onionbagblog

Sirens and police helicopters.

The struggle to engage with people in a meaningful and shared co-existence.

Crappy local media.

The tawdriness of the West End, the supposed showpiece of London.

Not knowing anything about North London.

The disguising of the traditional class structure, with crude wealth replacing the means of production.

Cycling along Park Lane.

Bulls******s.

The lack of respect for our shared surroundings. Fly tipping, spitting and urinating outside my house.

The price of general amenities around town, and the blatant belief that just because you are in central London, charging £2 plus for a cup of tea is somehow justifiable.

The restrictions of the river. The Thames IS London, and should be opened up for us all to enjoy and explore. Being unable to walk from East to West in your city, unrestricted, should be a right.

Self-styled creative types, with no evidence of creativity, but a passion for talking about themselves.

Falling asleep on the tube and waking up in the hellhole that is Morden.

The SW8 street drinkers, nutters and con artists.

The defining of the individual by their work status, and not by what skills they can add to the community.

The lack of integration of the transport network.

Fat, cockney plumbers.

The crap that builds up along London roads whenever it rains, ruining the inner workings of my bicycles.

People that SHOUT for no reason.

People that confuse car horns for front door bells.

Being stuck in traffic on a crowded bus, on a steamy hot afternoon.

The ugliness of the outer architecture.

The pockets of extreme poverty, with gated affluent dwellings within walking distance.

The realisation that politicians will never resolve the problem of the four towering chimney’s of Battersea.

The Ali G language, adopted by suburban Yoof.

Not knowing who I live next door to.

Incompetent local politicians, more concerned with their career than the genuine needs of the local community.

The Northern Line.

The 37 bus route.

Being told in Lambeth Life each fortnight how brilliant our local council is, by… our self-proclaimed brilliant local council.

Chicken wing shops and nail bars on every South London street corner.

Watching rubbish football teams.

Bike thief scum. Especially the little s**** that then sell on their loot around Brick Lane on a Sunday morning.

Trying to live the Love Me I’m a Liberal metropolitan lifestyle, but finding that my morals are being shifted further to the right by the behaviour of the very people around me I should be taking pity on.

The price of milk in my corner shop.

Local ice hockey and basketball being spoilt for me by petty, political in-fighting.

Junkyard neighbours.

Negativity from those around me.

The madness of SW8 meaning not being able to sleep with the windows open during the summer months.

The perpetual disgusting nature of the changing rooms at Brixton Rec.

The lottery of having to hire an electrician, plumber, or gas man, and not knowing about the quality of service when compared to the cost.

NOISE.

Everything about Brockwell Lido.

The magical open spaces of Brockwell Park and Clap’ham Common.

Procrastinating the entire summer away at The Oval.

Early Saturday morning starts, rolling out with the Dulwich Paragon.

Monthly conversations with Keef, the finest window cleaner in South London.

The bicycling community at Herne Hill velodrome.

The beauty of the inner architecture.

Bob’s Bikes, SE17 - the best bike mechanic in London.

The majestic splendour of Lord’s.

Climbing College Road on my way up towards Crystal Palace, or climbing Chalk Farm Road on my way up towards Hampstead Heath - a London bicyclist’s rites of passage.

The Secret Garden at Brockwell Park - *shhh*

Being able to find people, just like you, in such a large city.

Tuttle.

The smell of lavenders around SW8, radiating from Vauxhall Park.

99p shops.

Being able to find whatever you want from around the world, all within a three-mile radius.

Crossing the Thames, South to North, or North to South - always a pleasure.

Afternoon tea at Chumleigh Gardens.

Drunken Brixton nights out at High Does It Feel.

The intimacy and warmth of Shakespeare’s Globe.

The secret tunnels, rivers and societies.

The finest French stick and olive bread in South London, all baked right on my SW8 doorstep at Di Lietos, South Island Place.

Riding the escalator at Angel tube.

Bonkers Brixton Windmill.

Performing my own personal time trial, cycling down The Mall.

The challenge of the weekly WWSI photo shoot [R.I.P]

Curry Club at the Crown & Sceptre, Streatham South Circular.

My man Goran, the SW8 handyman whose business card informs me that he has ‘a licence to drill.’ Better believe it.

Buying up half the hardware on sale along Tottenham Court Road.

The patient manner of Rabia, my lovely dentist for the past fifteen years: “I know you’re not a very good patient, and so I’m going to knock you out and put you right under for the rest of the afternoon.”

The veggie buffet currie at Chapel Street Market, Islington, and confusing Eat As Much As You Like with Eat As Much As You Can.

Humming Waterloo Sunset in my head, each time I cycle between the Imax and Aldwych.

The view from the top tier of the member’s Pavilion at The Oval. The panoramic of the city stretches from Battersea across to St Paul’s.

The bonkers bicycling jumble sales held at Herne Hill Velodrome.

The Greenwich foor tunnel.

The view of the four towering chimney’s of Battersea.

Vauxhall City Farm.

The run of charity shops in Clap’ham from KFC down to Blockbusters.

Living in Little Porto, and partying with the crazy locals every two years when their team does rather well at a major football competition.

South London sun tans.

Sitting at the front and driving the DLR.

Living within walking distance of Brixton Academy, and feeling smug at having out-touted a tout, buying up a ticket for a fiver once the band are on stage.

The smell of the Thames.

I’m starting to sound like Margaret Thatcher after being turfed out of No. 10, but yep - we’re leaving the place we have called home for the past fifteen years, probably for the final time.

I arrived in Brixton back in the summer of 1995, full of hope, high on optimism and with a huge appetite for ambition. None of these have been played out to their full potential, but I feel that I am leaving London as an all round better person.

I’ve been enlightened, enriched and inspired by London. But it comes at a high price, both financially and physically. London demands everything of you. There’s no hiding away if you want to experience the benefits that this city has to offer - you’re either in or you’re out.

I want out.

After fifteen years of running around town, it’s time to come up for some air. We both need a break, and one that allows us to put our feet up, laze around in the garden with a bottle of bolly and just generally live a slower pace of life.

Plus if truth be told, the tipping point came last summer when South London Yoof decided to camp out on my newly varnished front garden fence. It wasn’t particularly anti-social behaviour, but then neither was my response of blasting out some Billy Bragg from my front bedroom to shift South London Yoof along.

I just want a bit of peace, space and respect, bruv. I can’t find that in Sunny Stockwell any more. I live in fear of becoming what I despise - a right wing bigot, albeit with some sense of justification, given the actions of those around me in my current surroundings.

We have lived in the city for fifteen years because we wanted to. We wanted the convenience of being close to the cultural capital of the world; we wanted the opportunities that living in such a densely populated environment presented, and most of all, we wanted to be part of something that was much greater than we as individuals could ever be. London allowed us to live this lifestyle.

But that period in our lives is now in the past. We’re both ready for the next phase, searching for more solitude and a less frantic lifestyle - and yeah, one which probably involves keeping a well stocked wine cellar and not feeling guilty about procrastinating and enjoying life for itself, rather than with a specific reason to achieve or obtain career fulfillment.

I’m failing to find the love that I once had for this great city. Weekends of hunting down specific events or meetings are long gone. The enthusiasm for anything outside of my micro #hyperlocal patch of South London is non-existent. I’m even struggling to see anything of interest for me around here locally. A man who is bored of London is bored of life. I need to therefore try and find a new life out in the wilds.

I’m giving up pretty much everything that has been my social existence for a third of my life: the korfball club, watching cricket, the cycling community at Herne Hill and of course the lovely lido (although if truth be told, it’s not been a great season down in SE24.)

I feel that I’ve run my course with each activity. With no physical or geographical work restrictions keeping me in place, it’s time to move on. I am a nomad of technology: have broadband (just) will travel.

And so where to next? Well, we’re going back to the future to find a familiar lifestyle of old. Almost twenty years ago to the day, @AnnaJCowen and I first met as undergraduates at the University of Essex in Colchester. We’re now heading back to North Essex / Suffolk border, just up the road from the campus to the quayside town of Wivenhoe.

When we lived in North Essex, we couldn’t wait to leave for London. Weekends were spent going back and forth to Liverpool Street. It now seems that we have come full circle, and we can’t get wait to get back to the Wivenhoe rural way of life.

The city has served me well, but I can no longer keep up. I need an environment that hopefully will begin a new period of discovery. Yep - I’m becoming a hippy.

There’s a cycling club, estuary swimming, county cricket in nearby Castle Park, a sailing club and a jazz club. I think I’ll be busy, in a more laid back, middle-aged sort of way. Plus Wivenhoe is Constable country. I don’t think I’m going to take up landscape painting, but think of all those wonderful wildlife photographic opportunities.

That purveyor of objectivity and truth, um, the urban dictionary, rather helpfully adds:

“[Wivenhoe ] Small town in North East Essex. The town is home to an abnormally high percentage of musicians, artists, actors, and assorted TV and media people. The University of Essex at the top of the town is famous as a Communist stronghold in the 1960′s - the town also was home to The Angry Brigade at that time.

The Wivenhoe Folk Club is recognised as one of the best in the country, and regularly attracts big name acts. Other Essex villages consider Wivenhoe to be full of drunks, layabouts, hippies, arty-farty types, Pot-Heads, gays, and prozac-dependants. Small wonder then, that it was recently rated as the second most popular place to live in the whole of the UK.”

Blimey.

We’ve bought an old Victorian cottage with views out across the North Essex estuary. We’re keeping our properties down here in South London, still doing the landlord and tenant nonsense. Needs must. Plus you never know when you might miss the mean streets of Sunny Stockwell and long for a return.

Or maybe not.

As for m’blog? Well, it never really was about South London per se - more about my life in South London. The Wivenhoe lifestyle will undoubtedly present many new opportunities, and I’ll probably end up blogging all about these.

The countdown to the North Essex coastal adventure started in earnest some eighteen months ago when the plan was first hatched. We’re now approaching the Sunny Stockwell end game, with all the final arrangements being put in place.

Many, many thanks to everyone who has helped to make our London life so special. The memories will remain (um, online…) as we reach out to create new ones.

London loves, the misery of a speeding heart.

Time for the Great Escape.

Monday morning and so it must mean that it’s time for a trip to the Museum of London.

Lordy.

A quick rally around of the troops, and we soon had two London bloggers and a bit, all bound for EC2; the fine @Darryl1974 and, um, @AnnaJCowen both accompanied me to my favourite London museum.

What I absolutely adore about the MOL is that is *the* museum for Londoners. It has no pretensions to take arid artefacts and present them as some great moment of social history. It simply tells the story of London, as experienced by everyday Londoners.

Back in the day job and I usually visit the MOL a couple of times a year. There’s a huge gulf however in safely guiding the kids over to the Great Fire exhibit, and then having a whole Monday morning to yourself to see what else is on offer.

The recent refurbishment has somewhat passed me by. I didn’t see what was wrong with the old exhibits, and to be honest, after my Monday morning trip, I didn’t actually see anything new of great significance.

The massive sprawling map that greets you by the main entrance is a work of art in itself - nope, it *really is* a work of art, lovingly printed on to a vast canvas and spreading out to show the entire South East in micro detail.

We spent at least five minutes marvelling at the map, and then five minutes further coming up with a list of other London bloggers that I bet would spend at least double the time taking in the delectation of the cartography.

What then followed was a quick spin in the time machine as we raced from Roman London through until contemporary times. Men in skirts ‘aint really my thing. It was more of a gossip with the good @Darryl1974 as we ploughed through Ancient, Middle Age, Medieval and Jacobean London.

I’m more interested in modern day history, and so we took it at something of a more gentile pace come the turn of the nineteenth century. This is where the MOL becomes political with the suffragette and Trade Union movements first both appearing in tandem.

The Struggle for the Living Wage placard could equally apply to Lambeth 2010, as it did to old London town in 1910. Likewise for the exhibits depicting the appalling state of social housing.

Fearful or rejecting all that had gone before, it was still the 1960′s, ’70s and ’80′s that I was interested in. It’s a mighty long way from mini-skirts to Miss Dynamite, and I know which of these still holds more contemporary relevance.

The early covers of Time Out reminded me of the downward social history trajectory of the magazine. A poster for the Rock Against Racism gig at Brockwell Park in the summer of ’94 reminded me of my age. @richardgallon probably actually wore the original Stations of the Crass T-shirt on display.

Much of the new MOL appears to be of the dreaded interactive variety. At least this will keep the kids happy back in the day job, when they bore of the endless Great Fire images.

But it is still the old style exhibits that kept my interest. The MOL is the type of attraction that you can visit and re-visit each month, each time finding something new and fascinating. In true timeline fashion, @AnnaJCowen and I are fast running out of diary space to take in future MOL visits. Time to make some personal history of our own…

And so one final time for @AnnaJCowen and I to raise anchor, and set sail along the Old Father as part of our annual London boat trip.

It’s a tradition that we have been observing every summer for the past fifteen years - being a tourist in your own town, appreciating (and loving) the power of the Thames.

Trouble is, we long since ran out of new Thames routes to try out. Greenwich, Kew, Hampton Court - all have been ticked off, all have been greatly enjoyed. Time for a change; time for the authentic life on the ocean waves.

With the final preparations being put in place for the Great Escape, it was fitting that our final London boat trip took us out West, just as we are about to say bon voyage and bugger off in the opposite direction.

We had a rendev view in Richmond with an ice cream van. A one-way ticket, and then a train back to base and back to Vauxhall. The journey itself was enjoyable; the commentary of our Skipper long since became tiresome.

There’s one way to change that: become your own Captain. Cripes. It’s certainly part of the plan with the Wivenhoe Great Escape, although probably in a down sized dinghy.

Those annual onionbagblog boat trips are about to become a daily event.

Full Flickr set over here.

I really rather enjoyed a boozy intellectually stimulating Monday night out at The Groucho.

Gosh.

The occasion was for the book launch of the lovely @girlonetrack‘s second publication, The Girl With a One Track Mind: Exposed. The narrative picks up from the gross intrusion by The Sunday Times in outing Abby Lee as Zoe Margolis.

Having written about celebrating female sexuality, the fallout led to Zoe losing her job, having to backtrack and address past relationships in the book, as well as being demonised as a promiscuous female.

Thankfully the hypocritical agenda put forward by The Sunday Times wasn’t a lesson in morality that most like-minded people subscribe to. Out of an incredibly stressful period for Zoe and her family, the author has emerged to publish a second book, as well as carving out a successful career as a commentator and advisor on sexual health.

The Groucho on Monday evening was something of a celebration for all that Zoe has been through since The Sunday Times outed her some four years ago. Friends and supporters came along in large numbers.

Zoe’s case is a fantastic case study of how controlling your own online identity is so vital when up against the forces of mainstream media misreporting. The gathering at The Groucho reflected this, with old school bloggers mingling with media personalities who are sympathetic to Zoe’s experience.

Having been advised to “dress smartly’ for the occasion, I was rewarded with the wearing of a cravat scarf by being doorstopped by Heather Brooke.

“You’re wearing a cravat!” was the introductory remark, of which there wasn’t really any answer.

I didn’t recognise Heather, but after bumbling along about what had brought me out to support Zoe, I soon realised that Heather is @newsbrooke, the incredibly talented journo who is responsible for pretty much cleaning up Parliament.

Blimey.

Other great conversations followed with @cathredfern, @JonnyB, @miketd, @sashinka and @gordon. Plus @girlonetrack of course, who I think did rather well in making some crucial points, despite being tired and emotional towards the end of the evening.

There is a woefully twisted irony in Zoe being subjected to yet another gross mistrust of twisted media values, during the very same weekend that her book addressing irresponsible reporting is published. For legal reasons, we were unable to talk about recent events.

I left the Groucho just in time for the last tube home, proudly walking out with my sponsor’s goody bag from Durex. Having a company responsible for promoting safe sex aligning itself with Zoe, speaks volumes about the misguided attack by The Sunday Times.

Back at base and I fumbled around a bit in the Durex bag.

Cripes.

Where on earth does that go?

I have much to learn.

Another weekend, another @billybragg gig.

Blimey.

After taking on the RBS bankers at Speaker’s Corner, and then offering real redemption for prison inmates, it was Back to Basics with Billy Bragg, and back to the day job for a ULU gig on Saturday night.

Sort of.

The show was in support of raising funds for fighting the BNP at the general election. It’s the kind of gig that Bill has put himself up for throughout the past twenty-five years.

You need funds to fight the forces that want to upset our social cohesion. It also helps to have a one-man band full of charisma to spread the message, and one who has resolutely refused to compromise and allow his principles to be diluted.

I often watch Billy Bragg and come away wishing that our politicians were more like him. But it’s a messy business politics. It’s all about power, posturing and back scratching. Billy Bragg deserves better.

The gig itself was Billy Bragg at his best. There’s nowhere to hide on stage for one man and his guitar. The set mixed up Life’s a Riot with Brewing Up and even some Mermaid Avenue.

The message was anti-fascism, pro-compassion and a belief in community. Politicians have changed policies, and big business has taken control of our society over the past quarter of a century. The solution remains the same. Billy Bragg put it across perfectly on stage at ULU on Saturday night.

In the absence of any political party being brave enough to put forward a genuinely progressive agenda ahead of the election, it’s a sorry state for democracy when we have to rely on a pop star to raise the profiles of the issues that matter.

Billy Bragg’s tireless campaigning against the payment of million pound plus bonuses to the bankers of the nationalised RBS Bank, has forced politicians to debate the issue.

But Saturday night at ULU was all about stopping the BNP in Barking and Dagenham, Bill’s home patch. With the general election nothing but a “wishy washy choice between two parties that are the same,” the real issue in Essex is stopping the fascists.

It is here where BNP thug Nick Griffin is trying to get elected as an MP with a mandate for racism. With the Labour party weak on the ground, now is the time to expose the BNP for all the hatred that it represents.

April 17th is a key day in the constituency. It has been put aside to campaign against the fascists that want to take control of Barking and Dagenham. Put aside serious concerns over Tory funding, Nu Labour’s love affair with big business and the LibDems, well, I’m not entirely sure about anything to do with the LibDems - fighting fascists in the crucial battle at the general election.

As yer man said on Saturday night:

“Wearing badges is not enough, in days like these.”