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Biting the hand that feeds and all that, but deary, deary me – if what I have just endured for the past fifteen minutes constitutes the cutting edge of local journalism, then blimey – we may as well be reporting Cat Stuck Up South London Tree rather than genuine local issues.

I sent out a press release to various local media, hoping to raise some support for the Stockwell Stories oral history project. Two weeks later (must have been a busy month for Cats Stuck Up Tree stories) and yer man from the unnamed local newspaper organisation got round to putting a call in.

Fifteen minutes of reading out the press release once again, repeating answers and suggesting questions that he might like to ask – it’s all left me extremely confused. There’s probably even a Stockwell Stories recording in itself to be made out of the Q & A farce.

We didn’t get off to a good start with the journo’s first question of:

“Where is the borough of Stockwell?”

Um… Yer man from the local media works for a newspaper that has Lambeth as it’s flagship borough. It’s not giving too much away either to state that yer man was sitting in an office in St Reatham, overlooking the Rotten Borough.

“Why would you want to talk to local people?”

This was his second question, and not a statement lifted from the local journo handbook.

Oh, you know – I thought that in order to get a sense of the area and what is going on, it might be useful to actually go out there and try and find some stories.

“Can you play me one of the recordings, please?”

Well… if you go to the blog url that I included in the press release (something that you have obviously failed to do before putting the call in,) then you can listen to the entire archive we have published to date.

“What is a blog?”

If my dear old Gran came out with such a question, then I would helpfully explain. For a person who is employed in a profession that is supposedly involved in the collection, analysis and then distribution of news content, then this equates to professional suicide.

Um, it’s an online publishing platform that will probably put you out of a job within twelve months, unless you and your BIG media news organisation actually get a coherent online strategy in place.

“Can you give me the contact details of one of the people you have interviewed?”

Ah, that’s getting slightly better. Yep, I can see you want to get your hands dirty, but you should know by now that you never give away your sources. Plus the whole point of the recordings is for the lovely local people to put across their stories via the blog.

“What’s a blog again?”

Blimey.

“Why would you want to use the internet for this project, rather than publish a book.”

Because in less than the time it has taken you to transcribe, sub-edit, publish and distribute your hack of a finished piece of copy, I have already blogged about how painful and tiresome the whole process was.

Time to move on…

I’m sorry to diss Mr local journo, and I really am grateful for any support on this project. But if that’s how BIG media play the game, then it’s no surprise that you’re spunking away £500k per year.

And so here’s the second in a very occasional series, where the good @funkturm and I attempt some form of critical analysis of the finer art galleries around London.

Having spent an afternoon staring at a pile of TDK tapes at the Mick Jones Rock ‘n Roll Public Library, our attention turned towards the more highbrow Cartoon Museum and the current Viz exhibition.

Jokes about holding your helmet hard, Queen Mum commemorative tea towels and uncensored outbursts of profanity – all are contained in the podcast below. In the words of the great Roger Mellie – B******s!

Like I said…

“I wonder why such dignified architecture had to be replaced by a soulless estate? I often think the brutal architecture and environment is to blame for the circumstances leading to the recent inclusion of Dorset Road as a Police Dispersal Zone.”

I’m finding it extremely difficult of late to define the location in London where I live. It’s not quite Stockwell; it’s not The Oval either (wherever / whatever that might be…) Vauxhall is slightly wayward off my radar.

But within the geographic boundaries of the Stockwell / Oval / Vauxhall Triangle, there lies a definite identity that is unique to this area. That self-awareness isn’t a physical manifestation, but a cultural, possibly even spiritual presence around SW8.

Yeah, yeah – sixth form psycho-geographic babblings at a base level. But there is something to be said for the theories of Iain Sinclair, Peter Ackroyd and yes, even Will Self, the Stockwell urban literary landscaper supreme.

Of course every micro local patch in London is unique, but I feel a real sense of personal calling to the figures of past and present that I see and imagine around me in Stockwell.

This emotion has no doubt heightened in recent days with the discovery of the illuminating Victorian photos, shot right outside my doorstep that landed in my inbox. They have awakened a stream of thought within, observing every brick wall, blocked out window or even rogue road markings, leaving me pondering the social history of the very same streets that I am walking right now.

The feel of the SW8 triangle is most certainly not urban; it is far from rural as well. There is a balance bought about by the co-existence of diverse groups or organisations, people and nationalities, and even buildings and architecture. Look around the area and you will find examples of this paradox at every opportunity.

The St Peter’s Residence of the Little Sisters of the Poor, proudly sits adjacent to The Oval cricket ground. On Test match days, the enterprising women of the cloth have no shame in pimping out their car park for lovers of bat and ball at £10 a pop. Two very different organisations, both united by a form of religion and worship.

Stockwell may not have an identity but it most certainly has a smell. The old Marmite factory is long gone, taking away the aroma of the thick black stuff wafting southbound across the borough. But the scent of SW8 now is something all the more sweeter.

Once again it is a hybrid, comprised of two different sources and somehow making sense, only in Stockwell. The lovely lavender garden at the epicentre of Vauxhall Park provides a fragrance for the area, flaming open South London nostrils with every delicate blowing of the lavender scent around Stockwell. You can pick this scent up as you first cross Vauxhall Bridge, and then still be riding high with the sensation when you’re halfway down Fentiman Road.

Not so much competing, but almost contemplating the roots and shoots aroma of the lavenders is that of the rich smell of cakes, pastry and bread being baked. If Stockwell has any one defining industry right now, it is that of the finest pastries in all of London. The stretch of Little Porto along South Lambeth Road is pastry heaven. I feel like I have died and gone to custard cream heaven whenever I’m doing the South Lambeth Walk.

Keep striding down towards South Island Place, and the scent thickens with Di Lieto’s fine olive bread – a smell so irresistible that Lambeth Council even tried to ban it. The Council lost of course. You can take away our public libraries, but keep yer thieving local authority hands off our olive bread.

Ah, South Island Place – a pyschogeogrpaher’s wet dream. The road itself is a heavily fortified street furniture rat run between Brixton Road and the Clap’ham Road. Maybe this is the source of the intrigue, a passage that tries to unite the madness of Brixton with the Bright Young Things of SW4.

Above ground and South Island Place is relatively insignificant. There’s a strange old lock up adorned with the fading glamour of art deco mosaics lighting up any traveller at the Western approach of the Place. But below ground and South Island Place encapsulates the spirit of Stockwell.

The Northern Line sidings that run directly below are the last resting place for the ghost of the SW8 tube tunnel worker. Defined by the carrying of a Tilly lamp, a flame is kept burning for the industrial past of the area, lighting up the subterranean reaches of Stockwell for the past fifty years. Underground, overground – South Island Place is another examples of two worlds colliding within one area.

Perhaps it is the proximity to the river that helps to form the unique sense of Stockwell. It’s a ten minute walk to Vauxhall and the more repugnant aroma of South London’s lavatories being flushed out and carried downstream. Vauxhall has an industrial tidal heritage. This trickles down towards Stockwell, but is not the defining feature.

The old factories for the fishmongers can still be seen along Palfrey Place, now converted into the painfully trendy urban living spaces. And so not quite a riverside catchment area, but still somehow showing signs of an aquatic existence. If Stockwell were a sea creature, it would be a mermaid – half in and half out of the water.

Of course it’s the community that really defines the area. And that definition is one that is impossible to linguistically define. People are people, shaped by their surroundings, bonded together in an urban patch and finding their own ways of managing their existence around the immediate local environment.

I’m perpetually torn between a love / hate relationship with Stockwell. It’s a give and take situation, and one that I’m sure I’ll miss once I’m gone. Forever searching to find Stockwell, continually surprised when I don’t.

And so there you are, pondering which direction the newly formed Stockwell Historical Society should take, and out of the blue comes an email that serves as the perfect piece of research for the local historians of SW8 to investigate further:

One of the branches of my family had a greengrocers shop from roughly 1860 to 1930 on Dorset Road (#51). I have a charming picture of my great grandfather, James Kingdon, with his delivery horse. I am not certain but surely there were stables behind his shop and they may have been accessed by Oval Place and even Palfrey Place.

If you would like the photo, let me know.

Trish

I have blogged before about Palfrey Place, pondering the out of place architecture of the narrow passage, and more recently, the anti-social behaviour of the Palfrey Place fly tippers. And so out of a negative situation comes something rather positive.

About those pictures, Trish – yes please…

Here is the photo, Jason. I have visited Dorset Road several times in the last several years, but always managed to get there on very cold days (I live in Canada so it is an effort to get there). If you have access to the census, there were two James Kingdons who ran the greengrocers at #51 Dorset Road. His father got there about 1860 (having come to London in 1848 when he married at St. Marks). James died prematurely in 1877 (TB) and his son, James ‘Jas’ (married at St. Stephen’s) ran the store until he retired in 1932 to my grandparents’ home in Ashford, Middlesex where he died. He and his wife lived at 147 Dorset Road (not there anymore unfortunately) where she died. My Grandmother was born at 147 and married at St. Marks.

It is always somewhat emotional for me to walk those streets. My very first time into Lambeth was in 2007 and I am very grateful to the wonderful cab driver who patiently waited for me to rush out and take pictures and all that. Now, thanks to Google Maps, I can go to Dorset Road and its environs, anytime I like. It is certainly a bit less expensive but not quite the same.

I have discovered wonderful stories about my ancestors from my persistence and tireless research. It is great fun. Are you aware that there was once a brewery where The Phoenix is now? I just discovered that while looking through the 1871 census. I am sure there are all kinds of history. I want to visit the War Museum some day (when I have time to burn) and find out how extensive the bomb damage was in the area during WW2.

My Mother was born above a pub (The King and Queen is not there now) at 105 Newington Butts and I know that Dante Road got some bad hits. Do you know how Dorset Road faired the bombs? I know the old St. Stephen’s was bomb damaged and that is why it was replaced in the 60′s but I am glad to see some of the old houses still remain on the St. Stephen’s Terrace.

Thanks for your response, Jason. I took a chance on contacting you when I saw your Palfrey Place article. Now you maybe know a little more about your street.

Wow! What wonderful information! Just wait until you see the amazing images…

I have searched the Lambeth Archives and beyond, for photographs of Dorset Road and the surrounds. All that I have found so far have been images of the nearby (and haunted) South Island Place. I wonder where Trish got these amazing photographs from? A personal, family collection? It’s a question that I have put to my new friend from across the pond.

The first photo looking down Dorset Road seems to have been taken from adjacent to my house. The view is very different now. I find it quite heartbreaking to see how such wonderful old houses were knocked down and replaced by a hideous estate.

I had no idea that there were any shops here, as late as 1964 as well. The date confirms that it wasn’t bomb damage that led to their demolition. I wonder why such dignified architecture had to be replaced by a soulless estate? I often think the brutal architecture and environment is to blame for the circumstances leading to the recent inclusion of Dorset Road as a Police Dispersal Zone.

Many, many thanks to Trish for sharing these photographs. In return, my weekend will be spent shooting some more contemporary images of the mean streets of SW8, to send across to Canada. It may seem a trivial task, but the very same process undertaken by an unknown photographer from Dorset Road’s past, has given the perfect start to the Stockwell Historical Society.

And so that was #hainseytweetup 09. Actually, nope, it wasn’t. It was four blokes meeting up in a Kilburn boozer, and then heading off to see the wonderful Luke Haines at the splendour of the @theluminaire. But yeah, @cabbiescapital, @funkturm, @darryl1974 and I, all arranged our midweek gig over Twitter, so we’ll stick with the hash tag of #hainseytweetup.

As for yer man Mr Haines? I’ve long been an admirer of Luke, but have struggled to keep up with his prolific output. I was there back in the day for New Wave. It still ranks as one of my all time favourite 50-ish albums. Possibly even 49-ish. A crystal clear production, songs of bile and hate, all sung with an arrogance that fitted with my outlook on life at the time. They still resonate strongly now.

I struggled somewhat with Now I’m a Cowboy; likewise for After Murder Park. I blame the mid ’90′s um, excesses. A recent reappraisal and I can now see what the fuss was all about. The Baader Meinhof and Black Box Recorder projects both confirmed that Haines is an artist that you should take seriously. So seriously, that the lure of a £10 ticket to see Luke up in Kilburn on a cold November evening was too great to resist.

I haven’t hit the mean streets of NW6 since, ooh, ’95 and the glory years of Britpop. Oh the irony of seeing the great Britpop protagonist for my Kilburn return. The last visit rather weirdly involved a boozy session with Sice from the Boos (namedropper ahoy!) whilst watching a rather, um, dodgy gig by Dodgy at the old Kilburn National.

The psych-Britpop of the stoner trio was so crap, that we buggered off for a pizza buffet around the corner from the tube. Fast forward fourteen years, and ah lookey over here – it’s only the same pizza buffet. Here’s hoping Mr Haines wasn’t about to inflict another overdose on plum tomato and olive pizza on us later in the evening.

But first some pre-gig booze. The #hainseytweetup quartet stumbled in on a muso quiz night at the King’s Head. You could tell it was an industry bash by the silly haircuts. An early question started off with the opening gambit of:

“Suede split up in 2003…”

I felt it rude not to interrupt with the question with a loud cheer. I’m sure it would have been the exact same reaction from yer man Luke upstairs at The Luminaire, as he demolished his pre-gig rider of Tunnocks tea cakes, cold cuts of ham, chicken, cheese, some wine, some beer, some water. And a bag of sand.

Blimey.

We left the muso chin strokers to contemplate:

“In what year was pop princess Kylie Minogue diagnosed with breast cancer?”

…optimistic of happier times ahead upstairs with Mr Haines and his tales of mass murders and child abductors. And then cometh the hour (no doubt with watch on a chain and pin point accuracy,) cometh the moustachioed man, all dressed up and dapper in his white threads.

A few fumbles around with feedback, and you don’t get much better of a second set song than Showgirl. It was played out in all its poptastic pomp, complete with precision pauses after the first run of chords. I celebrated with a triumphant punching of the air, only to get a look of ‘behave’ by @cabbiescapital.

“Shut the f*** up!” screamed out @Darryl1974. Not to Mr Haines, but to a rather talkative lady standing next to us. Turns out it was Mrs Haines.

Whoops.

With a new album to promote, the surprise of the evening was the generosity that was given to the rich back catalogue. Tracks from all four Auteurs albums got an airing, as did a couple of tunes from the wonderfully mischievous Baader Meinhoff terrorist chic album. No Black Box Recorder, but that was always an eye candy project anyway.

Lenny Valentino entertained the audience for the encore, with Mr Haines overcoming the dilemma of how to string out a two minute power pop indie anthem by adding a couple of false finishes. It was like Neil Young at Glasto all over again, but with added irony, and a Hawke’s of Svaile Row gentleman’s dress sense.

And so sometime slightly before midnight, the #hainseytweetup came to a close. Not before the fashionably late arrival of @jamboshoeshine and his good lady wife. For a man often thought of as being the belligerent bastard of Britpop (Luke Haines, not @jamboshoeshine,) this was a rather touchy feely heart warming concert. I departed Kilburn with no desire to return again over the following fourteen years, but feeling rewarded for having made by NW6 return.