onionbagblog

Honey - I’ve sold the bike …but I’ve gone and bought another one.

Bugger.

There was just something so utterly irresistible about the aesthetics of the bonkers customised multi-coloured Moutlon bicycle. I can’t say whom it was customised for exactly, but now the baton has been handed over to me, and the bicycle is in my hands. I’m half expecting to discover a big bag of weed statched away in the rear saddlebag.

That’s the beauty of putting some fancy artwork on your F-frame - it’s a genuine DIY ethos, and anything goes. If Damien Hirst can paint butterflies on @lancearmstrong’s Le Tour bike, then a Moulton with fancy paintwork and four horns is all right by me.

All the better that I managed to bag the bike for a cheeky £63.

“Would you accept a cash offer of £100 to close the sale early?”

I asked the eBay seller, with twenty-four hours of bidding remaining.

“No chance,”

came back the reply.

Donchta just love the Invisible Hand and the free market?

Riding bicycles should be about fun. You could never be accused of not having a sense of humour, cycling around on a multi-coloured coloured Moulton that looks like a cross between Joseph and his Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat and Quadrophenia. I don’t know whether I should ride it, or enter the bike in a comedy open mic slot.

The fragrant mrs onionbagblogger has given it the name of My Big Gay Bike, and with good reason as well. The social history of the machine is that it was previously owned by an incredibly camp old Queen about town.

You don’t say.

If the rainbow mudguards weren’t enough of a giveaway, then the phallic penis colour painted bike pump would have confirmed the campness. Plus I bet underneath all that rainbow symbolism, the original colour of the F frame was probably… pink.

There are some slight mechanicals to be sorted out before the multi-coloured Moulton is road worthy. My man at the Moulton Preservation Society will no doubt be up for the challenge, once he has managed to take the machine seriously.

I’m not sure if Mr MPS will view the bicycle as a blatant act of sabotage, or something to be celebrated. I know which camp I fall in.

But when to ride the multi-coloured Moulton? I’m looking forward to showing it off on the school run; I think some of the bike snobs over at le velo might not be so understanding as the kids from SE17.

Hopefully it will prove to be bike thief scum proof. I’ve had a decent run of late. I reckon the parts are actually worth more individually than the overall sum, in a strange, twisted fate of bicycling economics. The saddlebags alone are sold on eBay for around £40.

The once act of vandalism that I had to undertake was to rip off the floral covers adorning both back and front saddle backs. These were camper than a fortnight away with the Boy’s Brigade in a communal tent down in Brighton.

And so if you see an exhibitionist bicycling around town on the multi-coloured Moulton, please raise your hand with a welcoming Chapeau!

I think I’ve just blown my bicycling anonymity.

Haggling with potential bicycle buyers is a barometer as to how big your balls are. Mine are the size of my Moulton wheels right now. For the uninitiated, and indeed the uneducated when it comes to classic bicycles, a diameter of fourteen inches should give you a clue about the current capacity of my masculinity.

I fought the bike buyer, and I won.

You may remember my little run in with the bulls****ing Banker Boy who worked for RBS. The economic climate means that Porsches are off the radar for the pinstripes set. The Banker Boy was after my Marin.

Always look your prey in the eye before the kill. I clocked that a fast one was about to be pulled on me, gave the Banker Boy my best King Lear, and buggered off back to Sunny Stockwell.

I still had the bicycle, but not the cash. Which made things slightly awkward when it came to haggling at the Nine Elms checkout over my weekly grocery bill.

A similar situation then took place on my home patch. Blinkered by the belief that EVERYONE with an SW8 postcode deserves the Nobel Prize for Peace, I agreed to meet a local sort outside Stockwell tube.

My suspicions were raised when he turned up wearing football shorts over the top of a Parker coat. You should never mix and match your seasons, especially so when you are about to negotiate a business deal that involves deciding on your choice of wheels for the next twelve months.

I agreed to a test spin, although even my philanthropy isn’t as naive as to let an oik looking like a cross between Steven Gerrard and Liam Gallagher let loose on a bike worth a cool £1k without any deposit.

“Um, you’re welcome to go for a test ride,”

I offered.

“What can you offer in terms of a deposit?”

Tight Shorts Man offered me his Oyster card. It was an ingenious plan; one form of transport, exchanged under the fading skies of SW8 for another. He could cycle off towards Islington, but I would beat him up there on the tube (although given the current crappy state of the Victoria Line, maybe he had thought this through more than I had given credit for.)

“How about my bag?”

came the second offering from the inner altar of Tight Shorts Man.

My mind went into overdrive. I did the calculations in my head. Assuming he was semi-serious about buying my bicycle, his wallet must be stuffed full of sufficient grubby fivers that would rule out any future haggling at the checkout.

Failing that then the chances are that his mobile would have some pictures on of some tart dropping his draws for him. Those shorts were worn with a tightness that suggested he wasn’t backwards about coming forward when parking his bike for the evening.

“Yeah, sure”

I said.

“Just watch out for some of the locals around these parts. Unlike our good selves, P’s & Q’s can mean something totally different around here.”

I waited until Tight Shorts Man had cycled off past the Stockwell War Memorial. At the going down of the sun, we will remember to have a rifle through his bag, and consider if it was worth doing a runner.

I found a soiled pair of Y-fronts and a packet of polos. I liked his logic of diverting attention away from his sweat stained crotch with the freshness around his mouth. Still, not much here for me, should Tight Shorts Man decide to return.

Five minutes later and I was back with my bike. Ten minutes later and I was back at base with the bike. Deal or No Deal? What do you think?

And so I was coming to the conclusion that my haggling powers have been reduced the day I decided to cut my ear lobel hair for the first time. Pete the Greek, the Demon Barber of Brixton, has had his eyes on the stray fly legs crawling out of my cabbage patches for some years now.

“Can I cut Sirs’ ears?”

Can you f***.

But I gave in to Pete the Greek sometime last month. It was either the lobel hairs or the eyebrows, according to the Demon. One of them had to go. Or even all four. So no more lobel hairs, no more haggling powers.

Still a b**** bike though.

Until last night. Third time lucky. My Man in Berkley Square sounded incredibly well spoken over the phone. I actually thought I had dialled the wrong number and had got through to a Mayfair Takeaway Truffles service.

“Ah, yah, cycling is like soooo cool right now, OK?”

Um, yeah, OK mate. And if you will continue to talk like that then I’ll add another £100 on to the asking price.

He actually said thank you as I hung up.

My Man in Berkeley Square was on time and I was on budget. My own personal budget, with some serious haggling to do back in Sunny Stockwell with another Moulton lurking on the horizon.

“Um, you’re welcome to go for a test ride,”

I offered.

“What can you offer in terms of a deposit?”

Much to my surprise,

“Will cash do?”

replied my Man in Berkley Square.

“Look, here’s the £xxx amount as agreed.”

Back of the net!

This wasn’t a test ride. This was payment up front, and if I timed it just right, I could do a runner in the back streets of Belgravia before the chinless wonder even noticed that the rear brake needed a bit of extra work on it.

“Ah, yeah, that will do nicely,”

I replied, realising only seconds later that when you’re in a financial district, you tend to walk it like you talk it.

But anyway, the bicycle. Yep, the Marin in no longer assigned to the fleet. Haggling wasn’t an issue. Which is a good job as my fourteen-inch watermelons were somewhat deflated when some dolly bird around Berkeley Square pointed out that I was flying low as I tried to lose myself in the backstreets of Belgravia.

The cage was open, but the beast was asleep. I blame the loss of ear lobel hair.

Chapeau!

Paternoster Square, EC4, WWSI.

‘Not so full of smug Cristal swigging, pinstriped, Porsche driving stock brokers as it once was, we’re off to the home of the London Financial institution which is the Stock Exchange.

Paternoster Square is fairly lucky to be here today with no fewer than three masterplans to redevelop it. It was modern versus traditional, and what we’ve ended up with can only be described as a bit of a mish-mash. But it’s not without a certain visual impact.

In the centre is the aptly named Paternoster Square Column, it being just that with a gold leaf covered flaming copper urn at the top. Much more interesting is Elisabeth Frink’s Shepherd and Sheep.

Here’s a rarity - a one off photograph blog post. Pint glass half full, or half empty? The image above was captured on Bow Street during a Way We See It shoot. It wasn’t a particularly successful session, partly to do with the fading light, partly to do with the oncoming pain of pig sickness.

I returned back to base, emptied the box and bugger - not a lot of choice. I am notoriously unsure about what constitutes a half decent image. The photograph above came perilously close to being deleted on the fly. It’s just not my usual style; too much movement and an out of focus subject matter.

But I’m growing to rather like it. I think it’s the rabbit in the headlights look of the young lady that makes the image. This was no coincidence - I was shooting unknowingly with my flash on, something which caught the young lady, and myself, by surprise.

So yeah, I think the lesson learnt here is to delete at your peril. Or perhaps just to shoot a hell of a lot more.

Is content still king? Of course it is. Looking at a blank page on the modern interweb defeats the ethos of sharing information for the wider good. But in the land of Broadband Britain, the user with the 10meg connection is King. Or even the individual with the iPhone audioboo app is King.

I’ve raved about audioboo before. Put simply, the podcast on the fly iPhone app is a game changer. Record, publish and distribute via Twitter or an iTunes feed. It’s podcasting for idiots, which is why I tend to use the service rather frequently.

I’m not alone, either. Although BIG media seem slow on the uptake (I wonder why!) the benefits of audioboo as a content creation service are being used by niche broadcasters.

Resonance’s Bike Show has picked up on the idea of generating listener submissions via audioboo. It’s the simplicity of the service, combined with sourcing of new content form the people that really matter, which is so appealing.

Whereas BIG media book in advance a knobber ‘expert,’ organise a car to pick them, put them in make up, get them slightly sloshed in the green room and then get the ‘expert’ to ramble on some nonsense that we all knew about anyway, audioboo allows similar ‘experts’ to add their submissions, all from the comfort of their own bedroom.

Which is exactly what I did when @thebikeshow put out a request for audioboo reflections on Le Tour, for future broadcat. This call for submissions also worked well during last month’s Dunwich run, allowing riders to record a very personal reflection as the evening unfolded.

So yeah, my ramblings on Le Tour may not exactly be the greatest piece of audio ever recorded, but it makes about as much sense as the mainstream knobber media whores who are taxied in to have a run through of Her Majesty’s popular prints on the news channels during the early hours.

Content is still king, but crowdsourcing is the uprising from the masses. You need to create to be criticised. Sitting around doing nothing is not the answer. That’s when the mainstream knobber media whores get to maintain the status quo.

Chapeau!

Neal’s Yard, WC2, WWSI.

‘We’re off to a Yard this week, which I think might be a first for us here. Neal’s Yard is in the centre of Covent Garden and stuffed full of new age type shops, cafes and the like.

It’s quite an amazing place if you’ve never seen it before with it’s strikingly multi-coloured buildings. Yet take those colours away, and I’m always struck by how olde London the place looks.

Alongside the famous Neal’s Yard Remedies it’s best known outlet is the Neal’s Yard Dairy.’

Never thought I would see Super Furry Animals headline an ice cream fest at Clap’ham Common. Band Don’t Give a F**** #

mrs obb and I use to think nothing of losing four days at a festival. This afternoon and four hours on Clap’ham Common seems too long #

Trying to work out when we last saw Super Furries and The Fannies (steady.) Glasto ’95 seems like a good bet #

Reminding mrs obb that all of the Fannies records sound the same #

Standing in an ice cream queue, on Clap’ham Common, behind a rather tall goth. He’s going for the Chunky Monkey special #

Deciding to trim down to King of the Mountain figure can wait. There’s 22 free ice creams on offer to sample. Shame about the music #

Think the Fannies are about finished. We’ve had four new songs, all written in that cuddly & familiar stuck in ’92 twangy style. Ice cream time #

Had two blokes walk past, both carrying six bottles of beer, both lost and both equally p*****. Sober girl carrying six ice creams is fine #

I use to camp outside beer tent at festivals. Currently taking up a strategic location outside the ice cream stall #

Ali G’s ice cream glove would come in handy, here on Clap’ham Common #

mrs obb just reminded me of SFA’s sonar tank that made cows vomit. Ben & Jerry branding all around Clap’ham Common is of… cows. Cool as F*** #

And here come the Super Furries. Type of band that passes you by for a decade, but still don’t disappoint. Techno opening #

Don’t think SFA’s Welsh tinged take on old school techno meets Krautrock is rocking the Friends of Clap’ham Common stall #

mrs obb just asked: “Are Ben and Jerry really headlining?” Sweet. SFA currently running Rings Around the World #

This is a lovely early evening set from Super Furries. Demons, Hello Sunshine, If You Don’t Want Me to Destroy You. Bonkers, bonkers band #

Parents covering up the saintly ears of the young children of Clap’ham, as Super Furries shake up the Common with *that* song #

Business ain’t good for the lone ice cream van parked outside Clap’ham Common #

Back from Clap’ham & Ben & Jerry. Really enjoyed Super Furries. Reassuring, yet rather disturbing band. Irony they now have Ice Hockey Hair #