Got up early this morning and met up with Dan and Teresa, and Al, at Putney Bridge, for another bout of the Thames walk, to Kew Bridge. It rained on us quite a bit, but was good fun, lots of nice walking conversation, followed by a nice pint of ale and roast lunch!
The once delapidated Brunswick Centre by Russell Square tube has had a facelift. We were there earlier today. The flats themselves look rather stunning now, all clad in bright new white and you can really appreciate the bold architecture again.
Shame about the overpriced clone shopping mall they've installed on the ground floor – all Starbucks, Gaps and Virgins – but at least the Renoir Cinema's still there and looking good...
Matt and I got up pretty early this morning, headed down to London Bridge and took the train out east to Charlston, where we walked through a little industrial estate with car scrap yards and little office furniture shops till we arrived at the Thames Barrier.
The Thames Barrier is a spectacular piece of engineering, the great silver arches of each segment stretching across the wide river, with a wild desolate feel to the area and a salty taste to the brisk wind. We turned towards the city and set off along the riverside path which you can follow all the way in to Waterloo and beyond.
It is all magnificently desolate and industrial. There are working areas, with the odd huge crane shifting great piles of gravel or cement from place to place, but lots of other bits are just overgrown and empty.
There're sections where you can walk along little bits of shingly beach, with semi-submerged upturned mossy shopping trolleys, rotting jetties and rusty abandoned ship loading bays.
There was barely anyone around, just the odd walker like us, sometimes with the dog, and occasionly a more active runner. Here and there, there were some foul industrial smells, a great billow of stinking shit odour in the industrial stretch shortly after you pass the Millennium Dome, and then a really unpleasant yeast stench outside the Tate & Lyle factory just before Greenwich.
This raw terrain suddenly turns into the quaint classical buildings of the Royal Naval College and expensive Greenwich houses ... we stopped for a half in the Cutty Sark pub and then went on to catch the DLR back into London from Cutty Sark DLR station.
Isn't March ending nicely, with these lovely warm sunny afternoons? Out like a lamb they do say.
I came out of work, later than I might have hoped, but with a warm evening spring in my step. As I turned down Wharfdale Road, a magnificent red sun was setting behind the gasworks that rose up ahead of me behind Kings Cross, like the noble ruins of an industrial amphitheatre...
Strolling to work this morning in the bright cold autumn sunshine with Magnetic Fields on my ipod!
The world does the hula-hula
When my boy walks down the street
Everyone thinks he's Petula
So big and yet so petite...
Amazing!
He's a whole new form of life
Blue eyes blazing!
And he's going to be my wife...
Alex, Juicy, Matt and I met up this morning and did a good day of Open House exploration. There was a big media theme and we began with a visit to the sexy 1930s Daily Express building on Fleet Street, now uninhabited by journalists of any kind, for as Alex mentioned, were to you put modern newspapers in a building such as this they might start thinking about what they were doing and try telling the truth!
We had a rather ponderous tour around Bush House which the BBC will be moving out of in a couple of years, and then a diversion to Banqueting House on Whitehall, where we had a look at the amazing upstairs room, all imposing neoclassical columns and ornament in the Palladian style which looks more like something you'd find in Paris or St Petersburg, then in London.
This was followed by a flamboyant and energetic tour around the modernised art deco splendour of BBC Broadcasting House near Regent's Street, and then a stroll around the glass and steel style of Channel 4's buildings on Horseferry Road, where we enjoyed the attentions of the hyperhomosexual lift attendant Ricky, well, Juicy mainly enjoyed his attentions.
Alex and Disa had their joint birthday celebrations yesterday in the fabulous Bloomsbury Bowling Lanes by Russell Square. The venue is amazing - done up in a really laid back 1950s style that looks like it's been sitting around for fifty years rather than "re-created" - so slightly flimsy and run down and they've used genuine 1950s furniture and carpets. You can bowl, and do karaoke, and various members of our party did both. The karaoke rooms are like cosy 1950s black leather sitting rooms. We sang Motorhead! We sang the Beatles! We did Elvis and Bonnie Tyler. We even did I Would Do Anything for Love (But I Won't Do That). This was probably my favourite part as I got to sing the part of Lorraine Crosby - "will you get me right out of this GAAD FORSAKEN TOWN?!" - while Alex F played the part of The Loaf.
My bike got nicked from outside the flat last night! I suppose it was going to happen in the end, given that I don't lock it up, but just hide it in the bushes. Now I guess I'll have to buy a new bike, and a few hefty locks.
Damn those evil kids who probably nicked it! Though one has to remember that though they were the proximate cause of my nicked bike, ultimately the true cause is of course ... Thatcher. As documented in Frank Turner's excellent and perceptive song 'Thatcher Fucked the Kids' ...
With Kate already away stirring up revolutions in South America, Jim and Abbie left Belitha Villas this week. This was Andy's tribute, which I'm going to post online without asking him:
Indeed, the end of a whatsit. London, to me, is like a big wobbly jelly that
defies the logic of scale. There are bits of it where I vaguely know the
areas, like in the south where Clapham becomes Balham becomes Tooting
becomes Wimbledon, kind of. Then there are areas where I more or less know
every street, like the bit between Warren Street and Marble Arch, or Russell
Square, Holborn, Tottenham Court Road and Farringdon. Then there are smaller
areas still where I know every shop, house, church and bus stop. Places
where I just about know every brick and paving slab. Belitha Villas is one
such place, but now the dream is over, it will slowly and inexorably shrink
in my scale-free map of London, like a blister that doesn't pop it just
heals and grows smaller until all thats left is skin. The miniature railway
model that is my perception of London has a tiny little bulb under Belitha
Villas that shines out from its fake windows and doors. The bulb is slowly
fading, the power being diverted elsewhere. Soon it will be gone altogether,
and all that will be left will be an "I used to know some people who lived
there" feeling when I walk down Thornhill Road or get the 153. But that's
then, and this is now. It's time to move on. Time to marvel at the way Abbie
can not bat an eye-lid about moving to New York or Berlin, but has anxiety
attacks about leaving N1. Time to be astounded at the fact that Jim is,
albeit temporarily, living in Notting Hill. Time to rejoice at the prospect
of a new Belitha, one that is closer to my house and sounds like Rivendell.
Time to go to Hamley's and buy your Goddaughter a birthday present because
today is her birthday and you haven't got her anything yet and what kind of
godfather are you anyway you loser.
Matt and I spent Saturday sunning ourselves and drinking cava and fruit beer in Regent's Park. We were joined by Jamie and Will, Michal, Ema, Patrick and Laurent, and got quite pissed and mildly sunburnt. In the evening, Matt went off to sample the new GAY Late bar, and I headed to Angel, to Clockwork, a very hip bar on Pentonville Road, with dark red lighting, loud music and interesting cocktails, for Kal's birthday. The bar was a bit loud, but fun. They projected Wacky Races and Transformers the Movie up on the wall. Andy, Tom M and I all sat mesmerised by the death of Optimus Prime and the transformation of Megatron to Galvatron! I also had a fun chat with Catherine about political philosophy.
Next day and Matt and I had to get up rather early for our Crusaid 'Walk for Life' fundraising walk round central London. Though we only started raising money a few days before, we managed £540 between us, which is not bad. The walk was fun - lovely sunny weather, but not too hot - lots of central London sights along the way - and nicely tiring. My feet were hurting a bit from banging on city concrete for three hours, but all in all it was very jolly.
We finished our walk around 15.20, and after eating bananas distributed by a kindly dalai lama like figure at the end of the walk in Hyde Park, we made our way over to Soho.
Soho was heaving with the gay nation, as Compton Street, Rupert Street and Soho Square were all given over to street parties and drunken drugged up revelling. We bumped into all kinds of people. At one point my father called me on the mobile, as the Gaydar stage – adorned with Roman gladiators sporting hot pants and huge oranged plumed golden helmets – pumped out loud house music behind me:
"Tom," he asked me solemnly, "where are you?"
"I'm at Soho Pride!" I shouted over the top of the music. "I'm slightly drunk!"
"Why that's great darling because I'm totally pissed!" he replied. "Thomas - do you think that we should sort out a ceasefire in Lebanon?"
I turned off my left hearing aid to block out some of the house music and struggled to get my brain in gear: "Well, yes definitely. The current conflict is rooted in Israel's illegal occupation of the Golan Heights and the West Bank, its destruction of Gaza and its gradual attempt to extinguish the Palestinian nation. There should definitely be a ceasefire."
"No," he said, "I mean, should we, that is you and I, sort out a ceasefire in Lebanon?"
I had sudden visions of travelling to Lebanon with Russ, ready to somehow arrange a ceasefire from war torn Beirut, so gulping down my nervousness: "Definitely - I'm with you all the way with that."
"And what about Matt?"
"Well, Matt thinks Israel is an insane state, so probably yes, though I'd have to ask him."
"And what about all those people there at Soho Pride - what do they think?"
I looked around at the diverse spectacle of the gay nation - from bears to twinks, from shirtless tanned muscle to spiky indie lesbian kids to classic old queens, most of them bouncing around to house music, many of them gurning on Es and coke: "Well, a lot of the people here are quite busy right now, and of course many of them have their own problems in their lives which means they are not always thinking about events happening far away."
"That was a good series of answers, darling. I love you very much."
"I love you too."
We had a few beers and then made our way through the packed crowds to Rupert Street area, which was more chilled out. There we held court for a few hours, till it was getting quite late. Matt headed back to Kentish Town on a bus with Phil. I went with Jordan to Crouch End to help him feed a pill to Lola, a cat with a stomach infection who he was looking after while her owners were away. Beautiful cat, but a deeply unhappy one who snarled viciously and had to be subdued with a towel before forcing the pill between her clenched teeth and lips!
Phil and Jordan went on to DTPM. Me and Matt got some much needed sleep.
Matt and I just attempted to start being less chronically unfit by going for a run up Highgate Road to Parliament Hill and the Heath, and back again. It was very painful! On the way back we kept passing lots of groups of blokes on their way to the Forum on Highgate Road, an old church hall in the evangelical church hall style. Many of them were drinking beer, and were quite laddish and muscled. At first we thought it must be some kind of crazy Christian Gym Cult of some kind, but it turns out it is what the Backpackers Guide to London describes as "the granddaddy of all the backpacker bars". It's where all the Aussies living in London go to get smashed every Sunday, a no-frills heaving sweaty six-packs of beer strippers and comedians meat-market kind of place. I never knew such things existed.
Matt and I have been hunting for flats to buy and we were wandering around the blossom scattered springtime lanes of Kentish Town yesterday. It was lovely weather, so making us lust after garden flats on leafy Victorian house lanes! We bumped into Steve W, cycling home on his bike somewhere near Lady Margaret Road and he enthused on the virtues of living up on the hill with the views down to Hampstead Heath.
Alix is around in London for a couple of months doing some work experience for an agency that scouts out books to translate from English to other European languages. Ralph was here for the weekend too, and they came round to the flat for cocktails and chat. It was very nice to see them. Poor Alix, London is about as cold as it has been yet this winter, so a bit of a contrast from Barcelona...
On the way back home today, I had a narrow brush with getting very wet indeed. I was setting off cycling along the canal from work by Caledonian Road and I saw a group of kids up ahead along the towpath. It was getting very dark at that point and I realised that they were loitering with a little too much intent. I braced myself for them possibly shouting at me as I cycled by to scare me off my bike, which kids have done before. As I drew alongside, one of them stepped out besides me, reached forwards and deliberately and powerfully shoved me off my bike into the canal. I was shocked by the forcefulness, even though I had been expecting something. I tumbled off the bike, struggling to keep it on the towpath, scraping along the side and off the edge. I just about managed to grab the edge of the bank and fuelled by a massive adrenaline rush haul myself back on to the towpath, swinging my legs away from the water to dry land. As I clambered up, the children had fled, which was probably lucky for them, and I turned around expecting my bike to have vanished below the waters. But there it was, the pedal have caught on the edge, suspended for a few seconds with enough time for me to pluck it back from oblivion. All in all, I was very pleased with myself at that point - I had just a couple of grazes and my bike was unharmed, just a little wet.
On Sunday we took Anders to Angel Canal Festival, meeting up with Abbie, Jim and his brother Ben, Kate, Kal, Michal and Ema while we were there. The hot weather continued unabated and we wandered about dozily looking at the stalls and marvelling at the English Village atmosphere. I chatted to someone from the North London Beekeepers, looked at various birds of prey from a local wildlife sanctuary and bought some lemon mint and southernwood for the herb pot. We stood outside the pub by Danbury Street and Vincent Terrace and drank beer and occasionly dancing merrily while a small band of pearly kings played rousing English folk tunes.
Following this, I was co-opted by a band of morris dancers and forced to join in with one of their songs, waving a white hankerchief in the air and skipping ineptly. Surprisingly enjoyable. I think I might become a morris dancer (one day!). Matt took this photo with his phone:
Anders came to visit from Sweden this weekend, and it has been blazing with Indian summer heat. We spent today sat on Primrose Hill with drinks, blanket and the little chairs I got from the Glade Festival, being roasted by the sunshine. Anders was taking lots of marvellous black and white pictures that make everything look elegant and strangely unfamiliar.
On the way back from Blackboys this morning, we arrived at Victoria Station to find the underground closed, so we took a Number 73 bus across town to Kings Cross. An engaging bus conductor kept us entertained with banter and interesting chatter all the way. It was very funny, but very sad, as he's being laid off in a couple of weeks along with all the old Route Masters. It's such a shame; I'm going to miss being able to jump on and off the bus and generally having some control over my own actions. It seems that apart from disabled access, the Route Master is superior in every way that matters to all the other kinds of bus in London. The conductor system is cool, they are a design classic and they make you proud to be a Londoner.
Matt and I got a £10 for ten days special offer introductory ticket at our local Bikram's Yoga College of India centre. Bikram yoga is the latest celebrity-endorsed trendy yoga where you do a set sequence of positions in an absurdly hot room (42 degrees C in fact). Bikram is a rather enjoyable contrast to other forms of yoga, as it is led by a living guru, Bikram Choudhury, who has built a patented and copyrighted empire around it. This is capitalist, go-getting yoga! Choudhury basically sells books and videos, and teaches students in £3000 workshops. These students go on to teach other students and set up franchise yoga studios and Choudhury rakes in the franchise fees. There doesn't seem to me to be anything inherently rotten about this, but it does take you a step away from the contemplative, mystical feel of an incense-steeped ashtanga yoga class. Plus, the heat is excessive, I think. It enables you to bend into positions and it cleans the skin as you sweat buckets, but it seems unnecessarily painful to me. I was so weak and drained after our first session. I think I'll go for these first cheap lessons and then stop.
Matt and I are moving into a new flat this weekend. It's all very hectic, lots of packing and unpacking to do, but it is a lovely flat. Chalk Farm looks to be a fun and bustling area to live in.
