Kodokushi

                Daylight vanishing

the kitchen floor needs a wash…

Ah, that’s where the butter knife got to.

I really must fix the light in the fridge

when I get a chance.

 

Was it crispbread or was it Ryvita? 

The stuff that gets stuck in the teeth and roughs up the tongue. 

 

                Moonlight enters

I reckon I can make it 

to the bathroom – if

I pace myself

when I get a chance.

 

A multi-coloured ice lolly. 

Dripping down wooden stick onto small tanned hand, in shade of Princes Park Cafeteria.

 

                Backlit

a quiet life

betrayal, exhaustion

another misstep

will I get a chance.

 

I was supposed to meet you. 

By Eros, Piccadilly and I forgot, you’d travelled up from Shrewsbury especially.

 

                Neon bounces off

Rain clouds in distance

Night temperature falls

Traffic fades

I never stood a chance. 

1234!

Click for 1234!

 

A new EP release from Soul Bay Recording Ltd artists - The Last Sunbathers

White Lines (Football & Cocaine) #1

Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way... Oh what fun it is to see Chelsea win away... 

In the beginning they were simple days. Hop on an inter city train early am, stock up on beers from the blessed buffet (have I mentioned their toast before?), sit back in a compartment or stretch out across 8 seats to talk through prospects for the game, prospects for the season, prospects for the night out in town after the game and what excuse we could make to get out of our Sunday League fixture tomorrow.  

We weren't the Wrecking Crew, Old Town Tooled up Mob, Bunch of Nutters, Beachy Headcases, South Coast Psycho Gang, The Crumbles Rumble Squad or even The Sussex Naughty Boys! We were simply loyal supporters on our way to see our team (albeit in 'enemy territory'). 

Truth be told thought, we were just out for a pie, a pint & hopefully 3 points! And remarkably we carried on like this for a few years, a little rowdy now and then (especially the time we headed up to Old Trafford under the guise of Jaap Stamm's Transit Van Gang) but we never threw a punch or copped a hiding. 

Not even the time a Man City crew attached themselves to our party and offered to show us round Manchester... that was a close call! 

However, it all went smoothly until Mr White joined our happily little band of travellers.

He started turning up to the bigger games (notably a Cup Semi-final at Villa Park). He'd loiter at the back of the Executive mini-bus, hang around in Inter-City toilets and leave powder traces in the stadium bogs. After these trips, the chaps started to get a little more intense, a little lary (if you will), a little more wankerish. Small schisms would appear. 

The cost of a match day was getting steep... Ticket, Tube, Train, Beers, Food, Charlie, Taxi's to & from the ground, more food, more beers, more Charlie... Looking at the wrong end of £500 just to go and watch a 1-1 draw at Middlesborough! 

And then things got a little tastier - We started going to Europe! 

Tbc...

The day democracy died

Martin Webster (NF) and young friend...

Here they come, walking down the street, getting the funniest looks from everyone they meet. Hey! Hey! They're the Fascists!

Between writing the article below and publishing it... the following has occurred.

France votes for a Nazi Party ☀︎ The American Supreme Court votes for Presidential Dictatorship ☀︎ The festering presence of Faragist Fascists looms large ☀︎ The European Project virtually concedes defeat ☀︎ Democracy sidelined...

Like many others; Be they political pundits, commentators, vloggers, bloggers, YouTubers, the man on the street or the woman in the board room, I have fallen into the trap – The Farage Trap.

I have dismissed Nigel Farage as a rather grubby little racist, a part-time Hitler, a Poundland Powell or even re-imagined him as a 21^st Century Sir Roderick Spode! And, in my defence, it was fine to do so whilst he continued to merely snipe from the sidelines like the bullies little buddy that he so often seemed to be (the Richard Hammond of Politics, in fact). 

However, the time for the piss-taking and milkshake throwing should stop (no matter how amusing it might have been at the beginning). He is a very dangerous individual and his quasi-patriotic schtick is a neat distraction from the very sinister ideas he leaks into mainstream political discourse (Southern Water must marvel at his ability to seamlessly pollute the water with his bigotry suffused effluent and yet there is barely a condemning word from the ghouls of Fleet Street - in fact a couple of the TV groupies seem to be getting a tad moist at his ability to 'command an audience').

He is not a character, nor is he a jovial little Englander. Neither is he really “speaking out for true Britons” or speaking for the outsiders. He is a public school educated, banker, who cheats at Golf (as numerous witnesses at West Kent Golf Club will attest), had a long-standing affair with a political aide (according to Daily Mail) and his murky flirtation with the National Front in his youth still lurks in the unwritten truth of his life story. 

Stop the NF - Nigel Faragists!

Anyway. This isn’t about name-calling. Those days are gone. This is about fighting for the future. We must not allow them a foothold. Current polling predicts that Reform UK will win possibly 7 seats. We have a clear example from the past where we can see the impact of tiny parties on the edges of the conversation growing rapidly to take overall control.

Year	Total votes	Vote %	Seats %	Seats Won	House Total
1928	810,127	2.63%	2.44%	12	491
1930	6,379,672	18.25%	18.54%	107	577
1932	13,745,680	37.27%	37.83%	230	608
1932	11,737,021	33.09%	33.56%	196	584
1933	17,277,180	43.91%	44.51%	288	647
1933	39,655,224	92.11%	100.00%	661	661
1936	44,462,458	98.80%	100.00%	741	741
1938	44,451,092	99.08%	100.00%	813	813

So, we do not have an option. We must confront this threat at every turn. Through the power of our imagination, the force of our arguments and our commitment to building a brighter, better, more inclusive and vibrant country. We must not let the Faragists take a single step more towards power.  

A trip to Number 10 (AKA A day in the life of a Cycle Courier #2)

I’d been riding the obscene streets of Soho (and surrounding environs) for around 5 months and Christmas was approaching like a Routemaster in a cycle lane. The good offices of the National Magazine Company were spreading vast amounts of Christmas cheer and it was an excellent time to be working out of Broadwick Street. A torrent of work, delivering numerous Christmas cards, chichi tat and well wrapped (and securely Sellotaped) bottles of Le Plonk du Jour from early morning to early evening. 

By now I was suitably ride-fit to be able to cover 60-90 miles a day and still stop off at the John Snow Pub* to demolish a couple of pints of Stella Artois before meandering via Piccadilly, Trafalgar Sq, Whitehall, Westminster (complete with the Westminster Bridge sprint), Albert Embankment, Vauxhall, The Oval, Brixton, Shower, Kitchen, Fridge, Lager…. Sleep. Repeat ad nauseam… 

 

As the day-by-day calendar pages tore towards Christmas Day, a number of couriers decided that they had made their money for the month and started to pick & choose which days to work. I wasn’t in that space, in fact, the more pink dockets, the more likely I’d be able to make it down to Eastbourne for Christmas with at least a couple of presents. 

 

So, whilst others started to embrace the festive season, I was splashing through oil covered puddles, jumping onto/off of pavements, sliding round Hyde Park Corner, hopping on the Circle Line (you could take bikes then), hacking my way up to Hampstead Garden Suburb and generally skidding round inner London. The major problem was the tourists who hadn’t worked out which way traffic came from and the part-time drinkers who hadn’t worked out how not to step into the road. 

 

Everyone finally made it to Christmas Eve and I was all set to clock off around 4:30pm when the Slim Controllerä popped his head through the courier room hatch and said “Andy, 3 jobs for you in Westminster… all on your way home”. Fantastic, other than getting a delivery to my own home, this was the next best thing. 

 

I popped the envelopes into my fluorescent Guardian Bag, bade farewell and Merry Christmas to the assorted post-room characters (inc. Chris the Slim Controllerä, Eddie Schwindling & Crazy Dave (who used to ride the Wheel of Death down at Southend wearing a white tuxedo and holding a red rose between his teeth - allegedly)). 

 

With the sound of ring pulls being pulled and general guffaws echoing down the stairs. I slipped into reception and out into Soho. My bike was (as always) locked onto a parking zone sign. No flats, lights on and soon rolling through the pedestrians only (NO BIKES) epicentre of faux-Mod culture – Carnaby Street (#NOTwhatitusedtotbe). The ride down was suitably uneventful, nearly took out a pensioner stepping off the pavement outside the Café Royal, avoided a Financial Times liveried London Taxi and swore at a white van (with a St Georges Cross – even then a tell-tale sign) who got a little too close to the kerb (let alone me).

 

However, once I’d nipped over Trafalgar Square, memories of the mass CND march that culminated in The Pop Group playing ‘Jerusalem’ underneath Nelson’s malignant gaze filling my head, I was on Whitehall and heading to 10 Downing Street.

 

10 Downing Street, the real seat of power. 10 Downing Street, the head of the British Government. 10 Downing Street, where there be monsters. 10 Downing Street, Thatcher’s Den! 

 

The Cenotaph twinkled in the damp night, illuminated by small spotlights, traffic reflections and the dull tangerine low glow of GLC street lighting. A couple of London life-stained bouquets of by now black paper poppies clung to the base of the memorial of those who served (and died). I swooped in front of a couple of red (Khaki under this light) buses and mounted the pavement. 

 

As per my earlier journey to Buck House, I fully expected to be redirected to a postal out-house, where they could examine the contents of my incendiary Christmas cards (at least that’s what I always assumed they were). But no! A cursory glance from Constable Bootboy (at least that’s what I had always assumed that Met PC’s were called) and I was told to leave my bike against a wall near the gate** and to simply walk up and knock on the door.

 

Knowing not to bother to ask him to keep an eye on my bike (see Tea at the Palace), all would be well under the alert gaze of Inspector Bastard and his trusted crew of belligerent psychopaths. So, I set off down the street, my by now rather squelchy and knackered old black 10-hole DM’s*** making barely a sound. 

 

I had expected a policeman at the door of no. 10 but no. So, I reached out but before I had had time to tap out ‘The Red Flag’ on the door, it swung open. I was greeted by a suited chap, in a rather ill-fitting suit.

 

“I’ve got a delivery for the Prime Minister”

“Thank you. I’m authorised to take that”

“Can you sign my docket please?”

“Ok”

“Do you also take deliveries for Number 11?”

“Yes”

 

And with that I stepped forward half in/half out, one foot on the doormat and saw the black and white chequered floor… I handed over the two envelopes. 

One was marked for the attention of: The Right Honourable Prime Minister of the United Kingdom and Northern Ireland Mrs Margaret Thatcher, 10 Downing Street. The other marked for the attention of: Mrs Geoffrey Howe, 11 Downing Street, London INNIT!

 

The chap in the ill-fitting suit, signed and handed back the dockets. I thanked him and glanced back into the hallway. Bodies were flying everywhere, trying desperately hard to look double busy, lest a member of the voting public (i.e. me) questioned their diligence. And to think that, if I’d been doing the job some 30 years later during lockdown, I’d be met with a chink of glasses and a prat in a party hat! 

 

I stepped back and the door closed effortlessly behind me… 2 down and only one more delivery to go before. I checked it was still safe and it was. The neat calligraphy, the expensive vellum envelope and the hackle raising name… the Rt Hon. Edwina Currie, all still in place. 

 

Confession time – I cannot deny that the temptation to meddle with all three of the envelopes, once they’d been handed to me, was immense. However, the desire to get the job done and get home was even greater. Also, I wasn’t entirely sure that a homemade Sarin attack was really practical, sensible or even ‘fair’. Whilst the moral dilemma rattled round and round inside my head (like ‘Crazy Dave’ on the Kursaal Wheel of Death). 

 

I crossed Whitehall and slipped into the Parliament Grounds. I was directed to Incoming Goods’. PC Jobsworth greeted me with unconcealed distain – at last a copper one could take an immediate dislike to. We were both back on familiar territory. I proffered the envelope and he took a step back. “We can’t take any deliveries unless it has been scanned”. He explained. “and…. scanning is only open Monday to Friday 10am-4pm”. He smirked.

 

“Well, what should I do?”. I asked rather meekly.

“I dunno. Take it to the Post Office?”

I looked at the clock on the wall behind the very slappable face of PC Jobsworth. No self-respecting Post Office would be open at 6:40pm, at Christmas Time, on a Friday, with rainclouds gathering overhead, under this administration, at the height of Old Ma Thatch’s evil regime… I thought to myself.

 

“Oh well, fuck it”. I responded with all the maturity I could muster. I slung the envelope back in my bag, slung the bag over my shoulder, slung my bike back around, slung myself on the saddle and slung my hook… Back to Broadwick St, all locked up. Apart from a very miserable security guard. 

The guard (Charlie? Charlie something… Himmler? Maybe not) reluctantly opened up and I asked him to sign for the envelope. He looked and pointed out that he wasn’t farkin’ Edwina farkin’ Currie. You couldn’t fault his logic – unlike his dress sense, haircut, body odour and extreme politics, all of which were grotesque and could be very harshly questioned. But his logic, in this instance was spot on. He would never be mistaken for being farkin’ Edwina farkin’ Currie!

 

Anyway, after 2 minutes of one-way (the wrong way) banter, Charlie (Chuckles? Von Bismark? Bormann? – it’ll come to me) finally signed the chit and I headed back out of the building.

 

I stood under the Carnabition Lights and wondered if the girl from Cosmo was still in the pub with the rest of the fashion desk. I went to tuck the pink slip away and only then noticed the signature ‘Edwina farkin’ Currie’!

 

I smiled to myself, at the same time as vowing revenge… the West End lights flickered again in the Soho rain puddles, the lost voice of Malcolm Owen echoed in my head…

 

“Lights are burning red and white
Lost on an island in the night
Rescue me or here I'll stay
A traffic island castaway…
…Out in the dark and on my own (shine on me)
I'm stranded here with no way home (shine on me)”.****

 

Back on my bike, my legs push again… Merry farkin’ Christmas!

 

 

Ends

 

 

*The John Snow was named after the renowned English Physician who made the link between a particular public water pump and a Cholera outbreak in that there trendy Soho. The particular pump was in Broad Street (latterly Broadwick Street) and the John Snow pub was located on the self-same corner.  

 

I was initially drawn to the John Snow because I had hoped it was in honour of the finest fast bowler Sussex & England has ever seen (Ok, maybe The Burnley Lara, aka Mr Jimmy Anderson, aka Timmy Banderson - #tailendersoftheworlduniteandtakeover) has a decent claim to be above him. Nobody else though, nobody else.). 

 

Anyway, it was my pub of choice for the first couple of years working in that there trendy Soho. Until Samuel Smith brewers took it over and shattered the lugubrious/down at heel ambience that we revelled in. The appearance of their rather ghastly Alpine Lager very swiftly led to a migration to The Old Coffee House (and that is a whole different story/history/blog/podcast/TV Series/Netflix Special).

 

** The gate at the opening to Downing St was a relatively new thing. Because I distinctly remember previously strolling back (well, speeding off my tits to be honest) from the Jazz Rooms at the Wag Club to get the Milk Train, via Whitehall and finding ourselves halfway down Downing St before Constable GBH asked us to turn around and toddle off home. 

 

*** When I first became a courier, I was determined to not allow the job to compromise my style choices. So, first few weeks involved black only cycle gear with occasional band T-shirts slung over the top and Adidas Samba (when they were stylish and not worn by numpty PM’s). However, as nights drew in and rain accompanied the shrinking of daylight, I embraced a more practical dress-code and after a while my DM’s became perfectly adapted to the rough ‘n tumble tarmac action – especially when my breaks stopped working and I rode without brakes for 3 months and only braked by slamming my right foot down. 

 

**** West One (Shine on me) – The Ruts

An ode to Soho (both beautiful and sinister). A top, top tune from a sadly short-lived band, due to the Heroin induced demise of singer Malcom Owen. The rest of the band were Paul Fox (guitar), Segs (Bass) and the incomparable Dave Ruffy (Drums). Gary Barnacle is featured on Sax too. 

 

 

Cricket! Where did it start for me?

I was driving in to work listening to ‘Tailenders’ the rather splendid podcast from the BBC and it reminded me of nothing less than an old JM96* editorial meeting. Lots of genial banter, gentle teasing, obscure reminiscences and overall a genuine love and affection for the game we love – cricket! 

Admittedly this edition of ‘Tailenders’ wasn’t broadcast from the heart of Soho in the corner of Marshall St’s finest pub ‘The Old Coffee House’ and none of the team were (seemingly) downing Holsten Pils like it was going out fashion. But the overall essence was very familiar. 

They were talking on the opening day of the English County Championship season and sharing their excitement at the forthcoming competition. And I was transported back to my own initial introduction to the game, which fired a passion that still burns brightly deep within me. 

It was a Sunday and, in those days, BBC2 would show live broadcasts of the John Player League. The JPL was a 40 over competition with bowling restrictions (8 overs max per bowler and a reduced run up). It was played during the middle of a County Championship fixture and was initially seen as a bit of a hit & giggle affair. However, the thing it had in its favour was that unlike the County Championship it was shown on TV. 

I still remember the moment when the beauty of cricket became apparent. I’d been playing in the garden (football) and came in for a break and found my mum watching a game on the TV. I vaguely knew what cricket was (not least because my Grandad was an avid Surrey supporter) but hadn’t seen it before. 

Cut to Sophia Gardens… the Black & White OB team had set up in Cardiff and were covering a Glamorgan home game (v Somerset, I think – note to self, check Wisden). There was a very stylish man nudging, clipping & stroking the virtually impossible to see ball to all parts of the ground. This man, it transpired was Majid Khan. I was captivated by his mix of elegance, guile and occasional brutality. Compared to the other batsmen who came and went, he just seemed elevated, as though on a higher plane. 

No sooner had the innings finished and I was out into the garage (apparently, we had an old bat there – My Grandad had obviously planted it there for just such an occurrence). My poor Mum then had to serve up an hour’s worth of (what I would later learn to describe as gentle dibby-dobby medium pace) deliveries. I was hooked… 

Over the coming days and weeks of the summer holiday, I devoured every bit of televised cricket I could find, even started reading the newspaper (a big leap in my education apparently) and of course I spent the remaining time learning to bowl and bat courtesy of a Tony Greig cricket skills book.  

I started to learn about the various county teams and whilst Majid Khan was my first hero, Sussex were my team (as they still unequivocally are). Whilst I still liked football, I started to put cricket higher in my affections. 

Little did I know that I would end up playing this bloody game for over 50 years. Nor did I know how frustrating, disappointing, depressing, exhausting, costly (both wealth – Ashes trips don’t pay for themselves nor do Gray Nicolls Scoops - and health – this back, these knees and these crooked fingers) this game would turn out to be. Nor did I realise how wonderful, exhilarating and astonishing this ludicrous sport could be. 

Of course, we are not defined by one single thing we do but the six I hit so far over the midwicket boundary in my last ever knock comes pretty close. It was and I make no apologies, stylish, elegant and brutal – almost as if it had come from the bat of Majid Khan himself! 
And on that immodest note, I can say – the cricket is back and Summer is here! 

If you fancy more of this stuff follow The Jardine Report

English Psychedelic Whimsy #1

Looking out of the back bedroom, 
        beyond the orchard, 
beyond the stream, 
beyond sleep…
A brief glimpse of a fairground - kaleidoscope eyes, 
the world looks better from a candyfloss tree…
as toffee apples slide down the helter-skelter ride
whilst the magpie swoops from the edge of a hedge
a caterpillar train creeps in and out the drains 
and the butterfly leaves float away on the breeze
the gentle soothing feel of grass growing through toes 
an ancient Wurlitzer plays a requiem for the lost Bossa-Nova beat
worn brakes of summer shudder to a halt in a slip road
dead dog hot-dog stands do unfathomable business
fresh tarmac masks the stench of midweek excess
showground elves on a cigarette break, burn holes in the sky
and gold cascades from heaven… 
in a sugar-soaked trance, the liquid light show evocation begins
a flamingo stand’s aloof by the giant teapot 
while poltergeists chatter round the back of the haunted house
the ghost train rumbles round the track (ah-hoo)
delicate little proto-zombies stagger/lurch right/left
numbed goldfish dizzy with the dash swim head-on crash
the tarot fraud hides the truth behind polka dot headscarf
and the freshman in a scarlet tunic disappears in the shifting crowd            
and...

    all the while 
a young child
in the bad room
keeps staring
at the moon
keeps talking 
to the moon
“Where does the rest of you go?”
“Where does the rest of you go?”
“Where does the rest of you go?”
 
The rocking horse in the corner of the cold room, watches the child talking to the moon and says nothing. A Spider waits on the grandfather clock…

…The clock strikes thirteen.

What is it about being English?

What is about being English that sends people (of wherever), in to such a tailspin? Whether it is mealy-mouthed class traitor Lee “3 parties” Anderson and his warped view of that there London/England. Or it is Suella Braverman & Liz Truss and their even more jaundiced perspective of our country, so infected that they find themselves siding with the likes of right-wing boot-boy Stephen Yaxley-Lennon (aka Tommy Robinson (aka Tommy Dick Fingers)). Even the current PM Sunak, talks about our values and inclusivity at the same time as warping non-dom tax regulations to benefit his own family, whilst bemoaning the ‘mob rule’ that he mistakenly believes is spreading all over the country. 

Of course, these rather dim-witted politicians ostensibly talk about Britain, when they are only talking to their English constituents. So much so, that I fully expect Ireland to untie & unite within the next 20 years and Scotland to return a Yes vote for independence (assuming that Keir Starmer’s continued plod towards power remains so relentlessly uninspiring). Leaving slack Ol’England floundering in the wake of its own self-importance.

 

The truth of the matter is: Nobody likes us and we pretend we don’t care, but we bloody well should. The English (and don’t forget I am one – have you seen the blog title?) do have an over-inflated sense of self-importance built on the shifting sands of history. The whole sun never sets on the Empire malarkey has long since evaporated and quite frankly the reparations for crimes committed in the name of the Union Flag have still to be tallied up. 

 

Before launching into one, I should address the British v English thing. I genuinely only know of (or at least recall) a few people who truly identify as British (and they are virtually all arch-royalists or from non-aligned immigrant families), I have never met an Irishman (well maybe a couple of Mega-Oranj Prods), Welshman or Scot (Prods again?!) who declare themselves as British first. Even when corralled together in some hotchpotch sporting allegiance or two (The Lions/Olympics), being a Brit is rarely ever mentioned…

 

But the purpose of this piece is not to rehash the old school leftist view of Britain as being a washed-up colonial construct (even though it is #smileywhiteface). It is more about trying to embrace the reality of being a 21^st Century Englishman and coming to terms with what that actually means.

 

I’m very aware that some of my writing illuminates an England that exists more in old photographs, unsent postcards, the distant embrace of young love, the scratched grooves of long deleted LP’s and discredited movies. My England, the one I inhabit from this distance is sinister, haunted, beautiful, idyllic, pissed, broken, vicious and only 24 hours away. 

 

My England smells of burnt toast, cut grass, creosote and ozone. My England is cold, wet, warm, windy, freezing and has a leaking roof. My England is shuffling in the queue at the post office, hanging out by the off-licence and still waiting for the number 11 bus. My England still thinks it is good at all sports, despite the evidence. 

You get the picture… I could go on forever (and I probably will elsewhere). But I’ll stop and try and keep focussed for the time being. What could the new English really become? The vague reference to Billy Bragg is very appropriate here because his book ‘The Progressive Patriot’ has led me to reappraise what being English could be. 

 

For those unfamiliar with his book, apart from being part autobiographical Bragg explores the impact of the Magna Cart, the People’s Charter, Civil War, the Second World War, the Miners’ Strike on the national consciousness. He also grapples with what it means to be a patriot in a country where (at the time he wrote the book) the BNP were running in General Elections. And now, given the invidious nature of the Savile Row besuited bigots (Anderson, Tyce, Farage etc.) the question is even more relevant. 

 

How can I be proud of my country when we continue to churn out a bunch of repugnant racists who are getting more and more airtime from their odious right-wing media paymasters? How can I be proud of my country when an increasing number of my fellow countrymen are seemingly hellbent on out-doing the mad dog MAGA mob of the US with the wildest of conspiracy theories.

 

It is a major challenge and one that I feel ill-equipped to confront head on. That being said, I’ll be jiggered if I’m simply going to stand back and hand over the country of my birth to those members of society whose crazed claims and warped world view makes us seem positively rabid. England isn’t as bad as everyone thinks… but it could well get worse. 

But how can we make it better, without more bloodshed, an armed uprising or hiding in a small hut somewhere in the Lake District. Firstly, we need to be honest with each other and perhaps more importantly with ourselves. For too long the myth has dominated the reality and we cannot head somewhere new if we don’t know where exactly we are heading from. A journey cannot end without there having been a start point! 

 

So, time for honesty. And that leads us to the second thing, we must confront the bullshit wherever and whenever we see it. For example, the neo-liberals who seem to have grasped the steering wheel profess to hate the nanny state. And yet, these bastards have got an uncanny way of trying to get involved in absolutely everybody else’s business: From who they sleep with to which pronoun they prefer, from where to go on holiday to which religion they can or indeed cannot follow. 

 

These charlatans must be tackled on their view of England… they relentlessly tout ‘our values’, ‘our way of life’ and ‘our traditions’ and yet they can never name a single thing that reflects these indistinct ideals. Be it poor old John Major and his “Britain will still be the country of long shadows on county (cricket) grounds, warm beer, invincible green suburbs, dog lovers and pools fillers”. Or Farage’s updated “Respect”, “Decency” and “not talking down our great country” schtick that doesn’t stop him from buggering off to the States every time Donald McDonald clicks his fake tan stained little pudgy fingers. 

 

Instead of their warped view, we should inspire each other to live up to a higher more honest set of social principles. In short, we should aim to live up to the mantra of several high-performance sporting teams and instil a simple ‘No Dickheads’ culture. 

 

Glib? Well, a little, what did you expect – new patriotic zeal on a stick. Valid? I think so. A starting place for a New England? Absolutely! In fact, following that theme and re-writing one of the most shameful tropes of the early 70’s ‘No Blacks, No Irish, No Dogs’ (sadly often displayed on houses for rent). 

 

The New England mission statement should perhaps simply read as follows: 

·      No Racists

·      No Bigots

·      No Dickheads

 

... Oh and No Oxymorons!

Smash Hits

Thank you...

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 19^th 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