Yesterday I opened my advent calendar, and behind the window there was nothing: no chocolate, just an empty space. It turned out to be an omen of the day to come.
Thursday, December 09, 2004
Thursday, November 25, 2004
Urgh
If you still have a hangover at 5.30pm the next day, you know it's a bad one. In fact, I'd go so far as to say this is one of the worst 100 hangovers of my life.
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
My new leaf
It’s the sensible breakfast at home instead of the bought croissant on the way to the office.
It’s fruit and yoghurts and rice cakes for lunch instead of the shop sandwich and the hard to resist bag of crisps and bar of chocolate.
It’s sugar free drinks instead of sugar rich drinks.
It’s sugar free polos instead of extra strong mints.
It’s not having that sandwich when you get home from work but starting on dinner straight away instead.
It’s not having anything else to eat after dinner.
It’s eating before the gig or play instead of waiting for late night food when you get home.
It’s having three nights a week off the booze.
It’s walking up the stairs instead of taking the lift.
It’s doing half an hour on the exercise bike three or four times a week.
It’s thinking about these things, again and again and again.
It’s fruit and yoghurts and rice cakes for lunch instead of the shop sandwich and the hard to resist bag of crisps and bar of chocolate.
It’s sugar free drinks instead of sugar rich drinks.
It’s sugar free polos instead of extra strong mints.
It’s not having that sandwich when you get home from work but starting on dinner straight away instead.
It’s not having anything else to eat after dinner.
It’s eating before the gig or play instead of waiting for late night food when you get home.
It’s having three nights a week off the booze.
It’s walking up the stairs instead of taking the lift.
It’s doing half an hour on the exercise bike three or four times a week.
It’s thinking about these things, again and again and again.
Thursday, August 05, 2004
Sea scouts at the airport
I've been away for a couple of weeks, living life instead of sitting here writing about it.
As we waited and waited and waited for Ryanair to produce our bags at Stansted, a large group of sea scouts marched through the baggage hall.
What is the world coming to when sea scouts travel by air?
As we waited and waited and waited for Ryanair to produce our bags at Stansted, a large group of sea scouts marched through the baggage hall.
What is the world coming to when sea scouts travel by air?
Thursday, July 15, 2004
Another report
I adore this quaint British tradition of having an independent enquiry into a government misdoing and getting Lord something-or-other from the heart of the establishment to carry it out.
Monday, July 12, 2004
The tyranny of choice
It can’t be just me who is turned off by this political rhetoric that what we really want from our public services is ‘choice’.
I don’t want choice. I want a good all round standard. For me, having good public services doesn’t mean I can choose which hospital I go to. It means I don’t go into the local hospital knowing I’ll spend half the night in the waiting room or worrying I’ll come out with a worse disease than the one I went in with. It means, if I had kids, that I’d know they’d be okay at the school round the corner – which, incidentally, they could walk to. It doesn’t mean being able to compete with other parents and pull whatever middle class strings I can muster to send them to a posh school on the other side of town.
These days we suffer from an excess of choice. There’s far too much choice in our wealthy, Western societies. I’m beginning to feel choice anxiety threatening to turn into choice burn-out. A person naturally disposed to prevaricate, having to make choices left, right and centre is leaving me paralysed. Can I get through the day without making choices? In London we’re all working hard, living fast lives, burning candles in the middle as well as both ends, and I feel I lack the time or energy to spend on choice. I want someone to take some choice way from me, to simplify things. I don’t want 20 different versions of coffee. I want reduced options, and free grey matter to think of higher things.
Okay, I concede that what happens when people have kids is that they turn selfish by proxy. The middle classes will move mountains if it means getting a more privileged position for their children. Decent, normally caring people fall victim to Diane Abbott Syndrome: getting their kids as far as possible ahead of the unprivileged becomes, it would seem, an overpowering motivation. (And the terrible thing, of course, is that those middle class children grow up and become adults who believe that they achieve what they achieve in life entirely thanks to their own efforts.) You hear people saying that they might have principles, but why should their child’s future suffer for the sake of those principles? Since when did principles become negotiable? Choice here is only entrenching privilege and making it ever easier to forget your principles.
The ludicrousness of introducing ‘choice’ into public services, had, I thought, reached its peak in the railways. To stand at a railway station and have a ‘choice’ of three different railway companies to take you to your station, with different fares and journey times, and of course tickets that aren’t valid on each other’s services! This did not feel liberating, merely confusing. To experience the chaos of choice at its fullest, arrive in England at Gatwick Airport. Recently, as I stood by the carousel waiting for luggage, a revolving sign told me that the best way to get to London was on the Gatwick Express. The sign turned and the next face told me the Southern railways was the best, cheapest route to London. I was only surprised Thameslink didn’t reveal itself at the next turn of the sign. Visitors to England, new to the money, perhaps struggling with the language, are offered a ‘choice’ of railway companies to take them to the capital, with the exciting prospect of penalty fares if they hit upon the wrong ticket / train combination. I have arrived at a fair few airports in my time, but I have never seen anything like this. Tourists stand befuddled gazing at screens. Welcome to our country of choice!
Political parties compete to be the one which offers us the most ‘choice’. This apparently is what we will vote for. But where is the party that just promises to make public services uniformly good enough? There’s a box that will get my cross. These days, I’m spending longer in the polling stations on election days, my pencil stub hovering uncertainly over one party and then another – and for once, that’s not because I feel overwhelmed by choice.
I don’t want choice. I want a good all round standard. For me, having good public services doesn’t mean I can choose which hospital I go to. It means I don’t go into the local hospital knowing I’ll spend half the night in the waiting room or worrying I’ll come out with a worse disease than the one I went in with. It means, if I had kids, that I’d know they’d be okay at the school round the corner – which, incidentally, they could walk to. It doesn’t mean being able to compete with other parents and pull whatever middle class strings I can muster to send them to a posh school on the other side of town.
These days we suffer from an excess of choice. There’s far too much choice in our wealthy, Western societies. I’m beginning to feel choice anxiety threatening to turn into choice burn-out. A person naturally disposed to prevaricate, having to make choices left, right and centre is leaving me paralysed. Can I get through the day without making choices? In London we’re all working hard, living fast lives, burning candles in the middle as well as both ends, and I feel I lack the time or energy to spend on choice. I want someone to take some choice way from me, to simplify things. I don’t want 20 different versions of coffee. I want reduced options, and free grey matter to think of higher things.
Okay, I concede that what happens when people have kids is that they turn selfish by proxy. The middle classes will move mountains if it means getting a more privileged position for their children. Decent, normally caring people fall victim to Diane Abbott Syndrome: getting their kids as far as possible ahead of the unprivileged becomes, it would seem, an overpowering motivation. (And the terrible thing, of course, is that those middle class children grow up and become adults who believe that they achieve what they achieve in life entirely thanks to their own efforts.) You hear people saying that they might have principles, but why should their child’s future suffer for the sake of those principles? Since when did principles become negotiable? Choice here is only entrenching privilege and making it ever easier to forget your principles.
The ludicrousness of introducing ‘choice’ into public services, had, I thought, reached its peak in the railways. To stand at a railway station and have a ‘choice’ of three different railway companies to take you to your station, with different fares and journey times, and of course tickets that aren’t valid on each other’s services! This did not feel liberating, merely confusing. To experience the chaos of choice at its fullest, arrive in England at Gatwick Airport. Recently, as I stood by the carousel waiting for luggage, a revolving sign told me that the best way to get to London was on the Gatwick Express. The sign turned and the next face told me the Southern railways was the best, cheapest route to London. I was only surprised Thameslink didn’t reveal itself at the next turn of the sign. Visitors to England, new to the money, perhaps struggling with the language, are offered a ‘choice’ of railway companies to take them to the capital, with the exciting prospect of penalty fares if they hit upon the wrong ticket / train combination. I have arrived at a fair few airports in my time, but I have never seen anything like this. Tourists stand befuddled gazing at screens. Welcome to our country of choice!
Political parties compete to be the one which offers us the most ‘choice’. This apparently is what we will vote for. But where is the party that just promises to make public services uniformly good enough? There’s a box that will get my cross. These days, I’m spending longer in the polling stations on election days, my pencil stub hovering uncertainly over one party and then another – and for once, that’s not because I feel overwhelmed by choice.
Thursday, July 08, 2004
Things that irritate about this city - 6
South Bank, last night, 6.21 pm. Woman on mobile:
"Hi, I'm just ringing to check you got my text message."
"Hi, I'm just ringing to check you got my text message."
Wednesday, July 07, 2004
Reality check
So failed Tory politician Sebastian Coe is going to do what no one else has managed: sort out all London's transport problems and capture us the Olympics.
Yesterday they had some poxy car race on central London streets. Result when I left work at six o'clock: London's two busiest tube stations, Oxford and Picadilly Circuses, closed due to overcrowding.
Makes me laugh.
Yesterday they had some poxy car race on central London streets. Result when I left work at six o'clock: London's two busiest tube stations, Oxford and Picadilly Circuses, closed due to overcrowding.
Makes me laugh.
Things that irritate about this city - 5
There must be a word for the art of walking in a group abreast so as to occupy exactly the width of the pavement. Visitors to London have perfected this art.
Monday, July 05, 2004
Friday, July 02, 2004
An Englishman in England
Curiously, a few nights ago, I was for the first time in my life the victim of racial abuse. It was the night of England's Euro 2004 elimination on penalties against Portugal. As it happens I'd been to the theatre that night, so had missed most of the game. After the play I managed to fit in a couple of pints in the ever excellent Buckingham Arms, Petty France, and caught the end of normal time, extra time and penalties. Afterwards, my walk to Victoria to catch a tube home took me through a small student area. So there I was, walking down a quiet street. This is where the fun began. A sash window on an upstairs floor was shoved open. A drunk leaned out and started quizzing me in a Scots accent. As far as I can recall the conversation went along the following lines.
Scots bloke: “Are you English?”
Me, surprised to be asked his in the centre of London, England: “What?”
Scots bloke: “Are you English?”
Me: “Well, yes”
At which he fell into fake hysterical laughter and shouted something along the lines of “you got stuffed tonight.”
Me, fake naïve: “Why, what happened?”
Scots bloke, surprised: “England! You got beat by Portugal.”
Me: “Ah, well you asked the wrong question. You asked me if I was English. You should have asked me if I support the England football team. It isn’t the same thing.”
Scots bloke: “But you must do.”
Me: “No, I don’t care about England. I didn’t even watch the game. My team wasn’t playing tonight.”
Scots bloke: “Why, who do you support?”
Me: “I’m a Burnley supporter. Burnley weren’t playing tonight.”
Scots bloke: “But you are English?”
Just then we were saved from drifting into ever decreasing conversational circles by the intervention of a second head leaning through the sash window. It was evidently a friend of the Scots bloke. He was Welsh.
Welsh bloke: “Ha, ha, ha, you English bastard.”
At which I attempted to restate the argument I’d put to the Scots bloke earlier. Alas I was cut-off in mid flow by a song, as the Scots and Welsh men joined in a chorus of:
“Going home, you’re going home, you’re going, England’s going home.”
Me: “Home? I am bloody home. I’m from England, I’m in London. Where’s your home?”
The Welsh bloke started shouting something about “see you on October ninth!”
Me: “Why, what’s happening on October the ninth?”
Welsh bloke: “We beat you English bastards.”
Me: “Look, my team won’t even be playing on October the ninth. If it’s an international weekend we won’t have a game.”
Welsh bloke: “But you're English, aren’t you?”
And so it went on. I realised quite early on in the conversation that I was at a disadvantage because I wasn’t drunk, and drunk has its own logic. I called an end to this amiable chat when they started calling me a “fat bastard” and headed home.
I headed home thinking several things. The first was the bravery of my friends, who had nobly chosen to heckle a fat bloke in a suit walking down an empty street from an upstairs window with only at least one locked door to protect them. As I swung round the corner onto Victoria Street, I passed a gang of shaven-headed, England shirt-wearing kebab eaters, heading in that direction. I wondered if they would get similar treatment.
I pondered too the daftness of heckling people for being English, in an English city, while choosing to live there. It’s not for me to take words from the mouths of racists, but there was obviously something that appealed to them about England, for this was where they had decided to live.
But really the thing I walked away shaking my head at was the sheer pointlessness of it all. I tried to imagine myself in a similar situation, perhaps sitting in front of the television willing Scotland to lose? I couldn’t. Who could be that sad? As a Burnley supporter, Blackburn Rovers are the team I hate the most. Would I ever expend an evening watching some game they’re playing in, purely in the hope of seeing them lose? I didn’t think so. Here were two young men, privileged to live in one of the world’s greatest cities, with an extraordinary range of culture and entertainment on the doorstep, and how had they chosen to spend Midsummer night? Why, by sitting inside, drinking cans, and watching TV in the hope that England would lose.
There are times when I feel I am further away than ever from understanding people.
Scots bloke: “Are you English?”
Me, surprised to be asked his in the centre of London, England: “What?”
Scots bloke: “Are you English?”
Me: “Well, yes”
At which he fell into fake hysterical laughter and shouted something along the lines of “you got stuffed tonight.”
Me, fake naïve: “Why, what happened?”
Scots bloke, surprised: “England! You got beat by Portugal.”
Me: “Ah, well you asked the wrong question. You asked me if I was English. You should have asked me if I support the England football team. It isn’t the same thing.”
Scots bloke: “But you must do.”
Me: “No, I don’t care about England. I didn’t even watch the game. My team wasn’t playing tonight.”
Scots bloke: “Why, who do you support?”
Me: “I’m a Burnley supporter. Burnley weren’t playing tonight.”
Scots bloke: “But you are English?”
Just then we were saved from drifting into ever decreasing conversational circles by the intervention of a second head leaning through the sash window. It was evidently a friend of the Scots bloke. He was Welsh.
Welsh bloke: “Ha, ha, ha, you English bastard.”
At which I attempted to restate the argument I’d put to the Scots bloke earlier. Alas I was cut-off in mid flow by a song, as the Scots and Welsh men joined in a chorus of:
“Going home, you’re going home, you’re going, England’s going home.”
Me: “Home? I am bloody home. I’m from England, I’m in London. Where’s your home?”
The Welsh bloke started shouting something about “see you on October ninth!”
Me: “Why, what’s happening on October the ninth?”
Welsh bloke: “We beat you English bastards.”
Me: “Look, my team won’t even be playing on October the ninth. If it’s an international weekend we won’t have a game.”
Welsh bloke: “But you're English, aren’t you?”
And so it went on. I realised quite early on in the conversation that I was at a disadvantage because I wasn’t drunk, and drunk has its own logic. I called an end to this amiable chat when they started calling me a “fat bastard” and headed home.
I headed home thinking several things. The first was the bravery of my friends, who had nobly chosen to heckle a fat bloke in a suit walking down an empty street from an upstairs window with only at least one locked door to protect them. As I swung round the corner onto Victoria Street, I passed a gang of shaven-headed, England shirt-wearing kebab eaters, heading in that direction. I wondered if they would get similar treatment.
I pondered too the daftness of heckling people for being English, in an English city, while choosing to live there. It’s not for me to take words from the mouths of racists, but there was obviously something that appealed to them about England, for this was where they had decided to live.
But really the thing I walked away shaking my head at was the sheer pointlessness of it all. I tried to imagine myself in a similar situation, perhaps sitting in front of the television willing Scotland to lose? I couldn’t. Who could be that sad? As a Burnley supporter, Blackburn Rovers are the team I hate the most. Would I ever expend an evening watching some game they’re playing in, purely in the hope of seeing them lose? I didn’t think so. Here were two young men, privileged to live in one of the world’s greatest cities, with an extraordinary range of culture and entertainment on the doorstep, and how had they chosen to spend Midsummer night? Why, by sitting inside, drinking cans, and watching TV in the hope that England would lose.
There are times when I feel I am further away than ever from understanding people.
Wednesday, June 30, 2004
My weekend in Belgium
22 bars in Antwerp and three in Brussels on the way back.
I have provisionally given up drinking.
I have provisionally given up drinking.
Thursday, June 24, 2004
Things that irritate about this city - 3
There are some grey clouds in the sky. I'd better put my umbrella up.
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
Football, again
Having said that, nothing will ever epitomise how brilliant tournament football can be more than Antonio Cassini's goal for Italy against Bulgaria. When he scored the winner in injury time he must have thought he'd put Italy through. His elated run to the Italian bench concluded with the news that the other game was over at 2-2 and Italy could only go out. He slumped in despair. From joy to agony in a couple of seconds: what a game this can be.
Did you see the game last night?
This is a testing time for me. The England football team is playing in an international tournament. They are even doing reasonably well. And everyone assumes I must be following this with the greatest fascination. I find myself embroiled in many one-sided conversations about last night’s match.
People know me for a ‘football fan’. They are aware – how can they not be? – that there is a big football thing going on. They know I am English. So I understand the false assumptions they make.
It just happens that I’m not a football fan so much as a Burnley supporter. I have my club, and I support them, and to be honest I don’t have a huge amount of interest in the game beyond that. Call me blinkered if you like, but I can’t help it. It’s the way I am.
I do believe that, for people who really take an interest, it’s the club that’s the important thing. People who are just playing at it don’t understand this. For temporary fans, summer football supporters, England is the thing that matters, but for people who go to matches, club always comes before country. And I think that’s one of the great things about our game.
I’m not going to adopt an extremist position of pretending complete contempt for everything England do. If the game’s on the TV and I’m in, I’ll watch it alright. But if it clashes with something else, I’ll do the something else. Imagine not doing something live, something that involves going out and doing something new, to stay in and watch a game on TV! At the start of the tournament, I decided not a single Brownie Point – married football supporters will understand Brownie Points – would be expended on Euro 2004. I need them all for the coming English Second Division season.
So I watched the games against France and Croatia, conveniently scheduled as they were. I missed the match against Switzerland, kicking off at five o’clock. What kind of time was that? And who wants to watch a map in a pub of pissed-up know-nothings shouting at the screen? Instead went to the cinema, where it was beautifully quiet. For Thursday, when England play Portugal, I have tickets for the theatre. Do I feel agony at this clash? No, not a bit, and I can’t pretend I do.
Televised football does little for me. I watch my games at the match. I’ve never been tempted to go to an England game. I’ve been to hundreds of Burnley games. I didn’t for a moment contemplate going to Portugal this summer. Apparently Burnley are having a week in Austria and I’m checking the flights. And as far as I’m concerned, Wayne Rooney being this decade’s Gazza is not the big football story of the summer. Not when Burnley have signed a useful-sounding central defender, John McGreal. I would, honestly, trade England going all the way this summer for an opening day win in August for Steve Cotterill, our new manager.
It’s hard for people to understand this. This time of year, you’re supposed to hang your English flags on your cars, get the beers in for the TV match and debate every kick with the bloke at work who you know is into football.
I know they’re harmless, it’s just people seem to feel this tremendous pressure to subscribe to football fever at times like these. On my street three houses furl England flags from their windows. I’m pretty confident I’m not going to bump into any of these neighbours when my team plays the local club, West Ham, next season. This summer I’ve got a lot of time for those who refuse to fake interest, like my wife’s friend who called during the England/Croatia game. The match had never crossed her radar.
People find my attitude strange, but it’s just that I can’t pretend. I’ll tell you when I knew for sure. England crashed from 1-0 up to 2-1 down in the blink of an eye against France and I felt no anguish, no despair, not even frustration. It didn’t hurt me. In football, only, it seems, Burnley can do that. Oh, and they do.
People know me for a ‘football fan’. They are aware – how can they not be? – that there is a big football thing going on. They know I am English. So I understand the false assumptions they make.
It just happens that I’m not a football fan so much as a Burnley supporter. I have my club, and I support them, and to be honest I don’t have a huge amount of interest in the game beyond that. Call me blinkered if you like, but I can’t help it. It’s the way I am.
I do believe that, for people who really take an interest, it’s the club that’s the important thing. People who are just playing at it don’t understand this. For temporary fans, summer football supporters, England is the thing that matters, but for people who go to matches, club always comes before country. And I think that’s one of the great things about our game.
I’m not going to adopt an extremist position of pretending complete contempt for everything England do. If the game’s on the TV and I’m in, I’ll watch it alright. But if it clashes with something else, I’ll do the something else. Imagine not doing something live, something that involves going out and doing something new, to stay in and watch a game on TV! At the start of the tournament, I decided not a single Brownie Point – married football supporters will understand Brownie Points – would be expended on Euro 2004. I need them all for the coming English Second Division season.
So I watched the games against France and Croatia, conveniently scheduled as they were. I missed the match against Switzerland, kicking off at five o’clock. What kind of time was that? And who wants to watch a map in a pub of pissed-up know-nothings shouting at the screen? Instead went to the cinema, where it was beautifully quiet. For Thursday, when England play Portugal, I have tickets for the theatre. Do I feel agony at this clash? No, not a bit, and I can’t pretend I do.
Televised football does little for me. I watch my games at the match. I’ve never been tempted to go to an England game. I’ve been to hundreds of Burnley games. I didn’t for a moment contemplate going to Portugal this summer. Apparently Burnley are having a week in Austria and I’m checking the flights. And as far as I’m concerned, Wayne Rooney being this decade’s Gazza is not the big football story of the summer. Not when Burnley have signed a useful-sounding central defender, John McGreal. I would, honestly, trade England going all the way this summer for an opening day win in August for Steve Cotterill, our new manager.
It’s hard for people to understand this. This time of year, you’re supposed to hang your English flags on your cars, get the beers in for the TV match and debate every kick with the bloke at work who you know is into football.
I know they’re harmless, it’s just people seem to feel this tremendous pressure to subscribe to football fever at times like these. On my street three houses furl England flags from their windows. I’m pretty confident I’m not going to bump into any of these neighbours when my team plays the local club, West Ham, next season. This summer I’ve got a lot of time for those who refuse to fake interest, like my wife’s friend who called during the England/Croatia game. The match had never crossed her radar.
People find my attitude strange, but it’s just that I can’t pretend. I’ll tell you when I knew for sure. England crashed from 1-0 up to 2-1 down in the blink of an eye against France and I felt no anguish, no despair, not even frustration. It didn’t hurt me. In football, only, it seems, Burnley can do that. Oh, and they do.
What to do?
I recognise the liberal anguish of not knowing what to do about a blind person on the tube.
Monday, June 21, 2004
It seemed significant
This morning I walked past a hearse, parked outside a church. It was empty, but for the driver, sitting at the steering wheel, yacking away on his mobile phone.
Friday, June 18, 2004
Things that irritate about this city - 2
Excellent! Another boutique sandwich shop. Just what this street needs.
Thursday, June 17, 2004
A day in Whitstable
After coming back from Tallinn we went to Whitstable. Well, why not? Both places were equally good. There’s a cheap-flight city-break culture these days, which I suppose by accident I’m a part of, although I’ve been doing this kind of thing for years. (Any time off work of more than a weekend should be viewed as an opportunity to go somewhere else.) (Oh, and sign up to one of the major causes of environment pollution and greenhouse gas emission, eh? Yeah, guilty, but not as much as some major companies and countries I could mention, so maybe we should go after them instead of ourselves shouldering the burden of liberal guilt.)
Anyway, I can’t understand how people can jet off to some European city at the drop of a hat but neglect the attractions of their own country. England – even England, not even counting Scotland and Wales – contains enough within it to sustain a life time of day trips and long weekends. In the summer, outside the football season, I do my best to get out of London.
I’ve begun to love Kent, and particularly the North Kent coast, a beautiful, bleak place. This is not the version of Kent people think of. No garden of England here. It’s more interesting than that. Gillingham, for example, where football takes me once a year, is a Northern, working class town that just happens to be in the South East. And how can any county be considered posh when it has Margate in it?
Walking down Whitstable streets I felt a rare, dull ache of nostalgia. Suddenly I missed my childhood and I wanted it back. I felt that pull in my stomach for something I could never have again. I remembered these streets, even though I’d never been here. Once, almost beyond recall now, everywhere was like this. Streets were full of small, independent, proper shops. There wasn’t a chain to be seen. The sweet shop had its jars in the windows. All was well here.
We walked around the harbour, up the hill to Tankerton Slopes and then back down by the seashore again along the walkway called, simply and perfectly, The Street. It was a glorious day. The sky was full blue. The view by the beacon over the sea and across to Sheppey was clear and terrific. Walking, I was whizzed from nostalgia for someone’s past to a vision of a future. I sized up the shore front houses, forming new retirement plans. I loved the beach huts, and I could see myself buying one, coming down here on football free weekends and idling peaceful hours away. (I looked into the idea of beach huts on return home, and it seems everyone else wants one too; they cost more than a terraced house in the town I grew up in.) It must have hit me bad, because I had a temporary wobble where I could see the point of reproducing. I imagined bringing my children here. I imagined my grown up children visiting me in retirement. Don’t worry. It didn’t last.
I love places that sell seafood, even though I don’t like seafood. I like to stroll around fish markets. Pebble beaches as well! I imagine that suited the Victorians just right. Not too much emphasis on enjoying yourself there.
We walked long by the sea under a sun which eventually grew cruel, which meant it was time to hit the pubs. Now here was something interesting. Whitstable had seemed cute, picturesque, genteel. Nic says she saw some property show (I flee from them) in which Whitstable was described as ‘Islington-on-Sea’. How sloppy, but I suppose that imprecision may conceal some unintended truth. Islington is, of course, not quite the place people imagine it to be. Sure, there’s all the posho bits, but there are estates and real poverty while the Highbury Corner end of town qualifies for the euphemism ‘lively’. So in Whitstable. This was a place where I feared the pubs would be posh. What on earth is the point of a snooty pub? Not a bit of it. I went into many pubs, almost all of them selling good, local Shepherd Neame beers, and they were full of ordinary people. Hey, I recognised these people. They were Cockneys.
One pub was particularly homely. A drunken mother was having a incoherent row with her adult son. I come from a town which at times resembles the wild west, so I recognised this. As I went to the gents they had called the police to stop the drunken mother climbing into her car. As I came back they were all friends again, getting another round in. When we left one of them turned to us.
“We haven’t scared you off already, have we?”
“No mate, we were going anyway.”
Anyway, I can’t understand how people can jet off to some European city at the drop of a hat but neglect the attractions of their own country. England – even England, not even counting Scotland and Wales – contains enough within it to sustain a life time of day trips and long weekends. In the summer, outside the football season, I do my best to get out of London.
I’ve begun to love Kent, and particularly the North Kent coast, a beautiful, bleak place. This is not the version of Kent people think of. No garden of England here. It’s more interesting than that. Gillingham, for example, where football takes me once a year, is a Northern, working class town that just happens to be in the South East. And how can any county be considered posh when it has Margate in it?
Walking down Whitstable streets I felt a rare, dull ache of nostalgia. Suddenly I missed my childhood and I wanted it back. I felt that pull in my stomach for something I could never have again. I remembered these streets, even though I’d never been here. Once, almost beyond recall now, everywhere was like this. Streets were full of small, independent, proper shops. There wasn’t a chain to be seen. The sweet shop had its jars in the windows. All was well here.
We walked around the harbour, up the hill to Tankerton Slopes and then back down by the seashore again along the walkway called, simply and perfectly, The Street. It was a glorious day. The sky was full blue. The view by the beacon over the sea and across to Sheppey was clear and terrific. Walking, I was whizzed from nostalgia for someone’s past to a vision of a future. I sized up the shore front houses, forming new retirement plans. I loved the beach huts, and I could see myself buying one, coming down here on football free weekends and idling peaceful hours away. (I looked into the idea of beach huts on return home, and it seems everyone else wants one too; they cost more than a terraced house in the town I grew up in.) It must have hit me bad, because I had a temporary wobble where I could see the point of reproducing. I imagined bringing my children here. I imagined my grown up children visiting me in retirement. Don’t worry. It didn’t last.
I love places that sell seafood, even though I don’t like seafood. I like to stroll around fish markets. Pebble beaches as well! I imagine that suited the Victorians just right. Not too much emphasis on enjoying yourself there.
We walked long by the sea under a sun which eventually grew cruel, which meant it was time to hit the pubs. Now here was something interesting. Whitstable had seemed cute, picturesque, genteel. Nic says she saw some property show (I flee from them) in which Whitstable was described as ‘Islington-on-Sea’. How sloppy, but I suppose that imprecision may conceal some unintended truth. Islington is, of course, not quite the place people imagine it to be. Sure, there’s all the posho bits, but there are estates and real poverty while the Highbury Corner end of town qualifies for the euphemism ‘lively’. So in Whitstable. This was a place where I feared the pubs would be posh. What on earth is the point of a snooty pub? Not a bit of it. I went into many pubs, almost all of them selling good, local Shepherd Neame beers, and they were full of ordinary people. Hey, I recognised these people. They were Cockneys.
One pub was particularly homely. A drunken mother was having a incoherent row with her adult son. I come from a town which at times resembles the wild west, so I recognised this. As I went to the gents they had called the police to stop the drunken mother climbing into her car. As I came back they were all friends again, getting another round in. When we left one of them turned to us.
“We haven’t scared you off already, have we?”
“No mate, we were going anyway.”
Things that irritate about this city - 1
Someone emerging from a tube station walks slowly and obstructively. They think they can walk and read a text message at the same time. They can't.
Monday, June 14, 2004
My trip to Lewes, Saturday 12 June 2004
Proceeded as follows:
Royal Oak, Station Road - Harvey's best
White Star, Lansdown Place - Deuchar's
King's Head, Priory Street - Harvey's best
Swan, Soutover High Street - Harvey's light mild and an excellent lunch in a jolly nice pub
Meridian, Western Road - Shepherd Neame best
Black Horse, Western Road - closed, miserable gits
Elephant and Castle, White Hill - Harvey's best
Lewes Arms, Mount Place - Greene King mild
Lamb, Fisher Street - St Austell's Tribute
Brewer's Arms, High Street - can't remember (pint)
Snowdrop, South Street - Harvey's but alas no dinner because they brought the wrong food and tried to blame us, the snooty, middle-class, know-nothing-about-running-pubs amateurs
Dorset Arms, Malling Street - Harvey's light mild, good food, and the right attitude
Gardener's Arms, Cliffe High Street - Dark Star Dark Star
White Star, again - King and Barnes Sussex bitter
Wetherspoon's upstairs at Victoria station - can't remember x 2
And so to bed.
Royal Oak, Station Road - Harvey's best
White Star, Lansdown Place - Deuchar's
King's Head, Priory Street - Harvey's best
Swan, Soutover High Street - Harvey's light mild and an excellent lunch in a jolly nice pub
Meridian, Western Road - Shepherd Neame best
Black Horse, Western Road - closed, miserable gits
Elephant and Castle, White Hill - Harvey's best
Lewes Arms, Mount Place - Greene King mild
Lamb, Fisher Street - St Austell's Tribute
Brewer's Arms, High Street - can't remember (pint)
Snowdrop, South Street - Harvey's but alas no dinner because they brought the wrong food and tried to blame us, the snooty, middle-class, know-nothing-about-running-pubs amateurs
Dorset Arms, Malling Street - Harvey's light mild, good food, and the right attitude
Gardener's Arms, Cliffe High Street - Dark Star Dark Star
White Star, again - King and Barnes Sussex bitter
Wetherspoon's upstairs at Victoria station - can't remember x 2
And so to bed.
What I did on my holidays
Tallinn was lovely: quiet and sunny. It was a nice place to walk around and do not very much in particular, a good place to relax, look at bright, colourful buildings and climb up walls and towers. I managed to fuck up my knee in doing so, and left Tallinn with a limp, but this did not detract. I am unused to exertion.
There's this curious daily routine where cruise ship passengers are unloaded in the morning, take a stroll, fill up the main square and are back on board being entertained en route to some other Baltic city by the evening of the same day. All these grey haired elasticated waisted folk made me feel quite young.
It's probably fair to say that no one ever went there for the food, but we found good beer. You can always find good beer if you try. A brew pub, imitating a German beer hall, kept us supplied with large measures of dunkle. At this time of year, it stays light until way past UK pub-closing time, so there's no excuse not to drink into the night.
The people there seem to have a certain gruffness, which suits me fine. Having been to a few places in Eastern Europe and one or two in Scandinavia, it did seem halfway between: part of Eastern Europe geographically, until recently not even a place on a map a different colour to the Soviet Union, but always facing north across to Finland.
Interestingly, when you tell people you are going to Tallinn, everyone thinks it is in Latvia.
(And your American spell-checker doesn't even recognise the name...)
There's this curious daily routine where cruise ship passengers are unloaded in the morning, take a stroll, fill up the main square and are back on board being entertained en route to some other Baltic city by the evening of the same day. All these grey haired elasticated waisted folk made me feel quite young.
It's probably fair to say that no one ever went there for the food, but we found good beer. You can always find good beer if you try. A brew pub, imitating a German beer hall, kept us supplied with large measures of dunkle. At this time of year, it stays light until way past UK pub-closing time, so there's no excuse not to drink into the night.
The people there seem to have a certain gruffness, which suits me fine. Having been to a few places in Eastern Europe and one or two in Scandinavia, it did seem halfway between: part of Eastern Europe geographically, until recently not even a place on a map a different colour to the Soviet Union, but always facing north across to Finland.
Interestingly, when you tell people you are going to Tallinn, everyone thinks it is in Latvia.
(And your American spell-checker doesn't even recognise the name...)
Friday, June 11, 2004
Keep New Zealand beautiful
Walking through Green Park, Central London yesterday lunchtime I spied a man wearing a t-shirt reading 'Keep New Zealand Beautiful'.
He was certainly doing his bit.
He was certainly doing his bit.
Tuesday, April 13, 2004
Life in E17 - part one
Out and about around Walthamstow market this afternoon. A woman was wearing one of those hideous slogan t-shirts, white text on black, reading:
'If you think I'm a bitch you should see...'
The punchline eluded the public. The last line was obscured between sagging breasts and a roll of fat.
'If you think I'm a bitch you should see...'
The punchline eluded the public. The last line was obscured between sagging breasts and a roll of fat.
Thursday, April 01, 2004
Golf, anyone?
Posted the last one and one of the adverts that appeared at the top of the page was for 'Phoenix Golf Tee Times'. Yep, really got me right there.
April Fool's Day
Oh god, bloody April Fool's Day again. A day set aside for wankers with no sense of humour. I can imagine internet spoofsters chortling over their efforts. Oh joy.
Wednesday, March 31, 2004
Random observation no. 12
Your mobile phone is a tool that enables you to talk to people and people to talk to you. It is not a portable entertainment centre. It is not there to amuse and distract you. It is not a substitute for a book or a newspaper.
It's just a tool. Everyone has one. It isn't a status symbol.
It's just a tool. Everyone has one. It isn't a status symbol.
Random observation no. 11
I have yet to see a woman wearing an iPod.
They're all men. And they're all about my age.
They're all men. And they're all about my age.
Monday, March 22, 2004
High Winds
I got up at 5.30 on Saturday morning, travelled 250 miles north to see my team play at home.
The match was called off at about half two because of high winds.
I got drunk, travelled the 250 miles back and got home shortly after midnight.
And you wonder why I don't have time to keep this up to date.
The match was called off at about half two because of high winds.
I got drunk, travelled the 250 miles back and got home shortly after midnight.
And you wonder why I don't have time to keep this up to date.
Friday, March 05, 2004
I despair
Seen in the window of a branch of Boots as I was out dodging charity canvassers this lunchtime: pick up points now and start saving for next Christmas.
It's bloody March.
It's bloody March.
I am fifty quid man
For the first time, I am worried I may have become part of a demographic.
This article in the Guardian the other day - about 'fifty quid man' - chilled me. It sounded like me. I'm a little too young to be called middle age yet, but lord knows, I regularly come out of shops having spent £50 on CDs. I bought myself one of those iPods a bit back. I listen to 6Music sometimes. I go to more gigs than I used to. And I've started buying old music from Amazon. Recent internet splurges have seen developing a probably unhealthy interest in obscure collections by The Fall, and picking up stuff like the Deep Soul Treasures compilation series, Isaac Hayes' soundtrack to Shaft and at last the three CD Lee 'Scratch' Perry set Arkology. I'm seriously tempted by a Lonnie Donegan collection now. Lord help me, I even bought my first copy of Mojo magazine last week. It had an interesting-looking soul CD stuck to it. Oh, and I loved Lost in Translation as well. I thought about buying the soundtrack.
I would have to seek therapy, if I believed in it.
This article in the Guardian the other day - about 'fifty quid man' - chilled me. It sounded like me. I'm a little too young to be called middle age yet, but lord knows, I regularly come out of shops having spent £50 on CDs. I bought myself one of those iPods a bit back. I listen to 6Music sometimes. I go to more gigs than I used to. And I've started buying old music from Amazon. Recent internet splurges have seen developing a probably unhealthy interest in obscure collections by The Fall, and picking up stuff like the Deep Soul Treasures compilation series, Isaac Hayes' soundtrack to Shaft and at last the three CD Lee 'Scratch' Perry set Arkology. I'm seriously tempted by a Lonnie Donegan collection now. Lord help me, I even bought my first copy of Mojo magazine last week. It had an interesting-looking soul CD stuck to it. Oh, and I loved Lost in Translation as well. I thought about buying the soundtrack.
I would have to seek therapy, if I believed in it.
Tuesday, March 02, 2004
It's just down there
Not a week goes by when I am not stopped and asked for directions - often several times a week. It doesn't seem to matter where I am, whether I be within sight of the glittering attractions of London's tourist economy or wandering around backstreet boozers. It happens too wherever I go in the world. Abroad, people stop and ask me for directions when I have only just arrived. I've ever been asked in a foreign language only for folk to switch to English when my incomprehension is obvious. Surely this is a giveaway?
I conclude that I look like I belong wherever I go in the world. I'm an anonymous everyman, a footsoldier of tourism, and I look like I've always been somewhere.
I conclude that I look like I belong wherever I go in the world. I'm an anonymous everyman, a footsoldier of tourism, and I look like I've always been somewhere.
Thursday, February 26, 2004
Remembering Bill Hicks
Oh my word, ten years since Bill Hicks died.
One day I'm going to write about what Bill Hicks means to me, but today ain't the day to do it.
What a world this is that Bill Hicks died so young and so many evil bastards live so long.
One day I'm going to write about what Bill Hicks means to me, but today ain't the day to do it.
What a world this is that Bill Hicks died so young and so many evil bastards live so long.
Charity canvassers
Central London is awash with charity canvassers.
They have them in other British cities, but I don't know if they have these overseas. I've never seen one abroad. So for the benefit of my ranks of overseas readers, these are people who stand on the street wearing something emblazoned with the logo of a particular charity. It's a different charity each day. These charity canvassers will represent anybody. It's not as though it's something they believe in.
Their job is not really to talk to you about the charity, and certainly not to collect your loose change. They're there to get you to fill out a monthly standing order form.
I can go out at lunchtime and in twenty minutes between the office and the record shops pass three different groups of charity canvassers. I hate them. They're intrusive, they get in the way and they're no more ethical than a door to door salesman. I do not give to any charity that uses them.
This lunchtime, it was Friends of the Earth, an organisation I have a lot of sympathy with. How disappointing.
They have them in other British cities, but I don't know if they have these overseas. I've never seen one abroad. So for the benefit of my ranks of overseas readers, these are people who stand on the street wearing something emblazoned with the logo of a particular charity. It's a different charity each day. These charity canvassers will represent anybody. It's not as though it's something they believe in.
Their job is not really to talk to you about the charity, and certainly not to collect your loose change. They're there to get you to fill out a monthly standing order form.
I can go out at lunchtime and in twenty minutes between the office and the record shops pass three different groups of charity canvassers. I hate them. They're intrusive, they get in the way and they're no more ethical than a door to door salesman. I do not give to any charity that uses them.
This lunchtime, it was Friends of the Earth, an organisation I have a lot of sympathy with. How disappointing.
I'm on the train
The day they make it so that mobile phones can work on the tube is the day I leave London.
A rather shaky grasp of irony
Cracking front page in today's Daily Express. (I don't read the poisonous rag myself, you understand, but I saw it on the train.) Apparently British people are so hacked off about this alleged coming wave of East European immigration that they are themselves migrating to other countries!
Let's hope British economic or lifestyle migrants get a better welcome wherever they go than we offer to others. But could they take their rubbish tabloids with them?
Let's hope British economic or lifestyle migrants get a better welcome wherever they go than we offer to others. But could they take their rubbish tabloids with them?
Wednesday, February 25, 2004
Tourists on the underground
One day I will write a guidebook for foreign visitors to London.
The first sentence will be, "Stand on the right."
The first sentence will be, "Stand on the right."
I know what they're saying
I see them. Loud people on the tube, in pubs, worst of all on streets on a weekend night. (Why does hedonism look such little fun these days?) Noisy, brash, a bit too obviously frantic. I know what it's about. London's a big city. Every day underlines your unimportance. There's millions of people, and within that number, you're anonymous. I understand their desperation, these too loud people. I know what they're saying:
I'm an individual. I'm interesting. Look at me. LOOK AT ME!
I'm an individual. I'm interesting. Look at me. LOOK AT ME!
Saturday, February 21, 2004
Urban bingo - 1
A game I occassionally like to play is tube station bingo.
As I take the escalator down to the Victoria Line I cross off all the adverts for things I don't want. If I can get a line all the way down I win.
It's quite easy to win.
As I take the escalator down to the Victoria Line I cross off all the adverts for things I don't want. If I can get a line all the way down I win.
It's quite easy to win.
Friday, February 20, 2004
Idiot Britain - 2
So tonight on the tube I was one of ten people in my twelve seat section. I was the only one reading a book.
On the thirty minute journey many people got on and got off. One of them was reading a book.
On the thirty minute journey many people got on and got off. One of them was reading a book.
Thursday, February 19, 2004
Idiot Britain - 1
On the tube home tonight, I'd just finished the chapter of the book I'm reading. I stopped and glanced around the carriage. This was when I noticed something scary. There were twelve seats in my section, of which eight seats were filled. Of those eight people, I was the only one reading a book.
Two were reading something from work.
One was listening to his music player.
One was playing with his mobile phone.
One was eating takeaway food.
One was asleep.
One was staring into space.
I am worried.
Two were reading something from work.
One was listening to his music player.
One was playing with his mobile phone.
One was eating takeaway food.
One was asleep.
One was staring into space.
I am worried.
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