you are ever planning another assault on that tube record, can I come too?
Wednesday, January 08, 2003
TheYes/Snow Interlude: Central London looks beautiful in the snow. Imagine Big Ben topped with icing, the Houses of Parliament with white thatching, Green Park renamed White Park, and Buckingham Palace enveloped by thick cotton wool. Well, today it actually happened, for the first time in 9 years. The snowflakes started falling in central London just after 8am, not many to start with but gradually more and more until the capital was carpeted in white. OK, so two inches is nothing compared to the blizzards faced regularly by Muscovites and New Yorkers, but there's a certain magic to snowfall over London. My office has a 7th floor view over all four of those landmarks listed earlier, which made for a morning of childlike excitement in the workplace, particularly for the Australian who'd never seen snow before. Alas, at this rate it may be 2012 before this winter spectacle returns - no doubt that'll bugger up our Olympic bid.
Tuesday, January 07, 2003
Snow
Central London looks beautiful in the snow. Imagine Big Ben topped with icing, the Houses of Parliament with white thatching, Green Park renamed White Park, and Buckingham Palace enveloped by thick cotton wool. Unfortunately all you can do is imagine, because it never snows in central London. There may have been snow in the south-east last night, and children in the suburbs may have gone back to school to make snowmen in the playground and throw snowballs at their teachers, but central London remained virtually untouched. Big Ben was still brown, Green Park was still green, and Whitehall wasn't white. There may have been a very light sprinkling of flakes on the ground but that had long gone by sunrise. Pity.
As a huge urban area covering over 600 square miles, London generates a lot of heat. This is the heat island effect, and it keeps the temperature in central London a couple of degrees above that of the surrounding suburbs. In a heatwave London often has the country's highest daily temperature. London can escape a frost even when the suburbs are frozen. And clouds that drop snow around the capital may still just be warm enough over central London for the flakes to melt and fall as rain. Last night London was indeed the warmest place in the country, even though temperatures only scraped freezing. Blame the microclimate.
So, we missed out on snow in London again. According to scientists, global warming means that snow is less and less likely round here in the future, so that future generations of locals may never see another snowflake except on their Christmas cards. Instead they can look forward to suntans, palm trees, olive groves, melanoma and malaria. Which is a pity, because I imagine central London looks beautiful in the snow.
One further feature of global warming is the increased risk of flooding in the future. More unpredictable and extreme weather systems, more frequent and violent storms, all will doubtless lead to more widespread flooding and drought. (That's unless you're President Bush, of course, in which case global warming is merely a fiction invented by anti-capitalists and we should just all get out there and buy more petrol). There's been an awful lot of flooding recently, all over, and insurance premiums are rising almost as fast as the floodwaters. Major floods that have only happened before say, every 100 years on average, may now start to happen every 10 or 20 years. And this is not good news for London.
50 years ago a huge storm surge swept down the East Coast of England towards London. East Anglia was badly hit, and 1307 people lost their lives. Expect to hear a lot more about this appalling disaster in the media as the anniversary approaches at the end of this month. Look East will no doubt devote a week to special reports from Kings Lynn to Felixstowe. However, the floods subsided just in time to saver the city of London, where only Docklands was submerged, and being well before the arrival of corporate bankers and Pret A Manger this didn't actually kill anyone. The Thames flood barrier has since provided Londoners with some much-needed protection, but with global warming even this may not be enough in the future.
Yesterday I bought a new paperback telling the fictional story of a future flood surge on London. Flood by Richard Doyle(Arrow, £6.99, but currently £3.99 at W H Smiths) is a book outlining what could happen if the worst possible tide came upriver towards an unprepared capital. I can usually devour a good book in less than 24 hours, although work's got in the way of that particular target today. As a result I'm only halfway through, although it's great to read about places you know suffering doom, death and disaster. I can say this because I live right on the edge of the flood zone, although the McDonalds just down the road is doomed, which is good news. So far it's been a pleasure to read about the destruction of Suffolk and Canvey Island, and not a moment too soon I reckon. The Dome looks like it'll go under next, a fire is about to sweep upstream from a blazing chemical terminal, and something terrible but as yet unspecified looks imminent on the Jubilee Line.
The author's come up with an excellent website, both to plug the book and to fill in lots of detailed background information about the threat of flooding in London. I would have to be a cynic to think that the book has been launched to ride the tidal wave of publicity due to mark the anniversary of the 1953 floods (OK, OK, I'm a cynic) but it's a good read and disturbingly plausible. Now, where did I get up to? Ah yes, Bluewater, your turn to go under next...
Monday, December 16, 2002
McUpdate: A month ago there was a plot of wasteground at the bottom of my road beside the Bow Flyover. Three weeks ago a drive-in McDonalds suddenly sprang up on the site. Today they're serving burgers to the three customers who've noticed the restaurant has just opened. Oh, and potato wedges are back - in which case they may have a fourth customer very soon.
Wednesday, December 11, 2002
Night Boat To Woolwich
I can't believe it's taken this long, but tonight I attended my first ever office Christmas party. Just to be a bit different we hired a big boat from Westminster Pier, and 100 of us headed off down the Thames at dusk downriver past Greenwich. We were all trapped on board for a full four hours so that nobody could even consider sneaking off home early, and the view of London would have been absolutely spectacular had the windows not steamed up the minute we all got on board.
All the traditional features of the office Christmas party were present, except for the photocopier and the stationery cupboard. Copious drinks were ordered from the bar, everyone attempted to sing along to Slade's Merry Christmas Everybody, and someone grabbed the ship's mop and pretended to use it as a guitar. There was something especially surreal about sailing round the Thames Flood Barrier with the Ketchup Song blaring out. However, it was on the dance floor that work colleagues suddenly started to demonstrate uncharacteristic characteristics. Supposedly straight-laced revellers suddenly proved they had rhythm, one quiet bloke was transformed by a couple of bottles of Smirnoff Ice into a jiving disco queen, and there were just a few physical hints that certain people might just fancy you rather more than you could ever fancy them. I'm sure there's also an unwritten rule that says that bosses can't dance. Instead they move around between the various groups on the dance floor, sway vaguely from side to side, and smile broadly with a look that attempts to say 'See, I'm really just like you" but fails utterly.
It was a memorable first office Christmas party, and suprisingly enjoyable. But there were clearly some people who'd done Christmas parties before, because they took a camera with them. Sigh. I guess we should all await the blackmail photos in the office email system tomorrow...
Thursday, December 05, 2002
Weather forecast
Killer smog, continuing over London for the next 4 days. 50 years ago today, London was beset by its worst ever atmospheric pollution. An anticyclone settled over London, the wind dropped, the air grew damp and a thick fog began to form. In many parts of the capital it became impossible for pedestrians to find their way at night, and in the Isle of Dogs the visibility was at times nil. High concentrations of smoke and sulphur dioxide in the air caused many Londoners to suffer respiratory or cardiac problems, and perhaps as many as 12000 deaths eventually followed. It was reported that a number of cattle at Smithfield Market died of asphyxiation, and a performance at the Sadler's Wells Theatre had to be suspended when fog in the auditorium made conditions intolerable. In response to the Great London Smog, the Government passed its first Clean Air Act in 1956 which regulated what could be burned in houses and created smoke-free zones.
50 years later, in spite of an unjustified international reputation, London is now only rarely beset by fog. There may still be pollution in the air, but it's of a very different kind. Modern pollutants from vehicle exhausts include carbon monoxide, nitrogen dioxide, ozone, benzines and aldehydes. They are less visible than the pollutants of yesteryear but are equally toxic, causing eye irritation, asthma and bronchial complaints. Perhaps we'd all do better to campaign against existing air pollution rather than worry about the vague threat of a terrorist gas attack on the tube.
Friday, November 29, 2002
Skating on thin ice
My parents came down from Norfolk for the day, and we spent most of our time failing to buy any Christmas presents. Not that there weren't lots of shops selling things, because there were, but there weren't any shops selling anything worth buying. Or, perhaps more importantly, there weren't any shops selling anything worth opening on Christmas morning and pretending to be excited about.
So, instead, we headed down to Somerset House to look at the ice rink in the courtyard there. It opened for the winter yesterday, and it's already busy throughout the day with people willing to make complete fools of themselves. Every hour a new group of about a hundred budding skaters is sent out onto the ice. They emerge sheepishly, clutching onto the handrail and shuffling slowly round the edge of the rink. Most look as if they've never been skating before, which of course they haven't. Our intrepid on-the-spot reporter took this picture. Eventually the punters risk their first short skate across the ice, at which point half of them fall over, look up in an embarrassed way and attempt to pick themselves up without getting too cold. After a few falls or near misses most people slowly gain in skill and confidence, and 45 minutes later they're skating round the rink with ease. Unfortunately this is the signal for the ice marshals to announce 'time up', and usher everyone back to the changing rooms. At this point a huge ice-vacuum-cleaner comes out to pick up any severed limbs, or maybe just to smooth over the surface of the ice, and then the whole cycle starts again with a new group of ice virgins. See you down there?
Thursday, November 28, 2002
If you've looked upwards in London recently, you'll have have noticed one striking new building taking a dominant position on the City skyline. One minute there was just Tower 42, the old Nat West Tower, and then suddenly there was this 40-storey cigar-shaped skyscraper with green-lit windows.
It's the Swiss RE Tower, otherwise known as 30 St Mary Axe, already better known to Londoners as the Gherkin. Architect Sir Norman Foster was previously responsible for nearby City Hall, also known as the 'glass testicle'. I'm sure it won't be long before this new tower gains a ruder, matching nickname.
Tonight they topped off the Gherkin. To celebrate the final steel beam being lifted to the top of the building they set off a 15-minute light and laser show, visible across London. Very impressive it all looked too, even from my 7th floor office a couple of miles away. I already have a stunning view over London as a backdrop to my daily grind, but a gherkin has just improved it.
Wednesday, November 27, 2002
Underneath the Arches
Just down the road from here is the Bow Flyover, a less-than glamorous concrete wasteland where the A11 and A12 meet. There's an overpass, an underpass, a roundabout, a lot of traffic lights, and usually four snarling queues of very angry traffic.
A couple of months ago, workmen came to clear away some derelict land on one corner of the roundabout. They took their time removing the debris, removed some high metal fences that blocked the view and slowly levelled the site. Last weekend the only evidence of any construction taking place were a few basic foundations and a couple of workmen drinking tea. Then this evening I walked past and, all of a sudden, a whole new building has sprung up complete with roof. It's by no means an enormous building, and only a single storey high, but it already has doors, furniture and windows. There are a lot of windows at one end, none at all at the other end and, on the side nearest the main road, just the one single window. On closer inspection there's the beginnings of a paved roadway all round the building, with that window on the driver's side, and a number of cling-wrapped plastic tables sat inside. And just visible on one small black pipe sticking up out of the ground is that oh-so-familiar golden arches logo. Ronald McDonald is giving birth.
I read in the paper last week that McDonalds is finally suffering from the global downturn in the economy, or maybe it's just that people don't fancy eating reprocessed cow in a sesame seed bun any more. The corporation are closing 175 restaurants in 10 countries, including six under threat in London. They used to open over 2000 sites worldwide every year but, in this brave new era of cholesterol-inflicted lawsuits, they only plan to open 600 this year. One of that total of new so-called-restaurants will soon be just a couple of minutes walk from my house. I promise not to visit too often, because I prefer real food. Honest.
Sunday, November 24, 2002
Emma Clarke is the woman who provides the voice for the recorded announcements on the Victoria, Bakerloo, and Central lines. This train terminates at Hainault, via Newbury Park. She also does a lot of voiceovers for adverts, websites, and may even be that voice you get on the phone asking you to press the star button and then hold. Please mind the gap between the train and the platform. It's a pity Emma doesn't do the Hammersmith and City line as well because, unlike the current voice, I bet she could pronounce Bow Road and Plaistow properly. The next station is Green Park. Change at Green Park for Piccadilly and Jubilee lines. Emma was recently interviewed by the folks at b3ta, and comes across as considerably more human than her inanimate underground voice might suggest. Waterloo, how does it feel to have won the war? I shall be smiling more often on the tube now that I know a little more about the personality behind the voice.
Saturday, November 23, 2002
The BB House
I live very near to the BB House. That's the Channel 4 BB House. In fact, that's both of the Channel 4 BB Houses. Or rather, sadly, both of the former Channel 4 BB houses.
I moved to this part of London last year, just after the end of Big Brother 2. The BB House where Craig and Brian reigned supreme was just down the road at Three Mills, and all the housemates' weekly shopping came from my local Tesco nextdoor. I was looking forward to being within walking distance of Big Brother 3, but alas the Channel 4 bosses had failed to get long-term planning permission and the BB House had to be demolished. Now, on the site where Helen and Paul almost snogged each other and Nasty Nick was unmasked, there's just a grassy wasteland. No plaques, no tourists with cameras, just a nature trail for local schools and a great view of the local gasworks. Channel 4 have decamped to Borehamwood, only a few hundred yards away from that other legendary East End location - the set of Albert Square.
That still left one more major Channel 4 location round here, the lock-keeper's cottages used by the Big Breakfast. Home to Chris and Gaby, and Johnny and Denise, this garishly-painted building by the Bow River hosted a breakfast TV revolution for almost ten years. Had I ever been awake enough I could have wandered up to Old Ford Lock and hung over the fence to gawp at C-list celebrities giving D-list interviews and playing Z-list games. Alas, Channel 4 bosses decided that the Big Breakfast's days were numbered and the show was to be terminated. Never mind that the show's replacement, RI:SE, was to be vacant drivel watched by nobody, it was time to consign Zig and Zag to the scrap heap. After an emotional final show last Easter the vacant house was mothballed, ready to be put up for sale for an estimated £1million. And then, earlier this month, the cottage mysteriously burnt to the ground, undoubtedly in an arson attack and definitely not as part of any Channel 4 insurance scam.
I used to live very near to the BB House. Alas, I now live within walking distance of nothing more than memories.
Friday, November 22, 2002
lakeside: I've bin aht up Essex Cafedral, uvverwise known az Laikeside shoppin centa. the ole place wuz fulla locals aht buyin chrissy prezzies n lookin ard. i wuz opin ta buy sum prezzies of me own but there wernt nuffink worf gettin, just a lot of overpriced tat. looked ta me like all der geezers in sarf essex av no hair wile all der birds av far too much. all da girlz wer angin round Claires Accesries buyin scrunchies n ringin their matez on their moby, meanwile all the ladz fort they wuz dressed like gangstas in the 'hood, xcept they all just looked like fat bastardz in hoodies. ok, so i admit i did liv in sarf essex meself fa a few monfs, but i saw da error of me ways and i ope i got aht just in time. dya reckon?
Monday, November 18, 2002
State of Emergency?
It was just another normal morning, at least to begin with. Over London the first fog of autumn hung heavily in the air, which should have been an omen for what was to come, but it went right over our heads. We all filed into the tube stations across the capital, heading for work. Sure we'd read the warnings in the paper, either our own or from the headlines held by the woman across the carriage, but we thought nothing of it. Normality had to go on, at least for a few more minutes.
And then the train entered the station. The station, the one whose name will be infamous for decades. We were expecting a slow, silent killer, but we weren't expecting that noise. It was a sudden, unexpected sound, out there beyond the platform, echoing through the narrow tunnels like a bullet down the barrel of a gun. A look of dawning terror spread across the carriage as the blast rumbled on, louder than the train. A cloud of thick smoke came billowing onto the platform, drowning the waiting passengers in choking smoke. And our train sped up, drove on, the lifeboat that never stopped, carrying its human cargo to safety at the next station up the line.
Except it wasn't safe. There was something else in the air, not just the smoke. It was something you couldn't see, at least not yet, but it was there all the same. The rush of trains through tunnels had carried it far from its fiery source, across the system, deep into the lives of tens of thousands. And this time there was no escape.
They say maybe the Underground will run again one day. Not in my lifetime.
...
No, surely it could never happen. The people of London have lived with the threat of terrorism, war and destruction for tens, hundreds, even thousands of years. And, no matter what has been thrown at it, London has always soldiered on, unyielding to attack. Anyone stupid enough to plot to shut down the capital through fear and panic has picked the wrong location.
The 30-year IRA bombing campaign never in fact killed huge numbers here, although the threat felt ever present and they did manage to get every litter bin removed within a two mile radius of St Paul's Cathedral. The Great Fire of London only killed six people, and no Vikings have been seen invading up the Thames for at least a millennium.
World War Two was another matter altogether. Nearly 30,000 Londoners were killed in the Blitz and over 50,000 injured. Bombs rained down on London, particularly across the East End, but the locals were more likely to complain about the weather than the destruction. Large areas of the capital were reduced to rubble, with thousands forced to take refuge in air raid shelters and Underground stations. A direct hit on Bank station in 1941 killed 56 taking shelter there, while 172 people died in a stampede at Bethnal Green station after the air raid siren sounded one night in 1943.
The latest scare stories about terrorist attacks on the Underground should be therefore be taken in perspective. The spirit of the Blitz lives on, and London life must and will go on. However, I bet I get a seat on the tube tomorrow...
Sunday, November 17, 2002
A terrorist plot to target the London Underground? I take back everything I said about taxis...
Saturday, November 16, 2002
Disbelief: Some people don't believe in God, some people don't believe in democracy, some people don't believe in extra-terrestrial life, and some people don't believe in covering their mouths before they sneeze. Personally I don't believe in taxis. More to the point, I don't believe in taxis when there's a perfectly good public transport alternative at a fraction of the cost. I turned down two taxi rides on Friday but accepted one, which sped me home a whole seven minutes quicker than the tube would have done but at ten times the cost. In fact, given that I have a travelcard already, that would be at infinitely greater cost. For my money I got to career through the streets of late-night London along a route that could not in any way be described as a straight line, stopping at a high proportion of the 50 traffic lights between Tottenham Court Road and home, being driven by a geographical incompetent in a manner not dissimilar to that of a fairground ride, veering randomly from one blocked bus lane to another, and all without the added excitement of the post-pub drunken kebab-munching passengers you normally get to watch on public transport. Same time tomorrow night then?
Sunday, November 10, 2002
Strike a light
Things to do during another 4-hour power cut on a wet Sunday afternoon: surf the internet, write blog, watch video, watch television, listen to music, have hot bath, cook lunch, talk to neighbours for the first time this year, go shopping, give up.
I live within sight of the old Bryant and May match factory, site of the great matchgirl strike of 1888. The factory employed some 1,400 workers, mainly young women under the age of 15. They worked in appalling conditions for up to 13 hours a day and many suffered through handling the poisonous phosphorous used in match production. When journalist Annie Besant exposed the conditions in the factory, the management sacked three women simply for talking to her. The matchgirls then all walked out on strike, launching a golden age of Victorian trade union unrest.
That old match factory is now Bow Quarter, a rather posh development of titchy flats complete with sauna, gym, swimming pool and very high security fence. The inhabitants now all earn consideably more than a shilling a week, although I doubt if even half of them are members of trade unions.
I've spent much of this afternoon stumbling around my flat in the dark with a box of Bryant and May matches, lighting candles and igniting the gas on the cooker to brew a cup of tea. I could see the old match factory gently twinkling in the distance, a reminder that the Victorian conditions I was experiencing were nothing compared to the real thing, just a few hundred yards away.
Wednesday, November 06, 2002
Stalled
I was looking forward to a visit to the cinema in the West End tonight.
Leicester Square is usually pretty quiet on a Wednesday evening, although tonight the whole place appeared to have been turned into a rather upmarket car park. Dodging the limousines, we made our way to the one Odeon cinema that wasn't hosting the opening of the 46th London Film Festival. We wanted three tickets, but we confused the girl at the till by buying them singly so that she had to keep asking us which seats it was she'd already issued to us. The auditorium could have seated about 800 people, although only about 25 of the seats were taken. We only just outnumbered the usherettes, but they still insisted on showing us to our correct three allocated seats in the centre of the main stalls. With 775 seats remaining to choose from, a Korean couple were then dumped into the seats immediately next to us. They talked too much and insisted on eating their giant one-hour-forty-minute box of popcorn all the way through the film, especially during the really quiet parts. It soon became apparent that we had accidentally stumbled upon the weekly screening of the film with subtitles for the hard of hearing, so we were forced to watch the whole film with words everywhere and each sound effect laboriously explained. Finally, with 773 seats still remaining, a 6-foot-plus gentleman chose to sit directly in front of me, blocking out the middle of the subtitles so that only the start and finish of each sentence remained.
As for the film, well, it wasn't bad, but I refuse to believe that an alien invasion of earth could be stopped by a glass of water.
Friday, November 01, 2002
Stratford - urban metropolis of the future
England is well known the world over for historic Stratford-on-Avon, home of Shakespeare and ye olde genuine tea shoppes. However, I live just down the road from the other Stratford, home of cheap market stalls and a gridlocked ring-road. Stratford straddles the Greenwich Meridian, with the newly renovated station in the Western hemisphere and the cavernous shopping centre just a pedestrian crossing away in the Eastern hemisphere. Stratford could not under any circumstances be described as a cultural centre, a decent retail centre or even a place worth visiting. However, plans are afoot to change all that...
The one thing that Stratford does have is excellent rail connections. Trains run from here to Liverpool Street, Docklands, East Anglia, Neasden, Ruislip and, when the Channel Tunnel Rail Link arrives in 2007, Paris. It may not be the greatest place to live, but it is definitely a great place to travel away from. Property prices round have risen so quickly that, had I bought a flat in Stratford last year, I could probably sell it today at a profit exceeding the gross national product of a small African country.
Stratford's new Eurostar station is planned to be at the heart of a billion pound regeneration scheme, bringing new homes and a huge metropolitan, business and retail centre to the area. It's got to be a huge improvement on one Woolworths, one Argos and a Pizza Hut, which is as good as it gets at the moment.
Today a report has suggested that Stratford should be at the centre of a UK bid for the Olympics in 2012. In ten years time the whole international world of sport and athletics could be arriving on my doorstep, although quite frankly we have a big enough drug problem round here as it is.
Sydney, Athens, Beijing... Stratford? I'm really looking forward to living somewhere potentially bigger than Shakespeare.
Saturday, October 12, 2002
Dead centre
My Dad came down from East Anglia for the day (yes, I'm afraid his shoes lived down to all my expectations) and we spent most of the day amongst the dead.
First on our list was Paddington Cemetery (which is of course 3 miles away from Paddington) on a hunt for my great grandfather's grave. Edward was born the son of a tailor in South Molton Street, just round the corner from Bond Street tube station. He later moved out north-westwards to Maida Vale, but ended up being gassed on the battlefields of Belgium as a soldier in World War One, dying of respiratory problems two years later. We searched round the cemetery trying to find the right inscription on the right grave, but alas with no success. Knowing the family interest in horticulture, his was probably that grave with the small shrub planted on it 80 years ago, now grown into an enormous unkempt thorny weed, obscuring the entire plot and that of the two graves on either side.
Later in the day we visited Highgate Cemetery, the final resting place of, amongst others, Karl Marx and hordes of European student vistors. The twin cemeteries were dark, mysterious and silent, crowded full of ostentatious Victorian monuments and featuring an amazing Egyptian mausoleum cut into the hillside. The whole place is now seemingly run by a crowd of ageing volunteer lesbians, no doubt drawn there by the body of Radclyffe Hall, early 20th century dyke icon authoress.
We rounded off our day with a trip to Body Worlds in Brick Lane, an anatomical exhibition of real human bodies, preserved after death by the mysterious German scientic process of 'plastination'. It was disconcerting to come face-to-skull with what I look like underneath, alarming to realise how much good meat I have inside me, and particularly unnerving to see how testicles dangle from the pelvis like a couple of deeley-boppers. On emerging from the exhibition the restauranteurs of Brick Lane stood in their doorways trying to invite us into their curry houses, but strangely enough we were no longer feeling hungry.
I bought a danish pastry at Liverpool Street station this morning. Three questions struck me:
• Why, when I asked for a danish pastry, did they insist on giving me a danish pastry, a paper bag and three serviettes?
• Why, when I'd finished my danish pastry, did I discover that there are no litter bins anywhere on Liverpool Street station into which to dispose of my paper bag and three serviettes?
• Exactly how many years ago was the last time that a terrorist organisation actually placed a bomb in a litter bin in London, and how many more years will it be before anyone in London dares to put all the litter bins back? Please.
Wednesday, October 09, 2002
Takeaway
When you've spent nearly twelve hours in the office for the third day in a row, the last thing you want to do on getting home is cook, so the local fish and chip shop is a real saviour. I now have the luxury of two fish and chip shops located within two minutes walk from my flat. This is a big improvement on Suffolk, where it was probably quicker to drive to the coast and catch a fish myself, rather than wait til Monday for the chip van to turn up in the neighbouring village. One of my two local chippies is run by the mysterious 'Mam', a woman with over-starched red hair and a permanent bemused smirk on her face. Unfortunately on my last visit Mam kindly served me up with a newspaper full of food poisoning, which helps to explain why that was my last visit. So, tonight I visited chippie number two instead, which is basically one bleak white room next to the post office with a fish frier in the corner. I was served by an old trout (which I guess is only to be expected in a fish shop), who looked even older than the bottles of own-brand ketchup and no-brand vinegar substitute stacked on the shelves behind. Meanwhile her teenage son lounged menacingly at the end of the counter, no doubt ready to mug me of my change on the walk home. Most frightening of all, however - the menu board announced the sale of 'donor kebabs'. I shall definitely avoid the steak and kidney pies there in future, just in case they're from the same source, and stick to cod and chips instead.
Thursday, October 03, 2002
How the other half live
After yesterday's journey into the parallel universe surrounding my local post office, I decided to experience the other end of the social spectrum by visiting the new Waitrose that's just opened up at Canary Wharf. It's huge. It's on three floors. The food mall sells every ingredient that Delia Smith ever put in one of her recipes. The select band of shoppers carry shiny new green baskets filled with aubergines, balsamic vinegar and organic vitamin supplements. Local business types can grab a quick lunch at the in-store sushi bar, or maybe dine out on steak and oysters instead. For anyone who's planning a dinner party for the boss and her husband there's a complete set of bone china and designer cutlery on sale, as well as a huge selection of quality Indian and Chinese gourmet ready meals. The lovely Jessica is on hand to pamper you with a manicure in the nail bar if the stress of shopping gets all too much to bear. It's dead posh, even for a Waitrose. But I bet not one person who uses my local post office will ever set foot in there.
Wednesday, October 02, 2002
Another tube strike
Week-day-world: Being at home today, it seemed a good idea to pop out at lunchtime to see what the world round here looks like during the daytime. I risked a trip to the post office across the road, in what used to be the local high street until post-war planners concreted it over. It clearly wasn't a normal day out there, with big queues at the bus stops and unusually heavy traffic, all courtesy of the tube strike. However, normal life was still going on for all the people round here who don't have anywhere to commute to. Our three local alcoholics sat on the brick wall by the shops, well into their third hour of lager drinking, heckling the passers by. An old man who hadn't washed either himself or his clothes recently walked past, just too close for comfort. A large group of spotty schoolchildren stood around outside the kebab shop eating their nutritionally balanced lunch of chips and more chips. In the post office an old lady in fully knitted costume spent unfeasibly long sorting out her pension in front of me, savouring her one social contact of the day before dragging her shopping basket back to the nearby block of flats. And when I finally got to the front of the queue the man behind the counter looked at me as if I was speaking in a foreign language, which of course I was, and I walked away empty-handed. Back home I was glad to be able to get on with some work - it's a different world out there for those who can't.
Tuesday, October 01, 2002
Splat
Unlikely as it may seem, in the year I've been in London I have yet to see one single traffic accident. I can't understand why I haven't, given that most car drivers in London appear to have a deathwish, and most pedestrians in London appear to have a deathwish too. Car drivers in London are speed-obsessed. This is odd, given that most of London has a 30mph speed limit, and even then drivers are lucky if they ever reach even 10mph in all the jams. Nevertheless, most drivers still love nothing more than to prove that that their car can still do 70mph, even if it means accelerating and braking like a maniac between two red traffic lights fifty yards apart. Pedestrians in London don't seem to have noticed this, however, and love nothing more than walking straight out into the traffic to avoid a thirty second detour via the nearest pelican crossing. Hence my disbelief that, so far, I have yet to see one of these blinkered pedestrians get mown down by one of those grand prix boy racers.
So, this morning, there I am crossing the busy red route just outside my flat - admittedly only thirty seconds from a pelican crossing, but there was nothing coming, honest. And then, following me across the road, came a little squirrel. It was a bit of a shock to see wildlife on the streets of the capital, but I hoped I wasn't about to see it flat on the streets instead. The squirrel scampered across the road, then stopped and turned to face the number 25 bus suddenly bearing down upon it. Time stood still - as did the squirrel. Then, at the very last moment, the little rodent turned and ran, alas right under the wheels of the the blue car now doing 70mph up the outside lane. Were I ever to witness a car accident, I suspect the police would be very disappointed at my descriptive powers when it comes to cars. "Make and model please sir?" "It was, er, blue, officer, and it had four wheels." There was another heart-stopping moment - for the squirrel, if not for me. And then, unexpectedly, a flash of grey sped out from under the chassis and into the nearby churchyard, back to safety. So, that's yet another accident I haven't seen in London, but I do hope my luck holds out longer than that squirrel will.
Sunday, September 29, 2002
Last Train To Epping
It's not quite the last train to Clarksville that The Monkees sang about, but it's still one of the world's great epic journeys. People gather, drunk, on the platforms at Oxford Circus, Tottenham Court Road and Holborn. They wait for ages, because there's a huge gap between trains at this time of night, trying hard in the meantime not to stagger off the platform onto the live rail. Then they crowd into the Cental Line carriages, in cattle-truck conditions reminiscent of the weekday rush hour. Some are still finishing off chips and kebabs, much to disgust of the nostrils of the majority. People try to grab a glimpse of the front of the early editions of the Sunday papers, disbelieving that John Major ever had a sex life, let alone with Edwina Currie. Around Bank the more inebriated passengers grab onto whatever or whoever they can, as the train careers violently from side to side round curves resembling a theme park thrill ride. A group of lads shout loudly across the carriage at each other in a foreign language - which might well have been English earlier in the evening. And at Mile End I escape across the platform to the waiting District Line train, happy to abandon the drunken revellers safe in the knowledge that I won't be ending up back in Essex with them by mistake.
Saturday, September 28, 2002
Welcome to the modern village
Guy Browning has written an article in the Guardian which sums up the whole nightmare and nothingness of village life.
"The modern village is defined as a small group of houses, none of which can get pizza delivered. Many urban dwellers have a secret dream of living in a beautiful collection of rose-covered cottages nestled around a wide village green and overlooked by the church spire and village pub. Many people who live in real villages also have this dream."
That's exactly how I felt about living in a village. That's exactly why I left one a year ago.
The Guardian article is magnificent. It's very accurate, it's very long, you can read it here and I wish I'd written it.
Thursday, September 26, 2002
Sniffle: On Monday morning I sat on the tube next to a 12-year old schoolboy who insisted on coughing and spluttering all over the surrounding carriage. When I went to work this morning, I was feeling fine, so I thought. Around mid-morning I started sneezing rather a lot. Around lunchtime my left nostril started to feel a little bit runny. By early afternoon I was getting my handkerchief out for the first time in months. Late afternoon and I was filling that handkerchief at regular intervals. On returning home I tried to track down the supply of clean handkerchieves I know have at the back of a drawer somewhere. Tomorrow I expect to wake up with a blocked nose, breathing like Darth Vader. No doubt I'll spend the weekend laid up in bed with a gallon of Beecham's. And, come Monday morning, I'm sure I'll be just well enough to go back to work, despite still feeling sub-standard. However, it'll be worth it just to cough all over that bloody 12-year old on the tube journey in again.
Wednesday, September 25, 2002
Tube strike: It only takes two hours to get back from Leeds to London by train - I was well impressed. However, it then takes roughly as long to get from Kings Cross home to East London, thanks to the tube strike they kindly put on to celebrate my return. I've stood in bus queues for buses that either didn't arrive or were full and didn't stop. I've stood like a sardine in a variety of jam-packed stations and train carriages. I've walked overground across London carrying incredibly heavy luggage. I've travelled miles out of my way just to get on board a train that still exists. I suspect I've just lost all the weight I put on while having those two stodgy hotel breakfasts. But it is so good to be home.
Sunday, September 22, 2002
22 September - the Countryside comes to London
It's exactly a year today since I packed up all my belongings and moved from a small village in Suffolk to the East End of London. To celebrate this anniversary, the Countryside Alliance kindly arranged for quarter of a million country folk to come up to London just to remind me exactly what I'm missing. Nothing.
The streets of London were filled with red-faced protesters, converging on Whitehall via Hyde Park and the Embankment, demanding Liberty and Livelihood. Most were wearing that dull shade of green that only people who live in the country ever dare to wear in public, usually a Barbour jacket or something disturbingly tweedy. They wore flat caps, sensible brogues and sideburns - it was as if last week's London Fashion Week had never happened. They dutifully waved their placards, some lovingly laminated from a poster in the Daily Mail, others insulting the Prime Minister, but most just admitting that they enjoyed murdering animals for fun.
Some marchers looked so rich, in an in-bred landed-gentry sort-of-a-way, that it was obvious they were only there for the Liberty of shooting a few foxes rather than the Livelihood of a few genuine farmers. Many had dragged their children along and given them a whistle to blow and a political statement to make. I thought there were far too many marchers from Essex, which in my opinion is barely the countryside at all. However, I suspect many of the more bemused-looking country folk had never been to London before in their lives. I fully expected to see some of them in Pret attempting to barter a prize sheep in exchange for a sandwich.
The march went on, and on, and on, in much the same way that the countryside does. At the Cenotaph the protestors marched past in silence, which might have been powerfully impressive were it not for the racket being created by the helicopter hovering overhead. Then after Big Ben everyone dispersed, either to the clubs of Pall Mall, which appeared to be doing brisk business, or back to the Landrovers and home to rural Hampstead.
I know that the moaning marchers have all missed the most obvious way to improve their lives - sell up and move to a town. I found my Liberty and Livelihood by escaping the countryside and moving to London, and I have no intention of ever going back. More buses pass my front door in an hour now than used to serve my old village in a week. If I want a pint of milk today I can buy some in a shop one minute's walk away rather than have to get in the car and drive for miles. If I want a life I have one on my doorstep, rather than just the possibility of village hall bingo every third Thursday. So, I'll happily leave the countryside in the capable hands of the Barbour brigade. The rest of us will carry on living.
Saturday, September 21, 2002
40 things I love about... London
Life, nightlife, the sense of history, the Underground, the view from Greenwich Park, the fact there's always somewhere new to discover, Oxford Street, the sound of Big Ben, nightbuses, sunlight on the Thames, buying your Sunday paper on Saturday evening, the museums in South Kensington, the wobbly Millennium bridge, being able to choose from more than two local radio stations, Tate Modern, not needing a car, the view from Hampstead Heath, Arsenal shirts, Trafalgar Square, the top pod on the London Eye, St Pancras station, decent mobile phone reception, Routemasters, the East End, 24 hour bagel shops, culture on your doorstep, Hungerford Bridge, Old Compton Street, deckchairs in Green Park, the DLR, 0° longitude, the City, Covent Garden, decent record shops, St Paul's Cathedral, walking faster than the traffic, crossing Westminster Bridge at night on the back of a bike, the sheer variety of Theatreland, the British Museum, just living here.
London Open House weekend: What a fantastic idea, to open up some of London's buildings to the public free for the weekend. I resisted the temptation to queue up for Broadcasting House, or the Victorian Sewage Works down the road, and instead headed up to Westminster. The queueing crowds were mostly either over 50 or gay, or both. And I got to see 5 places that I'd always wanted to see:
Westminster Hall: Now that the Queen Mother has moved on, there were hardly any queues. I stood on the spot where her artificial hip had lain in state, just out of respect you understand.
Portcullis House: The new office block for MPs, famous for its fig trees imported at a cost of £150,000. If you're a UK taxpayer, you'll be glad to know none of them look as if they need replacing yet.
Foreign and Commonwealth Office: Magnificent and opulent courtyards and staircases. I suspect we bled the Empire dry to pay for it all.
Cabinet Office: Had to queue for one and a half hours, but well worth it just to see the door that Sir Humphrey couldn't get through when his key was confiscated in Yes Prime Minister. It has a card swipe now, by the way.
Midland Hotel, St Pancras: Glorious old hotel, now fallen into serious disrepair. I suspect it never recovered after the Spice Girls recorded the video for Wannabe there. Zig-a-zig-ah.
Friday, September 20, 2002
3 things I hate about... pedestrians who get in my way
1) Mobile phone users: They are the new living dead. They walk the streets like zombies. They are totally absorbed in the text message they're typing into their mobile phone. They always walk right in front of me without looking. Not enough of them walk straight out into the road in front of cars.
2) Tourists: Us people who live in London are usually trying to get somewhere. Tourists, on the other hand, are happy to stay exactly where they are. Being ignorant of the ways of the capital, tourists will happily stop dead in the middle of a narrow pavement, just outside a station entrance or directly in front of a minor photo opportunity. Two tourists, if positioned carefully, can completely block a London pavement in seconds, causing pedestrian gridlock. Large groups of French schoolchildren, if left unattended, can suddenly seal off half of Central London. Mayor Ken would do well to consider the huge economic savings to be made by deploying tourists on strategic pedestrian crossings around the capital as a cheaper alternative to congestion charge technology.
3) People with bags: On Fridays, people take to the escalators of London with suitcases. They're obviously planning on rushing off somewhere after work for the weekend, maybe to Amsterdam, maybe to the second home in Wales, or maybe they just like carrying suitcases, I don't know. But these people are out there on Friday mornings stopping me from climbing the escalator and getting my daily exercise. Then of course there are all those people with rucksacks who are prone to turn round and smash their fat bag into you, ignorant of the carnage happening right behind them. And please don't even get me started on pushchairs.
Thursday, September 19, 2002
3 things I hate about... Travelcards
1) Buying them: My annual London Travelcard expires in three hours time. I went to my local tube station last week to try to renew it. "Oh no", they said, "you can't do that yet. Come back nearer the time." I returned at 10pm on Sunday evening when, after much protest, the staff finally agreed they were perhaps willing take £912 off me if I really insisted. It was clear that the man behind the counter had never used a computer before, as he attempted to work out what all the buttons were for and where on earth the letter 'E' was. Next year maybe I should buy my ticket at 8:00 on a Monday morning instead, just to see how long I can get the queue of irate passengers behind me.
2) Other people buying them: Don't you hate in when you're stuck waiting in the queue at the ticket office on a Monday morning, with some urgent travelling to do, and some idiot in front of you has decided to buy their annual travelcard by debit card, and the monkey behind the counter can't get the computer to work?
3) Other people selling them: It's become one of the most modern but most undesirable forms of begging in London. Shuffling grubby reprobates gather round the exits to tube stations during the early evening, asking if they can relieve you of your used Travelcard. Not mine mate, it cost me £912. There again, maybe tonight I should have flogged it. I have three hours left to find a buyer...
Wednesday, September 18, 2002
3 things I hate about... being stuck in a tube carriage between Green Park and Piccadilly Circus for 20 minutes on the way home from work
1) Being late: I don't normally stay late at the office until 7pm. So, when I do stay late, the last thing I want is "a safety alert at Caledonian Road" to delay me even longer. One minute into my tube journey tonight we ground to a halt in the middle of a Piccadilly Line tunnel. It was very helpful of our tube driver to keep us updated by telling us that we weren't moving, although we had noticed this for ourselves. Then he told us the blockage ahead had been cleared and that we should be moving soon, except we didn't. He ought instead to have told us there was a really impatient American moaning at his wife on the third seat down on the left, because there was.
2) The Evening Standard: Normally it takes me most of the tube journey home to read the Evening Standard. It's not a great newspaper, bearing far too much of a resemblance to the Daily Mail for my liking. Tonight, however, I had time to read the paper twice. Second time around I was left having to read the article bashing Ken's congestion charge, the editorial supporting the green welly Countryside Alliance. the daily cosmetic surgery scare story and even the recipe for anchovy bruscheta. Please please let me not be so delayed going home tomorrow.
3) You don't care: I've told you the story of my dreadful journey home, and you don't care. Nobody ever cares about nightmare travel stories. That's unless one happens to you of course, in which case you feel as if you have to tell everyone at your destination every single intimate detail. I bet you've just skimmed through my tale of underground woe, but please remember, next time you're late I won't be at all interested either.
Tuesday, September 10, 2002
Tuesdays - what is the point?
First thing every morning, at the top of the steps outside the tube station on my way to work, some grinning idiot tries to thrust a free magazine in my hand. Every Tuesday, that magazine is called 'Midweek'. Why? Do they not realise they're at least 28 hours early? The last thing I want to be told on a Tuesday morning is that it's halfway through the week, because it so disappointingly isn't. Still, it's better than the similar situation every Monday morning, when the same grinning idiot always tries to offer me a copy of 'Ms London' instead.
NDLondon's Congestion Charge (one week in)
Our House (Cambridge Theatre)
News flash: 32 people have been injured and hundreds more evacuated from Chancery Lane station after a train derailed and hit a platform. London Underground said the last three carriages of the train appeared to have left the track. Eye-witnesses said "Something snapped underneath when we were at Liverpool Street. When we got into Chancery Lane the doors just ripped off." "The windows caved in and the doors opened in the tunnel and we were just bouncing up and down." "There was smoke and everything and the driver came on and said everyone to get to the front of the train and started shouting 'mayday'."
Rewind
If you've looked upwards in London recently, you'll have have noticed one striking new building taking a dominant position on the City skyline. One minute there was just Tower 42, the old Nat West Tower, and then suddenly there was this 40-storey cigar-shaped skyscraper with green-lit windows.
