Slightly Moist

Bank Holiday Monday

2011-05-30T17:42:00.002+01:00

Today it rained and I stared at the wall all day.

Plumbers and Typography

2010-05-08T13:55:00.003+01:00

You wouldn't call a typographer to fix a leak. It is with some concern then, that I have to report there are some plumbers out there who consider themselves far more adept at visual communication than those of us who have studied the subject at length. It bothers me this, because I'd never consider hiring a plumber and then tell him he couldn't use a plier-wrench because I don't like plier-wrenches. Neither would I insist that he tried unblocking my sink several times until I could decide on the method I liked best. Neither would I supply him with a problem and then, when he was on his way to solving it, fuck it all up and make him start again. Perhaps I am in the wrong job?

Art in Bedford

2009-11-12T10:55:00.003Z

This week has been a right laugh. Firstly, at around 11'o clock on Monday morning, I self-harmed in front of the terrible new monument at the apex of Silver Street in an attempt to be taken more seriously. No one took any notice, so I went and kicked myself, really hard, at the bronze-painted fiberglass thing which has been left outside Macdonald's for some weeks. No response. It seems no one is interested in art at this latitude.

Jesus

2009-04-11T14:14:00.002+01:00

Fucking hell, it's Easter yet again.

That concludes this entry.

A Poem.

2009-02-25T11:46:00.004Z

Sunday May 25th, 2003

Awoke for the lavatory around half past 5 (am). Bright sun on the opposite house initiated a mounting excitement.
Awoke for the lavatory again around 7 (am). Sky gone dull.
Awoke again and considered not looking at the time in detail. It was 8 (am). Made a cup of coffee and sat in bed until 9.20 (am) listening to Radio 4.
Got up. Noticed sore throat.
Buggered around until midday at when I was sufficiently hungry, to the extent, that I had 2 eggs on a fried bread mattress.
After that, life seemed better.
Momentarily, after that moment, life seemed hard. Staying awake was hard.
Fell asleep on the settee, wondering about cloud formations.
Awoke an hour later (pm) with worsening pharyngitis.
Retired to bed and slept a slow sleep, akin maybe, to a Morris Minor on a B road. Respirations laboured – thoughts laboured – an effortless waste of an afternoon.
Awoke to micturate on occasions.
Arose at 6 (pm) feeling slightly funny. Did some drawing, drank a little wine and cooked a full English panorama. And then…
Nothing.

Money

2009-02-24T10:05:00.003Z

Hello children. Today we are going to talk about the so-called Credit Crunch. I recently tried to change my credit card in order to transfer the balance of an existing one, pay less interest and be less in debt. Barclays, however, informed me that I didn't earn enough so I couldn't take advantage of their marvelous product.

If I 'earned enough' then I wouldn't, in all probability, be trying to be less-in-debt because I wouldn't be in sodding debt in the first place. Furthermore, the incompetence of my employer hasn't helped as they've been paying me (or not) in an eccentric manner since October last year resulting in a cumulative shortfall of house-keeping. Consequently I have had to spend my tax money on food and so now I am wondering when it is that I will go to prison.

Apart from that the Credit Crunch hasn't affected me at all. Idiots affect me all the time though.

Now, here's Andy Williams with Moon River…

Milk Science

2009-01-17T13:52:00.003Z

I think that my fridge is up the duff (broken, not pregnant) because for some time now the milk goes off long before it's supposed to. Apart from the annoyance of making tea look and taste like sick it presents a problem of disposal. You see I don't like to throw it down the sink because of the odour so I leave it in a warm spot until it separates and the bottle threatens to explode and then have to face up to the fact that, despite the spectacle, the problem hasn't gone away. I have, in the past, quietly dropped it in the dustbin but I am now caught up in the novelty of recycling so this feels too much like cheating.

This morning I decided to face the problem and sought a scientific method of neutralising milk into a non-smelly, easily disposable liquid which would not foul up my plughole. I suppose the most obvious solution would have been household bleach but this household ran out of that before Christmas. So I decided to experiment with bicarb and vinegar and spent half an hour watching the chemical reaction in the washing up bowl with fascination. It was so wonderful that this must be confirmation that God definitely does not exist. Curiously though, it did not neutralise the smell but changed it from stale milk into raw meat. Sometimes being alive is fantastic!

What's happenned to Stella?

2008-11-11T15:59:00.003Z

Ok, canned Stella Artois may not be in the same league as your Orvals and your Chimays (and besides, it's got sweetcorn in it) but it has had it's place as a refreshing and lubricating quaff with me for quite some time. But over the weekend I purchased an octave of the stuff from Sainsburys and noticed a distinct lack of guts. Normally I get a mild strawberryish something-or-other from canned Stella but this was just, well, nothing with a faint taste of dust. When comparing it to a batch I bought from the local shop there was absolutely no comparison.

However further scrutiny revealed that the latter was brewed in Belgium and was the regular 5.2% whereas the Sainsbury's batch had been reduced to 5% and brewed in Luton.

Given that taxes on alchohol are set to rise further in order to disuade contentment, is the brewing industry trying to keep competitive by making their beer taste shit?

However poor I am I will never drink shit beer.

These are sorry times.

DeathWorld

2008-11-11T14:32:00.008Z

Oh yes, I went to Dr Death's Bodyworlds thing at the dome thing.

Firstly, I have never been to the dome thing. Actually that's not exactly true – I went out there once to look at North Greenwich station and whilst I was there I thought I'd have a look at what all the fuss was about. I suppose this must have been back in early 2003 when it was standing there, empty and abandoned, and costing the tax payer God knows how much to keep locked. I was underwhelmed and vowed never to return in an unnecessarily dramatic fashion .

But I did, to see the Bodyworlds thing.

I saw the last Bodyworlds thing too, round about the same time that I last went to the dome thing. However, back then the exhibition of dead people was housed in the somewhat less momentus Old Truman Brewery at the top of Brick lane which, I felt, was very fit for purpose. I enjoyed it very much. It seemed very matter-of-fact.

This time though the curators have got hold of it and tried to give it a sense of drama compatible with the world's largest tent (even though it actually only occupies a relatively small piece of tent). The result is a plethora of stock-images, cello noises and darkness. On entering, the mounting sense of drama is quickly depleted by a lot of people standing around a series of illuminated cases which you can't see into because there's too many people standing at them. And then someone comes and tells you to move on because there's plenty of other stuff to see. This is just after you've paid fourteen quid: "Roll up, roll up, pay here and then bugger off out the way…".

There is indeed much to see, notably a series of partially decected volunteers involved in competitive sports, a big horse and ultimately a rather impressive girraffe. Mostly though, there are illuminated cases with people standing round them. When one does actually manage to push in you start to notice that many exhibits, obviously not conducive to the constant touring, are starting to show signs of wear and tear. Bits have dropped off.

I seem to remember the previous exhibition was conducted in a more natural light, whereas the spot lighting in this one just appeared to highlight the fact the exhibits were full of resin and it was far harder to appreciate that they had probably once gone out, got drunk and slept with someone that they shouldn't have.

Although it may lack the novelty factor I would favour the Hunterian Museum at the Royal College of Surgeons any day. The exhibits are beautifully displayed in the Crystal Gallery, it's free, and there aren't any cellos to get on your nerves.

And the dome… I have to say that it does seem bigger once you're in it but this unique architectural statement has been kitted out to look like a third-rate Barratt development with pretend bricks, a homogenized high street of food outlets going round in a circle. How marvelous! Yet another Starbucks!

But what I never did work out was why, when you leave the place, you are greeted with a undeniable aroma of yeast?

Most peculiar.

Franko

2008-11-11T10:18:00.006Z

More art I'm afraid. I went to see Francis Bacon's pictures at Tate Britain. Unfortunately there was a man running about, like a annoying child in a supermarket, except this wasn't a supermarket and I'm surprised it was tolerated. But not only was it tolerated, it was actually commissioned. Good grief – whatever next? A light bulb going on and off in an empty room? Anyway, I went to see some pictures of screaming popes and blurred people sitting in a cube, not a bloke in a hurry.

I've never really bothered with Francis Bacon before. Not because I didn't like him or anything like that – more, I suppose, because I felt there were more pressing things to look at. And most probably because when I keep being told that someone is a genius I tend to feel that my patronage is unnecessary. I mean, if you are that clever, then it must be an absolute bore to keep having it reinforced by those who know less about the subject than yourself. Anyway, the man's dead now and I needed to shelter from the wind that was whistling up Millbank like a proper coastal affair.

I suppose what you most hear about Francis Bacon is how violent and savage his images are and yet, when you inspect them at close quarters, they are actually very quiet. Far from the inch-thick pigment which I expected the paint appears to have been generally applied quite delicately, often with incredible precision. Occasionally an otherwise uncontrolled spurt of white appears in the middle of the frame (a 'penis' according to the curator…) but one so lovely, you'd wouldn't want to wipe it off in a hurry.

Of course, screaming clergy, deformed torsos and carcasses aren't everyone's idea of subject matter but then we should draw our own conclusions as to what a piece of work is about, despite what the curator says. I just really liked the paintwork.

One other thing I noticed about Francis Bacon was that he also did a very convincing light bulb and, what's more, it didn't go on and off all the bloody time.

Twombo

2008-07-12T11:44:00.010+01:00

On Monday I went to see the Cy Twombly exhibition at the Tate. I thought it was dead smart. Unfortunately, as usual the pen of the curator did little to amplify the gallery experience. If I may quote

"…the series contains within it a struggle between diametrically opposing forces. A tension between left and right, horizontal and vertical, movement and stasis, and rising or falling is palpable in these paintings."

That all sounds jolly convincing and probably well worth the £10 admission fee, but wouldn't it be better to rely on one's own senses to indicate palpability? After all, when I've been on the curry I don't consult someone with a PhD as to whether I feel like having a shit.

But I suppose that's the problem with curating an exhibition by a compulsive scribbler. You can't just say "ooh, this is some fantastic large scale scribble" because many people like to see pictures of bowls-of-flowers and water lillies and not apparently meaningless gestures without some good reason as to why they're worth looking at. I can appreciate that. But I can also appreciate how difficult it is to produce apparently meaningless gestures which make you feel all excited, as if there's something happening, but you're not quite sure what it is. That's what I like about Cy Twombly. Anyway, after this, I felt so invigorated I decided to walk from Limehouse to Holborn for the sake of it.

Perhaps the worse curatorial experience I've had was in the Fundacio Joan Miro, Montjuic, Barcelona, where I was persuaded to wear some of those bloody headphones in order to 'learn' about the pictures. As if trying to convert one of Miro's paintings into words isn't a bad enough idea, the narrator was accompanied by a fucking piano. Perhaps by the time of my next visit they will have installed some flashing lights and a pole dancer too…

Bedford-bashing installment (part 2)

2008-04-20T11:44:00.003+01:00

Aha! I'm not going to bash Bedford this morning other than to say what a dreary Sunday morning it is here. However, research has shown that a trip through Elstree tunnel is not likely to improve things. At this moment (11:53 BST) the Bayswater road is dreary; Streatham High St is dreary and Kingsland Road appears to be under attack from space invaders.

My incitement to waste time this morning is simply to report the success of last nights cookery experiment, not least because I achieved my first small-scale flambé with some chicken strips I had marinated in cheap sherry. Due to the muck content of the surrounding area I feel that this type of adventure may be too risky to pursue, though I suppose I could try to clean the kitchen one day.

It continues to be dreary out…

Bedford-bashing installment

2008-04-19T15:49:00.004+01:00

Hello world of no-one. You've probably been thinking that I'd given up on Bedford-bashing by now. Actually, no; you haven't been thinking about this pathetic corner of rubbish at all, but anyway, I haven't not given up Bedford-bashing because (breath) Bedford ceaselessly manages to emphasize what a boorish place with ugly people it is, many who continue to doddle around with an empty shopping trolley in a daze. And this afternoon, whilst trying to maintain the efficient Holborn-in-the-rush-hour pace that reflects my appetite for life, I have had to circumvent my way through crowds of indecisive automatons who haven't got the motivation to move any faster than 0.5 kph. Consequently I had to put all my shopping back on the shelves in Lidl and walk across the other side of town to Sainsburys or I'd have still been standing in the fucking queue at Christmas. Of course, Sainburys was another trauma, not least because weekend shopping is always impaired by small, knock-overable children who's seem to be attracted to my apparently magnetic legs where they get tangled up and hit in the eye by my basket.

Anyway, I eventually bought some sherry and a new wok and will tonight attempt to improve on the inedible muck that my last oriental supper turned into. Over and out.

An Observation

2008-04-13T10:47:00.002+01:00

I have approximately four million television channels and there is nothing worth watching on any of them.

Job.

2008-02-02T13:40:00.000Z

I have at last found employment. In fact I've been at it for a month now and although I've yet to see any cash and thus heading more towards financial ruin by the day I have been assured the finance department is 'on the case'. As jobs go it's a pretty good job. Not too many hours, reasonably well-paid and fairly interesting. But there's a problem.

You see, I don't get to commute. I like commuting. It gives me time to get my thoughts together and then rearrange them if they don't work. I get to stare at clouds, ride on a train and then run around like everyone does in London. But now I work in Bedford and if you run around too much it upsets people, particularly if you push them out of the way. In Bedford it's OK to stand in the doorway of a shop with your pushchair and have a chat. You can wander around aimlessly in Sainsburys with an unnecessary trolley without much chance of injury. And, of course, you can save a fortune in travel expenses because there isn't anywhere to go. God, I miss London.

Abolish Christmas

2007-12-30T14:49:00.000Z

Right. I've had enough. From now on I will be campaigning to abolish Christmas unless there is a 95% chance of snow. Once again we have had to endure weeks of endless Winter Wonderland hype, building up to a day that was as dreary and forgettable as any other.

And, to rub salt into my crispy golden skin, the marketing Gods have persisted with this crap over the entire period in the full knowledge that we know it's all a hoax. Why they just can't be honest and say "Look – we need to shift some sofas. Perhaps you'd like a new one to cheer you up after a thoroughly shit festive season?" rather than creating some stupid-arsed penguin concept, which supposedly is some kind of alternative take on the whole lame, wintery myth.

Well, it's all shit.

Healthy Options

2007-10-17T12:19:00.000+01:00

Having resorted to making up the news to keep my brain active it surprises me how the days still pass without much really happening. I continue to apply for work and continue to be ignored by employers. I continue to buy discounted Kronenbourg and Stella to assist with the evenings but this has taken it's toll on my housekeeping. To make things worse I've noticed how the Government is now declaring that the middle-classes have 'unhealthy drinking habits' too, which presumably gives them more of a mandate to raise taxes. Of course everyone has 'unhealthy drinking habits' – we do it to escape the fucking nanny of a government poking its nose in to our lives for a few hours a day.

And I am also sick to the teeth of being told I am obese every night on the news. I AM NOT OBESE. In fact until I started drinking cheap beer I was underweight for my height. Beer has made me much healthier. I go for brisk five mile walks to get rid of hangovers. And, when I can afford to meet my contemporaries, I will happily walk to the pub. In fact what more simple pleasure is there than a good stroll followed by a good pint. Yet it seems those in authority would rather we spend our free time in a fucking gymnasium, staring at the wall and listening to mindless thumping music so our performance can be measured and converted into statistics.

There is less of an 'option' to be healthy now than there was five years ago. Option is usually a synonym for choice. Increasingly it seems that you can only be afforded choice if your salary allows you to bypass Nanny Recommended Options. I mean, last night I bought a Sainsbury's Chicken in a Pot – it's sort of an all in-one-roast chicken dinner without all the fuss etc. We'll I noticed that the packaging has suddenly got a lot of green on it which I assume is why they've had to retire the stuffing ball. It was never a tour-de-force of stuffing but it did maintain the concept. Well, it's gone. And so has the salt. Thankfully, I made some interesting bread sauce (with black cumin and fresh basil for a change) because this new healthier option has lost any connection to a roasted bird and now tastes like nothing more than a reduced salt ready meal. Where's the fun in that?

I have always thought eating and drinking could be such a pleasurable experience but for how much longer? Nanny demands that it should be functional. They thought that about sixties architecture too and most of it's had to be knocked down. Well, it's about time Nanny was.

No Telly

2007-10-01T23:28:00.000+01:00

Tonight there was no telly. The Virgin (ne NTL) network around Bedford blew up and so I have been forced to amuse myself without discharging bile which I normally regard as a form of relaxation. Thankfully I bought a big box of Kronenboug yesterday.

I tried standing round the piano and singing but I didn't really enjoy it. It's not something that you can effectively do on your own and I'm rather concerned that the kids who pass by the window will take me for a tosser and beat me up at an opportune moment. And, I don't actually have a piano; it's more of a radiator. Having said all that, it killed half an hour and I'd forgotten how well I can dance when deprived of oxygen.

My former Thai bride always used to complain that I didn't read enough books. In fact I have always loved books, just not necessarily the books she wanted me to read (usually about people taking drugs). Anyway, I thought that it might be a good opportunity to start a novel or something but I ended up digging out the 1969 Blue Peter Annual and was inspired enough to start making my own toothpaste.

Of course, one of the problems with the telly going down is that I generally wouldn't know about it until the evening, by which time it's usually too late to prepare for an alternative. Consequently I didn't have all the ingredients for home-made toothpaste and ended up substituting Kronenbourg for most of them. Baking powder, salt, Kronenbourg, Kronenbourg, Kronenbourg and cooking oil. Anyway, who the hell makes their own toothpaste.

After coming to terms with the result I went outside to dump the slurry in the wheelie and there was Noel – shouting and swearing and kicking the hell out his front door, which had appeared to have slammed shut and locked him out. As I'm not altogether comfortable with the concept of what being a neighbour entails I decided to return to my living room and look through the blinds instead – at which point I saw him punch the hedge and disappear off up the street.

Anyhow, desperate for something to stare at I resorted to a box of old video cassettes and for the last hour have been watching a young John Suchet read the 1987 election news in glorious over-saturated colour. Marvelous. Or not.

The New Neighbour

2007-10-01T16:53:00.000+01:00

As nothing much continues to not happen around here I have decided to resort to lying.

In actual fact it's a lie to suggest that my life is an empty shell. True enough, the prospect of finding work remains remote and there hasn't been any natural disasters but I have got a new neighbour. TV's Noel Edmonds has bought a house over the road and moved in at the weekend. I have to admit that I've never cared for the chap or his witless sense of humour, or his natty dress-sense, or indeed, the way he clawed his way back from oblivion after that chap got dropped from a crane in a box and was mashed as part of a humorous prank that went wrong. But in actual fact he seems to be quite a nice chap. I wouldn't normally go out of my way to talk to a celebrity but he was coming out the front door just as I was going to the shop so I said hello and he said hello back. And then his wig blew off and was run over by a van. I thought he might find it funny and smiled but he looked rather forlorn and went back inside without saying anything.

Then, a day or so later I decided to get some exercise and went for a walk down by the river. As I got to the footbridge which links Queens Park to Kempston I noticed there was a bit of a commotion going on over at Austin Canons substation so I went to have a look. As I got nearer I heard some one say that Noel Edmonds was at the top of a pylon and, sure enough, there appeared to be a bald man with a beard clinging to the superstructure, though I couldn't say for definite whether it was Noel Edmonds. Anyway when, I got home there was a police car outside his house. Curiously, it was still there in the morning.

It's been very quiet since.

My new neighbour with a nice glass of pond

Nothing.

2007-09-10T10:10:00.000+01:00

Nothing at all has happened recently. Nothing. Or to put it another way:

I walked to Lidl for the sake of it.
I drank some tea which made me feel sick, although I wasn't.
I roasted a chicken whilst watching the Italian Grand Prix.
I walked to Tesco, both in Goldington and Cardington Road,
for the sake of it.
I have been reminded that my vision is two years older.
I walked to Sainsbury's for some bread but they didn't have any.
I signed on as usual and was offered an opportunity to work in a warehouse.
I have stared at the wall quite a bit.
I have learned that I am not suitable for warehouse work.

Household Cleaning Product (No3)

2007-08-25T10:33:00.001+01:00

There.

Nanny

2007-08-18T14:13:00.000+01:00

There are four young male adults across the road. One of them has got a Vauxhall Astra. It is parked. They are propped up against a bush, looking at it. They have been there for well over two hours whilst the in-car audio fails to runs the battery down. A Saturday afternoon in Bedford.

Earlier on I woke up with a blocked ear and braved the town in search of some Otex. The girl in Boots asked me if I'd used it before. "Yes" I said, "I drank it all in one go and had an epileptic fit which culminated in a road traffic accident and a ten year stretch in prison which, in turn, resulted in my wife going mental and drinking paraquat".

It seems that these days any product on sale a chemist must be accorded the same scrutiny (and irrational fear) as heroin and it makes me fucking livid. Some months ago I went to buy a syringe for squirting some paint about. "I would like a 20ml" syringe, please" I said. The woman behind the counter was immediately thrown into a mild turmoil as she considered the consequences of permitting such a sale. The point is that unless the item is a prescription only product she has absolutely no jurisdiction over it. It's a piece of bloody plastic, not a machine gun. And so it is with Anadin, Nytol, Otex etc. etc.

Somewhat ironically there is no such stigma attached to buying a poisonous Laburnum bush, antifreeze, or indeed paraquat which, in comparison, makes heroin seem like orange squash. Maybe this is why Isabella Blow recently decided to end it all with the weed killer rather than going to Boots and trying to bulk purchase a product which may only have made her constipated for a couple of days.

The Vauxhall Astra has now disappeared.

The Geodemographicartist

2007-08-07T15:21:00.000+01:00

So Pete Doherty faces jail after drugs offences again then? Why is this considered news? I only became aware that there was someone called Pete Doherty when the self same thing happened before (or before that, or before that, I can't quite remember…). Either send him to fucking jail or don't – just stop telling me about it because I don't give a shit about him, or his ropey off/on girlfriend model thing .

In between the thankless task of applying for jobs and reading about Pete Doherty's tedious lifestyle choice I have been amusing myself with the ACORN geodemographic tool and finding out how I fit into the scheme of things. In case you weren't aware ACORN is a database-cum-directory apparatus which creates a profile of who you are depending on your postcode so that you can be sent cheaper quotes for car insurance even if you don't drive.

Its accuracy is apparently determined by having a resolution of 15 properties per postcode which generates a profile consisting of three parts: Category, Group and Type. I can thus reveal that I am a: 3 G 25

or, to put it another way:

well off; starting out; single with a white collar and a terraced house.

Having made an accurate assumption about the type of dwelling I inhabit (though it fails to mention the subsidence) there are a few errors here. For a start, I am neither 'well off' nor 'starting out'. It would be more realistic to say I am 'skint and have been for as long as I can remember'. True, I am single, though I did tolerate a wife for a couple of years but my only white shirt now has a collar which has gone a sort of greyish yellow. I should imagine this is because I bought it from Peacocks. However, I am more likely to have a Mac rather than a PC.

This is true. A couple of months ago I almost made the mistake of buying a PC after two brand new Mac-Minis failed to boot up. On returning them to the far-too-cool-for-its-own-good Mac temple in Regent Street I made a dramatic protest and defiantly bought a PC magazine on the way home with the intention of investing in the enemy. But by the time the train had reached Flitwick I was convinced that even a non-booting Mac couldn't be any worse than Windows Vista and consequently fell further into financial oblivion.

By this point I was hoping to come to some conclusion but I've grown rather tired of the subject and have started looking at the fridge. It must be beer o'clock…

Twats

2007-07-31T12:30:00.000+01:00

So, I've seen a job in the paper, yeah? And I've sent off for the application pack, yeah? And the application pack comes through the post, yeah? And I'm overhearing a bloke outside who keeps going "yeah?" at the end of every fucking sentence, yeah? No (well, yes actually).

Because finding a job is imperative to maintaining my drinking problem I have been forced to apply for things which I would normally avoid. Consequently an application pack from a government agency arrives, courtesy of the postman with a big nose. Upon opening the envelope I am immediately introduced to the Appeals Procedure which is at my disposal should I feel I've been unfairly treated. Call me perverse, but I find this perverse. At least let me apply for the bloody job before encouraging me to consider a breach of human rights. And frankly, if I am unsuccessful in my application, I can accept it's probably because someone else has been more successful than me, or because I refused to wear a tie at the interview.

But that's not what provoked me. At the end of the document I was asked as to which racial group I most "identify" with and offered a number of pre-determined racial stereotypes. For fuck's sake. I identify with intellect, not post-code. Unfortunately there wasn't a box for that. Not only do I find the nature of this mildly offensive, it is – in effect – forcing me to give false information, which is a sacking offence.

What is wrong with these people?

Woodwind Trivia

2007-07-18T06:31:00.000+01:00

Do you know how much a contra-bass clarinet is? Fifteen thousand quid! I'm really glad I can't play one.

Traditional Pants

2007-07-11T13:56:00.000+01:00

I really don't know why I was looking at a website encouraging visitors over from America because I don't live in America. But that's what I was doing and I happened to trip over this preposterous depiction of 21st century London

London manages to retain its charming English traditions within the world of a modern cosmopolitan city. Enjoy afternoon tea with cucumber sandwiches, or relish a ploughman's lunch at one of the friendly neighborhood pubs where Londoners gather with friends to watch soccer and drink ale.

Personally, I have never experienced London's famous afternoon tea and cucumber sandwiches, though I am told that for twenty quid or so The Ritz does a nice job. I believe you can also still be hung for treason too. But I wouldn't know where to relish a Ploughman's Lunch in London. Thai fish cakes, maybe, or that 'famous' beer battered cod and chips that every pub claims is its own invention (usually on a silk-screened blackboard). Or a 'melt', or some other imported favourite. Incidentally, the last time I asked for a Ploughman's was in a rural tavern and even they couldn't come up with the goods. A brie and bacon ciabatta, yes; a chunk of cheddar and a bit of crusty loaf, no. Even worse – I recently discovered, to my dismay, that the Ploughman's concept was invented in 1971 when the Milk Marketing Board and British Licensed Victuallers Association thought it would be a neat new way to sell cheese. No wonder I grew into such a cynic.

But it's very easy for me to sit here practicing my cynicism. It's common knowledge that London is full of friendly neighbourhood pubs where you can watch a jolly good game of soccer and enjoy a splendid glass of ale. Just take the District Line and head out east…

The Roundhouse, Becontree, scored a marvellous 2.8/10 on beerintheevening.com
"Deep Purple played here in 1972. It's been steadily going downhill ever since"

New Shoes

2007-07-03T13:25:00.000+01:00

Last night I found myself underneath the Tavistock Hotel, Bloomsbury, wearing bowling shoes. The VoB is certainly not the competitive type so this was unusual departure from an average Monday evening but It was G's Birthday and her suggestion that our group should perhaps do something other than just go to the pub. So we went and drunk in a bowling alley instead.

After some initial misfortune with the ball (excuse me, bowl) and a couple of pints of a rather good Czech Pilsner named Bernard, I found that doing a bit of an extravagant dance before throwing (bowling) made it go straight. Mostly. Anyway, I came away air-punchingly on top which made me feel extremely masculine. I was tempted to keep the shoes and eat a bison.

Unfortunately G had less luck and caught a digit between two balls (bowls). Being a bowling expert with considerable orthopaedic experience I was able to reassure her, on examination, that no bones had been broken although in actual fact she had sustained a comminuted fracture and is now wearing a sling. Sometimes I should just stick to drinking.

Slightly Moist

2007-06-30T09:38:00.000+01:00

Last night, whilst trying to watch telly (press button on handset. Wait. Read error message. Unplug and re-plug cable box. Wait. Re-tune telly. Press button on handset. Wait. Access menu. Wait. Read another error message. Become emotional, consider crying in an attempt to make the telly feel bad etc. etc.) I discovered that I have athlete's foot. Considering the amount of times I've walked back and forth across the capital in recent weeks, often in 97% humidity and polyester socks, it doesn't surprise me but it is nice to get some recognition for the effort, even if it's in the form of a fungal infection. It's my first time, see. I feel I've entered an exclusive club.

My last foot infection occurred over thirty years ago when I purposely caught a verruca in order to avoid the school swimming pool.

Chimneys

2007-06-26T17:20:00.001+01:00

For a long time I have been captivated by the humble chimney pot. I suspect the genesis of this occurred after seeing a short film which I think was shot from the roof of Baker Street station (It was one of those films they used to put on when they thought no one one would be watching). Now, whenever I think of St John's Wood, Regent's Park and the surrounding area chimney pots have a tendency to enter my head.

Against all probability, Bedford has some rather good roof furniture too and a couple of months ago I decided that I should document it on film too. It was shot in and around an area of the town that was once called Black Tom (which has now been renamed in case it upsets a black bloke called Tom). Naturally I would have preferred to locate myself on a roof top but, on this particular occasion, Rod Hull kept entering my head.
...

The End of the World?

2007-06-24T12:01:00.001+01:00

That is such a dumb-arse title. If the world is about to end then the chances are someone else will know about it before a bloke from Bedford. Bedford rarely takes part in anything apocalyptic despite the fact I've yet to go down the low-energy light bulb route and keep my telly on stand-by. A possible exception that springs to mind was when a petrol tanker overturned and exploded in the village of Westoning in 1976. Eight houses caught fire and 21 people were made homeless. Obviously I'm not inclined to be disappointed that we don't get more of this sort of thing in the area but it doesn't compare to Buncefield oil depot going up, or Iraq, or a meteorite smashing into the Thames Estuary.

No, the world I'm alluding to is the one I have inhabited for the last five years, a world where I was finally able to make myself understood. For the last two years, I have been able to do it at a far greater intensity in a perfectly wonderful environment. I've argued the toss with some stellar people, learned from them and equally accused them of stealing Stella out the fridge. We've laughed, cried and sweated together – though, on the whole, it was generally the girls that cried and the blokes who sweated. The last fortnight, however, has been equally sweaty across genders as has the dedication to The Chandos on the corner of Saint Martin's Lane and William IV street. Fucking hell, I've had a great time commuting.

This confession of contentment will baffle former colleagues but, as I have always suspected, the grass was indeed greener over the hill. Or, to be more precise, south of Elstree Tunnel.

Naturally this has come at a price. Although I don't have the exact figures at least I have a house. I'd rather the house was situated 50 miles further south then I could sell it for five times the price, move 50 miles further north and be stuck back in Bedford but without the owing the bank quite as much. Perhaps this absurd logic will, one day, allow me to live in Belsize Park .

In the meantime and, I hope, the short-term I am forced towards the dreadful Wyvern House to be humiliated once again, once a fortnight in exchange for bread money.

Incidentally, Belsize Park is the only Underground station with a front garden, though at the moment it is full of scaffolding. This information is provided at no extra cost.

Celebrity pollution

2007-06-09T15:26:00.000+01:00

I don't like the idea of celebrities unless there is a reason to celebrate who they are. QED.

Madonna, for instance, is widely regarded as a hot deal but has done nothing in her career to endear me to her whatsoever. She has an awful thing going on in her nose when she sings - it's not so much a nasal sound; more of a flared-nostril-bogus-conviction that always sounds like she doesn't actually believe a word of the song. And she can't write a couplet without it sounding like it's been beaten in into shape with a club-hammer. Anyway, I managed to avoid her last week when she blocked our road with a film crew, though I suppose Camden council are glad of the revenue, and we as citizens will benefit: the new pavement they laid in Southampton Row last year absorbs up to 70% of air pollution in rush hour which means in summer you can stand in the street and sup ale without choking as the titanium dioxide acts as a catalyst, breaking down nitrogen dioxide gas into nitrates which are then neutralised by the concrete. Pity it can't neutralise Madonna.

Yesterday afternoon whilst having a pint outside The Crown in Bloomsbury we spotted an elderly gentleman with a strong resemblance to Tony Benn, who I'd regard as a significant and somewhat celebratable chap, even if he does like God. In order to satisfy our curiosity and my respect for his privacy I whipped out my Minolta and took one of the poorest photographs I have ever taken.

Tropospheric dip

2007-06-09T12:54:00.000+01:00

I have started to notice that the weather in Bedford is continually worse than that in London. I don't know what is happening in the atmosphere above Elstree Tunnel but when the train emerges from its southern portal a grey sky will often turn blue, the sun will shine and everything is fine and dandy. It happened yesterday. I set off in winter clothes, wondering whether my anti-depressants were working, and then, some forty miles later, I kicked myself in the crotch for not wearing shorts and a T shirt.

One theory (possibly my own) is that the heat of the city makes the air rise and so forth and somehow (I'm not a meteorologist…) pushes the cloud down a tropospheric dip towards the shittier parts of the country. I don't know what would cause the tropospheric dip in the first place but I think there must be one above Elstree Tunnel.

Of course, I'm not saying that London always benefits from fine weather. A few years ago I suddenly found myself in a raging torrent in what had been the Edgware Road a few minutes earlier. The drains had reached capacity in a storm and literally blown the manhole cover out of the road. It took several weeks to repair the damage and forced traffic to be diverted through St John's Wood (I was happy to take the detour but the driver wasn't and later took it out on a Ford Fiesta as we approached Vauxhall Cross). But you have to admire such a storm. We rarely get that sort of drama back home. On this particular occasion Bedford did benefit from finer weather but I'd have to argue that it wasn't nearly as good.

Saturday June 2nd, 2007

2007-06-03T12:00:00.000+01:00

I love the way sunlight illuminates a terracotta chimney against a blue sky. There's something bloody magical about it. This morning was glorious and so I left for the station with the kind of urgency that only occurs on these days. There is a theory that the warmth of the sun shining on your head makes the pineal gland secrete a hormone or something which induces this kind of sensation (I believe it might be one of mine…) but whatever, I am a better person to be around in sunlight.

I inched past the low-life who live outside the chemist in Bromham Road and turned into Conduit Road, as I have done almost daily for the past five years. But yesterday morning the sunlight somehow flattened its perspective and you could have been forgiven for thinking that it was a leafy south London Victorian avenue - maybe in Streatham or Herne Hill. This illusion was maintained until I got to the station which, being in Bedford, wasn't constructed on a brick viaduct and doesn't interchange with much of interest.

The day was reasonably hectic. I abused a series of picture frames (my black frames have started chipping, as predicted) inhaled Spray Mount and got some white cotton gloves covered in graphite powder which was then transfered to a variety of unintended surfaces. I returned a Taste the Difference 'baton' to Sainsburys, the difference being that it had more in common with a small tyre than a small loaf of bread. More positively, I purchased some paper from Falkiners in Southampton Row and got a "take care fella" as opposed to a disgruntled sigh, which is what happens if you dare to shop there without adequate research (for the record I purchased two B1 sheets of a machine made smooth cartridge called Canaletto @ 240gsm).

The early evening light was considered from a bench outside the Ivy House in Southampton Row with a couple of pints of Harvey's which Ed constantly maintains is a travesty of the same pint pulled in Sussex. I appreciate his enthusiasm but Sussex is a long way to go after work and I don't imagine you'd get the added value of a watching a demolition in progress. You certainly wouldn't be able to sit down and have a beer above an abandoned underground tram station or wonder if the Routemaster which just drove over it was painted the correct shade of red.

We condemned stretch limos, hen parties and everything else, and then I took the Northern line up to Budgen's in Belsize Park to buy Greek sausages, after-which I was forced to board the fucking Kindergarten Express back to Bedford. I enjoyed the homeward route through my pretend south London suburb, with a setting sun making silhouettes of the roof furniture, but this pretense was shattered by the appearance of the ghastly Wyvern House on the Bromham Road and a stupid bloke wearing a tracksuit and walking like a dick. It's things like this that remind you that you're home.

Framed

2007-05-20T10:40:00.000+01:00

I went into town again to buy 5 A3 picture frames. The experience is hardly worth a mention except for the fact that my recently Acquired London Assertiveness (ALA) earned me a funny look off the frame woman. They only had four, see, so I enquire, "Have you got five?". She looked at me as if I was someone who had ideas above his station. "No, dear. We can order you one for next Friday if you like?". I decline her offer and instead choose one made from a lighter wood adding that I intend to paint them black anyway. This both earns me another funny look and relieves me of £75. It has since occurred to me that Bedford has an unhealthy number of picture framing facilities.

preface or something

2007-04-28T10:23:00.000+01:00

I have decided to start here. I went into town this afternoon and it was as I expected. I have nothing else to say except I far prefer Holborn, Bloomsbury, Belsize Park, Hampstead, Highgate St John's Wood and some parts of the Finchley Road, though in no particular order. A lot depends on the weather and time of day. I do however live in a part of Bedford which, providing the light is right, can sometimes manifest itself as a north London suburb. There is a good selection of chimney pots and the houses out my window sit at rather odd angles to one another. Sometimes you could be forgiven that Clapham Road leads to SW4, not to a provincial village with a Milton Keynes postcode. So it's not all bad. But there's no tube and the busses are named after planets. I have probably said enough.