diamond geezer

 Friday, July 31, 2009

Regular readers will know that August on diamond geezer is local history month. Oh yes, it's nearly time once again for a big all-consuming safari, stretched out over weeks and days, blogged about in enormous detail. Rejoice! (or run away)

I've been doing this every August for the last six years. In-depth psychogeographic analysis of a series of eclectic London-centric locations, generally linear in nature, with daily posts reporting back on the sights and sounds along the way...
» August 2003: Where I live (famous places within 15 minutes of my house)
» August 2004: Piccadilly (a walk down Mayfair's most famous street)
» August 2005: the River Fleet (tracking the subterranean river) [photos]
» August 2006: Betjeman's Metro-land (Baker Street to Verney Junction) [photos]
» August 2007: Walk London (following bits of our six strategic walks) [photos]
» August 2008: High Street 2012 (the Olympic highway from Aldgate to Stratford) [photos]
» August 2009: ?????

As for what this year's local history month will bring, you'll find out tomorrow. I've picked a theme that's proper local to where I live, but also local to a lot of other places too. Some of these places I've been to before, but most of this will be unblogged territory. I've already been out researching the first bits of whatever it is, with plenty of visits still to go. And I hope that the rain holds off long enough to allow me to investigate the rest before the end of August.

Most of what I'm going to write about will be regarding nowhere you know, so I'm expecting my reports to be of limited interest. Don't worry, August has five weekends, so I thought I'd hide most of my reportage at the weekends when blog footfall is lowest. There'll still be plenty of normal non-special blogstuff on the intervening weekdays, just to ensure that I don't haemorrhage too much of my audience along the way. But I might go all-out-LHM for the last week of August, just to annoy you, so be warned. If you don't give a stuff about somewhere that's not in any way local to you, safest to go away and come back in September. I don't care, because (as ever) I'm writing this blog for me, not for you. So bring it on. Let's boldly go.

As an added teaser, I've already uploaded the first photo from the first location.
I've not labelled it, or commented on it, or geotagged it, so it's not much help.
And I doubt it's anywhere that most of you will recognise either.
But it might give you a clue or two regarding where I'm going.
Local History month 2009 starts here. Starting tomorrow.

posted 07:00 : comments ()

 Thursday, July 30, 2009

N	LONDON A-Z An alphabetical journey through the capital's museums National Army Museum

Location: Royal Hospital Road, Chelsea, SW3 4HT [map]
Open: 10am - 5:30pm
Admission: free
Brief summary: military history/subliminal recruitment
Website: www.national-army-museum.ac.uk
Time to set aside: a couple of hours

It's amazing how many museums in London (and elsewhere) are dedicated to our armed forces. Maybe that's because Britain's military has an auspicious history stretching back across the centuries. Maybe it's because because generations of retired soldiers have an awful lot of battle-related memorabilia. Maybe it's because a grateful nation wants to pay tribute to Our Brave Lads, especially the dead ones. Or maybe it's because Britain will always need more cannon fodder, so somebody's got to make the job sound enticing.

It's surprisingly big, the National Army Museum, especially for a museum you've never heard of let alone seen. You'll find it off the beaten track in Chelsea, next to the far more impressive Royal Hospital (where the Pensioners live). The first building on the museum site belonged to Robert Walpole, Britain's first Prime Minister, but a German bomb put paid to that and its modern replacement has all the architectural charm of a 1960s power station. At the entrance there's the usual security search, and then any bags you might be carrying are whisked away into a rear office for safe keeping, no questions asked.

A door to the left leads to the special exhibition gallery, which at the moment (last weekend coming up!) features Helmand: The Soldier's Story. I entered expecting propaganda, and a screen near the start looping video of the Twin Towers collapse did nothing to change my mind. But then things improved, and this was because all of the exhibits had been selected by the ground troops and officers, not some desk-bound curator far from the desert frontline. Weapons, diaries, a medical tent, first-hand accounts of the relentless pressure, even a waistcoat of gun-webbing to try on. The most evocative installation was nothing military, just a collection of canvas beds that act as the batallion's home from home. Stacked up in two IKEA clothes racks were some pairs of camouflage trousers, a green towel, a can of 7 Up, a deodorant and a tube of toothpaste. Ordinary people using everyday objects in extraordinary circumstances, and hoping that they'll make it home at the end of their tour of duty.

Enough of the modern stuff. The museum tells the story of the British army (past the coffee bar, through the souvenir shop) starting way back in 1066. It scampers through the next half-millennium incredibly fast, choosing to kick off in detail with the English Civil War. To its credit, the displays are set very much in a historical context. There are no endless cabinets of tedious weaponry, although illiterate visitors might wish there was a bit more to look at rather than read. I had the entire Making of Britain gallery to myself, bar a brief visit from an attendant making sure I wasn't slashing the waxwork hand gunner. I took the opportunity while nobody was looking to try on an old Roundhead helmet, and yes, I looked as utterly ridiculous as I expected.

The central staircase ramps gently upward, all part of the ongoing timeline, so the American War of Independence is played out ascending from one floor to the next. On the first floor I discovered how the British Army changed the world. A bold claim but, given our Empire's sprawling tentacles across Europe, Africa, India and the old Commonwealth, undoubtedly true. I was especially impressed by a 50m² scale model of the Battle of Waterloo, painstakingly created from first hand accounts in the 1830s by Captain William Siborne. He exhibited his field of tin soldiers in Piccadilly to great acclaim, until Wellington took offence because it didn't match his self-centred view of the truth. Today William's rolling hills appear in a dark recess alongside the full-size skeleton of Napoleon's horse... but that's museums for you.

Two world wars follow, with an emphasis on the enlisted Tommy's point of view. The tale's also told at the Imperial War Museum across the river (and they have a much better trench), but this felt more human. It was also refreshing to see due recognition given to the war in Korea, Burma, Suez and other global conflicts generally overlooked. Even the Falklands got a look in at the top of the stairs. It's always unnerving to discover that something you remember now has a place in a museum, but even scarier was the wall-sized video of Mrs Thatcher proclaiming "Rejoice!" (thankfully briefly). Maggie aside, the jingoistic angle was well muted.

The final gallery is being refurbished for opening in September, and I believe a revamped Study Centre opened for the first time yesterday. Don't ask how many helicopters could have been bought with the money. And don't buy your impressionable grandson a pack of NAM tattoos from the shop. But be reassured, they give you your bag back at the end. And the bit in the middle's well worth trooping round.
by tube: Sloane Square   by bus: 170

N is also for...
» National Gallery (I've been)
» National Portrait Gallery (I've been)
» National Maritime Museum (I've been)
» Natural History Museum (I've been) (who hasn't?)
» North Woolwich Old Station Museum (too late, closed down)

posted 00:14 : comments ()

 Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Some people don't take No for an answer.

I said No, and I hoped it was obvious I'd said No, but maybe it wasn't.

I said No, well I think I said No, I sort of said No, maybe I wasn't quite explicit enough in saying No, I paraphrased it, I used all sorts of language that I thought hinted very strongly at saying No but didn't actually come out and use the exact word, I skirted round it slightly, I said something about it not being possible, I said something about this not being my preferred course of action, I said it wasn't an option, I said this was going no further, I said I couldn't see the circumstances under which my answer would be Yes, I didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings, I didn't want to state my position quite that bluntly, not out loud, not in black and white, but I meant it, I meant No, definitely No, abso-bloody-lutely No, that's what I thought I said, I'm sure I said No, I thought that was obvious, but maybe it didn't quite come across.

Maybe my No was entirely obvious but it's been ignored.

Some people don't want to hear the word No, it goes against their plans, it doesn't fit in with their agenda, they've had all these ideas based on the certain knowledge that you'll say Yes, of course you'll say Yes, why wouldn't you say Yes, anyone in a similar position would say Yes, so No is not an option, No could never happen, you haven't said No before, why should you mean No now, No cannot be permitted, let's carry on as if No was never spoken, let's assume the answer was Yes, let's continue along the chosen path, not your chosen path but their chosen path, because you might change your mind, you might come round, you might switch back to Yes given the right encouragement, surely everybody's persuadable, because obviously you said No but meant Yes, let's pretend that the last No never happened, a mere aberration, we'll not discuss it again... so, about that Yes...

I said No, and I meant No.

I'm good like that. It may take me a while but when I make a decision I stick to it, come down one side or the other and stay there, stand my ground, hold fast, even in the face of temptation (no, I am not taking that, thanks), even when presented with an opportunity (sure, there's money in it, but why would I?), even when all around me are doing the opposite (I still won't, if you don't mind), even when common sense dictates otherwise (sorry, I've promised myself I never will), even when it might appear to be to my advantage (trust me on this, I can see a downside you can't), even when any sane human might leap at the chance (I don't think the same way as normal people on this, do I?), even if you can see no reason why I'd be so stubborn (trust me, it's a matter of conscience), even when the truth hurts (look, you can blub your eyes out as much as you like, but we don't have a long-term future), I'm not doing it, it's for the best, I'm not budging, I'm not changing my mind, I said No, I meant No. No.

I think I may have to say No again. No, really.

posted 07:00 : comments ()

 Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Big topple

Rewind to Sunday, East London. Thousands of dominoes, scores of volunteers, one arty event. Part of the CREATE09 festival. A line of concrete breeze blocks running through Mile End, the Isle of Dogs and Greenwich. A moving sculpture. Or, as the blurb had it, "linking diverse communities in a symbolic as well as physical chain of cause and effect." Never mind that - the crowd who came to watch just wanted to see the whole lot fall down. Preferably, I suspect, by accident.

Mile End Park, 3-ish
Approaching from afar, one lonely pallet of concrete blocks was the only clue that something was afoot. That and the lady stopping everyone cycling along the canal towpath in case they got in the way of the performance. But a hive of activity was hidden beyond the tennis courts, planned to within an inch of its life, as an army of t-shirted volunteers grappled with their unlikely raw material. 540 breeze blocks in total, laid out in a sinuous line along the footpath, across the grass and over the edge of a wall. Every 10th-or-so block had been placed lengthways rather than upright, to prevent any premature topplage causing the entire line to collapse. It rained.

Mile End Park, 3:30-ish
No sign yet of the signal for the off. A small crowd had gathered along the line, most of them near the start beneath the trees. One retired couple had brought a camera to record the magic moment, but had discovered to their cost that you can't replace a rechargable battery with an ordinary one. One of the lanky straggle-haired sportsmen hanging out on the tennis courts emerged to ask what all the concrete was for, and seemed duly impressed by the response. As time ticked by, the line was at increasing risk from volunteers and members of the public nipping oh-so-carefully across and through it. Only once did an accidental touch cause a block to wobble and fall, but the cascade didn't get far before a quick-thinking volunteer halted the flow. One especially elderly lady watched from a wheelchair, and waited, and waited, and nodded off, and had to be wheeled back to her flat without seeing a thing.

Mile End Park, 4-ish
I could tell that the performance was finally imminent when the last gap across Copperfield Road was bridged with bricks. 'Get ready', yelled the man in the yellow waterproof, and his t-shirt army raised the 10% of blocker-blocks to the upright position. I had a good position lower down the line with a clear view of the snaking line. Or at least I did to start with. Once the first brick had tumbled and a merry cheer been raised, the crowd spontaneously followed the ripple downhill [video] [video]. They charged towards me, like a human tsunami, enveloping the phenomenon they were so keen to see. It was easy to outrun, so I could only work out roughly how far the topple had reached by observing which way the joggers were looking. At last it passed into near sight, each brick precisely knocking the next ...click click click click click click click... and I grabbed one underwhelming photograph click.

Mile End Park, 4:01-ish
At the edge of the park the first risky bit. The line passed through the railings, then a sheer drop down to street level, then across Copperfield Road and back up onto the pavement [video]. A carefully positioned block raised the flow up to doorstep height, then onward through the ground floor of Matt's Gallery. Unseen by the crowd it exited through a window along a beam above the canal, then fell into a boat conveniently tied up along the towpath. End of part one. Everybosy rushed round to the narrow road bridge to try to glimpse the boat as a few cracked blocks set off downstream. There'd be no more toppling for a few hours - this was no long unbroken domino chain - but momentum was maintained. The organisers smiled, job well done, and within 15 minutes all 540 blocks were back on their pallets.

Island Gardens, 6:30-ish: I didn't hang around to watch this bit. However, thanks to the wonders of the internet, I can offer you this photo and this video.

Greenwich Foot Tunnel, 9-ish: Nor this bit. Looked good though. Down the spiral staircase, along the edge of the tunnel and then (cor) up the other side.

Old Royal Naval College, 9:30-ish: Nor the finale. But I can tell it rained a lot, and it was a bit dark, and there were a lot more bricks.

A warehouse somewhere, autumn-ish: They'll be splicing together the entire performance to make a film, and then all the blocks are going back to the manufacturer to be be recycled. Ain't art fun?

posted 07:00 : comments ()

 Monday, July 27, 2009

  Olympic update
  Three years to go


• There are three years to go until the Olympics. Looking at the stadium today, anyone might think it was only one.



• There are three years to go until the Olympics. When Friday 27th July comes around this arena will echo to the sound of cheering and dancing and pyrotechnics and parading athletes and whooshing torches and arty display things and whatever else the 2012 budget can afford. Let's hope the weather forecast for the Opening Ceremony is a bit better than it is today.

• There are three years to go until the Olympics. They had some special events in and around the stadium over the weekend as part of the Open Weekend celebration. On Saturday there were family-friendly events on the Greenway (which is why there are wooden chairs and tables set out in the foreground of my photo). Dave went, and he made a video. And on Sunday the first 300 members of the public (all competition winners) were allowed inside to look up at the grandstand from within, and to point at the finishing line, and to take photos, and to get a bit excited.

• There are three years to go until the Olympics. I've been taking a monthly photo from up on the Greenway for the last two years, and the pace of change has been astonishing. But I'm a bit worried that, with the exterior of the stadium now pretty much complete, there's not going to be very much more change to document between now and 2012. Ah well, I'll keep taking nigh identical pictures until either I get bored or they finally seal the Greenway off. [latest photo]

• There are three years to go until the Olympics. That's 1096 days, as it says up there in the sidebar of my blog. And that's also how long it says on the London 2012 homepage, which makes a refreshing change. Earlier this year they were counting down to the day before the Olympics (which would have been '1095 days to go'), but now they've changed their mind and are counting correctly. About time too.

• There are three years to go until the Olympics. The 2012 team have taken this opportunity to launch a special commemorative metal badge with a '3' on it which they hope 3000 of you will buy. Anna, who's the 2012 "licensing manager for jewellery and collectable products", thinks that anyone after a recession-beating investment should consider investing in a 3 Years To Go pin. Having seen the design, you wouldn't buy it to wear, that's for certain.

• There are three years to go until the Olympics. The stadium's already a landmark in East London - readily viewable from the Bow flyover, from the DLR, from the North London Line, even from the top of the Gherkin. But best make the most of looking at it now. If everything goes to plan that upper tier of seats will be removed soon after 2012, and the ring of giant white trusses will come down, and the arena bowl will retreat back beneath the skyline. We shall not see its like again.

• There are three years to go until the Olympics. We may now have a stadium, pretty much, but nobody's yet quite worked out what we're going to do with it afterwards. A slimmed down athletics arena? (yeah, like that'll really draw the crowds in). An occasional test match venue? (that's the latest idea, although it's hardly a full-time occupation). A potential 2018 World Cup venue? (hardly seems worth waiting six whole years in order to use the place for a month). An echoing tumbleweed arena at the heart of a new-build estate where nobody wants to live? (nah, surely not, probably).

• There are 36 months to go until the Olympics. And there are 38 months until it's all over. I wonder how many decades it'll be before the effects wear off.

posted 00:03 : comments ()

 Sunday, July 26, 2009

Red Arrow 507: Waterloo - Victoria
Location: Central London
Length of journey: 2 miles, 15 minutes

The 507's not just a bus route, it's an electoral policy in action. Last week the 507 was operated by the "writhing whales of the road" - Boris's much-derided bendy buses. And now they're gone. Extinction starts here, on this minor commuter route running between two mainline termini. The big question - was it worth the effort?

The first thing you'll think when you see a replacement 507 is "oh look, it's a bendy bus". The new Citaros look remarkably similar, having been built by the same company as their evil predecessor, and they also have doors for boarding in the middle. Sounds familiar. But they're not bendy buses because "oh yes, they don't bend in the middle." They don't take up a full 18 metres of traffic space either, they're only two-thirds the size. Still longer than your average London bus, but because they're not articulated they satisfy one of Boris's key campaign pledges. Result, box ticked, big blond smile.

There's another first on the 507 this weekend, and that's the introduction of a weekend service. Previously buses only ran Mondays to Fridays, carting thousands of commuters from their suburban trains to the office and back again. The 507 (and its eastern cousin the 521) have always been absolutely rammed in the rush hour, but not particularly well frequented during the rest of the day. The introduction of a weekend service might therefore be thought unnecessary, especially when there's another bus (the 211) that plies between Waterloo and Victoria seven days a week. Ignoring logic, I turned up round the back of Waterloo station yesterday to partake in the Great Leap Forward.

On stepping aboard my fresh 09-reg Mercedes, I was struck how similar the interior looked to that of a bendy bus. No wobbly bit in the middle, but other than that incredibly familiar. Big yellow grab poles, unstable grey loops hanging from the ceiling and a couple of oval-shaped Oyster readers facing the central doorway. Seen those before. But there was one major difference inside - far fewer seats. Only two seats remain between the driver and the centre of the bus, making space for an expanse of blue vinyl flooring (with a tentative gangway up the middle etched out in darker shades). There's room for a wheelchair, of course, but this vehicle has been fitted out with standing-room-only mass transit in mind. Not ideal for veering round corners at half past eight in the morning - it reminded me somewhat of an unstable dancefloor on wheels.

Thankfully there are more than two seats in the rear half of the bus, installed around the wheel arches in a slightly unusual pattern. Three of the seats face inwards, the rest face forward or back. One rear-facing seat even has its own tray-shaped luggage space alongside because there's no room to shoehorn somewhere to sit. But the 507 isn't a vehicle for resting your legs (it's more like a tube carriage in that respect). There are only 20 seats in total, which felt rather low given that each bus is 12 metres long. I must still have the wrong mindset. In 21st century travel, it seems, being able to squeeze aboard comes a long way ahead of comfort.

We set off through the streets around Waterloo (I say "we", I mean the driver and myself - we had 6m of roadspace each) and soon ended up in a jam. York Road was rammed with cars and coaches, which gave me longer to stare at the London Eye and County Hall but didn't aid our progress. The road was clearer past St Thomas's Hospital, and we were even joined by three other passengers. Every now and then I noticed that we were having our picture taken - certain gentlemen do like to take photographs of buses on their first/last day in service, and they were dotted along the pavement as we passed.

Across Lambeth Bridge, where I had a far finer view of Parliament than Monday morning's sardines will enjoy, and into the backstreets of CivilServiceLand. Nobody wanted to board or disembark outside the Department of Transport, but we pulled up and stopped anyway. Same story outside Channel 4 HQ (nice brollies, guys), then the odd tight bend round towards Victoria. The above average length of the bus still felt awkward, still a potential danger to pedestrians and cyclists, although still safer than swinging a monster bendy through the same streets.

And finally, the long way, round into Victoria bus station. The 507 gets a lane all to itself, which is desperately useful on a Monday morning but rather wasteful at the weekend. Indeed, given that only four passengers had availed themselves of the bus at any point during our journey, I questioned the need for this service to be running on a Saturday or Sunday at all. Far cheaper, I'd have thought, to stick a minibus on the route - we'd still have had several seats each. Or cheaper still to have put all of us in the back of a taxi. There were certainly no crowds at Victoria clamouring to be whisked back to Waterloo.

So, has the change on route 507 been worthwhile? I'm not convinced. All that appears to have happened is that a big long bendy bus has been replaced by a long-ish bus that looks like a bendy bus but doesn't bend. Travelling conditions inside will be no better, but there'll be less capacity so more buses will be needed. The 507 used to be run by a fleet of nine, now it's a fleet of fifteen. Rush hour buses used to run every five minutes, now it'll be every three. Stop me if I'm wrong, but more buses an hour means more traffic, and therefore more danger to cyclists not less. The weekend service is even more bike-unfriendly, increasing the number of buses from zero to five an hour, and adding a finite amount of frame-crushing risk where previously there was none.

And this new fleet of buses has cost hundreds of thousands of pounds, money which might have been better spent on more useful travel projects. Boris claims that the expense will be part offset by reduced fare-dodging. "It's bad news for those who thought the bendy bus was the free bus," he said on Friday. "It will be more difficult to get on without paying." He's right, but only sort of. A bendy bus had three doors and these only have two, so it is more difficult to get on. But travellers on the 507 will still be able to nip aboard through the middle door and disregard the instruction to touch in their Oysters, so fare-dodging continues to be a unavoidable possibility. It's got to be like this because the 507s need more than one entrance - they're a high-frequency route and need to be rapidly boardable. But you wait until tomorrow morning and see if two doors is better than three.

The bendy bus is dead, hurrah! Or perhaps, in this case, not.

posted 05:07 : comments ()

 Saturday, July 25, 2009

This is my local pub.
It's closed and shuttered.
"All items of value have been removed"
I wonder if it'll ever open again.



There's been a Kings Arms in Bow Road since at least Victorian times. 140 years ago its Licensed Victualler was Ms Fanny Gear, a 46-year-old widow from Rotherhithe, 100 years ago Mr Elijah Morton, and 60 years ago Mrs Alice Berry. Millions of pints have been served over that time, mostly to very local people (because you wouldn't travel miles out of your way to sup here). The pub's little more than a large room with a bar in the centre, and a choice of entrances at the front. Saloon Lounge to the left, Saloon & Private Bar to the right, each name formed of golden letters within ornate ironwork above the door. There's been an Irish flavour to the pub of late, with Kilkenny cream ale and Guinness the favoured tipples. Regular karaoke nights brought in the punters, as did various signs on the pavement advertising Thai cuisine within. On sunnier days the patrons spilled out to sit at wooden tables in the slipstream of the A11, breathing in fumes and nattering above the relentless traffic. After closing time I'd often see the interior lit up, doors firmly bolted, as the beery cheery souls inside entertained themselves for a few more drunken hours. No longer, the pub's gone dark, gone silent, gone.

I never once went inside, of course. That's the problem with local pubs these days, lack of punters, lack of trade, lack of takings. Why go for a beer in your local pub when there are more interesting drinking holes elsewhere? Why pay three quid for a pint when cans are six for a fiver in the corner shop? Why patronise an alcohol dispensary when most of those living nearby are guided by their religion to be devout teetotalers? Hell, why support your local community pumproom at all, because wouldn't it look nicer converted into flats? And so pubs die, and convert, and disappear, and our neighbourhoods become residential hideaways where nobody ever meets up socially.

The King's Arms wasn't always my local pub. There used to be several closer to my flat, clustered around the medieval heart of Bow village, all of them long gone. North of Bow Church the Three Tuns, Dog & Partridge and Coach & Horses (now McDonalds). South of Bow Church the Black Swan, Three Cups, White Horse and Bombay Grab (the latter, ironically, evolving into a mosque). So many E3 pubs have been erased, and in 2009 the King's Arms appears to have joined their number. It won't be the last. Raise a glass.

Activity for local people: I thought I'd have a go at mapping Bow's pubs - living and dead. I've used various useful historical and modern online resources to try to work out where the vanished ones were, and plotted them all on a Google Map. I've used blue pins for open pubs and red pins for closed pubs (although I might have got a few wrong). And if you know more than I do, the map's fully editable... so you can add some more pubs, add some information to the labels, even move the pubs around if you think I've put them in the wrong place. I've restricted myself to pubs within half a mile of Bow Church station, so please make sure you do too. And let's see what a collaboration of E3 alcoholics can come up with. [map]

posted 07:00 : comments ()

 Friday, July 24, 2009

You can't fail to have noticed that this weekend is the London 2012 Open Weekend. Well, OK, you could easily have not have noticed, it's not been overly advertised, not unless you discovered the 8-page pullout in Wednesday's Metro. Bad news - just because it's called the London 2012 Open Weekend doesn't necessarily mean that anything Olympic will be open. Instead this is an umbrella title covering lots of different events all across the UK, celebrating the fact that it's (nigh exactly) three years to London's Opening Ceremony. There are 800 events altogether, including "a range of activities from culture, sport, sustainability and learning." Could be good.

So, what's on?

Now that's a good question, because London 2012 want you to try to find the answer on their website, and that isn't going to be easy. All 800 events have been dumped into an "everything's equal" database, and it's your job to try to locate something appropriate to attend using the search function without accidentally overlooking something rather more interesting you'd rather have gone to instead. I know I moan about inadequate "What's on" event databases far too often (see also The Story of London), but the Open Weekend website is yet another example of inappropriate helplessness. Especially if you live in London.

Join me if you will on the Open Weekend events page. It's not so much an events page as a search engine, with the first 10 of the 800 events listed underneath. They're a fairly random 10 events, listed in abbreviated summary form, kicking off with Sunday's exciting-sounding "DRAGON" Carnival-theatre. And where is this Dragon to be found? No clues. There's just the event title and the first 11 words of the event description, and none of these contain the location. You have to click to discover that's it's in (click) Cardiff. Ah, OK, you won't be going to that then. The second event says it's in Bedfordshire, although you won't discover that "Open Up: ABILITY" with ON TRACK 4 GOLD is an all-inclusive talent showcase before you (click). And as for the possibly-great but ambiguous 2012 Open Day - Cultural Festival, it turns out that this is in (click) Wakefield. If you're not near Wakefield, who cares? More worryingly, if you are in Wakefield, would you have noticed?

Actually you might well have noticed, because the Open Weekend website also offers a regional breakdown and a map. Wakefield residents can choose to view only events in "Yorkshire and the Humber" (there are "only" 47), or else they can click on the map to find the two events in Wakefield (which took me three clicks and a long wait). But it's much harder if you live in London. Click the big London sign on the map and a whole forest of London-y Open Weekend events shoots up. Zoom in and you'll be able to find the events nearest you... except they may not actually be interesting, and they might not be on the day you want, and there might be something really great three miles from home and you'll never see it. Or use the regional drop-down to search for all the events in London... but there still are as many as 211 of those. Even a narrowed-down search (Sport events in London) (Sustainability events in London) tends to produce far too many events or far too few. Bet you can't be bothered to check much further.

So my gripe is this. It's perfectly possible to uncover all the interesting Open Weekend events in London on the 2012 website. But it requires a heck of a lot of clicking, and an awful lot of effort, and a surprising amount of time, and quite frankly I don't reckon that 95% of users of the site will bother. There are no pages of regional highlights written by a human being, no spoonfed summaries of extra-special events, no lists where sufficient information's accessible at the top level without clicking, nothing for the majority of internet-passive surfers. This a website which expects all its users to actively engage with search protocols, and if you don't or won't or can't then you'll miss out. It's cheaper to design things this way, obviously, because writing coherent webtext summaries costs more than bunging a few fields into a database. But it's the events themselves that'll miss out when nobody spots them and not enough people turn up.

Here are ten London Open Weekend events you might enjoy, which I've dutifully slogged through the website to find.

• Dominoes (Sun): Thousands of concrete blocks will be used to create a moving sculpture across east/southeast London, starting mid-afternoon in Mile End Park and ending at dusk in Greenwich (it'll either be amazing or a huge letdown)
• Discover the Greenway (Sat): A family-friendly afternoon up on the sewer overlooking the 2012 stadium, with natural history, mural painting and an orchestra
• Greenwich World Cultural Festival (Sun): A varied programme of music and dance in the grounds of Eltham Palace
• Waltham Forest Mela (Sun): Immerse yourself in a whirl of diverse colour (or some other all-inclusive buzz phrase)
• Tokyngton Recreation Ground Jogging Weekend (Sun): Turn up in the shadow of the Wembley arch and run around a bit (a typical example of one of the many friendly come-and-have-a-go sporting events taking place this weekend) (because 2012's about sport innit?)
• Hackney Sparrows Challenge (Sat): How many baskets can be scored by one wheelchair basketball team in 2012 seconds? (haven't you always wondered?)
• Dream City (Sun): Bring the kids to the Serpentine Gallery and help create a city of buildings, parks and people (real architects will be getting their hands dirty too)
• Countdown (Sat): A sandy festival in Barking Town Square complete with music, art, sandcastles and beach volleyball
• Children's craft event (Islington Library) (Sun): Come make an Olympic torch and dab the 2012 collage (just one example of the richness of the weekend's events for younger Londoners)
• Dalston Mill (Fri, Sat, Sun): Hang on, isn't this happening anyway? It's not a special event for the Open Weekend, it's just bumping up the numbers for a bit of extra publicity (still worth going, though)

Apologies to the 200 other London events I've overlooked (but then you'd probably have overlooked them anyway)

posted 07:00 : comments ()

 Thursday, July 23, 2009

I was out on the western arm of the District line yesterday, and I stopped off at the first station past Hammersmith. It's located close to a nearby park, which is called Ravenscourt Park, and that's also the name of the station. Ravenscourt Park is a twin-island affair with parallel platforms on a high embankment, and Piccadilly line trains rush through the middle every few minutes without stopping. Two separate staircases lead up from the cavernous ground level ticket office, each with a pair of benches at the top, part-enclosed in a weatherproof shelter. And above the centre of each bench, carefully enamelled for longevity, there's a newly-installed TfL roundel. Which looks like this...



How the hell did that happen?

There must be a good reason.
1) TfL are saving money by slimming down the names of all their stations to just the first word.*
2) It's part of a surreal project for Art on the Underground (which is also why the red paint doesn't go right up to the edge).*
3) The council's about to concrete over the park with new housing, so best not mention the word 'Park' any more.*
4) It's part of a subliminal advertising campaign for the new Harry Potter film.*
5) Somebody in the sign workshop goofed, and nobody supervising the installation thought to check.

*(Actually no, that would be silly. There'd be stations in Central London called Oxford and Leicester, and another nearby called Green, and a station up the Northern line called Burnt, and three nextdoor stations each called Clapham, and ten stations all called West. It would never work)
*(Actually no, the red bit really is supposed to stop before it reaches the edge, because this is a reproduction 1920s roundel)
*(Actually no, because Ravenscourt Park is a much-loved recent Green Flag winner)
*(Actually no, that would be Ravenclaw)

Surely it can't be number 5. What do you think?

posted 07:00 : comments ()

 Wednesday, July 22, 2009

For three weeks only, a windmill is operating in Dalston. It's art, obviously. But it's also a proper mill with blades and turny things and grindy bits and flour. And, because it's essential to maintain sustainable credentials and ensure low food-miles, there's even a cornfield alongside.

Dalston Mill is an outreach project of the Barbican Art Gallery, extending its green shoots east to an unlikely spot in deepest Hackney. Up Dalston Lane, opposite the worksite where the East London line will terminate next summer, beneath a giant peace mural, where else? The site is an abandoned railway curve, more recently a site of urban decay and a fly-tipped dumping ground. But it's been transformed for a brief period into an unlikely cross between Norfolk and Hoxton. Most strange.

First thing you'll see from outside are six sails twirling round above a fence of wooden slatting. They're not traditional windmill sails, more a roundabout of giant white woks, perched high atop a tower of makeshift scaffolding. Their rotation powers a small grinder for squelching wheat, and also a mini generator which helps to light the site after dark. You have to venture inside to watch the grinding, entering the mill through a reception and kitchen area. It was a hive of activity on Saturday afternoon, baking small round discs imprinted with four scooped sails. These weren't your normal bread rolls but a very special local currency called the Dalston Slice. All the better if you'd baked them yourself, but there was also the option to hand over a fiver of real money and get two wheaty discs in return.

You could spend your dough in a few carefully selected E8 shops (more your independent stores, not the nearby Argos and Phones4U), and also in the bar conveniently located at the foot of the mill tower. The bar was called Cucum' (a name possibly just the right side of amusing), and it was frequented by trendy types with rakish looks. I was surprised how quickly this eco-installation had become the hangout of choice for various faddish folk, more usually spotted quaffing lager within a half mile of Hoxton Square. One bequiffed beardylad with washer-holed earlobes caught my eye, or at least his wristwatch did. I was wearing one exactly the same, except I'd bought my nerdgeek Casio digital back in the 1980s before he was even born, and his was probably a replica. Suddenly I felt almost, but not quite, cutting edge.

Stretching out towards the horizon (or at least towards a Matalan superstore) was the most photogenic part of the installation. Here was a small field of not-yet-golden corn, transplanted here from Lancashire, and which it's hoped will ultimately be harvested, ground and nibbled on site. The wheatfield idea isn't original - it came from New York in 1982 when Agnes Denes planted some rippling stalks in downtown Battery Park. There it provided a startling urban/rural intervention with a Twin Tower backdrop. Here in downbeat Dalston it merely gives visitors with cameras the opportunity to take arty photos of unlikely ears in front of a graffitied semi-derelict building. So that's what I did. [photo] [photo]

You've got until August 6th to pop into to Dalston Mill for yourself. You may not stay long, not unless you get engrossed in one of the many artistic projects scheduled between now and then. There are rather a lot of these, most of an environmentally-overfriendly nature, including cooking masterclasses, psychoanalysis lectures and fire-eating. Or you might stay and let your offspring's pedalpower grind some corn, or maybe sit around in a Southwark Lido deckchair with a slice of cake, or possibly hang around for a drink at the Cucum'. It'll be a field trip to remember.

posted 07:00 : comments ()

 Tuesday, July 21, 2009

I am rubbish at saying No.

I say Yes when I should have said No, because I don't want to let people down.

I say Yes because I'm the sort of person that says Yes, I go along with things, go with the flow, ride the current, because it'd be wrong to say No, I might upset someone, I hate upsetting people, I don't want them to think less of me, how could I turn them down, I might lose out next time, there might not be a next time, they might never ask me again, I don't really want to do it, I'd rather not endure what's on offer, but I daren't say that, I daren't expose my feelings to public scrutiny, I don't want to tell it like it is, I mustn't make waves, mustn't rock the boat, best I don't say No, so I say Yes instead, I'm nice like that.

I say Yes to start with and then, as it becomes more obvious that Yes wasn't the right answer, I don't feel able to say No in case it looks like failure.

If I take something on, like a project or something, not one I have to take on, but one that sounded like a good idea at the time, sometimes it doesn't seem like quite such a good idea later, there's this dawning realisation that it's not something I should be doing, there are more negatives than positives, I could end it now, I could say No, but I don't, I carry on, I keep at it, because to stop midway would be to admit defeat, to lose face, to abandon the end result, don't get me wrong, sometimes not being able to say No is a good thing, it's called resilience, it's called commitment, it's called dedication, it gets things done, it keeps the world turning, where would we be if people kept saying No all the time, but not everything's the right thing to be doing, not everything should be a matter of pride, even if the final result would have been great, sometimes getting there isn't worth the hassle, not worth all the effort expended along the way, not a good enough return on time invested, not simply to get to the end, for the sake of it, for the sake of not saying No, because it's more important to be true to yourself, it's more important to be happy.

I sleepwalk into situations where people think I've said Yes, whereas in fact all I've done is not say No.

If I'm thinking of going out with someone and they're quite nice, sort of alright, pleasant enough to be with for a short while, but deep down I know it'll never work, you know how it is, and they're keen, more keen than I am, and I should say No, I know I should say No, but they're quite fun, you know, for a bit, and we get on OK, shall we go out again next week, oh go on then, I'd rather not but I daren't say, and they'd probably be a good friend, not special but good, only I think they're hoping for more than that, we don't talk about it, I don't talk about it, they're probably taking it for granted, they're building up all these expectations, and I do nothing to puncture that, I know it's going nowhere, but they haven't worked that out yet, I'm leading them on, I ought to say something, talk from the heart, open up my emotions, end it before it escalates, mention the No option, but that might hurt, not hurt me but hurt them, and I don't want that, their hopes would be completely dashed, and so far only I know those hopes are dashed already, only I know the whole thing's doomed, but I carry on wasting my time, wasting their time, wasting our time, because they'll surely work it out eventually, deduce the fact I'm not really interested, not as interested as they are, because there's one word I can't say, don't say, won't say, I really ought to learn to say it earlier, just tell them how it is, just say No.

My life is blighted by not saying No when it's so obviously what I ought to be saying. It's not fair on me, and it's not fair on the people I don't say No to either. I should say No more often, as appropriate, when necessary.

I think I may just have said No.

posted 07:00 : comments ()

 Monday, July 20, 2009

Unlike most of the population of the world, I remember the day Apollo 11 landed on the moon. I'm not sure I watched the first moonwalk live - I was only little, and four year olds tend not to be awake at 3am, especially when they have nursery school in the morning. But I'm old enough to remember flickery black and white coverage of men in big white suits bouncing around a dusty crater in not much gravity. And I remember looking up at the moon from my back garden in the knowledge that two Americans were up there, somewhere on the surface, impossibly far above the clouds. It worries me that my memories are now in the minority.

Back in the 1960s, space was big news. The world's two major superpowers spent the entire decade attempting to out-space the other, and the anticipation rippled over into everyday life. Who would reach the moon first? What might lay in wait out there? Would it have a big green head and six arms? If I play the alien would you be the astronaut - quick before the bell rings for the end of playtime. People genuinely cared about our future journey into space, and not just because some NASA scientist had invented non-stick saucepans along the way.

Armstrong and Aldrin's journey to the moon was a pioneering first to outrank the very greatest human endeavour. More impressive than Christopher Columbus's transatlantic voyage, more impressive than the Montgolfier brothers' first balloon flight, more impressive even than Hillary and Tenzing reaching the top of Everest without freezing to death. Admittedly Neil and Buzz hadn't been solely responsible for their lunar journey, they had a huge pyramid of technicians and factory workers to thank for reaching Tranquility in one piece. But nothing humankind has done since 1969 has ever quite topped the fact that two men landed an aluminium shell on the moon and got themselves home again. It feels like homo sapiens has peaked, and the last 40 years have been on the downward curve.

As a child, the year 2009 seemed impossibly far away. We'd surely have a fully-functioning base on the moon by then, and have sent spaceships to Mars and beyond. But it never happened. The Apollo program was a one-off spike of brilliance, a premature exploration of outer space, and unexpectedly way ahead of its time. Subsequent space firsts have been noticeably less underwhelming (you stuck some men in a space station did you? great) (a tiny spaceprobe took some photos of Neptune did it? lovely) (Richard Branson wants to go up for a spaceflight does he? oh). There's no motivation today to reach for the stars, no drive to push back the farthest frontiers and, most importantly, no money.

NASA's current plans are to return to the moon by 2020, or thereabouts, which'd be just in time to ensure we don't spend a full half-century away from the place. But the technology's proving slow to develop, and funds aren't exactly fast-flowing, and there's every chance that the current economic downturn will see the project scaled down, delayed or even cancelled. Maybe the Chinese will get there first - history tells us there's nothing like a bit of global oneupmanship to inspire technological advancement. But the next world-shattering awe-inspiring lunar event now seems further away than ever, if it ever happens at all. And that's a damned shame.

The solar system is a really big place, yet we continue to explore no further than the crowded shell of our own tiny planet. We're no longer interested in what's out there, we're far more concerned with making the most of what we've got here. Sure space exploration is ridiculously expensive, but if 60s technology could power two men to the moon using a computer less powerful than a mobile phone, imagine what we ought to be able to achieve today. Instead I fear that the most astonishing technological event of my lifetime happened way back when I was four, and that I might not even live to see the next person walking on the lunar surface. It seems that Neil Armstrong was wrong, all those forty years ago. Apollo 11 was a giant leap for a man, but merely a small step for mankind.

posted 00:40 : comments ()

 Sunday, July 19, 2009

A tale of two festivals

South: Lambeth Country Show
Every year, in Brockwell Park, Lambeth comes out to play. The rolling hillocks of the park may not be proper countryside with fields and cows and combine harvesters and that, but they do make a great setting for any medium-to-large public event. So for two days every July thousands of people turn up to pretend they don't live in relentless inner suburbia, and enjoy all the fun of the fair instead. Yes, there are sheep. There was a bloke yesterday standing on the back of a trailer giving some befuddled-looking woolly quadruped the once-over with his shears. Children sat enraptured on the grass as shearer Billy Kinghorn immobilised the sheep with a few bodily movements, then whipped off the animal's winter coat. Nextdoor the Berkley Owls trailer stood empty and unwatched while their protégés were off entertaining the crowds in the main arena. If all of this looking at animals had made you hungry, the main footpath down the hill was lined with stalls selling barbecued animal and watermelon. Jerk chicken was a favourite, this being nearly Brixton, and the lunchtime queues waited patiently to grease their stomachs. Nearby was a talent-packed flower show tent, just like at a proper country fair, as well as a villageful of stalls promoting local businesses and community groups. Two of the Herne Hill Stitch and Bitchers sat knitting outside an irrelevant tent, while various volunteers hung around trying to give away leaflets about health services or housing benefit. I missed out on the free jam sandwich being given out by the Warburtons drones, but got two squirts of Factor 50 from the mole-check lady doling out skin cancer advice. At the bottom of the hill, tucked away behind the funfair, dads and kids sat astride the world's smallest public railway and took rides beneath the trees towards the lido and back. Jousting knights drew crowds to the upper arena (huzzah!), everybody keenly watching in case Sir Bedevere might fall off his horse or be whacked in the head by a spinning quintain. Alas not. The first reggae band of the day warmed up on the main stage, and early picknickers sprawled out on the slopes enjoying the food, space and atmosphere. Not especially rural anywhere on site, to be honest, more a diverse marketplace with entertainment liberally attached. But ever so well done, and ever so appreciated.
[open for business again today] [typical Lambeth Country Fair photograph]

East: Shoreditch Festival
Across the capital, a subtly different sort of event. The Shoreditch Festival also runs every year, also in a big park, also attracting thousands. But this is a rather more urban affair, with a dash more high culture thrown in, in deference to the surrounding Hackneyists and Hoxtonites. Shoreditch Park lacks the contours that make Brockwell special, and the only major feature of interest is a big rock dumped in the middle for bouldering purposes. The festival committee have added colour with fluttering flags and twirly green fabric things, making the most of the space available. Yesterday beside the granite was a row of community stalls, this time including canalfolk and War on Want. I tempted by the tombola being run by a cheery bunch from a local women's voluntary group. My five tickets didn't win me the tube of Aquafresh toothpaste or the tin of ox tongue, but I did walk off with 750ml of citrus-scented bleach. That's Shoreditch class, for you. Crouching nearby I recognised celebrity choirmaster Gareth Malone, busy being filmed for his next BBC2 series. He'd just conducted the London Symphony Orchestra (and the fledgling South Oxhey Community Choir) in some choral extravaganza on the main stage, and was looking as if the challenge had gone well. The soulful sounds of Baby Charles were now entertaining the crowd, slouched out on the grass conveniently close to the burger vans and chicken curry queues. A posse of firefighters strode by with smoke alarm leaflets in hand, rapidly snapped up by ladies keen to engage in conversation with a man in uniform. Elsewhere a slightly tongue-in-cheek dog show was in full swing. Prizes were awarded for the "best tail wagging dog" and "best vocal performance", as well as a special six-legged category rating both dog and owner combined. The local beekeepers had jars of their honey for sale, as had been also the case in Brockwell, although here they were also selling a greener lifestyle as part of the Earth Tent. Another tent, the silver Dance Dome, hid merry tea dancing pensioners, while the Pearly Queen of Islington preferred her tea sitting down in the refreshment tent. A few revellers were still wearing their costumes from the parade that had kicked off the afternoon - most in muted purple, but one resplendent in top-to-toe tinfoil. Wizard of Oz float, presumably, or maybe he was just feeling chilly. Nothing here was quite so straight-forward as had been the case south of the river, but both were well-organised and entertaining events to enjoy on a July afternoon.
[also taking place today, but with a rather more music/film/youth theme] [typical Shoreditch Festival photograph]

posted 02:00 : comments ()

 Saturday, July 18, 2009

Screen 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (12A)
Please tick all that apply

Light comedy opening at Privet Drive
Swirly zoomy flight across London (including the not-entirely-convincing collapse of a London bridge)
Trip to Diagon Alley (when the film's released on DVD you'll be able to freezeframe and discover where in London it is)
Soppy moping lovelorn looks between various central characters
Smell of nachos with (very artificial) cheese sauce wafting up from the row in front
Platform 9¾
Hogwarts Express
Bloke in the seat to my right falling asleep and snoring loudly
New Professor drafted in for one film only (Jim Broadbent is really very good)
The oldest-looking sixth formers you ever did see (especially the six foot ones)
Outbreak of rampant Quidditch
Ron repeatedly pulling his comedy face
Bloke in the seat to my right waking with a start (and asking his wife where he is in an embarrassingly loud voice)
Round-framed glasses that used to be trendy back when the series started (but now so aren't)
Car chase (with big guns) across the streets of New York
Plenty more scenes with dopey-eyed looks and emotional fumblings
Occasional smiley chuckles, on cue, from the audience
The biggest dead spider you ever did see
Ron and Hermione, like, you know, finally
Harry and Ron's sister, like, you know, finally
Dripfed backstory (to try to explain what the hell's going on with that Voldemort bloke)
Feeling that a heck of a lot of plot has been sacrificed in order to achieve a coherent narrative
Bloke in the seat to my right nodding off so far that his glasses fall to the floor with a loud thump
Scary stuff in an unlikely cave
Daniel Radcliffe standing naked beside a stabbed horse
Ohmigod - a most unexpected death! (or would have been if only it hadn't been majorly spoilered back when the book came out)
Possibly the biggest film in the world this year about a school textbook
The most exciting final scene in the history of cinematography
Bloke to my right asking his wife to explain the plot on the way out
See you back in the cinema for the next one

posted 06:00 : comments ()

 Friday, July 17, 2009

fivelinks

• There are a lot of bus routes in London. More than 600 of them altogether. Now a brand new website called What Bus has traced all of those routes on a Google Map. Could be useful. You can click around London and discover what buses pass by. You can enter a postcode and find the nearest bus route (or ten). And you can even see a map of each individual single bus route all by itself (like the 100 here) (just amend the end of the URL to see anything else) [It's not perfect, and it's not perfectly accurate, but it looks great fun to play with]

• There are a lot of bus routes in London. More than 600 of them altogether. Ben is attempting to travel on every single one, end-to-end, and then write about them on his blog called Route1to499. So far he's managed 32 different routes, and met both the bus driver from heaven and the bus driver from hell. Good luck Ben. [The write-ups are more descriptive and anecdotal than factual and purist. I suspect most of you will prefer it that way]

• Would you buy a book where a bloke walks across London in a straight line from one side to the other, twice, at right angles, and then writes about it? Maybe not, which is why no publishing company has yet taken Paul up on his London Cross idea. Rather than let 75000 words go to waste, he's uploaded the full south-north bit onto his website. And if some literary agent ever takes the bait, he might go back and finish the west-east bit. [Worth dipping into if you live near Beddington Farm, Larkhall, Crouch End Hill or Oakwood] [nobody took up the option on his Brighton Cross either]

• London Open House isn't until mid-September, but it's never too early to reserve yourself an Annual Event Guide so that you can book a place on the rare must-see tours. [Guide due to be published in mid-August] [hang on, it costs how much?!] [nearly doubled in price since last year, ouch]

• When there are thunderstorms about, like there were in London last night, you can keep an eye on where they are using the lightning radar at Upminster Weather. Refreshes automatically every minute, and covers most of the UK (and the near continent). [Warning, it's a bit applet-heavy] [bookmark it now, ready for next time the sky flashes]

five blogsyoumightlike
• if you like telly: thecustard.tv
• if you like topnotchdesign: Design Assembly
• if you like clickylinkstoinformativestuff: things magazine
• if you like closeupphotographsofLondonsfinerdetails: Jane's London
• if you like detailedreportsonwalksroundtheoutskirtsofLondon: London underfoot

one gameaboutrabbits
• Rabbit Wants Cake! [pre-record a series of moves, then play them back and see if the rabbit reaches the cake] [if he doesn't, tweak your moves until he does] [I can't turn the music off, but I can get to level 10]

posted 05:00 : comments ()

 Thursday, July 16, 2009

M	LONDON A-Z An alphabetical journey through the capital's museums Musical Museum

Location: 399 High Street, Brentford TW8 0DU [map]
Open: 11am - 5:30pm (closed Mondays)
Admission: £7
Brief summary: mechanical treasurehouse
Website: www.musicalmuseum.co.uk
Time to set aside: a couple of hours

There are many London museums starting with the letter M, but most of these are merely the Museum of Something. So for my A-Z I hunted down a proper incontrovertible M, the Musical Museum, and ended up in Brentford just down the road from my K.

Good news, the Musical Museum isn't anything to do with Mamma Mia, The Lion King or Andrew Lloyd Webber. Surprising news, it's not anything to do with double basses, French horns or electric guitars or either. Instead it's a repository of automatic musical instruments, the sort where you wind a key, turn a handle or flick a switch and they play themselves. The collection started out in the 1960s as a labour of love by Frank Holland, a devoted pianola-fancier with a few church rooms at his disposal. It wasn't until last year that the whole shebang went on permanent display in purpose-built premises overlooking the Thames. It's a fairly unlikely-looking museum, resembling a compact modern warehouse with bright blue cuboid attachments. Don't let that put you off.

You might not think that mechanical instruments are a thrilling subject for a museum, but think of this more as an early history of the home entertainment centre. Before the invention of gramophones, Walkmen and mp3 players, there was no easy way to playback music if you couldn't play an instrument yourself. To hear the hits of the day in your sitting room you needed a musical box, pipe organ or player piano. These were, by necessity, both intricate and expensive, and therefore most of the exhibits on show here were only ever rich people's playthings.

There are only a handful of galleries in the museum, all of them on the ground floor. But limited size shouldn't be a problem if you time your visit to attend one of the excellent guided tours. I spent a full hour in the main gallery listening to Michael the museum's director nipping through a complete history of mechanical music using illustrations drawn from the collection. He did a fine job keeping the varied audience of adults and children interested, educated and entertained, and he got to play a fair few of the instruments in the room too.

First up was an early musical box (none of your cheap rubbish, this elaborate contraption would have drawn admiring glances at any 19th century European social soirée). As technology improved the internal metal cylinders became more complicated, and pipes and bells and whistles were added for good measure. Paper rolls made a big difference, fed carefully into the machines providing a choice of tunes for the Victorian parlour. "Look," said Michael, "no hands" as he pumped out a tune on an upright pianola. Then he bounded across the room to the giant pipe organ that had once been "Queen Victoria's iPod", and rounded off the hour with an electric fiddle in a coin-op jukebox.

We were left to explore the other ground floor galleries independently, and probably missed plenty as a result. But ooh, yes, that was definitely a Theremin (shame there was nobody to play it) and this was a proper barrel organ (laid out in a semi-convincing representation of a local Brentford alleyway). Those seeking an inexpensive memento of their visit could pay £1 in the shop for a genuine paper roll with a tune punched into it (these were nothing special in their day, merely the Edwardian version of a seven inch single). It was only the invention of the amplifier in 1926 that finally killed the whole lot off.

But there was one very special survivor still to see in the concert hall upstairs. Here, lovingly transplanted from the Regal Cinema Kingston, was a Mighty Wurlitzer! This came complete with mighty organist, although he didn't rise up through the floor - the organ and its associated pipework take up enough of the museum building as it is. But when the Art Deco organ suddenly lit up in glowing neon (red, then pink, orange, blue and lime) and the first notes echoed out around the auditorium, I got very special musical goosepimples. Three tunes (including Quando Quando Quando and a Fred & Ginger classic) weren't really enough, but the Museum puts on regular concerts for those who prefer their organ sustained for a couple of hours.

I was impressed by the enthusiasm and knowledge of the volunteers who run the museum. I learned a lot about a fascinating subject I had worried might be intensely dull. I even enjoyed a cup of tea and a yummy traybake in the cafe, which is unheard of. The whole place had genuine appeal for a somewhat cultured clientèle, so if your kids' idea of great music is a tinny ringtone then I'd keep them away. But the Musical Museum merits a far wider audience than I suspect it's getting. Play on.
by train: Kew Bridge   by tube: Gunnersbury   by bus: 65, 237, 267

M is also for...
» Markfield Beam Engine Museum (closed for refurbishment until later this year)
» MCC Museum (cricketing shrine, home to The Ashes)
» Museum of Brands, Packaging and Advertising (I've been) (you really must go)
» Museum of London (semi-closed for refurbishment) (I've been)
» Museum of London Docklands (free entry this weekend) (I've been)
» Museum of the Order of St. John (closed for refurbishment until next summer) (I've been)

posted 00:13 : comments ()

 Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Is that the sound of rain I can hear? Damn.

St Swithun's day if thou dost rain
For forty days it will remain
St Swithun's day if thou be fair
For forty days 'twill rain na mair

Because if it rains today it's due to rain every day until August 24th. And we'll have a Dark Ages bishop to blame. Perhaps. (anniversary: )

St Swithun was Bishop of Winchester between 852 and 862. He wasn't even a very noteworthy bishop, at least not until after his death. Swithun had requested to be buried outside the West Door of the Old Minster, and so he was, but a century later the cathedral authorities changed their minds and moved his bones inside the building instead. The ceremony was on 15th July 971, and legend tells that saintly anger caused it to rain for the next 40 days. Legend is almost certainly wrong. The ceremony may well have been interrupted by very heavy rain, but the 40 days thing is probably a much more recent bit of myth-making. Swithun's skeleton was no miracle worker, but by medieval times his shrine had become a site of popular pilgrimage second in importance only to Canterbury. (history: )

Visitors to Winchester Cathedral can still see St Swithun's shrine to this day. Or rather they can see a modern replica based on what the final version probably looked like before it was destroyed (in 1538). It's not in the original location, either. The old Minster was knocked down in 1093, and Swithun's remains had to be moved (again) into its new-build Norman neighbour. This time no stormy tempests ensued, but his legend grew all the same. The cathedral's retroquire (the paved area behind the High Altar) had to be extended in the 13th century to accommodate the number of spiritual tourists heading Wessex-ward, and a tiny arched gateway was provided so that pilgrims could crawl into a space beneath the saintly relics. Squeezing into Swithun's Holy Hole is, alas, no longer encouraged. (on-site visit: )

It's tempting to believe that the "40 days of rain" legend might be true. British summers are renowned for being relentlessly wet, aren't they, obviously, because it's been quite showery recently, you remember, QED. And there is a grain of truth to all this, and it's all to do with the jetstream. These high level westerly winds tend to get stuck into a groove around mid-July and then stay there for a while, so we often end up with 40-ish days of sort-of similar weather sometimes. If the jetstream's running to the north we get mostly settled anticyclonic conditions and lots of ice cream sales. And if the jetstream's to the south we get an endless stream of depressions dumping Atlantic showers onto our garden fetes and barbecues. Be very afraid, because we're in the latter state at the moment. (meteorology: )

But to get 40 consecutive days of rain, that's really something. Even if the probability of rain on any particular day were as high as 95%, and even if we were only interested in a fortnight, then there'd only be a (0.95 × 0.95 × 0.95 × 0.95 × 0.95 × 0.95 × 0.95 × 0.95 × 0.95 × 0.95 × 0.95 × 0.95 × 0.95 × 0.95 = 0.49) fifty-fifty chance of a complete washout. In fact the probability of a rainy summer's day in the north Hampshire area is rather smaller than that - much closer to one third. And the probability of 40 consecutive days being wet (0.33 × ... × 0.33) works out at less than one in 12 million million million. It's never going to happen. (mathematics: )

So today is the 1038th anniversary of a dead bishop's bones being moved indoors, a man with no control whatsoever over long-term meteorological conditions. But we all like a good myth-based anniversary, so never mind. And keep your brolly handy. (reality: )

posted 00:40 : comments ()

 Tuesday, July 14, 2009

Last night should've been Michael Jackson's first concert at the O₂. Tragically he couldn't make it, which has left the Dome's owners with a rather large hole in their financial canvas. So I thought I'd pop down to North Greenwich to report on the echoing emptiness of the opening night, and maybe take a few shots of tumbleweed in front of the MJ memorial before they cleared it all away. How wrong I was.

I missed the call to action. I'm not on Facebook, and I don't spend the day glued to entertainment newsfeeds, so I never saw the invite. I was therefore surprised, on arrival, to discover a rather large crowd milling around in Peninsula Square. They were massing by the makeshift Jackson shrine, over in the corner by the big spike, beneath a videoscreen showing a sequence of images of the dead singer. Not enough to start a revolution, but several hundred all the same.

Many of the crowd had come dressed in at least one item of MJ apparel. Black hats were especially popular, although I looked around in vain for the street vendor knocking them off at a fiver a time. One or two wore white gloves, a couple sported rather more sparkly gems than is socially acceptable, and there was even one red satin tour jacket circa 1984. But the main item signifying membership of the Jackson cabal was the commemorative t-shirt. Be it respectful, exuberant or a bit cheap - the message was more important than the material. My favourite was the plain white t-shirt with the slogan "I HATE MARTIN BASHIR". Martin, thankfully, had had the sense not to turn up.

One girl had brought a single red rose wrapped in petrol station cellophane, which she laid respectfully within the fenced-off tribute zone. Others added their comments in marker pen to the wall of whiteboards behind - "King of Pop Forever", "This girl is yours", "Micheal We Luv U", "Thank you for making me want to dance". There was no intense grief on display, more a feeling of muted celebration, and nothing especially emotional or coherent either [see Darryl's report here]. I was surprised to see how many of the crowd appeared far too young to remember Michael Jackson in his heyday. Most would still have been at infant school the last time he had a number 1 record, although there were a fair few older souls and parents dotted about who'd probably moonwalked back in the day and bought Thriller on vinyl.

So, having travelled far and wide to be here, what were the crowd to do? Most gravitated towards the stage, or indeed onto it, and stood in proud solidarity occasionally chanting or bursting into song. Few seemed to have brought candles to wave, and it was too light for that anyway, but some had photos of Michael on inkjet paper and wielded those above their head instead. As 7pm approached a countdown began, ending in an uncoordinated silence, a few waved arms and a fizzled-out cheer [photo]. Had things worked out differently and last night's concert taken place, the yelling would no doubt have been rather more hysterical.

As the on-stage teens held hands and filed off round the square in a celebratory crocodile, I edged out of the crowd to take a look inside the Dome proper. I was expecting bleak emptiness, given that the O₂'s website was announcing "No Events found on this Date". Not at all. A steady stream of entertainment seekers were filing past security, not all of them MJ fans on the lookout for something to do. Many of the restaurants (notably Pizza Express) were doing good trade, although others (yes Wasabi, I'm looking at you) remained stubbornly empty on a night they might have hoped would be a takings bonanza.

A medley of Michael Jackson hits accompanied the Roller Disco in the London Piazza, although few of the evening's special visitors had taken up the offer to don wheels and enter the rink. Maybe the £7.50 charge had put them off. Few showed any interest either in the Body Worlds exhibition (£12) or the British Music Experience (£15). I was struck by how little there is within the O₂ to keep cash-poor teens occupied, bar a single newsagents at the far end selling chocolate and Coke. Owners AEG have deliberately targeted a more discerning crowd to keep the riffraff out - there's no McDonalds or KFC here - but most youthful visitors seemed happy to stroll up and down Entertainment Avenue all the same.

The first night of the "This Is It" tour therefore passed off with rather more incident and enterprise than I'd expected. Not all of the remaining 49 lost concert nights may be quite so busy.

posted 07:00 : comments ()

 Monday, July 13, 2009

When is a flight not a flight? It's hard to pinpoint the precise date of Britain's first ever aeroplane flight because the dividing line between a brief 'hop' and a proper 'flight' is hard to judge. But the first confirmed flight in a British-built plane took place exactly 100 years ago today. On Walthamstow Marshes, where else?



Sir Alliott Verdon-Roe was born in Manchester in 1877. He wasn't a Sir at the time, obviously, merely a merchant seaman with unseemly interest in model gliders. Alliott constructed his first biplane in a shed at the Brooklands racing circuit, powered by a two-cylinder motorbike engine, and on 8th June 1908 it flew a bit (maybe) watched by insufficient witnesses. Not good enough, so he packed his toolbag and relocated from Surrey to the Walthamstow Marshes. There's a low brick viaduct where the Stansted railway crosses the river Lea, and here Roe rented two of the arches - one to live in and one to build in. The Avro 1 triplane was the result, and on 13th July 1909 it managed a proper non-hop a few feet above the marshy grassland. With that singular 30-metre leap Roe became the first Briton to make a powered flight in an all British built aircraft. A glittering career in aeronautical engineering was to follow.

Yesterday afternoon a celebratory centenary event was held on the grass outside AV's workshop arch. It's normally completely inaccessible, hidden away behind fences and shoulder-high undergrowth, but somebody had been very busy with strimmers and lawnmowers to ensure that we'd be able to get inside [photo]. Nothing to see except a big display board, but here was the space inside which Alliott assembled, tweaked (and repeatedly repaired) his prototype. A brand new blue plaque had been unveiled above the entrance to the arch by one of his descendants, presumably to balance out the original blue plaque bolted onto the opposite side by the GLC several decades ago. All this plus yet another new plaque on the side of the viaduct above the riverside footpath. Fourth arch in from the Lea - Roe's workshop is now unmissable.

A white marquee had been set up on the grass nearby, possibly on the spot from which AV took off, but probably not. Inside tea and cakes were on sale, and there were also several stalls from local historical groups. But most people weren't looking at those, they were looking at the plane. A proper replica of the Avro 1 triplane, no less, recently reconstructed by a team of volunteers at the Manchester Museum of Science and Industry. It had been trailered down from its usual resting place in the Air & Space Hall, and here it was at the scene of its greatest triumph. It seemed astonishing that anything so fragile could ever have lifted off the ground, let alone with a chirpy Edwardian pilot on board. Everybody clustered around for a good stare, taking particular interest in the engine, propeller and associated intricate bits. This made it nigh impossible to take a photograph of the complete plane unobstructed, but several people tried repeatedly nonetheless [half-decent photo]. There'll be a far better view once the triplane is back in the North West, but I doubt that many of the Walthamstow crowd visit Manchester too often.

A second marquee was pegged out alongside, inside which visitors could sit for a series of three half-hour presentations. First up was Eric Verdon-Roe, who read out an entertaining script about his grandfather's life and early flying experiences. A surprising number of black and white photographs illustrated the talk, fluttering on the screen as the digital projector hung from the ceiling swung gently in the wind. A famous shot from 1909 showed Alliott and his assistants setting up the triplane outside the arch ready for another pioneering flight. After Walthamstow he went on to establish Avro, one of the world's first aircraft builders, providing thousands of biplanes for a new aerial battleground during World War One. Sir Alliott moved on, but his company expanded to build Lancaster bombers for WW2 and even the legendary Vulcan. And it all started underneath the arches, down Walthamstow way. UK air travel's come a heck of a long way since.

posted 01:00 : comments ()

 Sunday, July 12, 2009

I take a lot of photos. I stick a handful of them on Flickr. And yesterday afternoon, somewhere around 4pm, they were looked at for the millionth time. I'm very humbled.



Those are my five most interesting photos, according to Flickr's mysterious "interestingness" algorithm. I'm not quite sure what this proves, but I think it means that my viewers have good taste. Top of the pile are the seaforts at Shivering Sands in the Thames Estuary. I took 60 photos bobbing about in a speedboat, and posted six, but it's this particular one that seems to have captured the imagination. Then there's the fireworks at the London Eye for New Year 2006 (top of the list until last week), followed by the now-being-demolished platforms at Blackfriars. Number four is the very last Routemaster chugging through Piccadilly Circus, and the fifth is a gas storage tank in Canvey Island. Some I planned carefully, but most I just got lucky.



And those are the next five. That curvy one in the middle is my favourite. It's a meander on the River Cuckmere, snapped at the end of a long walk along the coast from Beachy Head, and discovering it was like being back on a school field trip. The photo's been published in a book, thanks to appearing on Flickr, and it's also being used by the BBC to help the nation's 16 year olds to revise for their Geography GCSEs. I am well chuffed. And it beats the old days where I'd have taken a photo, collected the prints from the local chemist and hidden the results away in an album. These days everyone's a communal photographer, and our images are available for almost instant consumption via a myriad of webpages, feeds, and streams.



I'm fortunate, being a blogger, that my photos get rather more exposure than they might do otherwise. I can write a sentence like "I was watching the sheep on London Bridge yesterday" and almost guarantee that 100 of you will be curious enough to click through and take a look. I can mention a new Flickr pic on Twitter and entice scores of you across to see what I'm talking about. I can even trick you into looking at something I know you're not interested in (look, it's a photograph of me), which rather demeans the photo statistics a bit. Even so, I'm honoured that every single one of my photos (bar one posted last week) has been viewed more than 50 times, even the shots I've never mentioned here.



A lot of my 1000000 views have come from people surfing in via search engines. For some reason a lot of Googlers are interested in what the Harrods Food Hall looks like, and the 80s council houses on the site where the Krays grew up, and the Hogwarts Quidditch lawn. But the majority of views are from you lot taking a look at something extra to illustrate a post of mine, which is immensely reassuring. Oh yes it's been quite a journey, from the ten-year old me taking dire photos with a cheap plastic instamatic to today's multi-megapixel online uploads. Thanks a million.

posted 01:00 : comments ()

 Saturday, July 11, 2009

150 Big Ben Facts (well, ok, 25)

• Big Ben is the bell, not the clock (which is the Great Clock) nor the tower (which is the Clock Tower) (not St Stephen's Tower).
• Officially Big Ben is called the Great Bell.
• Big Ben first tolled the time on Monday 11th July 1859, which makes today its sesquicentenary.

• Big Ben is thought to be named after Sir Benjamin Hall, First Commissioner for Works 1855-1858, whose name is inscribed on the bell (or maybe after Benjamin Caunt the 17 stone Victorian boxer, nobody's quite sure).
• The first Great Bell, cast near Stockton-on-Tees, cracked during testing at Westminster and had to be melted down.
• It was recast at the Whitechapel Bell Foundry (yes, I've been) (yes, I've seen the mould they cast Big Ben from, that's it on the wall, top left, in this photo). Casting took place on Saturday 10th April 1858, and the molten metal took 20 days to cool down.
• Big Ben weighs 13 tons 10 cwts 3 qtrs 15 lbs. It's 7½ feet high and is 9 feet in diameter.
• Big Ben strikes an E (a note-able pub quiz fact, that)
• Big Ben was so big that it had to be winched up the clock tower sideways, taking 30 hours to reach the top.
• Big Ben cracked after two months use because its hammer was too heavy, and remained silent for four years. Rather than lug the cracked bell back down the tower and recast it again, the Astronomer Royal eventually came up with a better (cheaper) plan. The bell was rotated (through a quarter turn), a small square was cut out of the soundbow (to prevent the crack from spreading further) and a smaller hammer was installed (weighing 'only' 200kg). The crack gives Big Ben its distinctive (but less-than-perfect) tone.

• The clock's central mechanism is the world's first Double Three-Legged Gravity Escapement, invented especially for the Great Clock by Edmund Beckett Denison QC MP. It's still dead accurate.
• Approximately two seconds before each hour a one ton strike weight is released, pulling a wire which rotates a barrel which operates a lever which pulls a second wire which causes the bell hammer to fall.
• If you'd like to see how the Great Clock's mechanism works, there's a particularly fine animation here.
• The clock's pendulum is 14 feet long and weighs 321kg. Adding or removing a penny to the top of the pendulum changes the clock's speed by 2/5 of a second per day.

• The clock's only serious breakdown was on 5th August 1976 when a speed regulator broke causing serious damage to the chiming mechanism.
• The tune of the Westminster Chimes originated at the church of St Mary the Great in Cambridge. The chimes were composed in 1793 and are said to be based on the fifth bar of the aria "I know that my Redeemer liveth" from Handel's Messiah.
• A verse inscribed on the wall of the clock room provides words for each quarter chime - "All through this hour, Lord be my guide, And by Thy power, No foot shall slide".
• At 12 o'clock, the time from the first chime to the last is approximately 45 seconds. (You can watch Big Ben chiming twelve here)

• The Clock Tower is 11 storeys high. There are 334 steps up to the belfry. There is no lift.
• Each clock face is made up of 312 pieces of opal glass.
• Each dial is just over 7m in diameter, and is cleaned once every five years by abseiling technicians.
• The tip of the minute hand travels approximately 190km each year.
• Above the belfry, at the top of the tower, is the Ayrton light. This shines at night when either House is sitting, and is extinguished upon the House rising.

• There are tours of the clock tower on weekdays at 9.30am, 10.30am, 11.30am and 2.30pm. Only UK residents may visit, and you have to be aged over 10, and you must be fit enough to climb stairs, and the ascent's not recommended for those with vertigo, and you have to apply through your MP, and it's currently fully booked until October.
• If you're 10, or unfit, or foreign, or just never likely to visit for yourself, there's a fantastic flash video tour here. (no, really, it's very good indeed)

For even more facts (and some of the same ones), you can celebrate Big Ben's 150th year on its official website here (or unofficial website here).

posted 01:50 : comments ()

 Friday, July 10, 2009

And now a message to East Londoners who travel on the District line a lot. Bad luck, it's buggered this weekend. There's no service between Whitechapel and Barking/Upney due to track replacement work, which means the reappearance of the rail replacement buses. They were out in force a few weeks ago, chugging out to Newham and beyond, and they'll be back again in equally scary numbers tomorrow. Slight problem - the District line crosses the Lea Valley at a point where there are no parallel roads, so the buses are taking some major twirly detours to get from one side to the other. "Journey times may be increased by up to 45 minutes." Oh joy.

But it's worse than that. The eastern end of the District line is buggered every single weekend for the next three months. It's our turn to suffer, like Londoners on the Jubilee line have been suffering for the last umpteen months. Not quite so relentless perhaps, but a lot of extra inconvenience attempting to get here, there and back again until at least the middle of autumn.

Here's a fuller list of District line weekend closures, according to the pdf list provided on the TfL website. If a stretch of line is marked in green it's open, if it's red/italic it's closed. And yes, if the District line's closed then the Hammersmith & City is too. There is no escape.

11/12 Jul	Tower Hill → W'chapel → Plaistow → Barking → Dag'm East → Upminster
18/19 Jul	Tower Hill → W'chapel → Plaistow → Barking → Dag'm East → Upminster
25/26 Jul	Tower Hill → W'chapel → Plaistow → Barking → Dag'm East → Upminster
1/2 Aug	Tower Hill → W'chapel → Plaistow → Barking → Dag'm East → Upminster
8/9 Aug	Tower Hill → W'chapel → Plaistow → Barking → Dag'm East → Upminster
15/16 Aug	Tower Hill → W'chapel → Plaistow → Barking → Dag'm East → Upminster
22/23 Aug	Tower Hill → W'chapel → Plaistow → Barking → Dag'm East → Upminster
29/31 Aug	Tower Hill → W'chapel → Plaistow → Barking → Dag'm East → Upminster
5/6 Sep	Tower Hill → W'chapel → Plaistow → Barking → Dag'm East → Upminster
12/13 Sep	Tower Hill → W'chapel → Plaistow → Barking → Dag'm East → Upminster
19/20 Sep	Tower Hill → W'chapel → Plaistow → Barking → Dag'm East → Upminster
26/27 Sep	Tower Hill → W'chapel → Plaistow → Barking → Dag'm East → Upminster
3/4 Oct	Tower Hill → W'chapel → Plaistow → Barking → Dag'm East → Upminster
10/11 Oct	Tower Hill → W'chapel → Plaistow → Barking → Dag'm East → Upminster
17/18 Oct	Tower Hill → W'chapel → Plaistow → Barking → Dag'm East → Upminster

It's the District line between Whitechapel and Barking that's going to suffer the most. My local station at Bow Road will be closed on nine out of the next eleven weekends. There'll be no interchange with the Central line at Mile End on those same nine weekends (and no trains through Mile End at all on Sunday 18th October). Further out there are nine imminent weekends with no District line service through West Ham (three of those with no Jubilee line either). There'll be no trains at Upton Park when West Ham play their first weekend home match of the season against Tottenham on 23rd August. There's no alternative escape route at Barking because the Overground's closed every weekend for the rest of the year. And there are fifteen consecutive weekends where it's impossible to get from Dagenham to Tower Hill on one train. Thank goodness for c2c services which should still speed passengers through with no delays whatsoever... so long as you actually live near one of their stations.

Yes, I know the work's essential and it's got to be carried out some time. And yes, I know those of you living elsewhere don't really care, because you rarely feel the need to nip from Stepney to Becontree or from Plaistow up to town. But for those of us out East it means added hassle and wasted time, wiping the shine off our weekends for weeks to come. You wait until they start on your local tube line for months at a time, see how you like it then. May there be plenty of rail replacement buses to go round.

Oh, and one bit of good news. I've been moaning for ages that TfL don't have a single page on their website listing all of the forthcoming weekend's engineering works and station closures. Turns out that they do, it's just that it's hidden and nothing links to it. So let me link to it for you. It's http://www.tfl.gov.uk/tfl/livetravelnews/realtime/tube/tube-all-weekend.html. Go on, bookmark it now, you may be glad you did.

14 June update: TfL have now released further details about track closures for the next few months, so I've updated the table above to take these into account. More track closed, not less, obviously.

posted 07:00 : comments ()

 Thursday, July 09, 2009

You may not remember the last project to appear on the fourth plinth in Trafalgar Square. It was a red, yellow and blue glass sculpture resembling the floors of a building, entitled Model for a Hotel, and it was up there for a full 18 months. You can't fail to have noticed the latest project on the fourth plinth in Trafalgar Square. It's one person an hour, dumped on top of the stone platform by a JCB and left to do whatever they choose. It's One and Other. And I know which of the two projects I prefer.

I've been along to Trafalgar Square twice since Anthony Gormley's latest presentation began, and on both occasions I've got absolutely drenched. You might have seen me on the webcam, shirt dripping wet, looking up at the better-prepared umbrella-carrier on the plinth above. I bet they had visions of a delightful sunny summer's afternoon in the centre of London, but instead they got the windswept drowned rat option. That's the danger of agreeing to take part in a public-facing art raffle - you never quite know what weather you're going to get.

On my first visit I got to see Rupert, a "symbolic modeller" from Derby, standing in his three-quarter length trousers doing nothing much. I only discovered he was called Rupert when I got home, because there's no hour-by-hour schedule or scrolling Twitterfeed in the Square. His 60 minute slot was typical of one particular type of plinther - those that are up there for the experience. Rupert just wanted to soak up the atmosphere, while others have simply chosen to sit and sketch, or sit and read, or stand and stare. Great for them, but not so thrilling for the rest of us. "Is that all he's going to do?" asked one disappointed lady passer-by who'd paused to watch. Yes, that was all, and how selfish of us to expect to be entertained throughout. Not every piece of individualistic art has to be a performance.

On the opposite side of the square, closer to Nelson's lions, is a large green two-storey portakabin. This project doesn't run itself, and all the organisers, crew and technical boffins have to be housed nearby. This is also where the participants await their turn, and presumably where they get a jolly good rub-down with a dry towel afterwards. Every hour, on the hour, a yellow truck with an extendable platform scoops up the next volunteer, chugs across the piazza and raises them to plinth-top level to be exchanged. If you need something while you're up there, be it a placard, a cup of tea or a spare raincoat, better make sure you're carrying it with you when you go.

On my second visit I got to see Bobbie, a former headteacher and a Lancashire lass. She was being rather more interactive, having brought copious notes to read from, and peered down from on high through half-rimmed reading glasses. It was rather like being back in school assembly, but without the hymn singing and sports notices (and rather more interesting too). Bobbie was an example of the other category of plinther - those with a message to get across. Not all deliver it as eloquently as she, and not all use words. Some resort to actions (Tai Chi, anyone?) or costumes (did you see that man in a cow suit over breakfast) or blatant advertising (no, just no), whichever they think best tells the world why they're here.

One and Other is two very different experiences. For those watching in real life it's an unlikely intrusion into the everyday, high above and very real. It's also very difficult to hear a word the plinther is saying. Trafalgar Square's a fairly noisy spot, not least because of the nearby fountain, so better to make your point visually or to utilise some form of portable amplification. Meanwhile for those watching elsewhere via the webcam, microphones ensure that every mumbled platitude can be overheard. Viewers also get the opportunity to watch the crowd interacting with the action - some staring up intently, others walking by without even stopping to look. And everybody's hour will be archived for posterity, all 3-months-worth of them. Maybe online is the more complete experience.

Last night I sat at home and watched Fran, a doctor from the West Midlands. She arrived on the plinth with a blue holdall within which her entire 60 minutes was carefully plotted. First a Shelter t-shirt and a stand to hang it from, then an oversized pack of playing cards. She fought the wind to attempt to construct a house of cards, utilising a handy grabber when some blew over the edge into the netting. The online crowd was critical... "can't believe she didn't think of tape before building a playing card sculpture OUTSIDE. #oneandother" At which point Fran produced some tape from her bag and set about constructing a rather sturdier habitation - all planned, all part of the charitable allegory. Quite the best use of an on-plinth hour I've yet seen (but then I've not seen many).

There are more than 2300 on-plinth hours still to go. Some participants will give it everything they've got, others will be there solely for themselves. Some will make you cringe, others may draw you in. Some will get the nightmare pub-chucking-out slot and struggle against London's finest hecklers, others will be up there at dawn performing to two pigeons and a roadsweeper. One could even be you, because they haven't selected the participants for August to October yet. Being a Londoner is a distinct disadvantage here, there's far too many of us chasing our allocation of places, whereas Northern Irish souls are currently "almost guaranteed" a spot. You might even get allocated a time well after the rest of us have lost interest, weeks after we've all stopped watching, months after the Twitterbuzz has died down. But somehow I doubt it. I think this one will run and run. Hope the rain holds off for you.

posted 00:30 : comments ()

 Wednesday, July 08, 2009

2400 people on a plinth.
On display, in the limelight.
Up there alongside Lord Nelson.
Standing around for 60 long minutes.
Acting up, showing off, getting wet.
Watching us, watching them.

One and Other.
Webcam, photos, Twitter.
What do you think?

posted 07:00 : comments ()

Random borough: Wandsworth (mopping up)
Blimey, there was far more in Wandsworth than I expected.
I may have written too much about the place, but I omitted even more.
Here are a few additional delights I didn't get round to mentioning.

• The De Morgan Centre: Ooh, now this was a gorgeous surprise. Housed in the old West Hill Reference Library above Wandsworth Town Centre, this tiny museumette holds the decorative artwork of a most talented Victorian couple. Husband William De Morgan was one of William Morris's Arts and Crafts collaborators, and was the most wonderful ceramicist. The museum holds cabinetsful of lustrous glazed dishes and brightly tiled panels, often decorated with something natural, fantastical or maritime. Wife Evelyn De Morgan was a pioneering artist, and her classical and allegorical paintings are interspersed between the pottery around the gallery walls. Lovely. Small, but lovely.
Update (thanks Hedgie): The De Morgan Centre will be closing to the public on 25th July 2009. This is to prepare for the relocation of the collection to a new site, as yet to be confirmed. So hurry.
• The Wandle Trail: There's nothing quite so Wandsworthy as a walk/cycle along the banks of the River Wandle. But I did that three years ago, with photos, so not this time.
• Young's Ram Brewery: Opened in the 1500s in the heart of Wandsworth, closed in 2006, still looking pretty much intact at the moment, destined to become some ghastly twin tower shopping/office complex. More butchery than brewery.
• Clapham Junction: It's not in Clapham, it's in Battersea. It's not the busiest station in the world, passenger-wise, but it does see more trains than any other station in Europe.
• The Putney Sculpture Trail: Nine life-size bronze sculptures by Alan Thornhill, along the banks of the Thames, either side of Putney Bridge. Here's Punch & Judy (entwined outside a bankrupt restaurant).
• London Heliport: The only approved spot to land your chopper in the capital is on the banks of the Thames in Battersea. Beware Noel Edmonds.
• Balham (gateway to the south): Listen to Peter Sellers' 1958 travelogue tribute to Bal-Ham here.

posted 00:22 : comments ()

 Tuesday, July 07, 2009

Random borough (22): Wandsworth (part 3)

Somewhere historic: The Putney Debates
In 1647, during a lull in the English Civil War, the New Model Army bedded down in Putney for a few months. Amongst other things their thoughts turned to representative democracy, like you do, and an unlikely series of debates took place. Should every soldier, every land owner or even every free citizen, have the right to vote? Did the King have a divine right, or should the people demand equality under the law? Pretty basic stuff today, but ideas unrehearsed at the time. A manifesto was put forward entitled The Case of the Armie Truly Stated, and the voice of the common man was put forward by a disparate pressure group called the Levellers.

Day 1 of the debates kicked off in St Mary's Church on the banks of the Thames. Arguments were heard for both sides under the chairmanship of Oliver Cromwell, and continued for a fortnight. In the end nothing really changed - a resurgence of the Civil War saw to that. But the Putney Debates have come to represent an early outbreak of modern constitutional thinking because of one lucky coincidence - their transcripts survived. The paperwork was uncovered in Worcester College Library in the 1890s, and the stenographer's shorthand eventually deciphered allowing historians to look back at the thoughts and arguments of an underclass whose thoughts were not normally heard. A new exhibition in St Mary's continues to tell their story today.

I made the mistake of attempting to enter the church via the west door. Wrong, this is a church you enter via the café. They're rightly proud of their new extension at St Mary's, paid for out of a bequest by two dear old parishioners called Olive and Nora, enabling the church to reach out into the community via the medium of frothy caffeine. Past the tables and comfy sofas, past the orders of service and parish notices, and into the main body of the church itself. OK, so this is no normal ancient church. It was badly damaged by an arson attack in 1973 and subsequently remodelled, so the interior feels more like a theatre in the round than a place of worship. There's a particularly fine view from the new gallery down onto the central dais, from which the rector holds forth every Sunday. You may have heard Giles on Thought For The Day, he's a forthright cheery progressive, and he leaves St Mary's this month to take up a new post at St Paul's Cathedral.

The Putney Debates exhibition is crammed into a tiny alcove close to the entrance. There are several fact-packed display boards to read, plus an hour's worth of video to watch. Don't worry, there's also a seat, because this could take some time. I pressed button 1 to hear more about Putney's constitutional legacy from various luminaries including Tony Benn, Lady Antonia Fraser and our Giles. I wasn't quite convinced that the debates lay the foundations for modern civil liberties, but as an early symbol of emerging democracy they remain unmatched. A quotation from a Roundhead army captain has been inscribed in gold on the south wall where you might expect to find a line from scripture. "I think that the poorest he that is in England hath a life to live, as the greatest he". How very apposite. And plenty to ponder over a caramel milkshake in the café on the way out.
by tube: Putney Bridge


Somewhere pretty: The Alton Estate, Roehampton
When the London County Council sought to rehouse ten thousand inner London slum dwellers in the late 1950s, their eyes alighted on what was then the westernmost tip of the capital. Beyond Roehampton Lane, in the parkland grounds of several former Georgian mansions, they plotted the construction of a vast council estate to the very latest architectural specifications.The Alton Estate was designed in two contrasting halves. Alton East was softly Modernist with a mixture of low- and high-rise housing, and nothing particularly extraordinary. But Alton West was built to a more Brutalist functional agenda, reflecting Le Corbusier's recent success in Marseille with l'Unité d'Habitation. The first Alton residents loved it.

Alton West is spread across the banks of a wooded hollow beyond the edge of Richmond Park. Into this landscape were dropped zonal clusters of identikit habitation - cuboid apartment blocks, flat-roofed terraced maisonettes, even meandering rows of prefab bungalows. Each provides a distinct neighbourhood identity within the wider community, with a more rural feel the further west along Danebury Avenue you go.

Rising above them all, along the brow of the hill, are five imposing eleven-storey slab-blocks. They're aligned in parallel, staggered diagonally, each perched up on matchstalk pillars to provide residents with a grandstand view. Grade II* listed, obviously, although I'd be surprised if anyone from English Heritage would choose to live here.

The estate's got its problems. Stairwells and corridors have seen better days. The rolling grassland setting is ideal for a summer picnic (so long as you check carefully for dogmess before you sit down), but far less attractive on a dark winter's evening. The far end of Danebury Avenue is fairly remote, and residents wait expectantly at the central bus stop for carriage up to civilisation and beyond. The library, added as an afterthought in 1961, had to be squeezed in beneath an austere apartment block. And Wandsworth planners recently decided that the shopping parade and eastern flats need to be replaced by something more modern, more regenerative, less 'council'. Maybe a mistake. Alton will never be Arcadia, but this pioneering architectural experiment has laid down strong communal foundations.
by bus: 170, 430   on film: Fahrenheit 451

posted 00:22 : comments ()

 Monday, July 06, 2009

Random borough (22): Wandsworth (part 2)

Somewhere retail: The London Sewing Machine Museum
When I mentioned the London Sewing Machine Museum in passing last week, little did I imagine I'd be walking through its hallowed portal over the weekend. The museum's only open for three hours a month, so the chances of ever finding myself in the vicinity were quite frankly minimal. But when eleven-to-one shot Wandsworth emerged from my random jamjar on the first Saturday of the month, I decided I had to visit. It took two attempts to get inside because the website doesn't reveal any precise opening times (two til five, as it turned out). But I'm so glad I made the effort, because the experience was unforgettable.

To Tooting Bec station, then a brief stroll north along the Balham High Road. There are two large sewing-machine related buildings to pick from (I know, what are the chances?) but ignore the Sewing and Craft Superstore at number 300. You want the premises of the Wimbledon Sewing Machine Company Limited at 312, a very ordinary-looking two-storey block industrial block [photo]. The ground floor houses the workshop, still very much a going concern, with scores of tabletop machines laid out amid shelves piled high with thread and spare parts [photo]. The working week ends Saturday lunchtime, and once a month manager Ray hangs around afterwards to welcome visitors to his upstairs collection. It's a whopper.

Even in the downstairs lobby there's a strong hint that somebody around here is obsessed with sewing machines. A variety of old machines and assorted ephemera litter the floor, balcony and stairwell, each lovingly presented. An antique industrial machine spooled-up and ready to sew, a metal advertising panel for the French branch of Singer, even a 1981 receipt for spaceprobe insulation. Climb higher, because you ain't seen nothing yet.

On the first floor I entered a room filled with more sewing machines than I'd ever seen in my life [photo]. Shelf after shelf, with more laid out on tables across the floor, every space filled, every machine dutifully labelled. This room's home to the more workaday machines, mostly black, once commonplace in homes and factories across the country. Before all our clothes arrived via imported sweatshops, Britons were clothed only thanks to these machines and the skill of their operators. I looked in vain for the precise model my Mum used to own, although the Silko reels and coffin-top carrying cases seemed eminently familiar. A brief video in the far corner told the story of the museum, information which was also detailed in a 13-page stapled handout freely available to take away.

One of the curators wandered over for a chat - friendly but intense - and his devotion to the cause shone through. Much of the collection has been sourced from closed-down businesses and household clearouts, and it was clear that the loss of even a single chucked-away machine hurt him deeply. He directed me through to the second room at the rear (ohmigod, a second room) where the antique machines were housed (blimey, hundreds more). Glass cases this time, in front of plush curtained walls to emphasise the rarity of their contents. Many of these were delicate machines for delicate Victorian ladies, the highlight being one especially ornate Wheeler & Wilson device given to Queen Victoria's eldest daughter as a wedding present [photo]. Members of the International Sewing Machine Collectors' Society would be so overwhelmed they'd need several visits to take everything on board.

The collection has breadth and diversity - it's not all sewing machines. Threads and needles and pattern books, obviously, plus a delightful wind-up marionette merrily sewing away beneath a glass belljar. One corner has been given over to recreating Ray's dad's sewing machine shop along the Merton Road, a poignant display of labelled merchandise from an era I can almost remember myself [photo]. There are antique clocks too, plus a proper barrel organ that plays music hall tunes which the curator willingly demonstrated to the watching crowds. Not terribly large crowds, admittedly, but the Australian trio and myself were duly appreciative.

I learnt several things during my hour in the museum. Firstly not to take my clothes for granted - somebody somewhere sweated to put all those seams in my trousers, and my great-grandparents would have thought nothing of doing it themselves. Secondly that anything can be made interesting if presented with sufficient love and flair - even a floorful of domestic appliances. Thirdly that the museum's owners are enormously generous of their time and resources - admission is free, but owner Ray still popped in with a tray of chilled wine glasses mid-way through the afternoon. And finally that you really ought to visit, especially if handicrafts, technology or the quirkier side of London float your boat. 2pm, Saturday 1st August - start forming the queue now.
by tube: Tooting Bec   by bus: 155, 249, 355


Somewhere sporty: Tooting Bec Lido
Perfect day for it. A dip in Britain's largest freshwater swimming pool, all one million gallons of it, was packing them in on Saturday at the eastern end of Tooting Bec Common. Opened as the Tooting Bathing Lake in 1906, this outdoor pool evolved into a lido in the Thirties and is a notable survivor of Wandsworth council's relentless cutbacks. The public are allowed in between May and September, while the South London Swimming Club have exclusive access during the often-freezing winter months. One 100 yard-long swimming pool, one much smaller paddling pool, a café and a bit of grass for sunbathing on - these are simple pleasures. Not that I was getting inside for a look. The lido's deliberately screened behind an earth bank and various rows of trees, so that snooping is pretty much impossible. Turnstiles bar the way at the entrance, as well as a sulky guard, and on Saturday morning additional security was being called in to cope with the burgeoning crowds. Alas I hadn't brought a towel or my trunks (do swimmers still wear trunks or is everything baggy Speedos these days, I wouldn't know), so getting inside would have been pointless. All I could see through the gap was the bright blue shallow end and a gushing weddingcake fountain. A walk around the perimeter proved difficult, not least because the lido was built right up close to the East Croydon mainline. But I did eventually catch sight of a few of the Lido's trademark primary-coloured changing booths through the trees, across the railway. Sorry, I wasn't attempting too look like a pervy stalker lurking in the undergrowth. But why should swimmers have all the fun?
by train: Streatham   by bus: 249, 319

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 Sunday, July 05, 2009

Random borough (22): Wandsworth (part 1)

Wandsworth is in southwest London, close enough in parts to feel distinctly metropolitan, far enough in others to be proper suburbia. Much of its Thames-side fringe has recently been overtaken by a string of vulgar apartment blocks, whereas the interior is generally of solid Victorian stock. Wandsworth's also renowned for its extremely low council tax, usually amongst the very lowest in the country, which is one reason why the borough museum closed a few years back. Frugality might also explain why the council's website was bugger-all help in planning my whistlestop tour around the borough yesterday. But I found plenty of interest all the same.

Somewhere famous: Battersea/Nine Elms
Several of the things for which Battersea is famous aren't necessarily in Battersea proper. They're in Nine Elms, a dreary slice of industrial riverside named after a line of trees (what else?). To investigate I took a walk along sun-baked Nine Elms Lane, starting at the edge of the borough just beyond Vauxhall. Some of the places I passed are famous, some could have been, and one will be. And hurrah, there were even kittens.

New Covent Garden Flower Market: To enable Covent Garden to become a central London tourist trap, all the flowersellers had to move out. And its to Nine Elms that they fled, to a new 1970s market building blessed with chilled air conditioning and an isometric roof. The site had previously been a locomotive works, but go back even further and it was almost one of the most important stations in London. In 1838 the services of the London & Southampton Railway terminated here, and passengers had to continue into the centre of town by boat or road. Damned inconvenient, so the company extended their tracks to a new inner terminus and shut Nine Elms down. You've probably heard of Waterloo station, it's quite busy these days.

The US Embassy: Ah, this hasn't arrived yet. But Uncle Sam's new home is at the planning stage already, and everyone should eventually be moving out of Grosvenor Square to this unassuming Wandsworth location. It's a seemingly odd choice. At the moment the chosen spot is part of a relatively inaccessible industrial estate that's seen far better days. There are several anonymous warehouses, and a Bentley dealership, and an imposing 80s office block now boarded up with weeds growing across an extensive courtyard. My photo shows Ponton Road, which is to be diverted so that the new embassy building can be built slap bang across its former carriageway. Current plans feature "consular pavilions", "earth sculptures" and "public art opportunities", but expect an expensive hi-tech fortress within which visas will be denied and potential immigrants will be belitted. Happy future Independence Day.

Battersea Power Station: A 1930s coal-fired shouldn't gladden the heart but, even in its derelict state, this towering workhorse still has a special place in Londoners' hearts. It must be the chimneys, visible for miles around, and still mighty impressive from almost-up-close. Sir Giles Gilbert Scott's temple of power generated mega-megawatts for London before the off switch was finally flicked in 1983. Proposals for the building's rebirth have been many - a theme park, offices, a shopping mall - but planning dissent and failed funding have left the building roofless and decaying. The latest residential plan even selfishly suggests a short spur off the Northern line to serve tenants and shoppers, and bugger anyone living further west in Wandsworth or Battersea proper. Most worrying is the idea that the chimneys are in a precarious state and may have to be replaced, because I'd have no faith that once demolished they'd ever be rebuilt. Instead I cherish my memories of a tour of the interior in 2006 for a Chinese art exhibition, and I fear I may never get the opportunity again.

Battersea Dogs Home: And Cats, these days, before anyone adds a comment to correct me. The nation's favourite pet dispensary moved to Battersea in 1871, at which time it was known as The Temporary Home for Lost and Starving Dogs. Its operations have expanded somewhat since, and the Battersea site now includes kennels for nearly 300 dogs and even a suite of "Cat Socialising Rooms". The current building resembles a cross between a small prison and a Travelodge, but is (one suspects) slightly more comfortable inside. Passers-by along Battersea Park Road are still met by the unmistakable sound of hopeful barking attempting to tempt them inside. Late afternoon I watched as a smiling family emerged into the sunlight with a new addition, the lady of the house clutching a fragile puppy in her arms. Once across the road and into the car, a new home beckoned. Buster, Pippin and Beetroot still await their happy ending.

Battersea Park: And finally, one of London's very finest parks. It's blessed by a riverside location, and it's huge, and yesterday it was the perfect spot for thousands of Wandsworthians to strip down and toast their flesh. Unlike many other London parks, it's hard to get bored here. Take a look inside the Pump House Art Gallery, go for a pedal around the boating lake, or maybe potter around the children's zoo. My choices included watching the sun glinting on the 25-year-old Peace Pagoda, going for a wander along the Tea Terrace, and enjoying a bit of cooling spray around the central fountains. Back in 1951 these synchronised gushers were a centrepiece of the park's contribution to the Festival of Britain, advertised as the "Festival Gardens" and boasting a large number of whimsical attractions. Most were swiftly withdrawn afterwards, but the Battersea funfair survived into the 1970s until doomed by a fatal Big Dipper accident. Traces of past glories remain, but these days the park's simpler pleasures are perfectly attractive.


Somewhere infamous: Wandsworth Prison
The second biggest prison in the UK (after Liverpool, if you must know) is tucked away inside a pocket of suburbia to the southeast of Wandsworth town centre. The prison opened in 1851 as The Surrey House of Correction, arranged radiallly with six cellblock wings that still house prisoners to this day. In total 135 inmates have experienced irreversible 'correction' at Wandsworth, most of these on the gallows located in "The Cold Meat Shed". Many renowned miscreants have spent time within the prison's walls, including Oscar Wilde, Charles Bronson and Pete Docherty, although most inmates are only here before being packed off to somewhere else. One convict who refused to hang around was train robber Ronnie Biggs, who escaped from the exercise yard in an audacious breakout in 1965 and rapidly swapped South London for South America.

From the front in Heathfield Road the prison looks more like a Victorian brick castle, complete with turrets and central portcullis. The facade is brightened up by an unfeasibly high number of blooming flowers in black boxes, no doubt planted (but not watered) by the prisoners inside. Even the security cameras are bedecked by colourful hanging baskets, as if to soften up the reality of what goes on inside. If you're visiting a prisoner, entrance is up a small staircase to the left, whereas staff enter via a separate set of steps to the right of the cycle racks. There's also a (very) small museum, officially opened last year inside what looks like an old shed up the road. Entrance is by appointment only, so I wasn't able to look inside, but you might be more tenacious. Just be careful where you leave your car - a sign in the staff car park warns "no parking against wall after 5:30pm". They'll try anything to get out of Wandsworth, some people.
by train: Wandsworth Common, Earlsfield   by bus: 77, 219

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 Saturday, July 04, 2009

Random borough (22): Time once more for me to take another random trip to one of London's 33 boroughs. As I write I have no idea which one of the 12 remaining borough names will be revealed when I unfold the slip of paper I'm about to pick from my legendary (but unseen) "special jamjar". I could pick any one of the other London boroughs - inner or outer, urban or suburban, small or large, fascinating or dull. I just know it won't be Merton, Islington, Enfield, Sutton, Lewisham, Southwark, Kensington & Chelsea, Hackney, Hillingdon, the City, Bromley, Lambeth, Tower Hamlets, Haringey, Hounslow, Brent, Redbridge, Ealing, Harrow, Croydon or Waltham Forest, because they're the twenty-one (dark grey) boroughs I've picked out already.

Today I'm two thirds of the way through my random exploration of the capital, with just a western strip and an eastern chunk still to go. My most recent visits have all been fairly peripheral. I haven't been in as close as Zone 1 during the last two years, nor even as close as Zone 2 since last summer. Is today the day I finally hit the central tourist hotspots of Westminster or Camden. Or am I heading back to Boris's beloved outskirts, dispatched somewhere attraction-lite like Kingston or Havering?

Once I've researched my randomly-chosen borough online I'll then head off and visit some of its most interesting places (assuming it has any). As usual I hope to visit somewhere famous, somewhere historic, somewhere pretty, somewhere retail, somewhere sporty and somewhere random. I might even take lots of photographs while I'm at it, if the borough's photogenic enough. Then after I've made my grand tour I'll come back tomorrow and tell you all about it. Let's see where I'm going this time...

posted 08:00 : comments ()

Some days the comments are more interesting than the blog. Some days new comments on yesterday's post are more interesting than today's. And some days somebody slaps a really interesting comment on a really ancient post where you'd never ever notice it (unless you were me). Here's two you missed.

Henry Allingham on Harrington Hill
Post from Monday, June 22, 2009
Comment from Friday July 3, 2009
"My great-grandparents lived at 39 Harrington Hill in 1911, having moved to the area from a tiny village called Radwinter in Essex sometime before 1887. The family lived in, or near, Harrington Hill from that time to at least 1930, when my great-uncle was still living at no. 39. Other members of my family also migrated from Essex, from about 1871, when Clapton at the time was a small village, just outside Hackney, and boasted just one farm. I'm running a family history project centred on Harrington Hill, so if anyone would like to read it and/or participate, visit my website or email me at drbabs1@me.com. Great bit of gazeteering btw - now I definitely have to revisit (I was born in the Sally Army Mothers' Hospital in 1953, as was my father before me in 1921). Cheers." (from Dr Babs)

The Kray Brothers in Bow
Post from Friday, August 29, 2003
Comment from Wednesday July 1, 2009
"From birth to 5 years of age I lived with my family in a small flat at the top of a very large house. This was 8, Wellington Way Bow. It largely remained empty whilst I was very small. I used to ride my tricycle or pedal car around huge downstairs rooms and corridors. Then it all changed and became a club. From my upstairs bedroom window I would look down and see rows of roulette tables, snooker tables and the air thick with smoke. One day the owner visited arriving in a large American car - I was so impressed. For some reason we had to meet him. I only remember that he was smiling and pressed a huge half crown coin into my hand. It was only last year, 50 years later that I realised I was living above one of the Krays gambling clubs." (from Len Holman)

posted 00:02 : comments ()

 Friday, July 03, 2009

I have this red iris thing that grows in a pot on my balcony.

Every year around this time it suddenly puts on a growth spurt, pushes up several thin reedy leaves and then ejects one slender stalk higher and taller than the rest. At the end of this stalk hang a series of seven or so crimson buds which, over the period of less than a fortnight, gradually unfurl, bloom and wilt. It looks gorgeous, but only briefly, and then fades swiftly away.

This year the flowery stem stretched out rather further than usual, then promptly sagged under its own weight and drooped headlong into the rosebush alongside. In attempting to remove the flowers from their thorny hideaway I managed to damage the stalk, creating a nasty torn fold that would never repair. Damn. My prize bloom, now at risk of rapid extinction, drooped even more precipitously below the horizontal. Rather than watch the flowers die unattached and unloved, I snipped off the stalk at its point of damage and placed the single stem into a vase I've had for eight years but never used. It looks a bit lonely, but at least I get to admire its beauty indoors for a brief period before the petals fade away.

The plant's entire flowery lifecycle is now displayed across seven simple blooms, from the tip of the stalk down to the cusp of the container. Two darkly budding, the next tentatively opening, one in the centre bright and resplendent and proud, then two past their prime, and finally one hanging soggy and limp. Nature's annual miracle is being played out on my windowsill - severed, captured, defiant. I keep staring at it, wondering how much longer it can survive, then looking back to the balcony where it ought to be the dominant feature. By next week I expect to be chucking the whole withered has-been into the bin, and feeling a slight twinge of guilt as it departs.

Fingers crossed that next year's single-stemmed flowershow survives intact, outside where it belongs.

posted 07:00 : comments ()

 Thursday, July 02, 2009

What happened after... Are You Being Served?

Lee and Carla opened Mollie Sugden's Hairdressing at the top end of Brick Lane a couple of years ago. I don't believe that the late comedy goddess ever visited the salon to have her purple rinse touched up. But it's good to know that her name lives on.

What happened after... Geoff went to Epping?
You remember Geoff, he's the one zipping round America visiting places named after tube stations, in an epic road trip entitled Underground : USA. After Epping (Maine) Geoff went to Putney (Vermont), and since then he's managed 15 or so other appropriately-named backwaters. But then disaster. Overnight in North Carolina some Greensboro lowlife stole his PC, camera, GPS and video-editing stuff out of the back of his car (yeah yeah, he knows), throwing the remainder of the trip into doubt. But that was Monday, and since then the online community has pulled together in a life-affirming way and raised more than $4500 towards replacement gadgetry. Hurrah. So the journey continues. It's Finchley and Hampstead next, and still seven weeks to go. [blog] [twitter] [facebook] [map] [helpgeoff]

What happened after... Smoke #13?
Obviously, eventually, Smoke #14. The latest edition of this irregular London fanzine is now available, and the 52-page glossy offering features the usual mix of "words and images inspired by the city". All hail editor-in-chief Matt and his eclectic selection of contributors. Look, the cover even manages to make Camberwell appear glamorous. Most of the articles have an articulate literary bent, more descriptive than factual, and there's usually an arty angle to the images and illustrations. In this issue you can read about night-biking on the Regent's Canal, bus queues on Tulse Hill, windows that look like monkeys, London's campest statues, post-war Leytonstone and Narroway shopping. If you live in West London you might be disappointed by the geographical spread of articles, but who cares, the whole magazine's more about atmosphere than location. Perhaps these snippets here will give you a better idea. And then £2.90 (stockists here) or £3.30 (mail order here) will earn you a proper collectable copy.

What happened at... the end of the Story of London?
The June-long celebration of London's history has now finished, concluding with a weekend of building-related events. Ian went to the SoL event at Three Mills (but not many other people did) and to the SoL-related event at Crossness (although they were opening anyway). Dave Hill believes that the festival could have used its small budget to greater effect. And in case you're wondering what you missed, bad luck, because Boris has already taken down the entire website. If the festival runs again next year, I hope the publicity (and the listing of events) is a darned sight better.

posted 07:00 : comments ()

 Wednesday, July 01, 2009

  Olympic update
  Cadbury and sponsorship


When the London 2012 team start getting defensive about one of their sponsors, you know there's a problem.

Chocolate makes you fat; London 2012 is all about encouraging healthy living and getting everyone inspired to do more sport.

So as the first London 2012-branded Cadbury Dairy Milk bars soon appear on the shelves, people will no doubt start asking questions: How can we responsibly partner with a chocolate company? Surely we're sending out the wrong message? Aren't we just encouraging obesity at a time when it's already such an issue?

Well, you've got to admit, this does look like a bloody stupid link-up. On one hand the London 2012 Olympics attempting to promote sport for all and healthy living, especially for kids. And on the other hand a purveyor of sugar-loaded fat-drenched cocoa. Thank goodness Deborah, one of the 2012 Organising Committee's top copywriters, is on the case.

Well, no. Chocolate does make you fat, but only if you eat too much of it.

Brilliant. Likewise Marmite makes you fat, but only if you eat too much of it, and a diet of deep fried Mars Bars and cheese-coated chips makes you fat, unless you eat too little of it. Sorry Deborah, but as arguments go, that one's vacuous.

So firstly, and most importantly, Cadbury and all their variety of treats are, well, just that – they're treats, marketed as treats (think Cadbury Fudge), and intended to be enjoyed as part of a healthy lifestyle.

That's not right, is it? When you see Cadbury's products advertised, the idea of "treats" and "health" is rarely at the forefront of the company's brand message. That percussive gorilla in the Phil Collins adverts may be burning up calories whilst waving his drumsticks around, and that lady in that bathtub getting oral pleasure from a thrusting Flake may be treating herself to some vigorous healthy exercise later, but the emphasis is always on chocolate rather than health. Good try Deborah, but I'm not buying this one either.

Cadbury are up-front about this on their website. Where they tell you about their products, there's a clear nutrition section which says: 'We would like you to enjoy your treats as part of a healthy and well-balanced diet. By using the links and tools below you will find information about our products that will help you to understand the part they play in your diet and therefore how you can enjoy them sensibly.'

I had a look at the flashy purple website for Cadbury's Dairy Milk. Even when I spotted the the "Nutrition" option, it was six more clicks before the "links and tools" finally revealed that 56.7% of each bar is sugar. Even sneakier, the on-screen graphic gave only the calories, sugar and fat in one chunk, leaving me to try to work out (no clues!) how many chunks the bar might contain. No Deborah, this is not up-front, this is very carefully hidden away. Do Cadbury's shout? No, Cadbury's whisper.

So not 'buy all of these delicious things we make, now, in great quantities', but 'buy sensible, eat responsibly and you'll be able to enjoy'.

How many mass market companies do you know who advertise in the hope that you won't buy many of their products? If Cadbury were truly serious about healthy eating they'd market their Creme Eggs as "Cardiac Bullets", rather than hiding a tiny purple sentence on the bottom of their packaging - "to be enjoyed as part of a healthy, active lifestyle". Cadbury may claim they want us to be "treatwise", but chocolate and health will always be uneasy bedfellows.

That very much fits in with our thinking – the idea of healthy living sitting within our wider aim of creating a sustainable Games.

And that's why London 2012 and Cadbury are supposed to be a perfect match, is it? Oh please. Attempting to prove corporate symbiosis by matching mission statements is the last resort of the failed PR copywriter. But everybody's doing it. Look, here's Todd Stitzer, Cadbury's CEO, with an absolutely desperate example of the genre.

Since John Cadbury opened a chocolate shop in Birmingham in 1824, we have strived to be a company that is both performance driven and values led – a philosophy that is at one with the long held ethos of the Games: inspiration, optimism and community.

Deborah continues by promising that Cadbury aren't out to flog chunks of brown fat to children, they're far more interested in long-term sports sponsorship and engendering a sense of community. Yeah right. And she concludes thus:

Cadbury genuinely believe in the wider, positive change the Games can bring about, and want to help that happen. They want to spread the powerful message of the Games to the hundreds of thousands of people who buy their bars.

Buy one of the newly-branded 2012 bars of Dairy Milk and all you'll notice is a purple version of that logo nobody likes. It's extremely unlikely that you'll suddenly think "ooh, once I've gobbled down this slab of artery-blocker I really must go for a healthy jog to burn off all its calories, and then pledge to make running a sustainable permanent change to my lifestyle going forward."

No, the reason for Cadbury's Olympic sponsorship is really very simple. When you and I go to the Stadium in 2012, we might want a bar of chocolate. And if the weather's anything like it is this week, we're almost certainly going to want a choc ice. All that Cadbury have done is to pay £20m for the exclusive rights to sell chocolate and ice cream at the 2012 Games, and the London Organising Committee are allowing them some elevated publicity in return. And I like my ice cream, so I'm perfectly OK about an Olympic deal that saves taxpayers some money. But please Deborah, please Todd, all you're doing is setting up an international sweetshop, so please don't try to dress up your sponsorship deal as anything more meaningful than that.

posted 07:00 : comments ()