onionbagblog

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.”

I’ve spent exactly half my life following Diesel Park West around the country. A challenging Thursday evening West End gig wasn’t going to give me any bother.

And so twenty years since I first saw the second best band to come out of the City of Death play in London, expectation (and emotion) was high ahead of a 100 Club gig.

DPW and me have got history. I haven’t the time or server space to explain here. Just Google ‘onionbagblog+dieselparkwest’ for the backlog. Four guys from L******er with a West Coast ’60s guitar obsession, and the East Midlands South London blogger: a marriage made somewhere in the No Man’s Land of Loughborough.

The Thursday night gig was *whisper* a support slot for Big John Butler and the boys. No worries. Five pints of Guinness, my half-life story strummed out in forty-five minutes, and then back in bed in time for Question Time.

Speaking of having history, the 100 Club compares rather well when thoughts turn towards antiquity. You half expect to find Charlie Parker, Keith Moon and Sid Vicious shooting up in the gents.

Instead I found DPW chief strummer, Rick Wilson, having a slash.

“So this is where all the big knobs hang out” didn’t seem appropriate. The last time I had a chat with Rick was in the rock ‘n roll enclave of Putney. I volunteered to step in for a drummer missing in action, somewhere halfway down the M1.

I tapped out a rhythm on the urinal with my urine at the 100 Club, and waited once again for my Fantasy Band invite. But Rick buggered off backstage for a costume change, before I even had the chance to greet him with a traditional East Midlands Ayup!

Ah yes – the costume change. DPW are a sartorial band. Rick emerged in a sharp ‘60 suit, trademark hat on head and all ready for a great big “HELLOOOO London!”

The 100 Club name more or less matched the size of the crowd. Texts and tweets were flying back and forth from Oxford Street to the homelands of the East Midlands. The boys I use to run with back in the day were as curious as I at to what DPW were doing back in London on a Thursday night.

Silver Girl surprisingly didn’t start the set, as it seems to have done for the past twenty years. The Girl With No Name (from a rare B-sides album) made a shock appearance.

Apart from that, it was a traditional, high value, low budget DPW set – songs that graced the 50 – 75 position in the charts back in the early ’90s, plus some really rather ace jangly tracks from the albums that were released on minor record labels with a print run of around half a dozen for each disc.

I bloody loved it, back with DPW, back on the booze and back in Sunny Stockwell by 10pm. One last act had to be carried out – the snaffling of the set list to add to the twenty-year back catalogue collection.

I can trace my life story through DPW set lists. If they stopped performing (a real possibility) then my linear life filed away in a DPW filing cabinet back at base would also cease to exist.

But bugger this – having waited two years since the last DPW gig, and with the Great Escape just around the corner, this might just be my final gig. Twenty years of DPW devotion required something of a more permanent memorial than a simple set list.

I took to the stage unannounced, flapping my arms in the air like a demented, deranged, stalker fan. Which of course, I am.

Big JB clocked me stage left, flinched and probably had thoughts of Mark Chapman running through his head. He needn’t have bothered. My weapon of choice was a hug. A great big bloody man hug.

“I f***ing LOVE you,” I bellowed.

I am neither proud nor embarrassed of this.

I don’t think Big JB was either.

“No, I REALLY, REALLY f***ing LOVE you.”

Don’t overdo it, Jase.

Blimey.

But foolishly I continued, with the five pints of Guinness consumed in an hour starting to join in on the rock God love in as well.

“You do realise that you are seriously the BEST f***ing band in the world?” I enquired.

Big JB nodded his head. Ace. He obviously agrees as well.

I went off on some poetic prose about how DPW have been with me for the past twenty years, and they are both my guiding musical and moral star.

Big JB was by now too busy putting his guitar away back in the case, and thinking of buggering back up to the City of Death.

But, yeah – I man hugged the muse of the second best band to come out of L******er. My heart is still pounding. I really mean it, man.

Slightly late on the uptake here, but Sunday night and I was West End bound for yet another evening with @billybragg. I’ve seen the Bard more times in the past month than I have all year. And there’s still more to come with a gig at ULU this weekend.

Blimey.

But this wasn’t your traditional Billy Bragg gig. The performance at the Prince Charles Cinema concluded the screening of Breaking Rocks, the film telling the remarkable story of the Jail Guitar Doors project:

Jail Guitar Doors is an independent initiative, which aims to provide instruments to those who are using music as a means of achieving the rehabilitation of prison inmates.

Put simply, Billy (and others) raise money to fund the purchase of guitars for inmates. Aware of the scope that music can have for positive action, the aim is firmly on rehabilitation, and possible opportunities post release from prison.

Yeah, yeah – why should we give resources to criminals who rob, assault and genuinely cause problems within society? As Mark Thomas explains during the film – people who try and politicise the penal system are forgetting that most prisoners are eventually released. It therefore makes sense to try and change their behaviour, and offer our support.

Jail Guitar Doors isn’t advocating a brand new Fender bass for mass murderers. There are some criminals that deserved to be locked up for life, such is the severity of their crime, as Billy Bragg explained on the night.

It’s the career petty criminals, sucked into a cycle of crime and abuse that the project tries to help. There are some genuine success stories, such as Leon Watson, a remarkable (and incredibly witty) singer songwriter, who entertained the cinema crowd following the film.

The inspiration for Jail Guitar Doors came from Joe Strummer. Most things involving Billy Bragg usually do. Wanting to put into action some form of celebration five years after Uncle Joe’s death, Bill was given the opportunity to visit a local jail in his Devon area to try and offer musical support.

One visit became a succession of trips, and soon a tour of prisons around the country was in place, putting on workshops and exploring the creativity and ideas of some of the inmates.

Sponsorship came from Hanks on Denmark Street, which very kindly sold on the guitars at cost price. Bill makes a point of stating that the guitars are not a gift. This is not a prison basket-weaving club. You’re in it to try and transform your life, not to pass away the time behind bars.

The screening on Sunday night was warm, affectionate and funny. Brixton prison is featured in the film, with a surprising number of inmates already having musical talent, and just needing that extra help to find a release for their skills.

Twenty prisons have so far been supplied with the Jail Guitar Doors. Five hundred pounds is what it costs to supply each prison with the equipment. Bill has been on tour with the film and a selection of rehabilitated musicians for the past month. The bucket collection alone in London came up with £400 on the night – very real financial help with tangible results right in front of our eyes.

A Q & A session followed the screening. Questions were answered about the selection of inmates for the scheme (the talents comes to you,) the funding of the scheme by government (absolutely not – independence is best) and how we can support the offenders once released (put on gigs and promote.)

Half an hour then followed with a couple of the released inmates showcasing their skills. These are genuine, hard working professional musicians. The evidence was right in front of us. It’s got to be better than the cycle of petty crime.

As ever, the beacon for all of this is Billy Bragg. We finished off with three songs, including I Keep Faith. This is the inspiration I need. It reaffirms everything I do and stand for, and always leaves me full of positive action for the future.

The next step for Jail Guitar Doors is to take the show on the road to the States. A spot at SXSW has been booked, with the project going full circle with the involvement of MC5 guitarist, Wayne Kramer.

The Clash’s Jail Guitar Doors was written originally about Kramer, and so the story has some wonderful symmetry with the former US inmate now taking the music as a redemption song into Stateside prisons.

The film finishes off with rendition of Jail Guitar Doors by a gurning Mick Jones, a respectful looking Topper Headonand Billy Bragg bashing out the chords in his best old punk skool style. But perhaps more importantly, a studio full of strumming inmates, now released, rehabilitated and full of optimism, are the real stars of the performance.

Uncle Joe would have been proud.

Ah, so this is the <irony>real</irony> reason that are friends from @lambeth_council are so busy closing leisure centres all around the Rotten Borough: to fleece customers for the joining fee each time they are forced to become a swimming refugee elsewhere.

You may remember how I was asked to pay a £10 hidden cost when I tried to transfer my GLL Lambeth membership to a wider Swim London membership. I could see that the leisure policy of Lambeth Labour was in meltdown, and for the same monthly £26 payment, I wanted other options.

A bit of behind the scenes work from the lovely GLL management, and my £10 online membership was refunded. Rightly so, seeing as though I had already paid to join (join what?) when I first purchased my GLL Lambeth membership.

Fast forward to this week, and for the first time since the privatisation of leisure in Lambeth, I was able to see the nice man from the GLL membership office during the daytime at Brixton Rec.

We were reassured at the Clap’ham Users Forum to signal the end of swimming in SW4 that all memberships would be automatically transferred over. I wasn’t too concerned at the time. My Swim London membership is valid at all GLL pools throughout London, and I had indeed used it up at Oasis and London Fields.

But then once I became a Clap’ham refugee, my card failed to swipe early each morning. It was a mild irritant at first, but then given the 7am opening time, the lovely smiling receptionist and I came to an agreement.

That agreement was to take up the issue in the membership office at The Rec. Seeing as though kicking out time for public swimming in SW9 is 9am, and the membership office isn’t open until 9:30, this wasn’t exactly practical.

Until half term week that is, where I took the opportunity to sort out my non-swipeable card.

“Your membership has expired,” said the GLL membership chap. “You’ll have to pay £10 to renew it.”

Eh? Where the chuffers did that one come from?

There was more…

“You’ll only be able to swim at Brixton.”

Overlooking the minor issue that there isn’t actually anywhere else in the Rotten Borough where I can swim right now, I would rather like the option of swimming up at Oasis or London Fields. My membership is called Swim London, not Swim Brixton (But Only Between the Hours of 7-9am.)

I was extremely confused, and so it seems was yer man from GLL. It turns out that my original Swim London membership was linked to Clap’ham Pool. For some unknown reason, the swimmers of SW4 were given the status to be able to swim anywhere. Maybe GLL knew what was coming all along with the Streatham and Clap’ham closures?

Highly unlikely. A more sensible analysis is simply the confusion that crept in at GLL, following the pimping out of leisure by our friends at @lambeth_council. No one is entirely sure right now which particular swimming packages exist, and exactly where and when you can use them.

It’s all about the swimming, isn’t it?

I can’t get angry with the lovely smiling GLL receptionist at 7am each morning (she really is rather lovely.) Likewise I can’t get angry with the other GLL staff on the ground at the Rec, who always stop and make a point of filling me in with the political pressures they are operating under. GLL management are also rather decent, and go out of their way to contact me over any woes I have with my membership.

The real reason for the complete meltdown of leisure in the Rotten Borough comes when the party in powers allows *anyone* but itself to take responsibility for leisure provision.

Tesco, the Cathedral Group, GLL – *anyone* but @lambeth_council itself. I think this is called a *shhh* cooperative form of local government.

Once again it took some online intervention from the lovely GLL management to resolve the issue. I have very kindly been given a free month of membership to make up for the inconvenience, which makes for all of the above moaning seem slightly over the top.

GLL is proving to be very decent at managing a near on impossible situation that it has inherited with the provision of leisure in Lambeth. Staff from the shop floor up to the management have made the most out of a very difficult situation.

To be fair, the Cabinet Member for Culture and Communities was also rather helpful in offering assistance (and apologies) online.

I was peeved though at being asked to pay a joining fee that I have already paid twice. Imagine if the 5,000 daily users at The Rec are also peeved? That’s a lot of political muscle to exercise out there.

Once final excursion to the Chapel Market Cheapo Curry Club up at Islington ahead of the Great Escape later this year. Expectations were high, wallets were low in value, as @richardgallon, @AnnaJCowen and myself navigated our way up to the wastelands of North London.

The bonkers N1 curry house use to be a way of life for us during our formative London years. We dined there out of financial necessity, stocking up on body fat reserves for the week. The return for the Last Supper on Saturday was one taken more in the spirit of irony.

Not much has changed in N1. Chapel Market was as bustling as ever, as we wheeled our bicycles from The Angel end towards the badlands of Barnsbury Road. For all the talk of Granita Pacts being sealed at Islington back in the day, I couldn’t but help think that our conversation and cuisine was a very different N1 experience.

Much like the food, the green livery of the Indian Veg has remained unchanged in the fifteen years since we first set foot in the place. In the minimalist world of Less is More, Indian Veg is the inverse of this.

The restaurant front is plastered with what appears to be placards from an animals rights rally attended by very hungry veggies. The More is Less theme continues once inside, with second, third and even fourth helpings from the sitting, all served up for less than a fiver.

Ah, about that price. I was enticed into a rare excursion north of the river under the firm understanding that only £3.50 of my South London currency would be required. I have memories of paying £2.50 back in the day, and was slightly alarmed at this 40% price hike.

But blimey – I almost headed back to my SW8 base when the shock of the £3.95 signage caught my eye amongst the all the veggie lifestyle placard platitudes.

Something had to give.

“A drink for you Sir?” asked our maitre ‘d. I had no shame in ordering the finest tap water in the house.

Using the Alan Partridge technique of choosing the largest buffet place, I then set about the task of piling up the veggie produce with a stack ‘em high attitude that the traders back down the Chapel Market would have been proud of.

If you’re concerned with the quality of the cuisine at Chapel Market, then you’re missing the point. Essentially you eat to add energy. I made no mistake in making sure that my body reserves would see me through the rest of the weekend.

There’s a selection of five curry dishes, all as rich in stodge as they are as beneficial to your bank balance. The rice was tender, and the onion bhajis although rather basic, somehow came to life when topped up with one of the cream sauce dishes.

I sat down and gave my stomach a stern test. The conversation turned towards the many enlightening posters that adorn the walls. It’s the same Eastern hippy s*** that dear old George Harrison use to espouse, whilst somehow still taking the practise of yogic flying seriously.

It was around this time that I confused Eat as Much as You Like with Eat as Much as You Can. A second helping wasn’t necessary, but I needed to justify the price hike.

I piled my plate up high once again, only to realise than the poster promise of an “orgasmic veggie experience” would probably be taking place in the toilet, rather than on the chef’s palette.

Persistence paid off, as well as a mid-meal break. The second plate was cleared, and soon it time to settle up. The £3.95 price at Indian Veg is the exact amount expected.

You’re not dining in a poncey Soho restaurant, and so there is no expectation for a service charge price hike. We scrambled around for change, and left a tip adding a further 40%.

I’d had my fill – for the weekend, the next week and probably for the following year. Which is just as well, as we plan the Great Escape over the coming months.

And so fifteen years of living the veggie lifestyle up in N1 comes to an end. To be honest it was more an economic argument than a humanitarian statement. It’s another item on the Farewell London list ticked off, and one which will probably keep my energy reserves up, all the way up until we actually reach Wivenhoe.

As an after thought to Sunday afternoon spent at Speaker’s Corner with @billybragg, I think the piece of @audioboo below deserves its own separate post.

Bill was all done with the prose ‘n politics thing, and so I sat down with some pals for some coffee and reflection. Some crazed Christian freak tried to gatecrash the cappuccino action, spurting our bile and hated.

At the core of her argument was the gathering of Muslims nearby at Marble Arch. Their very presence was clearly a very real, physical and painful threat to her. I thought they were rather colourful and added to the Hyde Park vibe.

“They are all killers!” she insisted. “They want to blow you up!”

Blimey.

We tried to reason, and asked her how one God could be so righteous, whilst the other seems to make even John Terry appear Saintly.

The bigotry was unabated, and so I started to fight fire with fire, explaining how Christianity has been the cause of death and suffering in our very recent history.

The lady wasn’t for turning. I was. We walked away and got the coffees in.

A short while later, and a young chap from the gathering of Muslims came over for a chat. He wasn’t breathing fire over our coffees, and wasn’t here to steal our babies.

In fact he was awfully polite, and asked us if he could hand over a flyer. He most certainly could, and possibly more as well. I asked our friend if he would care to sit down and kindly allow me to record his thoughts.

Five minutes later, and my agnostic attitude hadn’t disappeared, but it was far more sympathetic. This was the acceptable face of religion. Someone who is simply looking for a better way of living his life, and one that is inclusive as well.

Apologies were made for a “lack of articulacy,” although to be honest mate, every word you spoke resonated with us as we sat back and enjoyed our coffees.

So there you have it: Hyde Park on a Sunday needn’t be full of twisted old bints that want to burn sinners who don’t blow their noses. There’s room for everyone. It takes every kinda people, and all that.