Wednesday 6 March 2024

Tea at The Palace (AKA A day in the life of a Cycle Courier)

When I moved up to London in 1988, the whole Acid house scene was moving like a Womble* and as such things were starting to look a little brighter and more alive. I initially moved into a squat just off the Walworth Road. I’d taken an adidas holdall full of clothes (all very Dexy’s), a rusty 40-year-old camp bed and a relatively new Peugeot mountain bike. 

The mountain bike was to be my sole means of income for the first six months. I’d signed up to work for Olympic Couriers (based in Wimbledon) but I was working out of Broadwick Street Soho from the National Magazine Co. offices. The aim was simple - to try and work there until a role in the post room became available. In the meantime, I would be battling against the London traffic, English weather, errant pedestrians and unrealistic expectations. 


NB: At that time being a cycle courier in London had the second shortest life expectancy (out of wartime) of any UK job occupation. North Sea divers being the only ones who were more likely to be rushing through the pearly gates quicker than a sideswiped courier being bounced down Commercial Road.

 

Some days I’d simply be cycling round the West End, dropping various treats to Soho ad agencies, on others I’d be going from Holland Park to Limehouse then up to Hampstead Heath, all for the sake of a pink docket that equated to a still to be determined value. 

 

It was a fantastic way to immerse myself in the city. From Lincoln’s Inn Fields to the wrong end of the Fulham Palace Road, from the foot of Brixton Hill to Suicide Bridge at Archway. My jobs took me all over the place. 

 

Like most workplaces, there was a hierarchy amongst the couriers. Top of the heap were those ‘serious cyclists’ who rode proper Road Bikes (think WIggo on MDMA), they were by far and away the quickest and were ideally suited for work outside of the rabbit warren of West One – especially the long legs out to Canary Wharf or Blackheath or Hammersmith or North Finchley etc. 

 

The next down the pyramid were the Muddy Fox crew, gnarled old/young/indeterminate mountain bikers (invariably White Rastas) attached to ad agencies who never knowingly went the right way up a wrong way street, never stopped at a red light and who could spin their Fox on a Stella bottle top – they knew short cuts that still have yet to be invented. 

 

I was in the third group, accomplished bike riders, unafraid of traffic, relatively fit, working out of a dedicated media company, could read an A-Z and negotiate Oxford Street in the last shopping days before Christmas rush hour. I cycled round, in, and indeed out of the capital for over half a year and survived with barely a scratch. Unlike some of those in strata 4-8… who found the pace of A-Z life somewhat harrowing. 

 

In fact, I was sent on five occasions to pick up a package from a fallen associate, including taking the package from a bloodstained courier bag as the hapless courier was being wheeled into the back of an ambulance in front of Marble Arch. Her sit up and beg shopping bike mangled into the shape of a rather brutalist Jean Tinguely tribute, propped up against a post box.

 

Nearing the end of my time (that job in the post room had actually materialised) I arrived in the office (just off Carnaby Street, pop pickers!) having collected the Red Star parcels from Kings Cross (just like every other morning). Chris, the slim controller asked me matter of factly if I wanted to go to ‘Buck House’. I shrugged my shoulders. He repeated ‘Buck House, you know on The Mall’. I wracked my brain but for the life of me I couldn’t think of a single pub on The Mall, let alone one called Buck House!

 

Chris stared in disbelief; “Buckingham Palace!”.

“Oh, of course”…

 

It was a wait & return job (the holy grail in the courier universe at that time). I’d picked up a fair bit of experience and was comfortable taking the most direct routes (wrong way up one-way streets, pavement riding, step gliding and general rule bending). Anyway, I got the wait & return docket and headed to the heart of the British Empire, resplendent in my relatively new ‘I am Kurious Oranj’ t-shirt, battered black cycling leggings and new batteries in my Sony Walkman. 

 

Down through Golden Square, by the back of the Café Royal, Piccadilly, Haymarket, Charles II St, across Pall Mall, Waterloo Place, Duke of York monument, down the steps, between the ICA and The Royal Society and swing right up The Mall and heading towards Buckingham Fucking Palace (BFP) – all soundtracked by the JTQ (James Taylor Quartet). Full speed ahead, swung round the Victoria Memorial and straight to the front gate. 

 

I’ll be honest and fully confess that I was expecting to be sent round the back to the tradesman’s entrance. Much to my complete surprise the rather ruddy faced ‘Bobby’ at the front gates (straight out of Ealing Comedy Central Casting) pointed at a door at the right end (as the hoi polloi look) of the main façade. “Just go to that door over there, sonny”. The Jim was left off, shame.

 

Somewhat in disbelief, I got back on my bike and cycled directly over to the door, some 10 metres from where an Irish Guard in full bearskin and red tunic etc stood. I managed to throw in a small skid, sending a little gravel across the red footway – no reaction! I looked for a bike rack – no bike rack! I looked round and decided to simply prop my bike against the front of the Palace. I thought about locking it and then asked the guard if he wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on it for me instead – no response! 

 

Before taking that fateful first step into BFP, I looked back and noticed quite a large posse of Japanese tourists (I recognised the ubiquitous JAL shoulder bag), loitering in front of the black & gold railings. 

 

To be honest, in my teenage dreams*** I had imagined my first step into the Palace would have been proceeded by weeks of armed insurrection, volleys of rifle fire and a close brush or two with HMQ’s finest. I certainly didn’t expect after my second step to be greeted by a rather effete equerry in a grey coat welcoming me into the inner sanctum (5 times removed). 

 

I handed over the envelope, FAO Princess Margaret (wait & return). I was then ushered into a plush room (all gold, white, beige & fawn) and offered a cup of tea. To which of course the appropriate response was, “Yes please”. The follow up question I didn’t expect. “Would you prefer Assam, Earl Grey, Darjeeling, Lapsang Souchong or English Breakfast?”. I went with the first one offered. 

 

It arrived in the finest bone China cup & saucer with a small plate of biscuits too. I was living like a prince (without the attendant paparazzi civil list salary and impending sexual scandals). I checked the three clocks in the room, they all told the same time (tick). 10 minutes passed, the longer this lasted the better, the joy of wait and return (tick). 

 

I scanned the paintings on the walls, some rather drab Scottish landscapes, dull washed-out skylines and rather angular looking horses parading before the gallops at some 19th Century point to point. Odd vases and ashtrays covered the numerous wooden tables around the edge of the room. The various soft chairs scattered around the room were not quite pristine but… hey, for a couriers waiting room they were good enough. 

 

After 20 more minutes, I asked if I could use (and this is where I hesitated) the… er um WC? Toilet? Lavatory? Khazi? Bog? Shit-house? Loo?... I settled on Rest Room. Equerry no.4 (there had been a steady stream of virtually identical ‘chaps’), directed me to the Royal “Facility”. I was reminded of The Beatles sneaking a joint in one of the Palace bathrooms before receiving their OBE’s. Could this be the same? Most probably not but then again… the courier never knows… Cue unnecessary Beatles toilet puns**

 

Once I’d finished my ablutions, I returned to the waiting room, only to be informed by Eq.#3 that it shouldn’t be much longer to wait and to be asked if I needed anything? No, thank you. Sure enough 15 minutes later, Eq #2 flounced into the room and presented a fresh gold embossed envelope atop a silver tray, addressed for the attention of ‘Editor of Good Housekeeping’ magazine. I pouched the envelope, took a final look around the waiting room, said thank you to the Eq’s 1,2 ,3 & 4 and headed for the door. 

 

The sun had broken through the, by now, ragged clouds. My bike was exactly where I’d left it. I hopped on, thanked the Irish Guard – no response! And pushed off the wall, heading back to where I’d come in. It was only then that I noticed a phalanx of Sony video cameras capturing my exit. What on earth would those flocking outside BFP have made of: 

a) an unattended mountain bike propped up against the front of the palace? 

b) A cycle courier in a The Fall t-shirt, sprinting away from an Irish Guard on what must only be ‘The Royal Mountain Bike’****

 

I naturally took the opportunity to ride no-handed***** and still wonder if the Japanese travellers look back at their old shaky video footage in their old people’s home in Osaka and chuckle at the Crazy Gaijin on the “Royal Mountain Bike”, all those years ago. I suspect not. 

 

 

Ends

 

 

Sidebar Notes

 

*  - Underground > Overground if you really needed to ask. 

 

**  - Beatles Puns - Happiness is a warm bum, Being for the benefit of Mr Shite, Day Crapper, Drippy, drippy shake! I want to wash my hands, Norwegian Log (This turd has flown))…. Etc etc. Any complaints, please send to Private Eye Magazine.

 

***  - The more revolutionary rather than obvious teenage dreams (#sohardtobeat).

 

****  - The first Royal Mountain bike was originally designed by the Duke of Wellington during his final few years when he lived in Walmer Castle in Kent. The iron design was sadly not completed before his death. 

 

However, the design was bequeathed to Queen Victoria and she arranged for it to be built in the Iron Duke’s honour by Royal Jack-of-all-Trades Sir Humbert Raleigh (illegitimate descendent of Sir Walter). Sir Humbert’s first working model was built 1:3 and as such the Queen could not fit on the bike. She was not amused. 

 

Sir Humbert was banished to Nottingham and not welcomed back to court until he had manufactured a 1:1 version – with a ludicrously wide seat to accommodate a broader rider. He painted the bike a traditional Nottingham Green, unfortunately due to a chemical reaction upon contact with the iron frame, the light green turned a match darker hue. The final effect was quite striking and is widely thought to be the inspiration for British Racing Green. 

 

No contemporary record survives of how often Victoria rode the Duke’s contraption. However, the original bike is still on display in the Royal Cycling Squadron’s Archive, which is round the back of The Wheatsheaf, Cuckfield Sussex. (Open Bank Holidays Only – Knock three ties and ask for Cedric the Polisher). 

 

Sir Humbert has often been accused of stealing the design for his own benefit but this, like so much of this sidebar is open to debate. 


****  - My record no-handed ride was from Broadwick Street Soho to The Oval. A tidal wave of green lights and exceptionally light traffic aided this remarkable feat. The Guinness Book of Records were not contacted. 

 

Ends

Wednesday 14 February 2024

And then a silence fell (for Judy Page)

And then a silence fell...

no more walks with Turner 

on the banks of the Thames

no more talks of Shakespeare

where the old river bends

 

and then a silence fell...

no more strolls to the station

for the slow London Line

no more drives to the country

through the backstreets of time

 

and then a silence fell...

no more flights to the old haunts

on BA 65

no more cats at the back door

they have said their goodbyes

 

and then a silence fell...

no more talk of the sixties

“you should have been there”

no more trips to the West End

that immaculate hair!

 

and then a silence fell...

no more orangeade sunshine

or trips to the beach

no more glimpses of young you

on a warm Chelsea street

 

and then a silence fell...

no more Sax on the jukebox

or a Sunday lunch pub

No more phone calls from midnight

from a Soho Jazz Club

 

and then a silence fell...

no more sharing the legend

of the family passed

no more tales of soft shadows

or any questions to ask

 

and then a silence fell...

no more gentle reminders

of the best thing to do

no more gracious, nor precious

nor lovely than you.

 

And although a silence fell...

These sweet memories live on for ever

A.Franks

Saturday 20 January 2024

Monday 1 January 2024

Cºuntrycide

 


The soundtrack to the demise of the UK

Released on Bandcamp 01/01/2024
To be released on Spotify & iTunes on 31/01/2024

Friday 22 December 2023

There is some good music out there... 49 Albums of 2023

 

A Certain Ratio1982
BenefitsNails
Billy SullivanPaper Dreams
BlurThe Ballad Of Darren (Deluxe)
Creation RebelHostile Environment
CTMFFailure Not Success
Dave RowntreeRadio Songs
DexysThe Feminine Divine
Duncan Reid and the Big HeadsAnd It's Goodbye From Him
Everything But the GirlFuse
French BoutikCe Je Ne Sais Quoi
Gareth SagerMaelstrom in the Bare Garden
Gaz CoombesTurn The Car Around
Gina BirchI Play My Bass Loud
GorillazCracker Island
Graham Day and The GaolersReflections In the Glass
Holy TongueDeliverance and Spiritual Warfare
Jalen NgondaCome Around and Love Me
Joel StokerThe Undertow (feat. The Rifles)
Johnny MarrSpirit Power: The Best of Johnny Marr
MadnessTheatre of the Absurd presents C'est La Vie
Matt BerrySimplicity
Matt DeightonToday Become Forever
Miles KaneOne Man Band
Nick Cave & Warren EllisAustralian Carnage - Live At The Sydney Opera House
Pete MolinariWondrous Afternoon
PopincourtWe were bound to meet
Public Image Ltd.End of World
Rhoda DakarVersion Girl
Richard HawleyNow Then: The Very Best of Richard Hawley
RogêCuryman
Samory IStrength
Sleaford ModsUK Grim
Small FacesLive At the BBC '65-'68 - Remastered
The BluebellsIn the 21st Century
The CoralSea Of Mirrors
The Evening SonsTracks
The Jack CadesSomething New
The Last SunbathersAlbion Hotel
The LibertinesAll Quiet On The Eastern Esplanade
The Liquorice ExperimentHow Many Lies
The Monochrome SetRadio Sessions (Marc Riley BBC6 Music 2011-2022)
The RoutesReverberation Addict
The Sound of Pop ArtShapes and Shadows
The WAEVEThe WAEVE
The Woodleigh Research FacilityPhonox Nights
Thee HeadcoatsIrregularis (The Great Hiatus)
Thomas WalshThe Rest Is History
Wreckless EricLeisureland

Thursday 21 December 2023

Who’s been sleeping in my head?


I returned back to the world last night

And someone had stolen my dreams

I’d left them alone with 

my keys and my phone

yes someone has stolen my dreams

 

the truth’s been lined up against the wall again

and honesty’s been shot in the back

she’s been left to die

like a random drive by

yes honesty’s been shot in the back

 

Insanity is rampant and hatred’s in vogue

The future’s been strangled at birth

with no golden days

just the sun’s final rays 

yes future’s been strangled at birth

 

Wisdom’s been banished and empathy vanished

and the yellow brick road has been sold

to a small group of men

who’ll no doubt sell it again

yes the yellow brick road has been sold

 

I switched on a screen and wanted to scream

whilst watching the whole thing implode

but no bang or whimper

there was barely a simper

when watching the whole thing implode

 

A friend slid off the earth today

Hardly anybody noticed he’d gone...

Wednesday 20 December 2023

Return of the Magpie…


Following on from my previous ADHD related article Ooh look! There’s a Magpie and the generous feedback I received, I thought I’d explore more Filter Off writing with the intention to demonstrate the persistent nature of this gentle hysteria... 

FILTER OFF. I am so tired, crushingly tired. Fucking alarms going off all around the office. Shut the buggery up. Why are all these people shouting and talking such utter bollocks. It is doing my head in. The person next to me SHOUTS all the time. FILTER ON. I’m tired today, the office can be a slight struggle sometimes. FILTER OFF. I am drifting through the day. I should – STOP SHOUTING – really get on with work. Had to pause for a minute to keep my mood placid. 15 people in the same space all scrabbling for attention. We’ll all be out of work soon, unless we change things quickly. Should I go out and get some more Sushi. Or toast or both. Or go on a diet. Need to learn to type quicker to even hang on to the coat tails of my rapidly dissolving thoughts…. Crap mixed metaphor. 

 

Managed to go 4 seconds without accelerating downhill again. FILTER ON. And breathe. FILTER OFF. I wonder if this is a heart attack or a panic attack or an anxiety event or simply just another day in a shouty (Shouty McShoutyface) office. Sunak is up against it but he’ll weasel his way out. The Covid enquiry could be so much more. Do you remember watching the Buzzcocks on top of the pops? I loved their Mondrian style shirts. It is one L and two P’s. It is quite fascinating to observe these thoughts spinning off into the darkness of my imagination. Like Catherine Wheels loosely nailed to the garden fence, spinning off into the compost heap. I liked Langney Green, hopping over the wall to cut off the crucial 8 yards. [Stopped to check my WhatsApp, Instagram and FB accounts – Only one person liked my Harry Crosby tribute]. One of my favourite jokes is as follows. “The Leader of The Pedants’ Revolt – Which Tyler!” Now, don’t make me explain it… I remember hanging out of a window - I am Mersault, all Gitanes and Calvados FILTER ON. Mersault is the lead character in Camus' The Outsider.

 

I’ve given myself permission to ‘think quieter’ for the next 10 minutes. Might go for a walk around the block. FILTER OFF. Well, that didn’t happen. Instead, I explored the ‘Sound is Colour’ website and nearly bought two sweatshirts and a T-shirt! Also discovered that Nick Cave is doing a solo gig in the State Theatre Sydney, must must must get tickets for that… Ooh look! There’s a Magpie!!

 

There is a picture of a bug-eyed marsupial (A Northern Quoll apparently) staring down from above…. It is hot in Sydney today. Sweaty, a fuck I’m hot but prefer it to cold sort of day. Been thinking about the outfits that the mini drivers in The Italian Job wore (inspired by a picture of The Prisoners in similar outfits for their recent Roundhouse warm up gig in Herne Bay). I’ve just realised I have barely spoken at all since being in the office. FILTER ON. Just had 15-minute work conversation – professional/focussed. FILTER OFF. I can’t work out whether to play my Telecaster or Rickenbacker when overdubbing new songs at studio on Friday. World Peace… that ain’t ever happening. Next year is the Year of the Dragon or so the Chinese printers tell me. San Pellegrino bottle collection growing on my desk. I despise Boris Johnson more than anyone I can recall. How did people fall for this arrogant little twerp? Chelsea are doing very badly indeed. Not much longer for Pochettino… God I need to lose weight. FILTER ON. I’ll stop this here and now as it is rather exhausting, and I can see the look on your sad and tired faces… 


Ooh look! There’s a Magpie!!!

Tuesday 19 December 2023

Albums no self-respecting gentlemen should own #20 – Simply Red – Stars

Stars is the fourth album by British-based pop/soul/jazz/neo-bland band Simply Red, released in September 1991. Five singles were released from the album, including the UK top ten hits "Stars", “Ronnie the Ponce”, “Dogging” and "For Your Babies". The album was a worldwide success, particularly in the band's home country where it has been certified twelve times platinum and was the best-selling album of the year in the UK for both 1991 and 1992, the first album to be the best-seller in two consecutive years since Simon & Garfunkel's Bridge over Troubled Water in 1970–71. 

Stars comes with a medical warning for those who suffer from diabetes. Due to the unhealthy levels of sugar-coated sludge pop, caution is advised. 

Mick ‘Chuffy’ Hucknall was the lead singer in The Frantic Elevators and to be quite honest, that is where he should have stayed. He allegedly attended the famous Sex Pistols gigs at the Free Trade Hall, Manchester – so heaven knows why he would turn out such banal musings. But then again, Oswald Moseley was originally a member of the Labour Party and look where he ended up!

Esme Scapegoat

Monday 18 December 2023

Albums no self-respecting gentlemen should own #19 – Queen – Greatest hits

Greatest Hits is a pisspoor compilation album by the British pomp rock band Queen, released worldwide on 26 October 1981. The album consisted of Queen's biggest hits since their first chart appearance in 1974 with "Seven Seas of Rhye", up to their 1980 hit "Flash".

The track list varied from country to country but no matter what the combination was it still sounded like pompous codswallop. Tracks inevitably included: ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’, which was voted the worst British song of all time in The British Magazine’s Music Awards 2021.

The top 10 worst British songs of all time, as voted for by The British Magazine’s readership.

1.     Bohemian Rhapsody – Queen

2.     Stairway to Heaven – Led Zeppelin

3.     Candle in the Wind (1997) – Elton John

4.     Floral Dance/Tomorrow belongs to us – Nigel Farage & the East Thanet Eagle Battalion

5.     Every breath you take – The Police (aka The Pseuds)

6.     Leo Sayer – One Man Band

7.     Adele – Skyfall

8.     Greensleeves (trad.) – Performed by The Nick Griffin Oak Leaf Regiment

9.     Imagine – John Lennon

10.  Careless Whisper – George Michael

Jack Nash

Sunday 17 December 2023

Albums no self-respecting gentlemen should own #18 – Mike Oldfield - Tubular Bells

Tubular Bells is the debut studio album by the British musician Mike Oldfield, released on 25 May 1973 as the first album on Virgin Records. It comprises two mostly instrumental tracks. Oldfield, who was 19 years old when it was recorded, played almost all the instruments, apart from the Tobago Harp which was played by Ronnie Omelettes (who later found fame as a housing officer in South-East London).

Tubular Bells initially sold unsurprisingly slowly, but gained worldwide attention in December 1973 when its opening theme was used for the soundtrack to the horror film The Exorcist. This led to a surge in sales which increased Oldfield's profile and played an important part in the growth of the Virgin Group, owned by bucktoothed hippy dilettante Dickie Branson.

Tuberculosis Bells stayed in the top ten of the UK Albums Chart for one year from March 1974, during which it reached number one for one week. It reached number three on the US Billboard 200, and number one in Canada, Australia and Myanmar. It has sold more than 2.7 million copies in the UK and an estimated 15 million copies worldwide (It should be noted that only 11 million people voted for the Nazis in 1932).

15 million copies – God give me strength. 

 

Barry Wildcherry

Saturday 16 December 2023

Albums no self-respecting gentlemen should own #17 – The Killers – Hot Fuss

Hot Fuss is the debut studio album by American rock band the Killers, released on June 7, 2004, in the United Kingdom and on June 15, 2004, in the United States by Island Records. Though why they bothered to split the release dates at all is unknown – most probably some marketing department bullshit. The album's music is mostly influenced by new wave and post-punk – yeah right! Hot Fuss spawned four commercially successful singles: "Mr. Brightside", "Somebody Told Me something about Grouty", "All These Things That I've Done Mr Mackay", “The Hustler”, “Prisoner and Escort” and "Smile Like You Mean It You Nerk".

The album reached number seven on the Billboard 200 and number one on the UK Albums Chart. As of December 2012, Hot Fuss had sold more than seven million copies worldwide, including more than three million in the United States and more than two million in the United Kingdom. It has also been certified platinum or multi-platinum in Australia, Canada, Ireland, and New Zealand. The album and its first three singles went on to garner five Grammy Award nominations.

Lead singer and songwriter Barry Spud was asked whether he was in any way influenced by 70’s UK sitcom ‘Porridge’. Spud threatened the journalist with a punch up the bracket before flouncing out in the manner of Christopher Biggins’ character Lukewarm in the aforementioned series. The band’s PR Agency Benny Willoughby & Binky Drummond Press Associates later issued the following statement.

‘Following an outrageous assertion by discredited journalist Bunny Warren. Barry Spud denies any knowledge of Porridge, 1970’s, Sitcoms or the UK. Furthermore, the statement declared that Mr Spud’s parole hearing is less than a week away, Godber had a fight with football hooligan Jarvis, and Fletch realising that he will have to risk solitary confinement and loss of his own remission to help Godber. Meanwhile, Fletch is suspicious of his daughter's holiday plans.’

"Mr. Brightside" is the most tedious go to cover by the numerous cover bands that are sucking the life out of the current live music scene. It is a remarkably non-descript tune and why people get so worked up about a piss-weak tune like this is beyond me.

 

The Killers are the Robbie Savage of post-pop drivel. 

 

 Johnny Langney

Friday 15 December 2023

Albums no self-respecting gentlemen should own #16 – The Cure - Pornography

Pornography is the fourth studio album by English gothic rock band the Cure, released on 4 May 1982by Fiction Records. Preceded by the non-album single "Charlotte Sometimes", it was the band's first album with new producer Phil Thornalleyalleyalleyoop, and was recorded at RAK Studios from January to April 1982. 

The sessions saw the band on the brink of collapse, with heavy drug use, band in-fighting, and front man Robert Smith's depression fuelling the album's musical and lyrical content. Pornography represents the conclusion of the Cure's early dark, gloomy musical phase, which began with their second album Seventeen Seconds (1980). 

Following its release, bassist Simon Gallup left the band, and the Cure switched to a much brighter and more radio-friendly new wave sound – the sell outs. Although it was poorly received by critics at the time of release and regarded as a load of pretentious twaddle, Pornography was the Cure's most popular album to date, reaching number eight on the UK Albums Chart. It has since gone on to gain acclaim from critics, and is now considered an important milestone in the development of the turgid style of music known as gothic rock.

It is the most tedious long-playing record ever made.

Barry Wildcherry