onionbagblog

If the Stockwell Christmas Tree is standing, then it must be time for the most anal onionbagblog post of the year. Nine years ago and this event almost signalled the end of this blog. I am a man of routine, and I was repeating what had already been said:

“Look, here’s the Stockwell Christmas Tree. I told you about this twelve months ago, and chances are that I will be telling you about it in twelve months time. This must mean the end of onionbagblog.”

But I had a change of heart, brought on once again by routine.

I work / I play / I blog about it.

And so here we are, blogging about the Sunny Stockwell Christmas Tree, which of course means blogging about the glorious routine of Transpontine living.

Same as it ever was, Comrades. Same as it ever was.

‘Aint life grand!

Work and play (and bits and bobs of blogging…) transported me back to my Transpontine roots at the tail end of August, leading to a semi-permanent Sunny Stockwell base. I took on an extra role Somewhere in SE17 (and gained a little recognition.)

listen to ‘Michael Faraday School, London are runners up in the 2013 Technologist Of The Year Award’ on Audioboo

Audio Boo project at Michael Faraday school such simple use of tech, yet so effective. Impressive #altc2013

— Paul Madley (@onepablo) September 11, 2013

Excellent presentation about a talking project at Michael Faraday Primary School…#altc2013 using technology appropriately

— Helen Heywood (@skillsacademic) September 11, 2013

Meanwhile the empire building [ARF!] continued Somewhere in SE21. I was very kindly invited to join in the good news story of Lansdowne School down in… Sunny Stockwell. Locality has also been rather lovely to me on the work front in the past twelve months.

Plus the lure of the Lido, The Oval and Herne Hill Velo were proving too great to resist.

South London summers are the best.

I’m a great believer in deep level topography - people shape a place, but equally a place can shape people.

Coelum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt.

Sounds pants?

Probably.

But I’m forever melded to the Stockwell / Oval / Vauxhall Triangle, and all the magic and myth contained within.

Don’t forget those estuary train journeys back and forth though…

I played around a little with m’blog at the start of the year. Oh the woe of re-sizing images for a template specific WP theme, and then realising that the restrictions aren’t exactly great at highlighting your hit and miss photography interests.

Whoops.

A little bit of tinkering behind the blogging scenes, and I botched together a photoblog template.

Seamless.

Sort of.

I rather like the non-discipline of simply allowing the images do the talking. Sometimes it’s a load of twaddle, but there is a minimalist satisfaction [oh yes] in publishing photos per se and allowing them to succeed (or fail) as a stand-alone blog post.

A Winter Walk Around Ferry Marsh was my first attempt at photoblogging.

You probably won’t read about Panto and G & S in previous Stockwell Christmas Tree blog posts, but they did make an appearance for 2013. Ditto @MWBewick displaying one of his many, many talents.

Beware the Ides of March - beware the bloody cold Good Friday Meet at Herne Hill. The hyperlocal Transpontine microclimate was as buggered as my track legs. I felt a fraud buying up half the summer lycra collection at the BONKERS bicycling jumble sale.

But WOH!

…won’t you just take a look at those tree trunk thighs.

Brings tears to the eyes.

The old Olympic track has progressed with probably the most radical improvements during my three years away. A brand new track surface, an inner mini-circuit and even floodlights for out of season racing.

There’s talk of buying back a track bicycle for next spring.

Chapeau!

@ukgovcamp in March was as exhausting as it was rewarding. A day spent on the South Bank discussing, learning and forming ideas as to what is possible in the online #localgov space. A momentum was built with ambitious local plans, which sadly couldn’t keep on rolling. Not in the direction that I had hoped for, anyway.

Registration for #ukgovcamp14 is opening soon, Comrades…

The estuary spring weather mirrored the Transpontine freeze yer testicles off conditions over at Mersea Island at the start of April. It was a ‘brave’ idea to cycle out to the Mersea Brewery Easter Beer Festival. It was even feistier talk to cycle back after a couple of halves of Yo Boy.

There is no more a sobering experience than allowing a minus chill factor to puncture the insides of your pants, if not your inner tube.

Seven days later and the Cols de Crystal Palace were being climbed back in Transpontonia as part of the South London Classic - SHORT-sleeved Brixton Cycles lycra livery as well.

Raced on the same day as the Paris-Roubaix, the cobbles of Folgate Street, Stepney Green and Wapping High Street were just the warm up ahead of climbing EVERY single ascent route back towards The Triangle.

Character forming and friendship forming; Le Frenchie fixie rider who climbed Central Hill whilst casually tugging away on a jazz cigarette was the single FUCK OFF cool cycling memory of the past twelve months.

Estuary time trials started in April.

And then it was To Transpontonia! …for a GLORIOUS summer spent on the piss in the Peter May.

Chin chin.

Poster Art 150 at the Transport Museum reminded you how heritage and Modernity can co-exist.

Corporatism and Crap also went hand-in-hand at the touchy feely, shitty shitty experience of The Crystal over in the Badlands of the Royal Docks.

But how to make the trip from North Greenwich over to the great expanse around The Excel?

Don’t dilly dally on the Dangleway.

The plan was for a return trip to North Greenwich. But I ‘aint too great with heights. FOUR regular commuters are currently using the Emirates Air Line [URGH] on a weekly basis. I’d wager that it is *possibly* something to do with dangling midway over the water with a fistful of sweaty palms.

Lovely view, mind.

The annual treat of a visit to the Art Deco toilets up at HQ didn’t disappoint. We even managed to squeeze in a half-decent afternoon of the ‘rrey Vs the ‘Sex whilst up at Lord’s.

Back in Transpontonia and predictably the BOOZE took over once again at The Oval.

Fine work, fella.

The great threat of the white supremacist [not linking] was exposed at the start of June in Parliament Square as being a few creepy old men who still think that they are living in 1952.

All You Fascists Bound to Lose, etc.

The first Lovely Lido swim of the season soon followed. It’s also still going, with Brockwell Lido Icicle status currently braving temperatures of 6.9 degrees. Life-affirming, tearful and changing room bonding as you compare the damage down below.

GOLDEN DAYS, Comrades.

The Smithfield Nocturne was another annual return to form. The race continues to grow with some serious sponsorship and an impressive field of riders. As ever, it was the Penny Farthings that stole the show.

I blogged (endlessly) about my mid-summer meander around the ever changing Vauxhall, Battersea and Nine Elms development. There is nowhere in London that captures the pace of regeneration and quest for change better than VNEB - not even in downtown Brixton Vill-aaage.

A photo project with my local Resident’s Association should ensure regular returns to VNEB over the coming months. My fear is that I’ll keep on missing the major infrastructure changes as this part of South London transforms itself almost overnight.

I had a VERY wet dream with Bottom and pals down at Bankside, and then joined the endless QUEUING to see Dave and his many disguises at the V and A.

No such overcrowding for the ACE Photofusion back down in Brixton and the exhibition celebrating prefabs.

Meanwhile, just around the corner and the brutality of housing was being played out once again on the streets of SW9.

It’s tempting to simply cut and paste the Lambeth Country Show blog post and put it up for the Stockwell Christmas Tree end of year wordy ramblings. For two days down in Brockwell Park, EVERYTHING that draws me back to Transpontonia is celebrated.

2013 was no different.

Sheep sheering, David Crowie and Chucklehead.

You can take the boy out of Brockwell Park, etc.

Urban Art around Josephine Avenue and the surrounds of SW9 soon followed. The full size artistic tube carriage was ACE.

My personal fave though was the tick tocking beer cans.

Wifey and I finally managed to take our honeymoon - an afternoon spent up The Shard.

Romance was EVERYWHERE - down the Walworth Road, Somewhere in SE17 and even the Sunny Stockwell flat.

All were visible from up above the brilliant viewing platform. Well worth a trip - or even a cheapo honeymoon.

Best check the weather first, mind.

A Friday night beer festival at The Oval probably wasn’t the best of ideas ahead of a 6am train the following morning and a week spent cycling around Norfolk.

Blame Red Maz. Or even the Surrey Fox.

Ahh - but which is which, etc?

A week spent in the saddle in Norfolk wasn’t without its ups and downs, so to speak. Beware the boastful bicyclist who believes that he knows the route before setting off on a six-hour hack, with only a back pocket banana for company.

Drooping.

Back in London and it was time for some b-ball.

Team GB Vs Puerto Rico wasn’t a classic game. The Copper Box though proved what a brilliant venue it is for this type of event.

*shhh* legacy…

The Bankside Wet Dream became a blowjob as Gabriel at The Globe got a little obsessed with sex and blowing horns.

I chuffing LOVED it.

Much like the fag end days of the Lovely Lido season, forever my FAVE time of the year down by the blue waters of Lake Brockwell.

Some early September cricket, and whaddyaknow - it’s only the return of my old friend Mr Hairy Back Man.

Hurrah!

It was an equally hairy experience supporting Surrey, who simply ran out of games (and youth) as the old timers dropped down a division as the old cricketers left the crease.

Dulwich Hamlet could hold off no longer.

Almost five seasons away from Champion Hill, but irresistible rise of The Rabble and the newly promoted team was a Transpontine pink ’n’ blue sexual / spiritual experience waiting to be re-born.

IT’S BLOODY BRILLIANT down at Edgar Kail Way right now.

The team play an uplifting style of football that encapsulates the hopes and beliefs of all the old South London anarchos and Commies that have come out to wave their big flags and banners at the cause.

And that cause is?

It’s all about the pink ’n’ blue football, stooopid.

Plus a glorious isolationist belief in all things South London and a totalitarian REJECTION of what passes as football in the mainstream media.

#forfuturefootball.

For South London solidarity and pink fingerless gloves.

Meanwhile…

Anyone fancy a trip north of the river?

Oh Lordy.

A topological exploration of [technically] east London was a tactical necessity for Open House Weekend. The calculated risk of walking around the edges of The City actually ended up as a glorious Sunday spent in the corporate HQ of Allen & Overy, the inner bunkers of the Bishopsgate Foundation and charming East London Central Synagogue.

listen to ‘One Bishops Sq, home of Allen & Overy @londonopenhouse’ on Audioboo

listen to ‘Wandering around Bishopsgate Institute @openhouselondon’ on Audioboo

listen to ‘Looking around East London Central Synagogue with @openhouselondon’ on Audioboo

There’s deluded talk of a trip over to West London for 2014.

A rare Soho trip to take in an exhibition of crap art by a dead junkie former male prostitute was one of the highlights of the year. The Sebastian Horsely retro at The Outsiders captured with an unnerving nod and a wink the essence of the Soho Dandy in the Underworld.

Likewise there’s never no such thing as a bad exhibition at the BRILLIANT Museum of London. Add in the subject matter of bicycles and you’re freewheelin’ with a ready-made blog post.

We are the City combined digital mapping, social art and an old Moulton suspended from the ceiling of the Museum. Art as the great inspirer was on display right in front of me.

I returned to the MoL later in the month for the Radio Times 90th birthday celebrations. As ever, the BEST Museum in London lived up to its name. The curators have a tremendous understanding in how to pass on London social history without the usual crappy artistic stuffiness.

Tell It Like It Is, etc.

Cricket was still being played [blimey] at The Oval at the end of September. Surrey had long since been relegated, but that didn’t stop young Dom Sibley from having a half-decent day in the Transpontine office.

I rolled up fashionably late for a freebie seat after day spent Somewhere in SE17. The plan was to down five pints before pissing off back to Essex. I barely managed to neck the first, such was the intensity of seeing the 18 year-old SMASH the county cricket record book.

Come stumps and yer man Dom was the youngest Surrey player to reach a first class county century; ditto for the double century, also becoming the youngest player to score a double century in the history of the county championship.

I felt old as I cried into what was left of my dodgy pint of lager.

I also felt slightly nostalgic for youth back in Soho and the pop-up [URGH] experience that was Black Market Clash.

The jumble sale for the Last Gang was everything that David Bowie Is… wasn’t.

The social history of The Clash - nay - of the late twentieth Century [GOSH] was laid out in front of you in a dodgy Soho basement. Much like the previous passing trade down in the Soho cellar, I was CREAMING my pants.

I started the LONG process of online unarchiving in October. Essentially I’m sorting and tagging a decade of digital content with a view to - well, with a view to unarchiving and sharing.

I’m uncovering many memories over the past ten years, plenty of smiles and not to mention a procession of school kids passing through SE17, some of who have now probably got children of their own.

I’m two months into the process of unarchiving a decade of digital memories, all squeezed into any available time when I’m still trying to create some new Transpontine memories.

Speaking of which, m’blog [sort of] hit the tenth anniversary in October.

Been blogging for 10 years. Blimey http://t.co/uQDNdLTPZ3 [hideous broken links / crap content ahoy! Same as it ever was, Comrades]

— Jason_Cobb (@Jason_Cobb) October 8, 2013

I rode Critical Mass once again in October. The one evening of the month when London cyclists can take back the streets was to become all the more meaningful as the month unfolded.

listen to ‘#CriticalMass Halloween Ride. Chapeau!’ on Audioboo

But it wasn’t all about the bike. I attempted to reclaim the running title of The King of Clap’ham Common.

I failed, but had a lot of fun in pounding the mean streets of SW4 and dodging all of the baby buggies.

Keeping away from the Comrades of Champion Hill was proving impossible towards the end of October.

TUSCANY!

These are our glorious, glorious Transpontine days of sporting triumph and social solidarity.

#forfuturefootball has never been so much fun, Comrades.

Also on the up are Streatham Redskins - if not on the ice then certainly geographically within the borough.

I had one last return to the Temporary Streatham Ice Rink in… Brixton, ahead of the ‘skins moving back to the spiritual homeland of Streatham.

Mid-November saw a nasty, nasty week for London bicyclists. A single blog post can’t capture the fear; yet equal determination to continue cycling the streets of the capital.

A trip up the Wellington Arch was a welcome distraction.

The Winter swimming season at the Lovely Lido became laughable as the temperature dropped to single digits.

Nope - IT REALLY DID BECOME LAUGHABLE as you struggled to stay upright after leaving the waters of Lake Brockwell, and then had a fit of the giggles with the other Brockwell Icicles back in the gents.

Ha, bloody ha.

All good Sunny Stockwell Christmas Tree blog posts should end with a little more imagery from Dulwich. A return to Champion Hill in November became something more than simply a football match. This was a celebration of what is possible when folk come together with one aim.

#DHFC If I'm not at at the game today it's cos I've been arrested for trying to solve the housing crisis. Think of me, pink & blue comrades.

— Roberto Vog the 76th (@vornstyle) November 16, 2013

We’re still trying to work out what that aim is down at Champion Hill, but waving pink ’n’ blue flags and flying the Transpontine banners has to be a good starting point.

And finally some botched words on Brixton regeneration.

Um, should have moved to Sunny Stockwell Comrades.

Nice Christmas tree.

Same again next year…

The Cult of the Comrades

“The case has thrown a spotlight on a largely forgotten dead end in twentieth century radical leftist politics - British Maoism.”

@Transpontine on probably the best social historcial analysis so far following the Brixton ’slavery’ story:

“In the 1970s they stood candidates in a number of elections, including as the South London People’s Front in the 1978 Lambeth Central Byelection (they got 38 votes - as Ian Bone observes, that election was also contested by Trotskyist groups the Workers Revolutionary Party, the Socialist Workers Party/Flame and Socialist Unity).”

SPLITTERS!

Voting in Vassall on Thursday, Comrades. There’s still a strand of radicalism is some of the candidates. Probably not in the Nu Labour puppet though.

“The recent Lambeth news reads like a sad footnote to this late, and not particularly lamented, episode in London political life.”

To which you have to ask: is democracy best served by a right wing carve up between the three mainstream political parties, or by the dissenting voices of those that dare to question the Establishment consensus?

The Workers’ Institute of Marxism-Leninism-Mao Zedong Thought probably wouldn’t play out too well on the doorstep, mind.

Meanwhile, Across the Borough Border:

“Alongside these challenges, we see opportunity.”

So speaks @FionaColley, the Southwark Cabinet Member for Regeneration and Corporate Strategy [URGH].

“Part of our answer has been to look to the private sector.”

*part* of the answer?

On yer Bike to Battersea

“Given the length of time before the Northern Line Extension happens (if it is approved) and the indeterminate time-scale for completion of an uninterrupted linear park and Thames path, Nine Elms Lane should be made very cycle friendly as a priority in order to inculcate a cycling culture as soon as developments come on stream.”

@LambethCyclists response to the VNEB Design for Cycling strategy document.

I think that we can take it as read that the Northern Line extension will happen. No harm though it putting the bicycle first ahead of the Beautification of Battersea [GEDDIN!]

This was wonderful listening - Robert Elms on BBC London taking a look at the complex issues involving regeneration in the capital.

You can’t condense the changing social structure of London in one three-hour broadcast; likewise attempting to summarise the complex pros and cons in a hit and miss blog post is sheer folly. But the overall theme of the broadcast was one of reflection with balanced optimism.

This is the personal stance that I am starting to form when looking around at the recent regeneration taking place around South London. I was present at #tuttle when spacemakers first stood up at The ICA and announced plans for what seemed at the time to be a micro-economic experiment at breathing some creative life [PDF] back into Brixton.

I remembered squirming at Tuttle when the phrase ‘gooseberry’ was used to describe Brixton Vill-aaage. This wasn’t a dedicated Tiger Economy Special Economic Zone, but a neighborhood that I had called home for the past fifteen years.

Still, I supported the idea of experimenting with some of the empty units at Granville Arcade and offering cheaper rents to the ‘creative community’ - whoever they may be.

The spacemakers pitch at Tuttle talked of artists, ‘makers’ and the sharing of social skills. It sounded like a genuine bottom up effort to kick start the local community into collaboration, even if the main creative driver didn’t quite have hyperlocal roots.

Anyone with a basic understanding of the economics of regeneration should have heard alarm bells ringing about what the wider consequences would be for Brixton. First you bring in the artists, and then the serious capital starts to flow. The space becomes sanitised and any perceived ‘edginess’ [URGH] has been diluted.

But when the chuffers did the first foodie tribe start to colonise SW9?

For the record, Granville Arcade wasn’t great, but it was far from empty pre-spacemakers. I remember an ACE army surplus store just up from Blacker Dred’s shop along Market Row. The periphery of the Arcade was busy, but the central space was lacking any economic life.

It was a little tawdry - possibly even gooseberry - but far from a South London ghost town.

Those first few weeks of the spacemakers social experiment were interesting, much in the same way that the kids back in the day job find the visit of a touring drama workshop interesting. It’s something that is different to the usual routine, but you wonder how long it will take for the novelty of the social experiment to wear a little thin, once all the creative avenues have been explored.

Anyone feeling hungry?

Oh Lordy.

The mass foodie-fication [GEDDIN] of Brixton Vill-aaage has perhaps been the most unlikely, but most celebrated regeneration story in London for the past decade. Robert Elms seemed to agree with this opinion, remarking that this side of SW9 is now completely unrecognisable to what is was like just twelve months ago.

For the record, I’m far from a foodie. I eat to pick up energy, and then I move on. I couldn’t give a chuffers about taste and texture - I need to refill, and preferably at the cheapest price.

Brixton Vill-aaage shouldn’t be for me.

But I’ve found myself eating at the Vill-aaage whenever I’m free on a Saturday. It’s a convenient meeting place in the centre of town. The consumption of the food has also become a social act [ha!] with Granville Arcade now becoming the place to be seen.

I witnessed this at first hand last Saturday lunchtime when a young lady brazenly walked up to me and my dining partner outside Brixton Cornercopia, whipped out an iPhone and then Instagrammed me and my meat and two veg.

Blimey.

The image of me dribbling a quite delightful cauliflower soup down my goatee beard has probably already spawned a dozen crappy tumblrs. I’ll stick to Mr Di Lieto next time.

Brixton Vill-aaage probably went past its Best Before date when Jay Rayner started all of his eulogising. You can’t blame one man for foodie gentrification, but every scene needs a High Priest in which to judge.

My verdict is now one of an over-priced self-parody of what the ‘scene’ originally was. £10 was the going rate for a decent Saturday afternoon fill up until a few months ago. I’ve noticed that the prices have started to creep up - a £15 plus dining bill is now not uncommon.

This is still chicken feed when compared to Soho etc, but I choose to eat in Brixton because it is my home patch. Out-pricing locals isn’t great for the local economy, but maybe that is all part of the wider economic theory that is continuing to carve up Brixton at such an alarming rate?

You only need to look around the corner at Rushcroft Road to see that not everyone in Brixton has been brought up to speed with this Nu gentrification. Somerleyton Road looks like the next piece of public land that is ripe for regeneration, all under the rather cloaked guiding hand of the mysterious Brixton Green.

A question continually asked in the Robert Elms broadcast was where does the existing community disappear to once regeneration wipes out a neighbourhood? For Brixton this has historically been West Norwood and the surrounds. But even this part of Transpontia is not resistance to the ridiculous property price wave that the gentrification of Brixton has pushed all the way out towards Crystal Palace.

Even the self-styled Triangle area is now an incredibly desirable location for young families to relocate to. The prices just about stack up, and the glorious green space of Crystal Palace Park are a large part of the attraction.

But where will it all end?

Orpington being marketed as South Brixton?

I have found that Stockwell appears to be gentrification resistant - and thank the chuffers for that.

Little has changed around SW8 in the past three years; little has changed in SW8 in the past thirteen years for that matter. Property prices have of course been inflated, but lovers of Cupcakes will be short-changed if they are looking for a food boutique along Stockwell Road.

We use to speculate that the Clap’ham-isation of this part of South London would soon creep into Sunny Stockwell. It seems to have sailed along a limp northerly breeze down Clap’ham Road, and then had all the air taken out of the sails when it reached the edges of Larkhall Park.

Affluence and poverty have defined Stockwell since the post-War period. It’s not ideal, but the mix of council estates with millionaire mansions (Edwardian properties yet to be converted) seems to somehow work.

Stockwell manages to remain atypical in resisting the tosh of the artistic regeneration theory. We’ve always had an artistic community [URGH] around SW8. Somehow the folly of the flow of capital hasn’t happened. In fact the exact opposite seems to be taking place with the artists of Annie McCall Hospital now having been moved out.

listen to ‘Celebrating Stockwell Studios’ on Audioboo

Instead there appears to be a regeneration from within around Stockwell, rather than the ‘facilitators’ from the likes of spacemakers. Van Gough Walk is one such example. An otherwise anonymous back street off the main Clap’ham Road drag has been completely transformed into an artistic, safe, local neighbourhood space.

Questions have been asked about the concentration of funding by Lambeth Council on this one single project in the area, rather than other streets that are possibly more deserving of structural regeneration. But you can’t argue that Van Gough Walk is a remarkable example of local regeneration, enabling the existing community to remain and benefit from their hyperlocal space.

Perhaps the biggest loss in the great scramble to find more housing in South London is the disappearance of local boozers. The mighty Urban 75 has long since been documenting the lost pubs of Brixton. It makes for very sobering reading, and is one of the few similarities between the blatant regeneration of Brixton, and the regenerate from within approach to Stockwell.

A stroll down South Lambeth Road and the gentrification saga takes a new twist.

Here be Vauxhall, Nine Elms and Battersea.

Blimey.

This was mentioned on BBC London with a sense of great excitement. I really can’t decide if I share the same enthusiasm. I’ve blogged before how the area around the proud four towers of Battersea need some form of regeneration. The ‘excitable’ manner in which this all appears to be Malaysian investment at the expense (or not) of the existing community is quite alarming.

It is also worth keeping an eye on the changing Vauxhall gay community. Some quite bold claims about the social cleansing of the area have been made. My local Cllr’s have wasted no time in trying to dismiss these allegations…

Out towards Elephant and the Heygate was another area touched upon by Robert Elms. This should stand as a textbook example of how not to go about regenerating a local community. The figures and data have been well documented. A local South London community has been forcefully ripped apart by Southwark Council, soon to be replaced by an altogether more affluent local population.

One can only sneer at the possible political consequences for the local Labour party in Southwark in allowing such affluence into their area.

Meanwhile the Walworth Road simply refuses to regenerate.

I CHUFFING love it down there.

And so that’s a random overview of some of the Transpontine themes coming out of the random Robert Elms broadcast. Do try and listen to the show if you get the chance before it drops off the back of the iPlayer.

No answers were given, but plenty of questions were raised. Housing remains the one key issue that needs to be balanced with regeneration. The reflection for what is lost in London can be balanced out with the optimism of being able to offer affordable housing to anyone who can’t keep up with the foreign investment pouring into VNEB, the Heygate et al.

The Third Way model that is so beloved in Lambeth may have delivered new leisure centres in Clap’ham and Streatham, but in return the community has to pay a price. For Clap’ham this is the construction of a private residential block, whereas up in Streatham it is a fuck off MEGA new Tesco.

Yeah, right on Chuka.

RT @ACS_LocalShops: @ChukaUmunna to speak at #ACSHoC13 about their role at heart of community <- MEGA Tesco opens in #Streatham this week.

— Jason_Cobb (@Jason_Cobb) November 19, 2013

Meanwhile, fine work from all those involved last weekend in celebrating a house warming party for a house that you will never be able to afford.

Affordable rents, social rents, mixed units, social housing - it’s all about COUNCIL HOSUING, isn’t it, Comrades?

And then there’s the personal. How do you position - or even justify - your own provision and role in all of this process?

With great difficulty.

We got lucky buying in 2000, taking on a South Lambeth Road flat that was barely affordable for us as a couple. It took five years or so to get back on an even financial footing.

Our neighbours use to mock us in a friendly way as to how we had paid FIVE times as much compared to their purchase a decade earlier. And here we are, over a decade later and the neighbours’ flat has just been bought for FOUR times our original buying price.

Much inner soul searching…

Robert Elms asked the question: who could afford to buy the house they now live in, given the current market conditions and their own income?

That’s me out.

Or hopefully *in* as you look around you and see how you can still exist in your ever-changing community and make it relevant to the type of lifestyle that you want to live in. It’s a fine line between bettering the conditions around you, and then a complete social cleansing of existing communities.

Do we really want to live in a Dickensian utopian myth of what Olde London should be like? A change in the infrastructure is exciting - it is what makes city living so special Along with the people, if they aren’t being pushed out…

Finally: Has there ever been a more suited name for a street than Bellenden Road?

Cycled to #dhfc and arrived in one piece. Comrades, I have seen things in Peckham's "Bellenden Village" I will never be able to unsee.

— Darryl (@darryl1974) November 16, 2013

Dulwich Hamlet 1, Concord Rangers 1

To Champion Hill! …on Saturday afternoon for an FA Trophy match between the pink ‘n’ blue boys and the Essex tarts. Which side is your money on?

Now there’s a question, Comrades.

Also posing a similar question as I waited in the sizable queue (ACE, I think…) was the anarcho graffiti that has started to appear along the Sainsbury’s side of the ground.

Um, ACE, I think… etc.

Under the Paving Stones, the Pitch - as a half-arsed pink ‘n’ blue banner in the making may declare down at Dulwich at some stage this season.

The queue to get in to Dulwich Hamlets FC this afternoon pic.twitter.com/U0NWKEJeKG

— Neil Henderson (@hendopolis) November 16, 2013

But for Saturday there was the serious business of being Up For The Cup. Concord flew in from the Canvey wilds sitting 16th a in a division above Dulwich. The Hamlet are currently second in the league below.

If this tosh wasn’t bashed out under the twaddle of a Crap Match Report then I could construct some half-arsed comment about pondering who the actual favourite is here.

With the Champion Hill floodlights already lighting up Traspontonia before the kick-off, this match had the feel of a PROPER football game - passion, comedy party hats and a Scotland / Brazil bastardisation of a flag - an ACE addition to the battlement armoury of the partisan Pink ‘n’ Blue.

Concord were a STRONG side. Not dirty, but physically organised at the back, making it difficult for Dulwich to get the passing game flowing across the Champion Hill golden fields.

A moss-gatherer of a free kick gave Concord the lead in the first half. The Situationist within however listened to the wise words of the VERY fashionably late arriving @vornstyle:

“I didn’t see the goal and so it doesn’t count.”

#DHFC If I'm not at at the game today it's cos I've been arrested for trying to solve the housing crisis. Think of me, pink & blue comrades.

— Roberto Vog the 76th (@vornstyle) November 16, 2013

I then pondered the many misnomers that I have thankfully not had to suffer seeing, but have somehow led to some all round unpleasantness elsewhere.

They just don’t exist, Comrades.

This was a BIG crowd for Dulwich, swelled *ahem* after half-time when the gates were open. 700 plus, I’d wager. Plus don’t forget the growing Pink ‘n’ Blue Brompton corner at the home end of the ground.

Current count: two.

Chapeau!

A rallying call of:

“YOUR CLUB NEEDS YOU!!!!”

…did the job in firing up the beer bellies of The Rabble.

A fine effort Madam, the new Delia of Dulwich.

“This is just like Palace”

…enthused another Comrade.

What could he mean?

And then the late, late arrival of Uncle Wolfie inspired Dulwich to ‘win’ a penalty and equal the score.

“I had to avoid getting arrested just to see that goal”

…was the political pundit talk from Wolfie. Right behind you, Comrade.

Which is what happened to The Rabble for the remainder of the second half. This was a fantastic effort from the home support, singing, laughing and generally celebrating all that is good about the Transpontine Pink ‘n’ Blue (which happens to be EVERYTHING.)

No one really wanted a midweek replay out in Essex.

NO ONE.

But at 1-1 come full time, it will be Dulwich making the Concord trip on Tuesday evening.

MILE HIGH CLUB just thinking about it, Comrades.

Pink ‘n’ Blue BONER.

“Now we’re officially on the ‘Winter’ schedule, it means you get asked ‘that’ question: are you going to carry on swimming out here this year?”

…was the teaser posed by the good @jennylandreth in The Graun last month.

No. Absolutely NOT Madam. Why the chuffers would I want to freeze my hairy arse off in an icy pool when I have the ‘luxury’ of the Clap’ham Village [URGH] changing experience down the road, stuffed into a soulless sweatbox that is filled with baby buggies and blokes that aren’t able to shampoo their pubes in the shared showers.

So Yeah. NO. I’m not going to carry on swimming out here this year.

And so on Saturday morning I swam in the icy waters of Lake Brockwell.

Whoops.

The do you or don’t you dilemma has been haunting me for the past month. It has been playing upon my mind to such an extent that it needed resolving. To opt out would be a personal failure for me. Others around me are gallantly giving it a go. But to agree would be madness.

It seems that I’m caught between a rock and a bloody cold place, and that bloody cold place ‘aint the sanitised Clap’ham Village.

I knew that the moment would come when I would have to just bloody do it. Saturday morning was the ideal opportunity.

It wasn’t a great nights sleep. Booze and blue bollocks are not the best of companions. A teetotal Friday night only added to the restlessness as I counted down to a Saturday morning of personal inner struggle. It was like the Last Supper on the eve of starting a new job.

Just get it bloody over with, you wuss. It will get better.

But it never does with winter swimming.

It was only when I woke (or didn’t…) on Saturday morning that I finally realised that the icicle struggle is mental rather than physical. Less than luke warm waters aren’t to be feared; the fear of freezing yer nuts off is the enemy.

Once you can overcome this fear then the freezing conditions are fine. At least that’s what I told myself as I cycled past the warm Rec, along Railton Road and did my best to induce an energetic ride and a mild sweat on the brow.

You bloody fool! You should never mix your drinks! etc…

I had a reassuring chat with @iciclepete and @mutley69 in the changing rooms. Mr Mutley was shaking uncontrollably and had resorted to putting a hairdryer down his pants to try and resurrect the Old Ice Breaker.

“You’ll be fine”

…Mr Mutley muttered.

Cheers, fella.

A water temperature of 9.3 degrees greeted me at poolside.

Phew - there’s NO WAY I’m diving into the waters of Lake Brockwell if it was 9.2.

9.3 should actually be manageable. I’ve swum routinely without a wetsuit in 15 degrees. Saturday also saw the beautiful blue Brockwell skies, with the sun adding an extra layer of warmth for your body whilst above water.

Two hats accompanied me as completed the Walk of Shame / Silliness past the lovely Lido Cafe and down towards the deep end. No going back now. My mental battle had been won - if you’re here then you are going to swim (or wimp off and hibernate for the rest of the winter season as a personal failure.)

I’ve always been a fan of dry diving. There’s no point in arseing around and dipping your big toe in the water. Of course it’s bloody cold - what the chuffers were you expecting.

1-2-3 and soon I was back in my familiar routine of knowing exactly the right angle as to where to place my hands to have a soft cushion on the floor of the lido, and then coming up for air with precision knowledge as to how many strokes I needed to touch the side once again before I set off.

Moving. Gotta keep moving.

I treaded water for around 15 seconds as I positioned my goggles. 20 seconds would have been pushing it. Anything longer would lead to tears.

It was only when I was halfway down the 55-yard lido that I realised that everything was OK.

Can I go back to sleep now?

As long as the circulation keeps flowing then you won’t feel the cold pins trying to attack every inch of bare flesh that you have braved to the lido. It is a struggle between what you can do and what you can get away with.

I offered up to the lido a half wetsuit with my arms and lower legs available for attack. Go on - have a go if you think you’re cold enough.

We both settled on a happy compromise of it wasn’t worth it. The lido allowed me to enjoy my burst of beautiful blue water and winter sun, and in return I let it stave off the head fuck until the twelfth length.

Ten lengths was the goal set by @iciclepete and @mutley69. I had two more left in my mind, if not in my body.

uh-oh.

I had won the mental battle, but my bollocks would be out of action for the following 24 hours.

It is when your mind starts to go that you realsie that now would be a good time to leave the water. Twelve lengths in I gracefully removed myself from the pool.

Once step on to the lido patio and I fell over.

Oh dear.

I had been wounded by the beauty of Brockwell but was still walking. I was also still GRINNING insanely, something that I am still doing some twelve hours later as I type.

The heated floor back in the gents was a lifesaver. And so was Lido Peter, a wonderful addition to my early morning meet, the one man in South London who is qualified to call himself a Lido Historian.

History is writing itself again.

M’blog archive will recall that in mid-November 2013, I was asked the question:

“Are you going to carry on swimming out here this year?”

Ask a silly question, @jennylandreth…

Billed as ‘Brutalism and Beautiful’ - the tagline for the Saving the Twentieth Century exhibition at the Wellington Arch could equally apply to the lovely, lovely English Heritage security chap who helped me out late on Friday.

These heritage sites aren’t always the best when it comes to bicycling provision. You may boast a triumphal Georgian arch as a gateway to West London (best not go there…) but you’ve got bugger all when it comes to locking up a Brompton.

Hurrah then for the more beautiful side of Mr Security Chap who *shhh* “broke all the rules” and very kindly offered to store the foldaway deep down below in the out of bounds area of the wonderful Wellington Arch.

Wait! There’s more!

Brilliant though Saving the Twentieth Century was, the highlight of the visit was the charming chat with Mr Security Chap. A superb knowledge of the aims and content of the exhibition, a bit of bicycling conversation, and then the soft sell of English Heritage membership.

Job’s a good ‘un.

But what of the real Brutalism and Beauty itself?

The context for the celebration of all things concrete states how it is 25 years since the first post-War buildings were listed. From prefabs to the Lloyd’s building - Brutalism and Beautiful aims to celebrate those buildings that dare to think differently.

Saving the Twentieth Century starts with the splendour that is climbing the concrete spiral staircase towards the top of Wellington Arch itself. At least it did during my visit with the lifts being out of action.

Three spacious rooms within the Wellington Arch are then made available to tell the story of how Britain learned to love Brutalism. We start with the opportunity that the post-War period presented to architects. Here was a chance to build better.

Which leads us to… The Barbican.

Oh Lordy.

I actually LOVE the bonkers-ness of The Barbican. The towering juts of spiky concrete remind you that the centre of town isn’t all about elegant Georgian archways.

Bracken House also gets a mention, with the pink stone chosen to match the FT tenants. Thank the chuffers that the Green ‘Un newspaper never got round to building such a vanity driven HQ.

The second room in Saving the Twentieth Century is put aside for austerity. We’re all in this together? Only one other visitor was in the Arch during my visit.

“Austerity lent a charm to architecture”

…apparently.

Um, Helloooo! … Strata.

URGH.

The Royal Festival Hall is the fantastic crowning glory for the achievements of the concrete Brutalism movement. The period in the timeline talks of ‘The New Brutalism’ - which I’m sure was a misguided NME movement back in the day.

Goldfinger’s ACE Trellick Tower is included, and then we move on to the 1960′s - the high point for post-War optimism. Centre Point is at the centre of this swinging scene. Shame on Crossrail and the architectural vandalism that has led to the removal of the fountains from the front.

Saving the Twentieth Century concludes with the 70′s and 80′s. There was a reaction against Modernism, with steel, glass and then post-modernism taking over central London.

Oh what high japes.

But Brutalism and Beauty isn’t over yet.

The £4 entrance fee is worth paying alone to simply have access to the roof terrace of the Wellington Arch and a North and South view of London. Eyes left for a dead straight view all the way down Constitution Hill; eyes right for the vanity of VNEB.

Brutalism and Beauty - they don’t build ‘em like they use to.

There was an extra edginess to cycling around London on Friday. Five deaths in nine days focuses the mind. Nervous smiles could be seen at various junctions, a reassuring message to say: yeah, we can still do this.

We’ve been here before of course. Comparing the 7/7 attacks with what has been an incredibly sad week for London cyclists is trivial. It demotes the utter personal devastation of the death of a loved one, plus the two themes have absolutely no cause and effect correlation.

But those first few ventures back down into the underground post 7/7 saw similar nervous smiles. It’s not an expression of happiness, but perhaps an inner response in search of communal safety and assurance.

Any personal connection with a fellow human who feels the same way as you, helps to regain your confidence. A strong assertion on how it is possible to exist in London on a bicycle is the exact message that needs to be made right now.

I loathe the term ‘the cycling community.’ Please don’t label me by my choice of transport, let alone try and connect me with the many hundreds of thousands of London commuters who also happen to choose the same mode of travel.

Is there a ‘London Underground community?’

But the cycling community - perceived or otherwise - does need a response. The best reaction is to carry on doing what for most London cyclists is a safe and enjoyable way to get around town.

Visibility is important, both in the personal and the strong presence of cyclists continuing to use the roads. London may not feel like a wonderful place in which to cycle at the moment, but there have been so many tangible improvements since only a decade ago.

To cycle ten years ago was to be a weirdo. You were outcast as the loser that couldn’t afford a car. Now that the lifestyle [URGH] of cycling has taken hold of the capital, the… Critical Mass of riders has gone mainstream.

Once this happens, then hopefully safety follows.

It’s never as simple as that, but the political reaction to the five deaths shows that the volume of cyclists can’t be ignored. Finding a practical solution to keep London cyclists safe is the type of political problems that politicians hate. You can’t legislate for the personal actions of others.

The debates have been well played out this week - the segregation of cyclists, better awareness for both riders and other transport users, plus a return to the plain silly suggestion of taxing cyclists.

I note (and so does my diary for May 2015) that my MP still doesn’t get cycling. Strange, given that over half of the constituents which the red light jumping Kate Hoey serves don’t own a car.

Three of the deaths have taken place on Cycle Superhighways. I hope that this doesn’t lead to an association of failure for the policy. Bow roundabout is hellish; CS2 is probably the worst ‘planning’ for cycling implementation that you will see in all of London.

I actually feel relatively safe cycling along CS7 from Stockwell towards the City. Cycling on what is simply a strip of blue paint may be an illusional notion of safety, but it does send out a visible message to other road users to stay out of our space.

A complete segregation has to be the aim, but I doubt if the economic power is there, even if the political will is. You have to grab every handout that is given to you, and then keep on demanding for more.

The extra edginess and nervous smiles of Friday sat strangely with what was a beautiful day in which to ride a bicycle around London.

Everyday is a beautiful day to ride a bicycle around London, but crisp skies, dry conditions and a glorious sunrise over the river meant that this was the kind of morning best spent above ground rather than underground.

I crossed the Old Father at Westminster, a rare diversion from my usual Vauxhall route. Cabbies, buses and the early pack of tourists all joined me in the Transpontine crossing.

Westminster can sometimes be a little lively on the bridge, much as in the House. Friday was calm with a steady pace from all transport users. This probably had absolutely nothing to do with the deaths - never underestimate how uplifting a blue backdrop can be for the morning commute.

I continued along Whitehall, and then a rare diversion around St James’s as I headed for Hyde Park Corner. No such luck here in hoping that the wonderful weather would take the toil out of the transport woe.

Down Piccadilly and a mini-pelaton started to form. Soho was as cycle friendly as ever. Any cyclist that attempts to take on Soho will come a cropper. It is a glorious madness of many people using many different forms of transport. Pedestrians rule here - a rarity, but something that you need to respect if you want to stay upright.

And then finally the working day was done and I headed back south over Vauxhall Bridge. The mini-etching into the left hand side of the bridge masquerading as a cycle lane is more of a boundary for the gutter than a safe cycling solution.

And then you are fed into the free-for-all that is Vauxhall Cross. Assertion is always required here, with a little added aggression to claim the space for cyclists.

It shouldn’t be like this. I ride for many reasons, one of which is to have a reflective period in which to empty my mind. This is not possible at Vauxhall and Elephant etc. You are forced to take on the horrid character of the Urban Cycle Warrior, Us Vs Them, which always leads to… well, not a pleasant way in which to share the road space.

And so there ends what has been a horrid, horrid week for London cyclists. I tried to finish with some optimism. It’s too easy to be cynical about the halfway house solution of the Superhighways.

They aren’t perfect but they a physical start to add more political pressure. As we have sadly seen this week, they can also kill when the planning appears to accommodate other road users as a priority.

Likewise there’s no point in having a folk devils and moral panic about cyclists. Much of the mainstream media coverage this week would put any reasoned person off cycling for good.

This is the exact opposite message that should come out of mid-November 2013 in London. Cycling has been brutal this week. But if you want to change this then the best response is not to be defeatist, but to help to complete the cycling revolution that is now becoming ever closer.

Stay safe, friends.