A pre-Tour roll out around Abberton Reservoir early on Saturday morning. No pelaton bunch sprint along Peldon Road, and no bloody bus blocking the final stretch back towards Fingringhoe either.
Instead a light leg stretcher ahead of an ambitious few weeks of cycling coming up. You ride yourself into fitness for these Grand Tours apparently. The same can be said for a mid-summer period of rolling out across the Essex and Suffolk border.
Failing that then I’ve got a fridge back at base loaded up with sufficient gel bars to lube up my internal (and external) mechanisms, not to mention my rusty old crankshaft that hasn’t seen much action of late.
Time to get tooled up.
But first the beauty of Abberton Reservoir.
The rolling fields of Fingringhoe reflected a subtle light purple pastel colour as an unnamed flower covered an entire patch just past the old Post Office. Whilst Le Grand Depart was played out under Corsica’s maquis countryside, a hybrid of a beautiful English rose / garden weed characterised the Essex experience.
Other weekend riders appeared along Layer Road, confirming the belief that Saturday mornings are all about the lycra. Club rides, personal time trials or perhaps equally confused amateur bicycle and botanists - all life form was observed as we hit Abberton Road.
As well as being a time to celebrate Le Tour, we are also now entering the prime of Summer Garden Fete season. The crazed flag wavers that greeted the pro riders in Corsica were replaced by elderly gents carrying trestle tables into village halls along the route. I attempted a cheeky Chapeau! …just outside of Layer de la Haye. I suspect the bunting being hung wasn’t in honour to greet my passage.
Birch Road was a bit of a bugger as an impatient motorist tried to take me up from behind. An acceleration - the impatient motorist, not me - and the horror of him missing another car coming up the hill reminded me why I still don’t own a driving license.
The only company along Layer Breton Hill was the early morning birders. Binoculars were out, and so was my Race Face as the straight stretch crossing the reservoir was completely car free. Handlebars took up the drop position; the ride yourself into fitness mantra lasted for, oooh, around thirty seconds at least.
Beware Cyclists is the BONKERS sign that greets you on the other side of the crossing. Beware Cars, possibly?
Everybody’s gotta keep moving, which was most certainly the case when a tri-bar lycra kid effortlessly sailed past my slipstream without even breaking sweat.
Bugger.
A peacock shuttled across my path, and I tried to convince myself that it’s all about the journey, and not the finish line. A fine position to take, but there comes a point along your journey when you have gobbed out half a dozen flies and you find yourself trying to chase down the tri-bar lycra kid, rather than embracing Mother Nature.
I took on a metronomic approach. Fuck the science of cycling - it’s all about the free spirit and overdosing on gel bars. I’m gonna drag my arse up that bloody hill for the sheer thrill of it, rather that a pre-planned approach to cadence and all that crap.
I bonked halfway up.
Whoops.
A steady pace along Wigborough Road, and then a glorious archway of overgrowing brambles as we hit Langenhoe served up as le flamme rouge replacement for Saturday morning. I zipped up the jersey, raised my arms aloft and prepared for the victory salute. An old boy carrying a trestle table tutted.
To Shakespeare’s Globe! …on Saturday afternoon for a slightly out of seasonal romp of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The Summer Solstice was but seven days away, and whaddya know - the Transpontine weather was as buggered as poor old Bully Bottom and his botched attempts at love.
Plastic ponchos appeared as the downpour started as soon as Oberon and Titania were ill met by fair moonlight. The sun came out in South London just as the hey nonny nonny dancing brought the Dream to an end.
Shall we recount tales of our dreams, Comrades?
Don’t have nightmares, but the jolly Jacobean dancing that opened the performance ended in a multiple death scene. Supporters of the Fairy King and Queen clashed before the first dialogue was even spoken. It didn’t really set the scene for the three hours that followed. The Fairy world was more fun than frightening, although any Groundlings hugging the stage did get a few wonky looks from Puck and his pals.
A Midsummer Night’s Dream is essentially a play within a play within a play. Pissing it down is optional - the first appearance of the clog dancing Mechanicals drenched your funny bones in farcical fluid, if not the rest of your rain drenched body.
Elsewhere and Oberon and Titania were incredibly intense, Puck was gloriously disturbing (and disturbed), leaving the dopey four Lovers caught right in the middle of the serious / silly spectrum. Lysander stood out as a particularly smarmy git - the kinda guy that Willie S would have elevated to knobber sports car status in any contemporary setting.
It takes a while for the three worlds to spectacularly collide. This is always the dilemma for A Midsummer Night’s Dream. It’s not *quite* Panto, but there is a temptation to walk around the wooden surrounds of The Globe shouting “He’s behind you!” …whenever Puck goes merrily wandering with the magic flower.
Once the Fairies, Mechanicals and Lovers are all thrown together, then the production starts to become more playful. Demetrius has a literal head over heels moment in love, which was rather spectacular to watch. The dry humping of a Globe pillar by Oberon is something that I don’t remember from my ‘O’ Level Drama back in the day.
I do recall though the craft of the intertwining and twisted plots over the course of one balmy Midsummer evening. The Globe production plays this out, as each character descends into a Lord of the Flies downward spiral as the magic of Midsummer starts to kick in.
It’s not the slapstick that some productions draw upon. Instead there is a mythical appearance to what is essentially a basic school production style backdrop and setting. The characters are strong enough to convince you that a wet afternoon setting south of the river is actually a transfixed fairy garden full of confusion and deceit.
The corset-busting scene is reserved for The Mechanicals come the close. The play within a play is an incredibly physical comedy containing cross dressing and knob gags - as all half decent wedding celebrations should be ale to boast.
A grubby fiver for an afternoon out at The Globe still remains the best value ticket in London. ZERO inflation over a sixteen-year period since the re-opening of the Bankside theatre is testimony the belief in spreading the work of Shakespeare, rather than simply cashing in with a commercial operation.
A wonderful surprise come the close on Saturday was the appearance stage right of Dominic Dromgoole, the Artistic Director of The Globe. Sam Wannamaker would have been 94 the previous day if he were still around. A presentation followed in recognition of keeping alive a love of Shakespeare south of the river. The Transpontine sky turned blue, and a yellow orb from up above radiated around The Globe.
And so what follows is a blog post of three parts, seamlessly sewn together with one unifying theme: will the much needed regeneration of VNEB create a community, or will it simply be a calling card for new capital?
What do you think…
And so first the facts, then the sixth form hyperlocal theorising, before I finish off with some deep topological wanderings off the edge of Wandsworth Road, in a misguided attempt to recapture some long lost South London memories.
Plus hopefully a little optimism before the pictures take over come the close.
The consultation for the 195 hectares of development land centred around Battersea Power Station took place throughout 2009 / 10. In March 2012, the Mayor of London formally adopted the Planning Framework, effectively sealing the deal for the complete redevelopment of the riverside land between Vauxhall and Queenstown Road.
A whopping 16,000 new ‘homes’ (yeah, right…) are part of the plans. 20,000 - 25,000 new jobs have been cited as to how enterprise will benefit from the regeneration of Battersea.
A Tall Building Strategy [PDF] has been adopted for Vauxhall; a Linear Park [URGH] will plot the route of the regeneration from Battersea back to Vauxhall. Thirteen different landowners have had to sit around the table to come to an agreement.
As compensation for the existing communities around SW8, SW11 and SE11, a significant level of Section 106 back scratching payments will be made available. With two different Boroughs involved, tracking down the exact figure for these payments is tricky. The two local authorities of Lambeth and Wandsworth (Labour and Tory controlled respectively) will no doubt have fun divvying this up.
The timeline boasts that the US Embassy - the main mover in finally kick starting the construction - will open on 4th July 2017. Estate agent Knight Frank predicts that property values will increase by 140% between 2011 and 2016 – the highest forecast growth in the UK.
Um, *shhh* Hurrah!
Ready for the sixth form speculative twaddle?
The VNEB land was my South London backyard for almost two decades. I moved around different properties, yet still the view overlooking my sense of home was VNEB. It may not boast the same veranda views that other London areas can claim, but the industrial backdrop was a constant reminder that South London has historically been a place of work. Along with Bankside and Lotts Road, dirty, heavy industry defines Transpontine history.
Decades of neglect for Battersea symbolises the ideological destruction of toil and reward. South London is now playing catch up as the mode of production shifts towards the service economy. Bankside has benefitted for over a decade with the rewards that the cultural pound can bring. Regeneration was built around the arts - build it and they most definitely did come.
But can the same be said for Giles Gilbert Scott’s other riverside powerhouse down in SW8? The epochal shift has taken a slight change of path past Vauxhall Bridge and out towards Nine Elms. Cultural regeneration has never played well in the Transpontine stove house.
Instead a new industry for the 21st Century is starting to define VNEB. All property most definitely isn’t theft as the glasshouses and international embassies start to emerge from underneath the rubble. Penthouse apartments and international diplomacy are replacing working class graft. They’ll be selling comedy spy specs in Woolworths, if it was still open.
Little remains physically of my veranda view that defined two decades of South London living. The memories can still be plotted though, cutting through the neatly planned foundations that attempt to cover over the randomness of Transpontine organic growth of the past.
Cycle routes through the Patmore Estate en route for korfball training; dropping off the track bike at a South London lock up for a dodgy cash in hand deal. Trying to find a time / space portal south of Sainsbury’s that allowed me to bypass the Cupcake Run when making my way down to the Junction.
These geographical memories can still cut a path through all the regeneration that is neatly slicing up the area. But be weary of what lies deep below, and how the past can still have a part to play.
I remember thinking during a bizarre Battersea dotbomb job interview that the fault lines for this place are built upon glorious failure. A ridiculous employment contract was offered for a ridiculous job. I did the usual I’ll sleep on it routine, only to wake up the next morning to find that the dotbomber had dotbombed.
Whoops.
You suspect that the VNEB regeneration business model is built on a capitalist system not quite so reliant on the Mickey Mouse money of the dotbomb economy. International capital is propping it up, and we all know what a sound economic system this has come to represent.
“The final piece of the jigsaw that completes the central area of London.”
But what if you don’t like the design of the jigsaw, or if the pieces don’t even fit together? Best not go losing one of those fancy glass house architectural designs down the back end of Battersea.
We have been here before of course, and so have I [broken links ahoy!] - I walked around the perimeter of the magnificent old Power Station when the dedicated Job Centre for the site was boldly declared back in 2005. The Job Centre failed to open, and the promised 9,000 new jobs were just a Minimum Wage wankfest for a Third Way twonk.
But now the regeneration of Nine Elms is finally happening. Friends in high places have seen to the Northern Line extension, which in turn will see to the luxury riverside apartments. It’s remarkable how the lure of the Northern Line is able to attract wealth - albeit as a ‘loan’ - whereas the number 156 bus isn’t viewed as an attractive public transport proposition for the affluent.
The very location of VNEB has a topology connection to transport. The site of the Sainsbury’s car park at Nine Elms is more or less the location where the first Vauxhall car was manufactured. This is the age of the train, etc. It’s also the age of pointless vanity underground projects propped up by aspirational needs, and not any genuine public transport requirements. I’m not sure why boutique shoppers can’t walk it down Wandsworth Road from Vauxhall Station, saving over £1bn from the public purse.
The physical boundaries of VNEB are worth exploring as well. Water to the north restricts building on the Thames - for now, at least. To the south and it is Wandsworth Road and the splendour of Larkhall Park that pushes the regeneration away from the edges of Stockwell.
Most of the footprint [URGH] covers industrial sites, although there’s a fair amount of social housing stock that is also swallowed up. Where does regeneration start, and where does it end? It shouldn’t be a physical barrier, but the Wandsworth Road could soon become the new dividing line when it comes to South London postcode property wars.
And so it was with this sense of geographical interest that sent me out exploring the boundaries of the VNEB development for a day of contemplation and connections. I wanted to capture digitally my old veranda view before it falls off the end of the world, and I wanted to see if regeneration is able to recapture former glories without manufacturing new false futures.
Or maybe it’s just the twaddle of a blog post that manufactures the myth?
The plan was to walk the perimeter, and then explore what’s left of the old within the VBEB development. But cartography and topology combined is never a precise science; you cut through an alleyway, catch something camera worthy slightly off radar and find yourself deep entrenched in Clap’ham Junction cupcake territory.
Whoops.
Much has changed already along the southern boundary of Wandsworth Road. The back end of Larkhall Park has benefitted from ongoing regeneration over the past ten years. There was always a sense that the green delights of Larkhall were barricaded away behind the shop fronts. The opening up of the park perimeter is beautiful - Larkhall allows the passing traffic to take a look inside, rather than act as a physical barrier shielding away one of South London’s finest public parks.
It seems an age away when the Vauxhall campus of Southbank University was to be found along Wandsworth Road. Here be Lambeth College, and here also be evidence of how you don’t need to knock down an existing old building in order to breathe new life into it. One would hope that the Overlords of Battersea Power Station are aware of this.
The pace of change however along the remainder of Wandsworth Road remains relatively slow. The old Pie and Mash shop was long lost. Truth be told and it wasn’t a patch on the Walworth mash served up at Arments, but the loss was symbolic for the last remains of Transpontine identity hanging on around the edges of SW8.
Change is inevitable as you progress towards Union Road. Mr Tony would LOVE that sentence. You have to fear for the future of the Mind Shop once the Embassy millionaires move in. Here’s hoping that cupcakes won’t replace pie and mash as the defining SW8 cuisine.
The four towers of Battersea dominate your every movement around the VNEB perimeter. You suspect that the developers would have preferred to flatten the iconic structures and start again from scratch. But you need a coat peg - or four - in which to hang your branding vision. The Battersea towers are one of the few remaining heritage assets in central (ish) London that can still resist the developer’ dream of glass houses. Battersea Power Station stoked up South London life during its industrial heyday. It now provides the aesthetic energy for the marketing brochures of property developers. It is currently an empty shell - unlike the plans for the VNEB development…
A misty eyed gaze from the Wandsworth Road towards the towers was temporarily interrupted during my walk as a steam train rolled through the old station. It wasn’t quite a ghost train - this had already departed under the cloak of Kafkaesque secrecy a couple of hours earlier. It was a reminder however of how this part of South London isn’t quite ready for the contemporary architectural train station swirls that now define the likes of the new Kings Cross.
The affluence of Clap’ham gradually creeps in as you continue to walk along Wandsworth Road. Boarded up old boozers are replaced by lifestyle bars with whacky names.
I followed closely the VNEB boundaries and took a turn, so to speak, along Silverthorne Road. It is here where the area begins to green as you approach Queenstown Road with Battersea Park softening up the industrial landscape.
Queenstown Road Station itself is worthy of exploration. For decades this has been a beacon for anyone wanting to head east of Vauxhall into what is now known as VNEB. It was my daily destination from Brixton during my first fortnight in London, working as an intern at an Aussie radio station based out at Battersea.
I made tea during the day, and then spent some balmy evenings with some barmy Aussies undertaking urban explorations [URGH] of the old power station. This was a pre-digital age, and sadly the only memories that remain are stored away internally, rather than online.
Many a missed last train from Queenstown Road led to a two-week period spent underneath the stars at Battersea. I like to consider myself an early adopter of VNEB contemporary living. At the time it felt more like the lifestyle of an Aussie beach bum decamped to a decaying corner of South London. Queenstown Road served me well whenever I could be bothered to pay attention to the train timetable.
With the planned new Nine Elms and Battersea extension to the Northern Line soon to make a £1bn detour east of Vauxhall, you have to wonder what is the point of Queenstown Road? Or perhaps what is the point of the £1bn new Nine Elms and Battersea extension to the Northern Line?
I continued my VNEB wanderings out towards the old river. The BSB building remains unoccupied - crass, clad in testosterone and a symbolism for a debased culture. It would make for an ideal American Embassy.
The VNEB map insists that the Thames itself is part of the regeneration plan. I wasn’t on for walking on water at such an early hour, and so plodded along around the back of Battersea and back towards Vauxhall along the river.
The Chelsea Fringe Festival [ha!] was doing its best to comb over the blatant sales pitch from a property developer, whilst at the same time preventing further public access along the river.
The overt aim is to open up Battersea and allow the public to sit on a recently laid garden lawn in front of the bordered up four towers and eat a guacamole wrap. The Aussie beach bum radio boys probably wouldn’t have approved.
Information boards line the perimeter of the shell of the four towers, crudely mixing heritage with ads for Buy to Let opportunities. The area was empty, both physically and emotionally. A cultural bankruptcy could yet to follow.
A cut through some of the side streets at the back of Battersea that have yet to be flattened, and I was soon back on course for the return leg back towards Vauxhall. It is here that the traffic starts to splutter and choke as you make your way towards the gyratory.
I couldn’t resist a look around what remains of New Covent Garden Market. It was never the most pleasing or welcoming of locations - regeneration is required. I loved the symmetry of wearing the same workmen trousers that I bought at the Sunday Car Boot Sale some three years earlier.
The massive Sunday market has been a destination for over a decade for South London folk wanting to buy an industrial supply of washing up liquid or dodgy DVD’s. You can’t but help think that Car Boots Sales won’t be a regular Sunday morning feature once the Embassy folk move in.
Standing by the SW Sorting Office and it is here that you first get a real sense of the size of the VNEB development. Much of the immediate landscape has already been flattened, offering a clear perspective all the way back towards Battersea and the river. It is an immense area of land - a new town is being constructed Southside on the Thames.
But how do you construct a community? The cluster of signs reading Private Road perhaps point towards how closed the new VNEB community is likely to become. Helicopters constantly hover overhead. Battersea Heliport might just become the transport option of choice once the new capital moves in.
Meanwhile down at the Cross and the fate of the magnificent Vauxhall Bus Station remains in doubt. With only a decade of public service, the future of the ski jump defining architecture of Arup Associates is up for discussion with Lambeth Council and local residents.
There is no hiding from the statement that Vauxhall Cross can be incredibly intimidating for any cyclist. It can even be a cause for concern for any motorist not confident enough to hold their ground as the lanes split westbound towards either Victoria or Waterloo.
Many folk get cross over Vauxhall Cross. But how do you remove anger away from the gyratory, yet still allow traffic to flow from east to west? Residents have long since wanted the centre of Vauxhall to be just that - a defining sense of physical community that encourages local trade and conversation. Commuters rely on the handy interchange between mainline, tube and bus. There is nowhere left for road traffic to be diverted. It has to pass through Vauxhall.
With a massive population expansion expected ahead of the VNEB development, the arteries of Vauxhall are not going to loosen the grip on all of the transport directed anger. Architecture is not always the answer to the woes of the world, but I tend to think that the stunning ski slope at least gives Vauxhall a unique identity.
“The Vauxhall Gyratory will be remodeled to create a more pedestrian friendly environment and a new bridge across the Thames will link the area to Pimlico on the opposite bank. A redesign of the gyratory system will tame through traffic and enable the creation of four distinct quarters, each with its own unique identity and attractions.”
Good luck with that one, Comrades.
And so that was my day of walking around the fluid fault lines upon which the VNEB development is starting to be built. I was probably about six months behind the Best Before date. Much of what I wanted to document digitally had already disappeared. The pace of change for regeneration hasn’t always been unforgiving around Battersea Power Station. It seems that all those lost decades of neglect are now being made up for.
Yet the veranda views of SW8 that greeted my every South London morning can still be seen. It will take a mountain of mini Manhattans to destroy the Transpontine defining sight of the four chimneys.
It would be so simple to conclude with a sneering commentary as to how the spirit of South London is being sucked away from an area that has a proud past. But truth be told and the VNEB development simply had to happen.
London will always throw up pockets of neglect that have fallen upon hard times. You can celebrate the ‘authenticity’ of the past until the hyperlocal economy is left to stagnate whilst the rest of the city celebrates the investment; or you can sign up for regeneration and hope to have a say in how it is managed.
I was spectacularly wrong with my predictions for the demise of Brockwell Lido when Fusion first floated the idea of knocking down an art deco wall and building a bloody gym. But these are the true Golden Days of the Lido. It has for the first time in decades been operating off a stable business model. Careful and determined input from the Brockwell Lido Users Group has led to an incredibly sensitive reconstruction of the beautiful old building.
Can the same be said for Battersea? The four chimneys remain part of the central plan - or at least part of the marketing bumph that is shipped out across to the big investment on the other side of the world.
Regeneration can work.
In the case of the VNEB development you feel that it simply has to work.
To Smithfield! …early on Saturday evening for the Nocturne race rolling out around the streets of EC1A. This is the seventh year of the Criterium event. The crowds and quality of competitors continue to build, confirming the reputation of the Nocturne as the leading city centre race on the circuit.
Olympic and World Champions could be seen navigating the highly technical course that fed down towards Farringdon, and then back up towards the old market. Much is made of pro-cycling being perceived to operate in a sanitised, safe environment. You couldn’t get more backstreet than Smithfield on Saturday night.
The bars and cafes benefitted, as did the many trade stalls that were crammed into any remaining space around the outer edges of the market. What the Nocturne manages to achieve with perfection is the fine balance between competitive racing and commercial opportunities. You need the sponsors and their over-priced cycling products to prop up the event. Never underplay though the importance of the party atmosphere that carried all the way around the Criterium circuit.
Much of this was down to the plain silliness of some of the events. Mini-wheelers mixed it with Penny Farthings as a folding bicycle race was soon followed by the big boys and their bonkers big wheels. Cycle cross was also catered for, as was the corporate City races between the bankers.
But it was the elite men and women that most of the crowd came out to see. The pro pace around such a challenging course was immense. The market setting allowed you to view from an incredibly close position as the riders increased the speed of racing just as the sun was setting.
There is a huge appetite for cycling in London and the Smithfield Nocturne managed to satisfy the needs on Saturday night. It was pleasing to see the proud colours of the likes of Dulwich Paragon and London Dynamo racing with the more recognised pro teams on the circuit.
Bicycle parking was perhaps the only downer. Ten thousand plus cyclists gathering in a tightly packed old meat market is always going to lead to lamppost congestion with the locks. A minor moan for an event that is now the mid-summer highlight of the racing calendar.
The second lovely lido swim of the season and I was rewarded with the beautiful clear blue waters of Lake Brockwell. I was also rewarded with a water temperature of 18.5 degrees - or a South London Turkish Bath, as the locals like to call it.
Blue skies over Brockwell Park and the water reflected the rich Naval hue from one end of the art deco pool to the other. Or is it the other way round? Either way, blue is the colour for both sky and lido surrounds.
These four-bricked walls are nothing short of a South London suntrap. I swear that the wisteria creeping it’s way around the poolside decking grew an inch during my afternoon visit. A solar panel on the south facing wall could create enough power to heat the pool. But that’s not really the point…
I delayed the swim whilst I played around with the iPod playlist entitled Lido. This is the soundtrack for the past eighteen summers or so. I can listen to the songs mid-winter and still end up with a lido grin and a glow.
If the previous swim had been all about the acclimatisation, this session was characterised by the lido experience itelf. Swimming is something of a secondary consideration; you arse around poolside with a poncey iPod playlist, procrastinating and allowing the South London rays to thaw out the misery of a cruel winter.
No surprises that I fell asleep.
The towels slowly started to appear along the decking as the afternoon sun descended higher into the Transpontine sky. It wasn’t the great land grab rush that the lido experiences at 9am during the peak of the summer season. You had room to breathe; you had room to cary out a nonsense physio stretch for a knackered knee without creating too much of a social scene.
These are often the best Lido Days. The anticipation of the new season ahead is growing steadily. The confirmed believers of lido life are already poolside, chilled in spirit, if not in body temperature. The part timers will join them as the water temperatures continues to creep up over the next few days.
There’s probably some lido equation that relates to water temperature and turnstile rotations each morning. Bracket in the number of wetsuits on show, and you could come up with a sound business plan for outdoor swimming.
But truth be told, it’s much more simpler than that. There is no such thing as a bad lido experience. Some lost afternoons are just more GRIN inducing than others.
Saturday was all about smiles. After the lido iPod playlist had finally woken me from a winter slumber, I dived straight in at the deep end and didn’t flinch a little finger at 18.5 degrees. The songs continued, with a group of teenage girls huddled in one corner of the water singing snippets of some pop tat just to keep warm.
I soon found my rhythm as I put the lengths in. I attempted to lose the limitations that a poxy 20m indoor pool places on your swimming technique. It’s remarkable how stoke-by-stroke and your sense of lido space soon stacks up with increased precision. I was finding my turning point with spot on timing. Still got it, I murmured to myself as my feet found just the right spot in which to launch another length.
Head rotations for air were alternated, depending on which direction up or down the pool I was traveling. No fancy training reason for this, simply that the late afternoon sun was glinting down from the eastern wall each time I passed. What a charmed life when your only consideration is to position yourself in the water without the disturbance of the sun dazzling through your goggles.
Shadows started to appear around the four walls. Conversations of some eighteen summers past could be heard; memories of the old male changing rooms where the gym now stands were on show, and even an announcement from Dangerous on the poolside PA system.
This is your body telling you that it is probably time to leave the water.
I showered off poolside, and then witnessed another wetsuit boy struggling to free himself of black rubber. Or maybe it was just another Transpontine hallucination?
The first lovely lido swim of the new season, and oh woe me without my wetsuit.
Whoops.
Fifteen degrees is generally recognised as the acceptable water temperature for a shreddies appearance, rather then the wetsuit rubber fetish faffing about. I arrived poolside to find the clear blue waters at Lake Brockwell hovering around 14.5 degrees.
Ouch.
Hey hoe. I pressed on ahead with the Walk of Trepidation past the Lido Cafe and towards the deep end. You have already done the hard part by simply turning up at the lido - you are going to swim rather than bugger off back to base.
But nothing prepares you for that first lido headfuck of the season as you dive into the water, and immerse yourself in the most refreshing hangover experience that South London has to offer.
My head started to throb as soon as I emerged towards the surface of the pool. No surprises to find that there was an absence of throbbing action down below inside my shreddies.
All immediate memories was erased. This is perhaps the reason why so many people are increasingly being won over by the benefits of a daily outdoor swim, rather than sweat it out in some soulless shoebox of a chlorine infested indoor pool.
Maslow’s hierarchy of human needs is your next consideration. You need to move your body, and you need to do it soon before your bits and pieces start to fall off. A pushing off from the pool edge and I was away. My brain could just about calculate that I had to keep on moving, else risk abandonment and defeat.
One length of the 50 metre / yard (still unsure) pool and mind and body were just about functioning. Time to push off again from the poolside and see if a return journey would be able to raise the body temperature slightly.
Four lengths in and I was flying. I reached the ideal equilibrium of allowing my body to feel fine, yet still be left in a slightly giddy state of conscience within. You want to empty EVERYTHING that is in your mind, and simply allow the twenty minutes or so of outdoor swimming to reboot your brain. I had a back up in the form of a hip flask, should the re-booting fail once I was finished.
Outdoor swimming is the superior activity for fitness. Put simply, you can’t hang about if you want to remain warm. I moved between the lengths, increasing in speed and confidence as memories of lido summers past, and possible thoughts for the future, echoed around the iconic art deco walls.
The ritual of lido life reminds you of your own life cycle. You see the same friendly faces each season, all wearing slightly expansive trunks and with a renewed vigour for the waters to wash away a woeful winter of cynicism.
Some might say that you are simply going through the motions, and in a way you are. Three strokes and then an intake of breath, rotating from left to right with each stroke, alternating the view and the ever changing lido landscape.
This was the same routine some eighteen summers ago - why change something that is so simple and life affirming?
I could have carried on for a couple of extra lengths, but commitments elsewhere were already counting down on the lido poolside clock. I showered, and then observed the wetsuit boys struggling to relieve themselves of a rubber casing. My shreddies were already packed away inside my towel.
Cheers, fellas.
The familiar cranking of the Brockwell Lido turnstile signaled my exit from the first swim of the season. It represents a mechanical notch on my aquatic bedpost.
You’ve achieved something - you’ve reaffirmed the lure of the lido.
A risible turn out for the bullyboys of the BNP [not linking] at Westminster on Saturday afternoon. Whilst other towns flushed out from the u-bend the BNP-lite EDL idiots [ditto], London was billed at the centrepiece for the BNP to flare their nostrils at anything that they don’t understand.
Turns out that the BNP threat is about as dangerous as a cold cup of tea. But that’s no reason not to hold the little runts [RUNTS] to account, and challenge them whenever they take up the right to poison their racist propaganda on our streets.
College Green was converted on Saturday afternoon to an outside broadcast of The Archers, as scripted by the most pious and pitiful collection of little people that Little England can muster up. The perceived threat came mainly from old men with crap haircuts. Thankfully they are a dying breed, taking their twaddle to the grave with them.
Tramp the dirt down, etc.
A village fete style PA (ha!) played out a distorted soundtrack of all the songs that are shit when associated with crappy far Right connotations. Jerusalem has long since been reclaimed as a Socialist anthem from the rugger buggers on the playing fields of the public schools. Either that or a bit of a racket to be tolerated ahead of Test match cricket.
Against the backdrop of bad haircuts and distorted pig faces, Jerusalem on the village PA reminded you why all the best protest songs come from Left.
Speaking of which, eyes left (aha!) and the BNP opposition was ten fold to the racist raggle taggle. Double this figure further still and you get an idea as to the strength of the police presence.
Never the twain, etc, but the police protection was more for the BNP thugs than those challenging their fascist views. A lone racist ranted and raved from within the safety of the pen that was protecting the racists. Spit dribbled from his face as the speed of his deluded verbose accelerated. He got a little lost in the argument talking about “starving white folk.” No need to worry fella; not with a 40″ waist.
The real fun however was coming from the other side of Parliament Square. If it’s FUN that you’re looking for in your political struggle then you should go with the Left every time. Heavy dub and an absence of bitterness in the faces of those dancing along.
The racists peered over at what they were missing, only to return to the inner sanctum of their pen, huddled around in small groups with no sense of purpose.
The police however knew exactly what they wanted to achieve - kettle the anti- BNP crowd at the earliest opportunity. Which was a shame, as the lone racist dribbler was now giving the Nazi salute to the Palace of Westminster, an action that was worthy of retribution.
A couple of commissioned double decker buses turned up to escort the dinosaurs back to their deluded corner of Little England. If they want to broadcast their hatred on the street, then they should have the bottle to walk it like they talk and make their own way home to whatever shithole they came from.
Was that the best that the BNP could manage? In central London? The dear old Countryside Alliance [not linking...] was more scary to be honest.
With the police getting a little over excited, I made my exit and backtracked over Waterloo Bridge. The tide was out and a community beach festival was taking place in front of the old river. Jerusalem wasn’t playing out of a crappy village PA system.
By pure chance later in the day and I passed through Bunhill Fields, the final resting place for Blake. It remains a peaceful location within the heart of the City. Vile and hatred is kept away - a fitting place for the great visionary Anarchist.
No ceasing from the mental fight; no ceasing from ANY fascist fight.
