i spend a lot of time loafing around in coffee shops, reading books. i am a relative latecomer to this type of activity. I don't have the studied air of a frenchman or a spaniard who are born and raised in coffee shops and treat them as an extension of their home.
i cannot help but have that pub mentality. i feel absolutely obliged to have a drink in front of me or i must remove myself from the establishment. i just can't brazen it out like our friends from the continent. i know most coffee shop workers could not care less whether i stay in there without a drink in front of me: the pressure comes from within.
i am sure that plenty of British people get this. we feel like our trip to the cafe is to do something specific, and when that is done, we feel terribly out of place remaining there.
Today, there i was in one of those blank Costa coffees, in Hornchurch, reading away. i had long finished my drink, and felt not the slightest anxiety about staying in out of the cold and reading. But the moment a polite waiter / barista fellow took my cup away, the pressure of being visibly without a purchased drink from the cafe was too great. Absolutely intolerable. And so out I went.
You might ask, reasonably, why not buy another cup? Two reasons. First, I am miserly; second, two cups of coffee sends me off into psychedelic brain meltdown territory and i start jabbering like a lunatic, often to myself. This is also something the contintental coffee drinking professional does not suffer from.
Cafe culture is now a part of life in England. But can we do the continental attitude? Not quite yet, i suspect.
Monday, 28 December 2009
Thursday, 3 December 2009
The Horns Tavern, West Norwood
Coming off the x68 at west Norwood yesterday, it was pouring with rain. So, I did the wise thing and bobbed into Tesco for some Bran Flakes while it passed. I bought them and a few other bits and came outside. It was raining harder than ever and I had left my brolly at work. It was raining so hard that I took evasive action and dived into the Horns Tavern.
Sitting opposite West Norwood Station, it is well-located for me to go in for the odd pint. But in two years, I haven’t been in there. I know this sort of place. I come from Essex.
In I went. I felt the eyes of the men upon me. The regulars. Putting the hours in to make the place their own. Not encouraging of passing trade, of chaps coming in out of the rain.
The distinction between myself and the men was clear. They were dressed in bomber jackets, jeans and boots. I had on my new three-quarter length black-and-white coat from River Island that tapers to accentuate my slender frame. There were looks to my Tesco carrier bag. You don’t bring your shopping to the pub; you get your missus to go shopping.
I ordered a Guinness from the rotund woman behind the bar: the only woman in the Horns. Guinness always helps to placate men who see my somehwhat effete appearance as an affront to their masculinity. They look at me and think, ‘who’s this cunt!’ Then they see the Guinness, and somehow it acts as a tough mate, saying, ‘he looks like a poof, but he’s not; he’s drinking Guinness.’
The Horns has plenty of entertainment to keep the men amused. Like all pubs of this sort, there are tellies everywhere. There are two big screens at either end of the bar, plus a couple of small TVs, with some sort of online poker game on them. There are little control panels for people to play if they want.
A fruit machine makes its garish appeal to the drinkers. A jukebox plays rigorously heterosexual 70s rock (The Who, The Clash). There’s a pool table.
I take a seat at a table at the back of the pub, below one of the pull-down screens. As I sup my Guinness and read my book, a few details come alive. One of the men is wearing a high-visibility jacket. I’ve done plenty of jobs where you wear these jackets, but I always love to see a man asserting his manual worker status by wearing the thing to the pub. It’s a sort of perverse fashion statement.
The Horns does food. There’s a large chalkboard in the front bar, with but one offer: ‘pizza and beer £6’. An interesting concept, perhaps half-remembered from a trip to Wetherspoon’s. The only food I see consumed is pork scratchings.
One of the blokes playing pool showed the full extent of his descriptive powers. “Who’s that cunt?” he says, trying to remember someone. And then to flesh out the description he adds, “That person.” It wasn’t enough, no one knew and the conversation moved on.
When the football came on, I’d finished my drink. I had the money for another pint but decided the lure of watching Man City v Arsenal in the Carling Cup was not for me, and so wove past the pool players and the pitcher drinkers and left. It had stopped raining and I walked home merrily.
Sitting opposite West Norwood Station, it is well-located for me to go in for the odd pint. But in two years, I haven’t been in there. I know this sort of place. I come from Essex.
In I went. I felt the eyes of the men upon me. The regulars. Putting the hours in to make the place their own. Not encouraging of passing trade, of chaps coming in out of the rain.
The distinction between myself and the men was clear. They were dressed in bomber jackets, jeans and boots. I had on my new three-quarter length black-and-white coat from River Island that tapers to accentuate my slender frame. There were looks to my Tesco carrier bag. You don’t bring your shopping to the pub; you get your missus to go shopping.
I ordered a Guinness from the rotund woman behind the bar: the only woman in the Horns. Guinness always helps to placate men who see my somehwhat effete appearance as an affront to their masculinity. They look at me and think, ‘who’s this cunt!’ Then they see the Guinness, and somehow it acts as a tough mate, saying, ‘he looks like a poof, but he’s not; he’s drinking Guinness.’
The Horns has plenty of entertainment to keep the men amused. Like all pubs of this sort, there are tellies everywhere. There are two big screens at either end of the bar, plus a couple of small TVs, with some sort of online poker game on them. There are little control panels for people to play if they want.
A fruit machine makes its garish appeal to the drinkers. A jukebox plays rigorously heterosexual 70s rock (The Who, The Clash). There’s a pool table.
I take a seat at a table at the back of the pub, below one of the pull-down screens. As I sup my Guinness and read my book, a few details come alive. One of the men is wearing a high-visibility jacket. I’ve done plenty of jobs where you wear these jackets, but I always love to see a man asserting his manual worker status by wearing the thing to the pub. It’s a sort of perverse fashion statement.
The Horns does food. There’s a large chalkboard in the front bar, with but one offer: ‘pizza and beer £6’. An interesting concept, perhaps half-remembered from a trip to Wetherspoon’s. The only food I see consumed is pork scratchings.
One of the blokes playing pool showed the full extent of his descriptive powers. “Who’s that cunt?” he says, trying to remember someone. And then to flesh out the description he adds, “That person.” It wasn’t enough, no one knew and the conversation moved on.
When the football came on, I’d finished my drink. I had the money for another pint but decided the lure of watching Man City v Arsenal in the Carling Cup was not for me, and so wove past the pool players and the pitcher drinkers and left. It had stopped raining and I walked home merrily.
Sunday, 29 November 2009
After 'The White Ribbon'
I went to see The White Ribbon today. Went to the early showing, really early, 11.40am. Only time it was on down at the Ritzy.
It was about the right time to see a film like that. Going to the early showing gives you the rest of the day to get over it.
The film, lauded at Cannes, follows a cycle of violence and cruelty in a village in Germany about a hundred years ago. It shows the village leaders (a baron, a priest) using their authority mixed with Christian morality as a weapon with which to control and subdue the villagers. This unbending intolerance is repeated down the lines of authority, from the strongest to the weakest.
One scene of perfectly wrought unpleasantness follows another for two claustrophobic hours.
At the end of the film, the last image fades very slowly to black, and the credits roll in silence. No-one in the audience speaks. It is hard to know what to say. Everyone is agog, traumatised, hushed.
The audience pushes out of the auditorium, heads down mostly. It's not nice to look into someone else's eyes after that. You can't help thinking you might see something you had not previously noticed. Something unpleasant.
I spent the rest of the afternoon reading the News of the World and watching football as a sedative against the dark, Ibsen-like vision of Michael Haneke.
It was about the right time to see a film like that. Going to the early showing gives you the rest of the day to get over it.
The film, lauded at Cannes, follows a cycle of violence and cruelty in a village in Germany about a hundred years ago. It shows the village leaders (a baron, a priest) using their authority mixed with Christian morality as a weapon with which to control and subdue the villagers. This unbending intolerance is repeated down the lines of authority, from the strongest to the weakest.
One scene of perfectly wrought unpleasantness follows another for two claustrophobic hours.
At the end of the film, the last image fades very slowly to black, and the credits roll in silence. No-one in the audience speaks. It is hard to know what to say. Everyone is agog, traumatised, hushed.
The audience pushes out of the auditorium, heads down mostly. It's not nice to look into someone else's eyes after that. You can't help thinking you might see something you had not previously noticed. Something unpleasant.
I spent the rest of the afternoon reading the News of the World and watching football as a sedative against the dark, Ibsen-like vision of Michael Haneke.
Wednesday, 18 November 2009
Essex cultural life takes over the nation
Keen followers of Essex cultural life have been having a good run of it lately.
Stacey Solomon, 19, of Dagenham, is the last girl left in X Factor, and the prospect of romance with Olly Murs, also of Essex, is the talk of the trashy mags.
Brit-flick, Fishtank, set on the Mardyke Estate, Rainham, telling the story of what is known in those parts as a ‘gobby cow’, is winning awards left, right and centrte.
A quick glance at the football league tables shows Dagenham & Redbridge in their highest ever position, at the top of Division 2.
And this week , in addition to this great swirl of cultural activity, enters Peter White, 26, of Romford. This hitherto unknown unemployed man hit the front page of the Daily Express on Tuesday, under the banner headline:
OUTRAGE AT
‘PARASITE’
ATTACK ON
THE QUEEN
http://express.co.uk/posts/view/140813/Outrage-at-parasite-attack-on-the-Queen-
It turns out that young Peter was aiming to stand as a local councillor at the next general election in the very ward in which I grew up: South Hornchurch.
The hotblooded male had waded into the Queen on none other than Andrew Rosindell MP’s facebook page. The Romford MP thought we should have a day off next year to celebrate the Queen being on the throne for 300 years (or something). White thought not, and called QEII a parasite and, even more intemperately, vermin.
The brave, but foolish, Peter has now apologised for his honestly held opinions. His republican outburst has been snuffed out by that great defender of the monarchy, Andrew Rosindell (with help from his British bulldog).
Yes, Peter has been rattled and may never surface from his parents’ house again. But it shows, once again, that all the best things come out of that much-maligned conurbation that joins Dagenham and Romford and Rainham.
Stacey Solomon, 19, of Dagenham, is the last girl left in X Factor, and the prospect of romance with Olly Murs, also of Essex, is the talk of the trashy mags.
Brit-flick, Fishtank, set on the Mardyke Estate, Rainham, telling the story of what is known in those parts as a ‘gobby cow’, is winning awards left, right and centrte.
A quick glance at the football league tables shows Dagenham & Redbridge in their highest ever position, at the top of Division 2.
And this week , in addition to this great swirl of cultural activity, enters Peter White, 26, of Romford. This hitherto unknown unemployed man hit the front page of the Daily Express on Tuesday, under the banner headline:
OUTRAGE AT
‘PARASITE’
ATTACK ON
THE QUEEN
http://express.co.uk/posts/view/140813/Outrage-at-parasite-attack-on-the-Queen-
It turns out that young Peter was aiming to stand as a local councillor at the next general election in the very ward in which I grew up: South Hornchurch.
The hotblooded male had waded into the Queen on none other than Andrew Rosindell MP’s facebook page. The Romford MP thought we should have a day off next year to celebrate the Queen being on the throne for 300 years (or something). White thought not, and called QEII a parasite and, even more intemperately, vermin.
The brave, but foolish, Peter has now apologised for his honestly held opinions. His republican outburst has been snuffed out by that great defender of the monarchy, Andrew Rosindell (with help from his British bulldog).
Yes, Peter has been rattled and may never surface from his parents’ house again. But it shows, once again, that all the best things come out of that much-maligned conurbation that joins Dagenham and Romford and Rainham.
The pleasures of south London commuting
Some people hate their commute. Really hate it. They wake up in the morning and think, ‘not that again’. I can’t face another day of this. Miserable London, too many people. Moan moan moan.
But there is an exclusive club of people who really rather enjoy their daily commute. No, we are not masochists. We are the passengers on the X68 service which rolls in from the nether-regions of south London into the very heart of the city.
For those who are not familiar, the X68 runs from South Croydon, up to Russell Square. Nightmare, you might think. But note the ‘X’. This stands, if you will, for express. This service runs, and you’ll need to follow me closely now, nonstop, between West Norwood, where I pick up the service, and Waterloo.
No stopping for the people of Tulse Hill, Herne Hill, Camberwell, or Walworth. They can stick their thumb out; they can try to flag it down. But the X68 will roll on by, oblivious to their entreaties.
This divine route means the travellers on-board have something of a camaraderie. You have that feeling of being above the hoi polloi as they struggle onto trains and buses, all elbows and knees and bags and sweat and the hopeless struggle to avoid eye contact.
The X68 takes you back to the good old days, by which I mean those days which never really existed, of people sitting in comfort as they are taken swiftly to their desk job.
Naturally, the same faces are seen every day. A group of middle aged Asian men get on the bus and acknowledge each other with a look which says, ‘Oh, so you take the X68 as well, you wise old thing.’
At West Norwood Station, the stop after mine, the bus driver calls out: ‘Next stop, Waterloo.’ And on occasion, in those moments of rich humour for the commuter, a lady frantically gets to her feet, and calls out, ‘WAIT!’ And the rest of us quietly chuckle to ourselves and enjoy seeing someone scramble off of our pleasant double-decker.
These are the quiet pleasures of south London suburban living.
But there is an exclusive club of people who really rather enjoy their daily commute. No, we are not masochists. We are the passengers on the X68 service which rolls in from the nether-regions of south London into the very heart of the city.
For those who are not familiar, the X68 runs from South Croydon, up to Russell Square. Nightmare, you might think. But note the ‘X’. This stands, if you will, for express. This service runs, and you’ll need to follow me closely now, nonstop, between West Norwood, where I pick up the service, and Waterloo.
No stopping for the people of Tulse Hill, Herne Hill, Camberwell, or Walworth. They can stick their thumb out; they can try to flag it down. But the X68 will roll on by, oblivious to their entreaties.
This divine route means the travellers on-board have something of a camaraderie. You have that feeling of being above the hoi polloi as they struggle onto trains and buses, all elbows and knees and bags and sweat and the hopeless struggle to avoid eye contact.
The X68 takes you back to the good old days, by which I mean those days which never really existed, of people sitting in comfort as they are taken swiftly to their desk job.
Naturally, the same faces are seen every day. A group of middle aged Asian men get on the bus and acknowledge each other with a look which says, ‘Oh, so you take the X68 as well, you wise old thing.’
At West Norwood Station, the stop after mine, the bus driver calls out: ‘Next stop, Waterloo.’ And on occasion, in those moments of rich humour for the commuter, a lady frantically gets to her feet, and calls out, ‘WAIT!’ And the rest of us quietly chuckle to ourselves and enjoy seeing someone scramble off of our pleasant double-decker.
These are the quiet pleasures of south London suburban living.
Wednesday, 14 October 2009
Tampering with genius: the 'new' Hitchhiker's book
When looking at books to buy, I always become somewhat suspicious when I see two authors on the front page. Not a co-authoring project, but a 'brand' name at the top, and the real author at the bottom.
This is the kind of thing which happens with thriller writers like James Patterson. It is a commercial enterprise: Patterson outlines the plot, and the hack writer churns out several hundred pages of thriller. Patterson gives it his seal of approval and it's on your supermarket bookshelves a few weeks later.
That's fine. James Patterson is alive. He is making no bones about the fact that his creative juices overflow so wildly he cannot possibly write down all of his ideas for trashy thrillers himself.
But when I find Britain's best-loved author of the twentieth century, Douglas Adams, fronting a book by Eoin Colfer, I become shocked. Adams is dead. He can't give that seal of approval. He can have no say over the product bearing his name.
I become even more shocked - appalled, even - when I see that Colfer has picked up the thread of the work for which Adams is known, the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy series. Colfer has written part six of three. This is a crime.
Euan Ferguson wrote a review in the Observer:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2009/oct/11/and-another-thing-douglas-adams
He said the book is really quite good. I believe him. But that is not the point. This is a series of books with which millions of people have fallen in love over the years. It shouldn't be expanded on, extended or tampered with. These are Adams' characters. This is his universe which he chose to share with us. It is not for another author to come along and bandwagon the operation, a few years after the author's death, and carry on the franchise. The whole thing seems crass.
It is so crassly commercial that nobody even in the world of rap music has attempted it. Yes, Tupac and Biggie have both had flourishing careers after their untimely deaths. But not even Puff Daddy has attempted to create a Notorious BIG album, with no real material from the rotund rapper himself. He just samples a bit of Biggie rapping, brings in an alive rapper and a honey-voiced singer, and he has the 'Duets' project. That is honest by comparison.
There is no suggestion, even, that Adams was thinking up a final book and Colfer is picking it up. No, he feels the man's muse and writes a book in Adams's name. And, worse still, there may be more to come.
Ferguson says this in the Observer:
Colfer has given us a delight, and an eye-opener, and hope, and, close as this book does on the line "The end of one of the middles", the near-promise of more to come.
This is not a near-promise. When I saw the advert for the book on the tube, I felt a nagging distress, a feeling that one of my heroes was being tampered with, with no chance of recourse.
Who knows if Adams would mind. Many splendid creative types take horrific decisions late in their career (see Beatles video game for evidence). Adams' wife did sanction the project.
But I'm sure many, many fans of the Hitchhiker's series of books mind very much. The best way to put a stop to this tawdrey enterprise is to avoid buying or reading Colfer's book, and hope it disappears, with no more additions.
This is the kind of thing which happens with thriller writers like James Patterson. It is a commercial enterprise: Patterson outlines the plot, and the hack writer churns out several hundred pages of thriller. Patterson gives it his seal of approval and it's on your supermarket bookshelves a few weeks later.
That's fine. James Patterson is alive. He is making no bones about the fact that his creative juices overflow so wildly he cannot possibly write down all of his ideas for trashy thrillers himself.
But when I find Britain's best-loved author of the twentieth century, Douglas Adams, fronting a book by Eoin Colfer, I become shocked. Adams is dead. He can't give that seal of approval. He can have no say over the product bearing his name.
I become even more shocked - appalled, even - when I see that Colfer has picked up the thread of the work for which Adams is known, the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy series. Colfer has written part six of three. This is a crime.
Euan Ferguson wrote a review in the Observer:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2009/oct/11/and-another-thing-douglas-adams
He said the book is really quite good. I believe him. But that is not the point. This is a series of books with which millions of people have fallen in love over the years. It shouldn't be expanded on, extended or tampered with. These are Adams' characters. This is his universe which he chose to share with us. It is not for another author to come along and bandwagon the operation, a few years after the author's death, and carry on the franchise. The whole thing seems crass.
It is so crassly commercial that nobody even in the world of rap music has attempted it. Yes, Tupac and Biggie have both had flourishing careers after their untimely deaths. But not even Puff Daddy has attempted to create a Notorious BIG album, with no real material from the rotund rapper himself. He just samples a bit of Biggie rapping, brings in an alive rapper and a honey-voiced singer, and he has the 'Duets' project. That is honest by comparison.
There is no suggestion, even, that Adams was thinking up a final book and Colfer is picking it up. No, he feels the man's muse and writes a book in Adams's name. And, worse still, there may be more to come.
Ferguson says this in the Observer:
Colfer has given us a delight, and an eye-opener, and hope, and, close as this book does on the line "The end of one of the middles", the near-promise of more to come.
This is not a near-promise. When I saw the advert for the book on the tube, I felt a nagging distress, a feeling that one of my heroes was being tampered with, with no chance of recourse.
Who knows if Adams would mind. Many splendid creative types take horrific decisions late in their career (see Beatles video game for evidence). Adams' wife did sanction the project.
But I'm sure many, many fans of the Hitchhiker's series of books mind very much. The best way to put a stop to this tawdrey enterprise is to avoid buying or reading Colfer's book, and hope it disappears, with no more additions.
Tuesday, 13 October 2009
The strange similarity of GPs and IT support
Walking up to the doctor, my hobble became slightly less so. This is a recurring theme for me. You wake up and think, 'I really do need a trip to the doctor'. And then, when faced with the GP, you think, 'perhaps I didn't need to visit the doctor quite so much'. It's as if by sheer force of seeing these highly-paid public servants, you get a bit better.
That said, my knee was making a funny clicking sound, and I was having trouble descending stairs. A lifetime of hearing about footballers doing their anterior cruciate - a six month layoff at least - meant I should get it checked out.
The doctor was a young Asian woman, perhaps younger than I. She sat at her desk with that posture and look on her face which spoke of confidence, almost arrogance. I eased myself into the seat, making a thing of it.
I explained the situation. Trip to the Lakes; Scafell, Striding Edge (yes, that's right, both in two days). Subsequent knee pain. She was unimpressed. It was clear that if you didn't have cholera or plague, you were wasting her time.
She got me on the bed, and waggled my knee about. I yelped. She said there wasn't any fluid - and left it at that. Had I not done my cruciate? Would I not be out from my desk job for the next six months?
The doctor went back to her desk; I followed, gingerly.
She told me I had a bit of swelling, and I should take some paracetemol for a week and if things had not improved to come back. She turned back to her computer as a way of concluding our interview.
Feeling shortchanged from my free appointment, I reflected that GPs often dealing with people very much as IT support staff do. GPs suggest a week of paracetemol just the same as IT support suggest switching your computer off and turning it back on again.
And the galling thing is that it nearly always works.
That said, my knee was making a funny clicking sound, and I was having trouble descending stairs. A lifetime of hearing about footballers doing their anterior cruciate - a six month layoff at least - meant I should get it checked out.
The doctor was a young Asian woman, perhaps younger than I. She sat at her desk with that posture and look on her face which spoke of confidence, almost arrogance. I eased myself into the seat, making a thing of it.
I explained the situation. Trip to the Lakes; Scafell, Striding Edge (yes, that's right, both in two days). Subsequent knee pain. She was unimpressed. It was clear that if you didn't have cholera or plague, you were wasting her time.
She got me on the bed, and waggled my knee about. I yelped. She said there wasn't any fluid - and left it at that. Had I not done my cruciate? Would I not be out from my desk job for the next six months?
The doctor went back to her desk; I followed, gingerly.
She told me I had a bit of swelling, and I should take some paracetemol for a week and if things had not improved to come back. She turned back to her computer as a way of concluding our interview.
Feeling shortchanged from my free appointment, I reflected that GPs often dealing with people very much as IT support staff do. GPs suggest a week of paracetemol just the same as IT support suggest switching your computer off and turning it back on again.
And the galling thing is that it nearly always works.
Thursday, 8 October 2009
the staffordshire hoard
Walking through Birmingham town centre, I saw a good old-fashioned queue patiently formed. It was a bit cold, a bit wet; a typical Birmingham day. It was one of those queues you rarely see any more. It was an experience in itself. The people in it felt they had little prospect of reaching the front, and when there, they would have quite forgotten what purpose they had in mind.
I tried to work out what the queue was for. It could have been the post office, but the days of the really good post office queue are over. No one knows where their local one is, and the places are so forbidding and lacking in value that only those on a serious nostalgia trip would think of going there on a Monday morning.
No, it had to be something else, something really good. I carried on walking and saw a big sign advertising the wonders of Matthew Boulton. As a former employee of the Science Museum, my heart leapt at people from Boulton's home town still being so inspired by this titan of the industrual revolution, that they would wish to queue for several hours on an autumn weekday for a look at a steam engine.
I wandered round the corner and saw the queue was indeed leading to the Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery. I walked up to the entrance, a move which aroused some consternation among the queuing public.
"You here for the gold?" said the lady from the museum.
"I'm here for Boulton," said I.
"Well walk straight in, then, and keep to the right."
"What's the gold you are referring to?"
"It's the Staffordshire Hoard," said the lady, impatiently. This was clearly common knowledge.
"And how long is the queue?"
"About three-and-a-half hours."
"Is it always that long?"
"No, if you come at 9am, you might only have to wait for an hour-and-a-half."
I decided I was better off spending some time with Matthew Boulton, and walked into the desolate gallery. I reflected that this was one of those great British events, the one that everybody had spotted. It was the combination of the lucky find, the anglo-saxon hoard, much bigger and of more value than anyone had thought. Quickly dusted off and put on public display, the Brummies, seeing the Staffordshire hoard as a local history find of unparalleled importance, had seen that here was really something. Here was a once in a generation opportunity to queue.
I tried to work out what the queue was for. It could have been the post office, but the days of the really good post office queue are over. No one knows where their local one is, and the places are so forbidding and lacking in value that only those on a serious nostalgia trip would think of going there on a Monday morning.
No, it had to be something else, something really good. I carried on walking and saw a big sign advertising the wonders of Matthew Boulton. As a former employee of the Science Museum, my heart leapt at people from Boulton's home town still being so inspired by this titan of the industrual revolution, that they would wish to queue for several hours on an autumn weekday for a look at a steam engine.
I wandered round the corner and saw the queue was indeed leading to the Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery. I walked up to the entrance, a move which aroused some consternation among the queuing public.
"You here for the gold?" said the lady from the museum.
"I'm here for Boulton," said I.
"Well walk straight in, then, and keep to the right."
"What's the gold you are referring to?"
"It's the Staffordshire Hoard," said the lady, impatiently. This was clearly common knowledge.
"And how long is the queue?"
"About three-and-a-half hours."
"Is it always that long?"
"No, if you come at 9am, you might only have to wait for an hour-and-a-half."
I decided I was better off spending some time with Matthew Boulton, and walked into the desolate gallery. I reflected that this was one of those great British events, the one that everybody had spotted. It was the combination of the lucky find, the anglo-saxon hoard, much bigger and of more value than anyone had thought. Quickly dusted off and put on public display, the Brummies, seeing the Staffordshire hoard as a local history find of unparalleled importance, had seen that here was really something. Here was a once in a generation opportunity to queue.
Sunday, 20 September 2009
Brixton Urban Green Fair
"This isn't good enough. These olives, they're sticky."
"That's an outrage. I've never been so insulted in all my life."
The woman jabs at the olives.
"They're sticky. I want my money back."
Urban Green Fair, Brixton. The home of drum workshops, holistic massage, and falafel. Christians and Buddhists. The Brixton Pound brigade. And lots of green groups.
Picking my way through the crowd, through to the Friends of the Earth stall where I am putting in a shift, I am reminded of just how many green organisations there are. Greenpeace are there, worrying about fish and nuclear warheads, World Development Movement are concerned about international finance, Climate Camp are against 'clean' coal, and Transition Town Brixton want to reduce dependance on oil. Friends of the Earth are campaigning about the food chain ie. that feed for animals here should be produced here and not on rainforest land.
The event is pleasant, filled with cycling vegetarians, of which I am one, talking genially about allotments and rearing chickens. Many times I start chatting to people about the meat and dairy issue and they raise a hand and say, 'I know.' The phrase 'preaching to the converted' comes up more than once.
It is a harmless exercise in the concerned few having a day signing their support for each other's campaigns. But without other things to draw people to the event, namely Chucklehead cider, a feature of the Lambeth Country Show, most people will generally not bother attending.
That seems a shame. Better to expand the remit a bit, get some traders and tunes, and give the green groups a chance not just to chat to their own. Otherwise the only argument you will hear at the Urban Green Fair will be about the quality of the olives.
"That's an outrage. I've never been so insulted in all my life."
The woman jabs at the olives.
"They're sticky. I want my money back."
Urban Green Fair, Brixton. The home of drum workshops, holistic massage, and falafel. Christians and Buddhists. The Brixton Pound brigade. And lots of green groups.
Picking my way through the crowd, through to the Friends of the Earth stall where I am putting in a shift, I am reminded of just how many green organisations there are. Greenpeace are there, worrying about fish and nuclear warheads, World Development Movement are concerned about international finance, Climate Camp are against 'clean' coal, and Transition Town Brixton want to reduce dependance on oil. Friends of the Earth are campaigning about the food chain ie. that feed for animals here should be produced here and not on rainforest land.
The event is pleasant, filled with cycling vegetarians, of which I am one, talking genially about allotments and rearing chickens. Many times I start chatting to people about the meat and dairy issue and they raise a hand and say, 'I know.' The phrase 'preaching to the converted' comes up more than once.
It is a harmless exercise in the concerned few having a day signing their support for each other's campaigns. But without other things to draw people to the event, namely Chucklehead cider, a feature of the Lambeth Country Show, most people will generally not bother attending.
That seems a shame. Better to expand the remit a bit, get some traders and tunes, and give the green groups a chance not just to chat to their own. Otherwise the only argument you will hear at the Urban Green Fair will be about the quality of the olives.
Wednesday, 16 September 2009
Goldacre debate with science minister
I've just been down to the Royal Institution where Ben 'Bad Science' Goldacre was debating the quality of science journalism with science minister Lord Drayson. Simon Mayo chaired.
Lord Drayson was 'for' science journalism and Goldacre, inevitably, 'against'. Paul Drayson's argument was that there was a low point in science journalism in 2002/03, with MMR stories scaring parents into not taking their children for the vaccine. He said things have improved since then. He also made a case for sensationalism, because it gets so many more people talking about science, citing end of the world fears about the Large Hadron Collider project which made people aware about physics.
Goldacre, a chirpy, lively character whose fans filled the auditorium, said there should be more for the nerd in the media. He made a case for more features about general trends in science, rather than news stories about research being published. That seems unrealistic and a recipe for dullness.
He was dismissive of the Daily Express's science coverage. Today's front page was mentioned which talks of research into a new cancer drug which could help thousands. His criticism was of the Express generally, not of the story in particular. However, this story, from Breakthrough Breast Cancer, for whom I work as press officer, showed good quality journalism from the Express.
The story was well-written, with a good explanation of the research. It cited the peer-reviewed journal in which the research was published and quoted the scientists who led on the research, Professor Alan Ashworth and Dr Chris Lord.
Michael Hanlon, from the Daily Mail, made a stout defence of his newspaper's journalism. He said while his paper does sometimes write conflicting stories, that reflects research published in journals such as Science and Nature.
James Randerson, from the Guardian, said that a recent survey had showed that the vast majority of scientists were happy with how research was represented in the media. He also disliked the suggestion from Goldacre that there was something wrong with a journalist picking up a piece of research, quickly familiarising themselves with the story, conducting interviews and then writing it up within a few hours. ie he was defending the daily news journalism process.
Both Paul Drayson and Ben Goldacre shifted towards the common ground through the debate. Both have a role to play: the minister in promoting groundbreaking research and quality journalism where he sees it, Goldacre in scaring everyone in the media and science PR to do the best job they possibly can.
I think that Goldacre's appeal for more journalism for the nerd is unrealistic. Science is more often than not funded by ordinary non-scientists who raise money for research in the name of a good cause. These millions of people need to hear about the research, so they can see the benefit of the money they are raising. Without their money, many scientists would be out of a job, and we wouldn't see progress made in treatment of diseases like cancer. We need to see science not relegated to a niche, but promoted as being important and interesting for everyone.
Result of the debate: a high scoring match, edged by Paul Drayson.
Lord Drayson was 'for' science journalism and Goldacre, inevitably, 'against'. Paul Drayson's argument was that there was a low point in science journalism in 2002/03, with MMR stories scaring parents into not taking their children for the vaccine. He said things have improved since then. He also made a case for sensationalism, because it gets so many more people talking about science, citing end of the world fears about the Large Hadron Collider project which made people aware about physics.
Goldacre, a chirpy, lively character whose fans filled the auditorium, said there should be more for the nerd in the media. He made a case for more features about general trends in science, rather than news stories about research being published. That seems unrealistic and a recipe for dullness.
He was dismissive of the Daily Express's science coverage. Today's front page was mentioned which talks of research into a new cancer drug which could help thousands. His criticism was of the Express generally, not of the story in particular. However, this story, from Breakthrough Breast Cancer, for whom I work as press officer, showed good quality journalism from the Express.
The story was well-written, with a good explanation of the research. It cited the peer-reviewed journal in which the research was published and quoted the scientists who led on the research, Professor Alan Ashworth and Dr Chris Lord.
Michael Hanlon, from the Daily Mail, made a stout defence of his newspaper's journalism. He said while his paper does sometimes write conflicting stories, that reflects research published in journals such as Science and Nature.
James Randerson, from the Guardian, said that a recent survey had showed that the vast majority of scientists were happy with how research was represented in the media. He also disliked the suggestion from Goldacre that there was something wrong with a journalist picking up a piece of research, quickly familiarising themselves with the story, conducting interviews and then writing it up within a few hours. ie he was defending the daily news journalism process.
Both Paul Drayson and Ben Goldacre shifted towards the common ground through the debate. Both have a role to play: the minister in promoting groundbreaking research and quality journalism where he sees it, Goldacre in scaring everyone in the media and science PR to do the best job they possibly can.
I think that Goldacre's appeal for more journalism for the nerd is unrealistic. Science is more often than not funded by ordinary non-scientists who raise money for research in the name of a good cause. These millions of people need to hear about the research, so they can see the benefit of the money they are raising. Without their money, many scientists would be out of a job, and we wouldn't see progress made in treatment of diseases like cancer. We need to see science not relegated to a niche, but promoted as being important and interesting for everyone.
Result of the debate: a high scoring match, edged by Paul Drayson.
Friday, 28 August 2009
Uncovering layers of Oxford Street
The overhaul of Tottenham Court Road station to make way for the Crossrail project is seeing the urban fabric stripped back. The dilapidated Victorian corner blocks are being pulled down; expect a glass and steel replacement.
Most of the area is covered with scaffold and protective sheets, like a theatre curtain disguising a change of scene.
Dionysus chip shop has gone: no fish and chips this side of Holborn now.
And down on Oxford Street, Waterstones has been closed. The shop sign has been pulled down, revealing the long-forgotten Dillons bookshop chain. The mind is cast back to a time before the coffee shop and gourmet sandwich takeover, to the 80s high street, of Our Price, Wimpy, Woolworths and C&A.
Standing faded and unnoticed on London's most famous shopping street, it looks older than any church: the prehistoric world of retail before the internet; the high street before Americanisation.
Wednesday, 19 August 2009
I just like to travel on trains
I yawn.
Rotund Asian man, mid 30s, with Prince Naseem haircut: Are you tired?
Yes, a little bit.
I’m tired too. I’ve been travelling for 14 hours today, since 7 this morning.
That’s a long day.
Yes, a long day.
Where have you come in from?
Milton Keynes.
I hear Milton Keynes is interesting. Lot of straight roads, very modern.
Yes, it is very nice.
What did you do there?
Had a look around, went to a café for a cup of tea coffee.
And now you’re off to Wolverhampton?
Yes, I’m going to Wolverhampton and then I catch the train back to Coventry.
That’s a lot of travelling.
I like travelling on trains. Have you got a job?
Yes. In London.
I don’t need to work. My parents give me 350 a week so I don’t need to. Every day, I travel. I go out in the morning and don’t get back until they are in bed.
That’s great.
Yes, next week, I have booked to stay in Leeds for a fortnight, so I can travel around there.
I like Leeds.
It is my favourite city. It means I can go up to Edinburgh during the day, and come back to Leeds at night. Are you married?
No.
My parents want me to get married but I don’t want to. I just like to travel on trains.
Rotund Asian man, mid 30s, with Prince Naseem haircut: Are you tired?
Yes, a little bit.
I’m tired too. I’ve been travelling for 14 hours today, since 7 this morning.
That’s a long day.
Yes, a long day.
Where have you come in from?
Milton Keynes.
I hear Milton Keynes is interesting. Lot of straight roads, very modern.
Yes, it is very nice.
What did you do there?
Had a look around, went to a café for a cup of tea coffee.
And now you’re off to Wolverhampton?
Yes, I’m going to Wolverhampton and then I catch the train back to Coventry.
That’s a lot of travelling.
I like travelling on trains. Have you got a job?
Yes. In London.
I don’t need to work. My parents give me 350 a week so I don’t need to. Every day, I travel. I go out in the morning and don’t get back until they are in bed.
That’s great.
Yes, next week, I have booked to stay in Leeds for a fortnight, so I can travel around there.
I like Leeds.
It is my favourite city. It means I can go up to Edinburgh during the day, and come back to Leeds at night. Are you married?
No.
My parents want me to get married but I don’t want to. I just like to travel on trains.
welsh women on a train
Woman on train from Swansea to Cardiff sitting down with a coffee:
"That was a long way that was. Right down the other end. I went all the way up there and the woman behind the counter says to me, ‘can you come back in five minutes. I’m just setting up.’ I said, no, I’ve come all the way up the train for a coffee; I’ll wait here until you’ve done what you are doing.
"I waited there and asked for two lattes, and you know what she said, she said I couldn’t have them because the machine wasn’t working, it’d have to be instant. She pours me two coffees and says, that’ll be £3.40. £3.40! I said, You’ve only put coffee with water.
"I said I wanted a latte and you’re charging me for a latte and I’m only getting instant. She said a latte was £1.90."
"Outrageous."
"I know. And she was rude. Can I come back in five minutes? She could have just said, could you wait here while I set up, I’ll be with you in a minute, but no."
"That was a long way that was. Right down the other end. I went all the way up there and the woman behind the counter says to me, ‘can you come back in five minutes. I’m just setting up.’ I said, no, I’ve come all the way up the train for a coffee; I’ll wait here until you’ve done what you are doing.
"I waited there and asked for two lattes, and you know what she said, she said I couldn’t have them because the machine wasn’t working, it’d have to be instant. She pours me two coffees and says, that’ll be £3.40. £3.40! I said, You’ve only put coffee with water.
"I said I wanted a latte and you’re charging me for a latte and I’m only getting instant. She said a latte was £1.90."
"Outrageous."
"I know. And she was rude. Can I come back in five minutes? She could have just said, could you wait here while I set up, I’ll be with you in a minute, but no."
Monday, 17 August 2009
White van man
"That's what you get when you buy snide Sat Nav. It won't tell you where you need to go."
White van man to second white van man, Streatham
White van man to second white van man, Streatham
Sunday, 21 June 2009
Ornette Coleman at the South Bank
The first thing I see is a youth's afro hair whipped up to look something approximating a 99 ice cream. He is wearing plus fours and breeches. His lady looks like Bonnie Parker.
That gives me hope. That puts a smile on my face. I am in amongst the freaks and the weirdos, the dreamers. The jazz fans. The jazz professors, too. Because we are down in that corner of jazz that is out there, vulnerable, that can be attacked from all sides and for which one can never offer a substantial defence. This is free jazz.
This is Ornette Coleman. The man who took jazz in a direction so outside the mainstream, so outside ordinary consciousness, that the reputation of a music that started in the dance halls of New Orleans never truly recovered.
His support act sets things up nicely. On they come in their little white turban/fez/hats and green gowns, eight of them, four playing drums, four playing Moroccan oboes. Those oboes come out like a squall, like a call to prayer across a muslim town. And the drums, the drums play in no rhythm I have ever heard, dense polyrythms, on and on, repetitive, remorseless until you enter a trance-like state. After some period of time, they exit stage left, still playing, heads bobbing, The Master Musicians of Jajouka.
After a needless break, Ornette is introduced. He ambles on, all 79 years of him on display, in a blue silk suit. His son is on drums, and an acoustic double bass and an electric bass make up the quartet. The sound that comes from his horn is instantly there, instantly Ornette. He has the ear for the tuneful melody, and an ear for distortion, he can play both sweet and harsh.
He has a free attitude to instruments. He has a sax, a trumpet and a violin by his side, and makes late decisions about which to play. He might pick his trumpet up, think better of it then lay it on his lap, and play his violin instead. And if you get the violin, you get a violent scraping over the top of his tight, tight band. If you get the trumpet, you might get a flourish, a suggestion of a tune, a small flight, and then an abrupt full stop. And if you get the saxophone, you might get anything at all.
He finishes the opening part of his set with a straight ahead swinging number that could have been out of the Ellington songbook (I don't know), and then on comes cock-sock-rock-surf-chili-pepper Flea, in black suit, skinny black tie and white trainers. First things first, the man can play, we know that, but in Ornette's group?
Yes he can. Okay, he plays the bass with arms wrapped around it like a surfing gorrilla, he can't contain his body from moving around, hyperactive, but he can play, mostly within himself, only letting off the occasional funk riff for which he is famed.
Back on stage come the Master Musicians and we are headed for a 20-minute African, jazz-funk collaboration. I saw Spiritualized and Sonic Youth 'collaborating' on that same Royal Festival Hall stage. They made a lot of noise, it went on for ages and I got so wiped out by the sheer droniness of it that I fell asleep. This started off little different, the sound was muddy and the two bands were side by side, apart. But after quite a while (we had some walkouts) they got it together, they found that jamming rhythm and it worked. They lost it and found it again, and those men from Morocco gave it up and it was all handshakes.
It got stripped down to a trio for the encore. It was a very sweet version of one of those songs from the Shape of Jazz to Come, just Ornette, really, a man with a saxophone and a soul playing it for love.
That gives me hope. That puts a smile on my face. I am in amongst the freaks and the weirdos, the dreamers. The jazz fans. The jazz professors, too. Because we are down in that corner of jazz that is out there, vulnerable, that can be attacked from all sides and for which one can never offer a substantial defence. This is free jazz.
This is Ornette Coleman. The man who took jazz in a direction so outside the mainstream, so outside ordinary consciousness, that the reputation of a music that started in the dance halls of New Orleans never truly recovered.
His support act sets things up nicely. On they come in their little white turban/fez/hats and green gowns, eight of them, four playing drums, four playing Moroccan oboes. Those oboes come out like a squall, like a call to prayer across a muslim town. And the drums, the drums play in no rhythm I have ever heard, dense polyrythms, on and on, repetitive, remorseless until you enter a trance-like state. After some period of time, they exit stage left, still playing, heads bobbing, The Master Musicians of Jajouka.
After a needless break, Ornette is introduced. He ambles on, all 79 years of him on display, in a blue silk suit. His son is on drums, and an acoustic double bass and an electric bass make up the quartet. The sound that comes from his horn is instantly there, instantly Ornette. He has the ear for the tuneful melody, and an ear for distortion, he can play both sweet and harsh.
He has a free attitude to instruments. He has a sax, a trumpet and a violin by his side, and makes late decisions about which to play. He might pick his trumpet up, think better of it then lay it on his lap, and play his violin instead. And if you get the violin, you get a violent scraping over the top of his tight, tight band. If you get the trumpet, you might get a flourish, a suggestion of a tune, a small flight, and then an abrupt full stop. And if you get the saxophone, you might get anything at all.
He finishes the opening part of his set with a straight ahead swinging number that could have been out of the Ellington songbook (I don't know), and then on comes cock-sock-rock-surf-chili-pepper Flea, in black suit, skinny black tie and white trainers. First things first, the man can play, we know that, but in Ornette's group?
Yes he can. Okay, he plays the bass with arms wrapped around it like a surfing gorrilla, he can't contain his body from moving around, hyperactive, but he can play, mostly within himself, only letting off the occasional funk riff for which he is famed.
Back on stage come the Master Musicians and we are headed for a 20-minute African, jazz-funk collaboration. I saw Spiritualized and Sonic Youth 'collaborating' on that same Royal Festival Hall stage. They made a lot of noise, it went on for ages and I got so wiped out by the sheer droniness of it that I fell asleep. This started off little different, the sound was muddy and the two bands were side by side, apart. But after quite a while (we had some walkouts) they got it together, they found that jamming rhythm and it worked. They lost it and found it again, and those men from Morocco gave it up and it was all handshakes.
It got stripped down to a trio for the encore. It was a very sweet version of one of those songs from the Shape of Jazz to Come, just Ornette, really, a man with a saxophone and a soul playing it for love.
Tuesday, 16 June 2009
Father Bill, Uncle Tony
Kosovo: The approach road to Prishtina from the airport is somewhat daunting for the lily-livered foreign tourist. The rain is pouring down on the unmade road and armoured vehicles carrying pumped-up soldiers roll by, churning up the road surface. Cars come off slip roads at full pace, with drivers believing brakes are only to be employed to avoid certain death. This happens every hundred yards or so.
Our man from the UN: "I do not worry about myself, it is others I worry about."
He undercuts his argument by doing a u-turn across four lanes of traffic to get to a petrol station.
As we get close to the town centre, a Tarmac surface appears, traffic takes on a semblance of order and we take in the sights.
The first and most prominent sight is that of a handsome and wise man, covering the side of a huge office block. It is Bill Clinton, father of Kosovo. This, indeed, is Bill Clinton Boulevard. Plans to rename Prishtina 'Clintongrad' are just a populist manifesto away from reality.
After years of casual America-bashing across Europe, it is startling to see a US president receiving such acclaim. But the Kosovans are thankful. The deployment of US and EU troops in Kosovo in 1999 avoided the sort of genocidal frenzy that took place just a few miles north in Srebrenica, Bosnia. And not only that, the Kosovan people have had their nation recognised by the US, with the implication that they will be defended against Serb aggression.
Rolling along the road and there is a billboard poster of a silver-haired politician type, whom I could not quite place. I am informed that it is Joe Biden, the current US vice-president, who recently paid a visit to Kosovo.
And for those pessimists out there, it turns out that wonders never cease. In this parallel universe in the southern Balkans, even the much-maligned Tony Blair gets credit for his messianic zeal. The town of Peja has a street named after him.
Monday, 15 June 2009
On the tourist trail, Kosovo-style
Prizren, Kosovo: The wood-frame buildings look quaint and, well, touristy. The courtyard is pretty, with a well in the middle. This is it, Prizren's only paid-for tourist attraction.
The League of Prizren does not offer audio guides, or much English translation. But a floor to ceiling map of Albania in the entrance hall bridges any language divide.
The map is painted dark red, the colour of the Albanian flag, with the two-headed eagle from the flag symbolising each town. There is Tirana, half way down on the left hand side. Crane the neck up a bit and there is Prizren. It is well within Greater Albania as this map has it, which grants Albania all of Kosovo, plus a few slivers of Macedonia and Greece.
The main museum lays out the arguments simply for a foreign visitor. Here is a sculpture of a heroic chap with flowing moustaches, fez-like cap and a steady grip on his sword. Paintings show similar looking fellows laying waste to people, presumably Serbs, and maybe a few Greeks thrown in for good measure.
There is some correspondence from the late-nineteenth century between French and British imperial officers, musing upon the Albanian problem. Should they quell these feisty Albanians, ponders the double-barrelled Brit? His French colleague wonders where it all may end. The proper question, with the view back through 130 years, would have been to ask where it would all start, which was in 1914 up the road in Sarajevo.
The League of Prizren, whatever its cute surroundings and charming peasant costumes, falls short of being a tourist destination. The 1 Euro entry fee is far too little to make the ordinary western tourist comfortable. The old man in the museum is more reminiscent of a sentry than a genial old fella you might find in a National Trust home. It just does not have that heritage feel.
And for good reason. Our man from the UN heritage programme says that the place was torched by Serbs in the late 1990s, and subsequently rebuilt by Albanians. For some people, this will always be the frontline.
The League of Prizren does not offer audio guides, or much English translation. But a floor to ceiling map of Albania in the entrance hall bridges any language divide.
The map is painted dark red, the colour of the Albanian flag, with the two-headed eagle from the flag symbolising each town. There is Tirana, half way down on the left hand side. Crane the neck up a bit and there is Prizren. It is well within Greater Albania as this map has it, which grants Albania all of Kosovo, plus a few slivers of Macedonia and Greece.
The main museum lays out the arguments simply for a foreign visitor. Here is a sculpture of a heroic chap with flowing moustaches, fez-like cap and a steady grip on his sword. Paintings show similar looking fellows laying waste to people, presumably Serbs, and maybe a few Greeks thrown in for good measure.
There is some correspondence from the late-nineteenth century between French and British imperial officers, musing upon the Albanian problem. Should they quell these feisty Albanians, ponders the double-barrelled Brit? His French colleague wonders where it all may end. The proper question, with the view back through 130 years, would have been to ask where it would all start, which was in 1914 up the road in Sarajevo.
The League of Prizren, whatever its cute surroundings and charming peasant costumes, falls short of being a tourist destination. The 1 Euro entry fee is far too little to make the ordinary western tourist comfortable. The old man in the museum is more reminiscent of a sentry than a genial old fella you might find in a National Trust home. It just does not have that heritage feel.
And for good reason. Our man from the UN heritage programme says that the place was torched by Serbs in the late 1990s, and subsequently rebuilt by Albanians. For some people, this will always be the frontline.
Sunday, 14 June 2009
Walking with Cesar
Prizren: Walking with our host's landlord, Cesar. A small man in his fifties, smartly dressed in polo shirt and pressed blue jeans. He is a schoolteacher in the town, teaching the large Turk population, and has lived there all his life.
We walk along the busy streets where Yugos and Zastavas and scooters compete with pedestrians for road space. Cesar says hello to almost everyone and stops to talk to all of the men of his vintage. There are handshakes and smiles and an introduction to his English guests.
He shows us the points of interest. The stone bridge over the river, the tree many hundreds of years old, the castle sitting above the town.
He points out the Serbian church in the hills. It was set alight in two days of rioting across Kosovo in March 2004. At this time all the Serbs were driven from the town and their houses, sitting near to the church, set on fire. They remain abandoned.
We wander through the town square dominated by a large mosque. In the square is a large monument to a tough looking Albanian with rifle in his hand.
'From the war,' says Cesar, and we move on.
We take a seat in a riverside cafe where we drink macchiatos. Cesar pulls out his packet of Ronhills, a tobacco brand from Croatia, and smokes three with his coffee. Briggs manfully keeps up, smoking his Marlboro Lights.
We move into the shopping district. There is a local police officer putting cars on a diversion. Turning a corner we see that a road has been sealed off, and there are KFOR international army officers on the scene.
Cesar stops to talk to a man who says it is a bomb scare. Or it would be a scare, if anyone was scared. Instead, the area sealed off his ludicrously small, and children on BMXs are just yards from the scene of investigation.
Cesar lights up a Ronhill and we take a different route back home.
We walk along the busy streets where Yugos and Zastavas and scooters compete with pedestrians for road space. Cesar says hello to almost everyone and stops to talk to all of the men of his vintage. There are handshakes and smiles and an introduction to his English guests.
He shows us the points of interest. The stone bridge over the river, the tree many hundreds of years old, the castle sitting above the town.
He points out the Serbian church in the hills. It was set alight in two days of rioting across Kosovo in March 2004. At this time all the Serbs were driven from the town and their houses, sitting near to the church, set on fire. They remain abandoned.
We wander through the town square dominated by a large mosque. In the square is a large monument to a tough looking Albanian with rifle in his hand.
'From the war,' says Cesar, and we move on.
We take a seat in a riverside cafe where we drink macchiatos. Cesar pulls out his packet of Ronhills, a tobacco brand from Croatia, and smokes three with his coffee. Briggs manfully keeps up, smoking his Marlboro Lights.
We move into the shopping district. There is a local police officer putting cars on a diversion. Turning a corner we see that a road has been sealed off, and there are KFOR international army officers on the scene.
Cesar stops to talk to a man who says it is a bomb scare. Or it would be a scare, if anyone was scared. Instead, the area sealed off his ludicrously small, and children on BMXs are just yards from the scene of investigation.
Cesar lights up a Ronhill and we take a different route back home.
Bored and isolated and bearing flags
Driving through a moutainous area on the way to Prizren in the south of Kosovo.
Pulling out onto the road is a car of young men. Large Serbian flags on poles protrude from the windows. They have a look of naked menace about them, and for good reason. They live in a tiny Serb enclave, surrounded by Albanians. They are hours' drive away from Serbia and the Serb-dominated areas in the north.
They have nothing to do, except, that is, drive around defiantly stating their nationhood. They have already graffitied out the Albanian names on the dual language street signs. The temptation to make the occasional aggressive foray into Albanian territory must be huge.
Young Serbian men like these have no immediate prospect of doing well in Kosovo. They cannot get good work, they cannot mix with the Albanians who run the country, and they can't even go to a town to enjoy themselves on a Saturday night.
And yet these poor, isolated people are declared national heroes back in Serbia. They know that Kosovo, in particular the monasteries and churches which are the foundation of the Serbian Orthodox Church, are the soul of the nation. That is an almost mythic status which is of no benefit to them in real terms.
That overused phrase, 'being on the wrong side of history', seems terribly appropriate here, however menacing these men look.
Pulling out onto the road is a car of young men. Large Serbian flags on poles protrude from the windows. They have a look of naked menace about them, and for good reason. They live in a tiny Serb enclave, surrounded by Albanians. They are hours' drive away from Serbia and the Serb-dominated areas in the north.
They have nothing to do, except, that is, drive around defiantly stating their nationhood. They have already graffitied out the Albanian names on the dual language street signs. The temptation to make the occasional aggressive foray into Albanian territory must be huge.
Young Serbian men like these have no immediate prospect of doing well in Kosovo. They cannot get good work, they cannot mix with the Albanians who run the country, and they can't even go to a town to enjoy themselves on a Saturday night.
And yet these poor, isolated people are declared national heroes back in Serbia. They know that Kosovo, in particular the monasteries and churches which are the foundation of the Serbian Orthodox Church, are the soul of the nation. That is an almost mythic status which is of no benefit to them in real terms.
That overused phrase, 'being on the wrong side of history', seems terribly appropriate here, however menacing these men look.
Friday, 29 May 2009
this is the sport in this country smoking
Pristina, Kosovo: "This is the sport in this country, smoking," says our Nigerian host from the UN Human Settlements Program.
And sure enough, everyone is smoking, in their cars, in bars, on the street, even at petrol stations. Cigarettes are about 1.5euro a pack of twenty, so in a country where other entertainment is hard to come by, smoking represents excellent value.
"Nine out of 10 people smoke. When you walk around they offer you cigarettes, they are offended if you do not smoke."
Briggs wants to fit in. He buys a pack quickly and smokes steadily throughout the evening. He is torn, though. He wants to smoke in the Mexican restaurant, but feels hidebound by the conditioning of the draconian rules in the UK.
"You are thinking this is a civilised country," says our guide, with a laugh.
Our French friend from one of the many international agencies reassures him that there is no need to ask. People like to see a man smoking.
Touring a couple of bars, we meet UN and EU workers from Sweden, Lithuania, Portugal, the Netherlands, France and Germany. But they are not really nationals. They are internationals. They stay in their elite bubble here in the Balkans, transferring from one agency to the next. There is a suggestion they do not pay much tax, and the expenses are very good. The Daily Express would not be pleased.
The Italian we meet is everything you would want in an international worker. Beige suite, with impeccably pressed trousers, a perfectly trimmed beard and a relaxed and charming demeanour. He has just had an excellent meal.
Our host tells him we are off to Prizren.
"And have you told your friends in Prizren they shoot in the street?"
"Yes, but they shoot in the air and so we do not need flak jackets. We just need the helmets for when the bullets come down."
And sure enough, everyone is smoking, in their cars, in bars, on the street, even at petrol stations. Cigarettes are about 1.5euro a pack of twenty, so in a country where other entertainment is hard to come by, smoking represents excellent value.
"Nine out of 10 people smoke. When you walk around they offer you cigarettes, they are offended if you do not smoke."
Briggs wants to fit in. He buys a pack quickly and smokes steadily throughout the evening. He is torn, though. He wants to smoke in the Mexican restaurant, but feels hidebound by the conditioning of the draconian rules in the UK.
"You are thinking this is a civilised country," says our guide, with a laugh.
Our French friend from one of the many international agencies reassures him that there is no need to ask. People like to see a man smoking.
Touring a couple of bars, we meet UN and EU workers from Sweden, Lithuania, Portugal, the Netherlands, France and Germany. But they are not really nationals. They are internationals. They stay in their elite bubble here in the Balkans, transferring from one agency to the next. There is a suggestion they do not pay much tax, and the expenses are very good. The Daily Express would not be pleased.
The Italian we meet is everything you would want in an international worker. Beige suite, with impeccably pressed trousers, a perfectly trimmed beard and a relaxed and charming demeanour. He has just had an excellent meal.
Our host tells him we are off to Prizren.
"And have you told your friends in Prizren they shoot in the street?"
"Yes, but they shoot in the air and so we do not need flak jackets. We just need the helmets for when the bullets come down."
Sunday, 17 May 2009
The trials of managing a junior football team
Mobile phone conversation overheard on the No. 2 bus:
"Yeah, I've started managing a team, you know. I came in and I started looking at the attendance charts and there are kids who are showing up to training every week and not getting a game. There are kids showing up on time, doing everything right, and they're not getting their chance.
Some of them think, just because they are good players, you know, that they don't need to train, that they can show up for matches 10 minutes before kick-off. These kids need to learn some respect. You know what I mean, these kids need to be taught a lesson.
So I decided to shake things up a bit. First match, I had some of the good players on the bench and gave those fringe players a chance.
But, you know what, I never realised the gulf in class! We started losing the match, but with a 10 minutes to go I made some changes. We ended up scoring a last minute equaliser. I was relieved!
"Yeah, I've started managing a team, you know. I came in and I started looking at the attendance charts and there are kids who are showing up to training every week and not getting a game. There are kids showing up on time, doing everything right, and they're not getting their chance.
Some of them think, just because they are good players, you know, that they don't need to train, that they can show up for matches 10 minutes before kick-off. These kids need to learn some respect. You know what I mean, these kids need to be taught a lesson.
So I decided to shake things up a bit. First match, I had some of the good players on the bench and gave those fringe players a chance.
But, you know what, I never realised the gulf in class! We started losing the match, but with a 10 minutes to go I made some changes. We ended up scoring a last minute equaliser. I was relieved!
Sunday, 3 May 2009
Stalin enters London
Strolling back to work from my lunch on Friday, I saw a march coming up High Holborn and turn into Kingsway. I only saw the back end of it – a few people carrying banners, some from unions, some from left-wing organisations. There were some people, perhaps rented, tapping cowbells.
I walked over to the group at the end of the protest, and asked a girl dressed in black what it was all about. It was the May Day protest, she said, the day when workers protest. She was a social worker. Perhaps she was protesting about all the rubbish parents out there.
Buying a banana from the fruit-seller on High Holborn, I asked him what he thought of this rag-tag rabble.
“Some of them were carrying a picture of Stalin around. He killed 30 million people – what are they parading his f*cking picture for?”
I had to admit that the fruit-man, who has the look of a bloke who needs a defibrillator with him when reading his newspaper, had a point. It is hard to understand a person who takes Stalin as their political hero. Lenin, maybe, who had the good sense to die before the Communists really got warmed up with their purging sensibility, but not Stalin.
I tried to smooth things over by saying that there is no accounting for taste and that personally my hero was Bryan Robson, but it didn’t seem to help.
Sunday, 26 April 2009
On the nick in Woolworths
I always viewed Woolworths with affection. I liked Brixton Woolworths in particular. The shop is the centrepiece of the high road, with its sculpted white tiled front and huge red sign at the top of the building. Some could point to the Town Hall or the Ritzy cinema, but for me the Woolworths is the landmark building in Brixton.
I went in there for compilations of old bands like the Beach Boys and Squeeze. I got my kitchen utensils from there. I knew the place was on the downward slope late last year when they had no potato peelers, and the red polo shirted shop assistant told me he didn't know when any more would be in.
When it was finally announced that Woolies was no more, I used to pop in for a little look around. With just 10 or 20 per cent off, people were going absolutely crazy, taking armloads of DVDs, toys, children's clothes. The Brixton store went from being a large, well-stocked place to bare and sad-looking. The only product left well alone was the ironing boards, a sad indictment of our society's wanton attitude to crumpled clothing.
On a bright, sunny day in early January I took a walk over to Crystal Palace and found that its Woolworths was still open. It was the final day of trading and everything must go. Needless to say, the place was heaving. I thought that on this final day of trading I had to do the decent thing. I had to shoplift something.
You could barely call it shoplifting. The security guard was paying no attention, all of the staff would be out of work by the end of the day.
The only trouble was finding something I wanted to nick. As is my habit, I went for the CDs. Most of them were simply in crates on the floor. There was a serious-looking dreadlocked man meticulously going through them and taking what he needed. I made my own search, whilst trying to steer clear of him. I didn't want to get into a fight on this special day.
After some rooting through heaps of forgotten boy bands and dance compilations, I found one disc that interested me: it was called, '1957 - when skiffle was king'. I picked it up and wandered further back into the store, as if to join the back of the queue.
Despite there being an almost zero possibility of being caught, I was still nervous. I wandered over to the Pick n Mix and ate an Everton mint and sucked on it while I hatched a plan. I was wearing my beaten-up suede jacket. It has a ripped lining on the right front, and was a place I had secreted the odd can of lager onto the bus over the years. I went over to the CD rack at the rear of the store, looked at a Hank Marvin double CD, and whilst picking it up, slotted the skiffle CD into my jacket.
Even at this late stage, I had an attack of nerves or conscience or something. Whatever it was, I thought perhaps I had better buy the Marvin disc, to even things out. I started to queue up, and had every intention of buying the thing, but the queue was so long that I gave up. I put the thing back on the shelf and made my exit.
Leaving Woolworths, on that final day of trading, I felt that rush of excitement that can only come from nicking something petty from a big company. It was an act that had been echoed throughout Woolies' 99 years of trading in the UK. Generations of children had grown up, gone out on a Saturday and thought, I'll go to Woolies and do a spot of shoplifting. I felt good that I had concluded my relationship with this great store in the right way, leaving the shop with a CD in my pocket and my heart beating fast in my chest.
I went in there for compilations of old bands like the Beach Boys and Squeeze. I got my kitchen utensils from there. I knew the place was on the downward slope late last year when they had no potato peelers, and the red polo shirted shop assistant told me he didn't know when any more would be in.
When it was finally announced that Woolies was no more, I used to pop in for a little look around. With just 10 or 20 per cent off, people were going absolutely crazy, taking armloads of DVDs, toys, children's clothes. The Brixton store went from being a large, well-stocked place to bare and sad-looking. The only product left well alone was the ironing boards, a sad indictment of our society's wanton attitude to crumpled clothing.
On a bright, sunny day in early January I took a walk over to Crystal Palace and found that its Woolworths was still open. It was the final day of trading and everything must go. Needless to say, the place was heaving. I thought that on this final day of trading I had to do the decent thing. I had to shoplift something.
You could barely call it shoplifting. The security guard was paying no attention, all of the staff would be out of work by the end of the day.
The only trouble was finding something I wanted to nick. As is my habit, I went for the CDs. Most of them were simply in crates on the floor. There was a serious-looking dreadlocked man meticulously going through them and taking what he needed. I made my own search, whilst trying to steer clear of him. I didn't want to get into a fight on this special day.
After some rooting through heaps of forgotten boy bands and dance compilations, I found one disc that interested me: it was called, '1957 - when skiffle was king'. I picked it up and wandered further back into the store, as if to join the back of the queue.
Despite there being an almost zero possibility of being caught, I was still nervous. I wandered over to the Pick n Mix and ate an Everton mint and sucked on it while I hatched a plan. I was wearing my beaten-up suede jacket. It has a ripped lining on the right front, and was a place I had secreted the odd can of lager onto the bus over the years. I went over to the CD rack at the rear of the store, looked at a Hank Marvin double CD, and whilst picking it up, slotted the skiffle CD into my jacket.
Even at this late stage, I had an attack of nerves or conscience or something. Whatever it was, I thought perhaps I had better buy the Marvin disc, to even things out. I started to queue up, and had every intention of buying the thing, but the queue was so long that I gave up. I put the thing back on the shelf and made my exit.
Leaving Woolworths, on that final day of trading, I felt that rush of excitement that can only come from nicking something petty from a big company. It was an act that had been echoed throughout Woolies' 99 years of trading in the UK. Generations of children had grown up, gone out on a Saturday and thought, I'll go to Woolies and do a spot of shoplifting. I felt good that I had concluded my relationship with this great store in the right way, leaving the shop with a CD in my pocket and my heart beating fast in my chest.
Tuesday, 21 April 2009
George the barber shop
I used to leave the barber shop with a quiet sense of disappointment. I know I have not the most sculptable head of hair, but still. It is a case of entering with hope, and leaving without it.
But now I go to George the barber shop, on Streatham High Road. It is a father and son place, and I am pretty sure neither is called George.
On entering, one is stirred by the fact that here is a barber shop with all the essentials. By this I don't just mean the chairs and the washbasins and the hair on the floor. I mean the faded pictures of bequiffed '80s models, with Princess Diana in pride of place. The smell of hair gel; the sound of an overworked electric razor and football on the radio.
The old man leaps up from his foreign newspaper and offers me a seat. He thrusts the protective gown around my neck a shade too tight, like all good barbers should do. He does not have much chat - he leaves that to his son, who is waxing lyrical about Streatham ice rink - but he is attentive. His thick lips chew away in time with his scissors as he tames my thinning locks. He takes enormous care of trimming around my ears and even bothers to take a cutthroat razor to shave what little neck hair I possess.
When the job is completed he pulls out a mirror and shows me the back of my head. This is never something I enjoy looking at, it being a reminder that, despite my age, I still essentially look like a schoolboy. However, given the fact that I am in barber shop heaven, I give my wholehearted approval.
He brushes the cut hair from my face and unties me, and we totter over to the till. We go through the elaborate procedure of him asking for eight pounds, and me giving ten and refusing change. At this he gives me a handshake and a pat on the back and both men wish me well. I wish them both every good luck, and leave feeling happy despite my hair being the underwhelming sight it has always been.
But now I go to George the barber shop, on Streatham High Road. It is a father and son place, and I am pretty sure neither is called George.
On entering, one is stirred by the fact that here is a barber shop with all the essentials. By this I don't just mean the chairs and the washbasins and the hair on the floor. I mean the faded pictures of bequiffed '80s models, with Princess Diana in pride of place. The smell of hair gel; the sound of an overworked electric razor and football on the radio.
The old man leaps up from his foreign newspaper and offers me a seat. He thrusts the protective gown around my neck a shade too tight, like all good barbers should do. He does not have much chat - he leaves that to his son, who is waxing lyrical about Streatham ice rink - but he is attentive. His thick lips chew away in time with his scissors as he tames my thinning locks. He takes enormous care of trimming around my ears and even bothers to take a cutthroat razor to shave what little neck hair I possess.
When the job is completed he pulls out a mirror and shows me the back of my head. This is never something I enjoy looking at, it being a reminder that, despite my age, I still essentially look like a schoolboy. However, given the fact that I am in barber shop heaven, I give my wholehearted approval.
He brushes the cut hair from my face and unties me, and we totter over to the till. We go through the elaborate procedure of him asking for eight pounds, and me giving ten and refusing change. At this he gives me a handshake and a pat on the back and both men wish me well. I wish them both every good luck, and leave feeling happy despite my hair being the underwhelming sight it has always been.
Monday, 13 April 2009
The House of Bottles
Walking down Coldharbour Lane, in search of booze, I decided to visit Brixton's most vibrant off licence, The House of Bottles. This Friday evening the place, which seldom closes, was shuttered up. Not only that, the Bottles' accompanying phalanx of black-attired black men standing outside it, drinking bottled lager, was not there.
I considered the possibilities. It was Good Friday. Perhaps these people have a religious streak, and are off at evening mass. On the whole, unlikely.
Moving closer, I noticed a sign outside the lonely shop from Lambeth Council. The House of Bottles had temporarily been relieved of its licence to sell booze, because of 'serious criminal activity' on the premises. My first thought was - there might be some truth in this. My second thought was - why take action now?
Surely the local council had always been aware that the place had a certain subterranean charm to it. I thought these kind of premises were allowed to thrive so that Brixton retains its distinctive flavour and keeps those Claphamites from roaming down Acre Lane. What signal does this send out to the rest of the folks trying to do business in Brixton in these times of economic strife?
There was at least one beneficiary from this punitive strike: Liquor Supply was doing a brisk trade as I popped in for four Heineken.
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