• There are three years to go until the Olympics. Looking at the stadium today, anyone might think it was only one.
• There are threeyears 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 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.
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.
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 KingsArms 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 Bowvillage, 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 varioususefulhistoricalandmodernonlineresources 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]
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)
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 parallelplatforms 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 reproduction1920s roundel) *(Actually no, because Ravenscourt Park is a much-loved recent Green Flag winner) *(Actually no, that would be Ravenclaw)
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 abandonedrailway 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 nerdgeekCasio 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.
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.
Unlike most of the population of the world, I remember the day Apollo11 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.
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 Queenof 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]
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
• 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]
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 playerpiano. 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
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: )
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 entertainmentnewsfeeds, 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.
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 yearsago today. On Walthamstow Marshes, where else?
Sir AlliottVerdon-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 celebratorycentenaryevent 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 localhistoricalgroups. 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 nighimpossible 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.
Olympic update
Red Arrow 507: Waterloo - Victoria
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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...
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.
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.
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]
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Is that the sound of rain I can hear? Damn.
St Swithun's day if thou dost rainBecause 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: )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: )
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: )
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.
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.
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.
