To Shakespeare’s Globe! …on Saturday afternoon for a slightly out of seasonal romp of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The Summer Solstice was but seven days away, and whaddya know – the Transpontine weather was as buggered as poor old Bully Bottom and his botched attempts at love.

Plastic ponchos appeared as the downpour started as soon as Oberon and Titania were ill met by fair moonlight. The sun came out in South London just as the hey nonny nonny dancing brought the Dream to an end.

Shall we recount tales of our dreams, Comrades?

Don’t have nightmares, but the jolly Jacobean dancing that opened the performance ended in a multiple death scene. Supporters of the Fairy King and Queen clashed before the first dialogue was even spoken. It didn’t really set the scene for the three hours that followed. The Fairy world was more fun than frightening, although any Groundlings hugging the stage did get a few wonky looks from Puck and his pals.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream is essentially a play within a play within a play. Pissing it down is optional – the first appearance of the clog dancing Mechanicals drenched your funny bones in farcical fluid, if not the rest of your rain drenched body.

Elsewhere and Oberon and Titania were incredibly intense, Puck was gloriously disturbing (and disturbed), leaving the dopey four Lovers caught right in the middle of the serious / silly spectrum. Lysander stood out as a particularly smarmy git – the kinda guy that Willie S would have elevated to knobber sports car status in any contemporary setting.

It takes a while for the three worlds to spectacularly collide. This is always the dilemma for A Midsummer Night’s Dream. It’s not *quite* Panto, but there is a temptation to walk around the wooden surrounds of The Globe shouting “He’s behind you!” …whenever Puck goes merrily wandering with the magic flower.

Once the Fairies, Mechanicals and Lovers are all thrown together, then the production starts to become more playful. Demetrius has a literal head over heels moment in love, which was rather spectacular to watch. The dry humping of a Globe pillar by Oberon is something that I don’t remember from my ‘O’ Level Drama back in the day.

I do recall though the craft of the intertwining and twisted plots over the course of one balmy Midsummer evening. The Globe production plays this out, as each character descends into a Lord of the Flies downward spiral as the magic of Midsummer starts to kick in.

It’s not the slapstick that some productions draw upon. Instead there is a mythical appearance to what is essentially a basic school production style backdrop and setting. The characters are strong enough to convince you that a wet afternoon setting south of the river is actually a transfixed fairy garden full of confusion and deceit.

The corset-busting scene is reserved for The Mechanicals come the close. The play within a play is an incredibly physical comedy containing cross dressing and knob gags – as all half decent wedding celebrations should be ale to boast.

A grubby fiver for an afternoon out at The Globe still remains the best value ticket in London. ZERO inflation over a sixteen-year period since the re-opening of the Bankside theatre is testimony the belief in spreading the work of Shakespeare, rather than simply cashing in with a commercial operation.

A wonderful surprise come the close on Saturday was the appearance stage right of Dominic Dromgoole, the Artistic Director of The Globe. Sam Wannamaker would have been 94 the previous day if he were still around. A presentation followed in recognition of keeping alive a love of Shakespeare south of the river. The Transpontine sky turned blue, and a yellow orb from up above radiated around The Globe.

My soul is in the sky, etc.

Long form blogging – it’s the future, I tell you.

Much like the Vauxhall, Nine Elms and Battersea Development.

Blimey.

And so what follows is a blog post of three parts, seamlessly sewn together with one unifying theme: will the much needed regeneration of VNEB create a community, or will it simply be a calling card for new capital?

What do you think…

And so first the facts, then the sixth form hyperlocal theorising, before I finish off with some deep topological wanderings off the edge of Wandsworth Road, in a misguided attempt to recapture some long lost South London memories.

Plus hopefully a little optimism before the pictures take over come the close.

Facts are sacred:

The consultation for the 195 hectares of development land centred around Battersea Power Station took place throughout 2009 / 10. In March 2012, the Mayor of London formally adopted the Planning Framework, effectively sealing the deal for the complete redevelopment of the riverside land between Vauxhall and Queenstown Road.

A whopping 16,000 new ‘homes’ (yeah, right…) are part of the plans. 20,000 – 25,000 new jobs have been cited as to how enterprise will benefit from the regeneration of Battersea.

A Tall Building Strategy [PDF] has been adopted for Vauxhall; a Linear Park [URGH] will plot the route of the regeneration from Battersea back to Vauxhall. Thirteen different landowners have had to sit around the table to come to an agreement.

All of this will come at a cost: over £8bn, £1bn of which will be swallowed up by the Northern Line extension to Nine Elms and Battersea. This is very kindly being ‘loaned‘ out by that nice George Osbourne.

As compensation for the existing communities around SW8, SW11 and SE11, a significant level of Section 106 back scratching payments will be made available. With two different Boroughs involved, tracking down the exact figure for these payments is tricky. The two local authorities of Lambeth and Wandsworth (Labour and Tory controlled respectively) will no doubt have fun divvying this up.

The timeline boasts that the US Embassy – the main mover in finally kick starting the construction – will open on 4th July 2017. Estate agent Knight Frank predicts that property values will increase by 140% between 2011 and 2016 – the highest forecast growth in the UK.

Um, *shhh* Hurrah!

Ready for the sixth form speculative twaddle?

The VNEB land was my South London backyard for almost two decades. I moved around different properties, yet still the view overlooking my sense of home was VNEB. It may not boast the same veranda views that other London areas can claim, but the industrial backdrop was a constant reminder that South London has historically been a place of work. Along with Bankside and Lotts Road, dirty, heavy industry defines Transpontine history.

Decades of neglect for Battersea symbolises the ideological destruction of toil and reward. South London is now playing catch up as the mode of production shifts towards the service economy. Bankside has benefitted for over a decade with the rewards that the cultural pound can bring. Regeneration was built around the arts – build it and they most definitely did come.

But can the same be said for Giles Gilbert Scott’s other riverside powerhouse down in SW8? The epochal shift has taken a slight change of path past Vauxhall Bridge and out towards Nine Elms. Cultural regeneration has never played well in the Transpontine stove house.

Instead a new industry for the 21st Century is starting to define VNEB. All property most definitely isn’t theft as the glasshouses and international embassies start to emerge from underneath the rubble. Penthouse apartments and international diplomacy are replacing working class graft. They’ll be selling comedy spy specs in Woolworths, if it was still open.

Little remains physically of my veranda view that defined two decades of South London living. The memories can still be plotted though, cutting through the neatly planned foundations that attempt to cover over the randomness of Transpontine organic growth of the past.

Cycle routes through the Patmore Estate en route for korfball training; dropping off the track bike at a South London lock up for a dodgy cash in hand deal. Trying to find a time / space portal south of Sainsbury’s that allowed me to bypass the Cupcake Run when making my way down to the Junction.

These geographical memories can still cut a path through all the regeneration that is neatly slicing up the area. But be weary of what lies deep below, and how the past can still have a part to play.

I remember thinking during a bizarre Battersea dotbomb job interview that the fault lines for this place are built upon glorious failure. A ridiculous employment contract was offered for a ridiculous job. I did the usual I’ll sleep on it routine, only to wake up the next morning to find that the dotbomber had dotbombed.

Whoops.

You suspect that the VNEB regeneration business model is built on a capitalist system not quite so reliant on the Mickey Mouse money of the dotbomb economy. International capital is propping it up, and we all know what a sound economic system this has come to represent.

Hang on…

Boris has described VNEB as:

“The final piece of the jigsaw that completes the central area of London.”

But what if you don’t like the design of the jigsaw, or if the pieces don’t even fit together? Best not go losing one of those fancy glass house architectural designs down the back end of Battersea.

We have been here before of course, and so have I [broken links ahoy!] – I walked around the perimeter of the magnificent old Power Station when the dedicated Job Centre for the site was boldly declared back in 2005. The Job Centre failed to open, and the promised 9,000 new jobs were just a Minimum Wage wankfest for a Third Way twonk.

But now the regeneration of Nine Elms is finally happening. Friends in high places have seen to the Northern Line extension, which in turn will see to the luxury riverside apartments. It’s remarkable how the lure of the Northern Line is able to attract wealth – albeit as a ‘loan’ – whereas the number 156 bus isn’t viewed as an attractive public transport proposition for the affluent.

The very location of VNEB has a topology connection to transport. The site of the Sainsbury’s car park at Nine Elms is more or less the location where the first Vauxhall car was manufactured. This is the age of the train, etc. It’s also the age of pointless vanity underground projects propped up by aspirational needs, and not any genuine public transport requirements. I’m not sure why boutique shoppers can’t walk it down Wandsworth Road from Vauxhall Station, saving over £1bn from the public purse.

The physical boundaries of VNEB are worth exploring as well. Water to the north restricts building on the Thames – for now, at least. To the south and it is Wandsworth Road and the splendour of Larkhall Park that pushes the regeneration away from the edges of Stockwell.

Most of the footprint [URGH] covers industrial sites, although there’s a fair amount of social housing stock that is also swallowed up. Where does regeneration start, and where does it end? It shouldn’t be a physical barrier, but the Wandsworth Road could soon become the new dividing line when it comes to South London postcode property wars.

And so it was with this sense of geographical interest that sent me out exploring the boundaries of the VNEB development for a day of contemplation and connections. I wanted to capture digitally my old veranda view before it falls off the end of the world, and I wanted to see if regeneration is able to recapture former glories without manufacturing new false futures.

Or maybe it’s just the twaddle of a blog post that manufactures the myth?

The plan was to walk the perimeter, and then explore what’s left of the old within the VBEB development. But cartography and topology combined is never a precise science; you cut through an alleyway, catch something camera worthy slightly off radar and find yourself deep entrenched in Clap’ham Junction cupcake territory.

Whoops.

Much has changed already along the southern boundary of Wandsworth Road. The back end of Larkhall Park has benefitted from ongoing regeneration over the past ten years. There was always a sense that the green delights of Larkhall were barricaded away behind the shop fronts. The opening up of the park perimeter is beautiful – Larkhall allows the passing traffic to take a look inside, rather than act as a physical barrier shielding away one of South London’s finest public parks.

It seems an age away when the Vauxhall campus of Southbank University was to be found along Wandsworth Road. Here be Lambeth College, and here also be evidence of how you don’t need to knock down an existing old building in order to breathe new life into it. One would hope that the Overlords of Battersea Power Station are aware of this.

The pace of change however along the remainder of Wandsworth Road remains relatively slow. The old Pie and Mash shop was long lost. Truth be told and it wasn’t a patch on the Walworth mash served up at Arments, but the loss was symbolic for the last remains of Transpontine identity hanging on around the edges of SW8.

Change is inevitable as you progress towards Union Road. Mr Tony would LOVE that sentence. You have to fear for the future of the Mind Shop once the Embassy millionaires move in. Here’s hoping that cupcakes won’t replace pie and mash as the defining SW8 cuisine.

The four towers of Battersea dominate your every movement around the VNEB perimeter. You suspect that the developers would have preferred to flatten the iconic structures and start again from scratch. But you need a coat peg – or four – in which to hang your branding vision. The Battersea towers are one of the few remaining heritage assets in central (ish) London that can still resist the developer’ dream of glass houses. Battersea Power Station stoked up South London life during its industrial heyday. It now provides the aesthetic energy for the marketing brochures of property developers. It is currently an empty shell – unlike the plans for the VNEB development…

A misty eyed gaze from the Wandsworth Road towards the towers was temporarily interrupted during my walk as a steam train rolled through the old station. It wasn’t quite a ghost train – this had already departed under the cloak of Kafkaesque secrecy a couple of hours earlier. It was a reminder however of how this part of South London isn’t quite ready for the contemporary architectural train station swirls that now define the likes of the new Kings Cross.

The affluence of Clap’ham gradually creeps in as you continue to walk along Wandsworth Road. Boarded up old boozers are replaced by lifestyle bars with whacky names.

I followed closely the VNEB boundaries and took a turn, so to speak, along Silverthorne Road. It is here where the area begins to green as you approach Queenstown Road with Battersea Park softening up the industrial landscape.

Queenstown Road Station itself is worthy of exploration. For decades this has been a beacon for anyone wanting to head east of Vauxhall into what is now known as VNEB. It was my daily destination from Brixton during my first fortnight in London, working as an intern at an Aussie radio station based out at Battersea.

I made tea during the day, and then spent some balmy evenings with some barmy Aussies undertaking urban explorations [URGH] of the old power station. This was a pre-digital age, and sadly the only memories that remain are stored away internally, rather than online.

Many a missed last train from Queenstown Road led to a two-week period spent underneath the stars at Battersea. I like to consider myself an early adopter of VNEB contemporary living. At the time it felt more like the lifestyle of an Aussie beach bum decamped to a decaying corner of South London. Queenstown Road served me well whenever I could be bothered to pay attention to the train timetable.

With the planned new Nine Elms and Battersea extension to the Northern Line soon to make a £1bn detour east of Vauxhall, you have to wonder what is the point of Queenstown Road? Or perhaps what is the point of the £1bn new Nine Elms and Battersea extension to the Northern Line?

I continued my VNEB wanderings out towards the old river. The BSB building remains unoccupied – crass, clad in testosterone and a symbolism for a debased culture. It would make for an ideal American Embassy.

The VNEB map insists that the Thames itself is part of the regeneration plan. I wasn’t on for walking on water at such an early hour, and so plodded along around the back of Battersea and back towards Vauxhall along the river.

The Chelsea Fringe Festival [ha!] was doing its best to comb over the blatant sales pitch from a property developer, whilst at the same time preventing further public access along the river.

The overt aim is to open up Battersea and allow the public to sit on a recently laid garden lawn in front of the bordered up four towers and eat a guacamole wrap. The Aussie beach bum radio boys probably wouldn’t have approved.

Information boards line the perimeter of the shell of the four towers, crudely mixing heritage with ads for Buy to Let opportunities. The area was empty, both physically and emotionally. A cultural bankruptcy could yet to follow.

A cut through some of the side streets at the back of Battersea that have yet to be flattened, and I was soon back on course for the return leg back towards Vauxhall. It is here that the traffic starts to splutter and choke as you make your way towards the gyratory.

I couldn’t resist a look around what remains of New Covent Garden Market. It was never the most pleasing or welcoming of locations – regeneration is required. I loved the symmetry of wearing the same workmen trousers that I bought at the Sunday Car Boot Sale some three years earlier.

The massive Sunday market has been a destination for over a decade for South London folk wanting to buy an industrial supply of washing up liquid or dodgy DVD’s. You can’t but help think that Car Boots Sales won’t be a regular Sunday morning feature once the Embassy folk move in.

Standing by the SW Sorting Office and it is here that you first get a real sense of the size of the VNEB development. Much of the immediate landscape has already been flattened, offering a clear perspective all the way back towards Battersea and the river. It is an immense area of land – a new town is being constructed Southside on the Thames.

But how do you construct a community? The cluster of signs reading Private Road perhaps point towards how closed the new VNEB community is likely to become. Helicopters constantly hover overhead. Battersea Heliport might just become the transport option of choice once the new capital moves in.

Meanwhile down at the Cross and the fate of the magnificent Vauxhall Bus Station remains in doubt. With only a decade of public service, the future of the ski jump defining architecture of Arup Associates is up for discussion with Lambeth Council and local residents.

There is no hiding from the statement that Vauxhall Cross can be incredibly intimidating for any cyclist. It can even be a cause for concern for any motorist not confident enough to hold their ground as the lanes split westbound towards either Victoria or Waterloo.

Many folk get cross over Vauxhall Cross. But how do you remove anger away from the gyratory, yet still allow traffic to flow from east to west? Residents have long since wanted the centre of Vauxhall to be just that – a defining sense of physical community that encourages local trade and conversation. Commuters rely on the handy interchange between mainline, tube and bus. There is nowhere left for road traffic to be diverted. It has to pass through Vauxhall.

With a massive population expansion expected ahead of the VNEB development, the arteries of Vauxhall are not going to loosen the grip on all of the transport directed anger. Architecture is not always the answer to the woes of the world, but I tend to think that the stunning ski slope at least gives Vauxhall a unique identity.

The redevelopment site claims:

“The Vauxhall Gyratory will be remodeled to create a more pedestrian friendly environment and a new bridge across the Thames will link the area to Pimlico on the opposite bank. A redesign of the gyratory system will tame through traffic and enable the creation of four distinct quarters, each with its own unique identity and attractions.”

Good luck with that one, Comrades.

And so that was my day of walking around the fluid fault lines upon which the VNEB development is starting to be built. I was probably about six months behind the Best Before date. Much of what I wanted to document digitally had already disappeared. The pace of change for regeneration hasn’t always been unforgiving around Battersea Power Station. It seems that all those lost decades of neglect are now being made up for.

Yet the veranda views of SW8 that greeted my every South London morning can still be seen. It will take a mountain of mini Manhattans to destroy the Transpontine defining sight of the four chimneys.

It would be so simple to conclude with a sneering commentary as to how the spirit of South London is being sucked away from an area that has a proud past. But truth be told and the VNEB development simply had to happen.

London will always throw up pockets of neglect that have fallen upon hard times. You can celebrate the ‘authenticity’ of the past until the hyperlocal economy is left to stagnate whilst the rest of the city celebrates the investment; or you can sign up for regeneration and hope to have a say in how it is managed.

I was spectacularly wrong with my predictions for the demise of Brockwell Lido when Fusion first floated the idea of knocking down an art deco wall and building a bloody gym. But these are the true Golden Days of the Lido. It has for the first time in decades been operating off a stable business model. Careful and determined input from the Brockwell Lido Users Group has led to an incredibly sensitive reconstruction of the beautiful old building.

Can the same be said for Battersea? The four chimneys remain part of the central plan – or at least part of the marketing bumph that is shipped out across to the big investment on the other side of the world.

Regeneration can work.

In the case of the VNEB development you feel that it simply has to work.

Time to complete the jigsaw.

Plus: here’s South London Hardcore on VNEB. Essential Transpontine listening.

Full flick feed.

VNEB footprint

Embassy Gardens

Marco Polo House

New Covent Garden

One Nine Elms

Riverlight

Sainsburys

But before all of the Bright VNEB Boxes can be developed…

To Smithfield! …early on Saturday evening for the Nocturne race rolling out around the streets of EC1A. This is the seventh year of the Criterium event. The crowds and quality of competitors continue to build, confirming the reputation of the Nocturne as the leading city centre race on the circuit.

Olympic and World Champions could be seen navigating the highly technical course that fed down towards Farringdon, and then back up towards the old market. Much is made of pro-cycling being perceived to operate in a sanitised, safe environment. You couldn’t get more backstreet than Smithfield on Saturday night.

The bars and cafes benefitted, as did the many trade stalls that were crammed into any remaining space around the outer edges of the market. What the Nocturne manages to achieve with perfection is the fine balance between competitive racing and commercial opportunities. You need the sponsors and their over-priced cycling products to prop up the event. Never underplay though the importance of the party atmosphere that carried all the way around the Criterium circuit.

Much of this was down to the plain silliness of some of the events. Mini-wheelers mixed it with Penny Farthings as a folding bicycle race was soon followed by the big boys and their bonkers big wheels. Cycle cross was also catered for, as was the corporate City races between the bankers.

But it was the elite men and women that most of the crowd came out to see. The pro pace around such a challenging course was immense. The market setting allowed you to view from an incredibly close position as the riders increased the speed of racing just as the sun was setting.

There is a huge appetite for cycling in London and the Smithfield Nocturne managed to satisfy the needs on Saturday night. It was pleasing to see the proud colours of the likes of Dulwich Paragon and London Dynamo racing with the more recognised pro teams on the circuit.

Bicycle parking was perhaps the only downer. Ten thousand plus cyclists gathering in a tightly packed old meat market is always going to lead to lamppost congestion with the locks. A minor moan for an event that is now the mid-summer highlight of the racing calendar.

Chapeau!

The second lovely lido swim of the season and I was rewarded with the beautiful clear blue waters of Lake Brockwell. I was also rewarded with a water temperature of 18.5 degrees – or a South London Turkish Bath, as the locals like to call it.

Blue skies over Brockwell Park and the water reflected the rich Naval hue from one end of the art deco pool to the other. Or is it the other way round? Either way, blue is the colour for both sky and lido surrounds.

These four-bricked walls are nothing short of a South London suntrap. I swear that the wisteria creeping it’s way around the poolside decking grew an inch during my afternoon visit. A solar panel on the south facing wall could create enough power to heat the pool. But that’s not really the point…

I delayed the swim whilst I played around with the iPod playlist entitled Lido. This is the soundtrack for the past eighteen summers or so. I can listen to the songs mid-winter and still end up with a lido grin and a glow.

If the previous swim had been all about the acclimatisation, this session was characterised by the lido experience itelf. Swimming is something of a secondary consideration; you arse around poolside with a poncey iPod playlist, procrastinating and allowing the South London rays to thaw out the misery of a cruel winter.

No surprises that I fell asleep.

The towels slowly started to appear along the decking as the afternoon sun descended higher into the Transpontine sky. It wasn’t the great land grab rush that the lido experiences at 9am during the peak of the summer season. You had room to breathe; you had room to cary out a nonsense physio stretch for a knackered knee without creating too much of a social scene.

These are often the best Lido Days. The anticipation of the new season ahead is growing steadily. The confirmed believers of lido life are already poolside, chilled in spirit, if not in body temperature. The part timers will join them as the water temperatures continues to creep up over the next few days.

There’s probably some lido equation that relates to water temperature and turnstile rotations each morning. Bracket in the number of wetsuits on show, and you could come up with a sound business plan for outdoor swimming.

But truth be told, it’s much more simpler than that. There is no such thing as a bad lido experience. Some lost afternoons are just more GRIN inducing than others.

Saturday was all about smiles. After the lido iPod playlist had finally woken me from a winter slumber, I dived straight in at the deep end and didn’t flinch a little finger at 18.5 degrees. The songs continued, with a group of teenage girls huddled in one corner of the water singing snippets of some pop tat just to keep warm.

I soon found my rhythm as I put the lengths in. I attempted to lose the limitations that a poxy 20m indoor pool places on your swimming technique. It’s remarkable how stoke-by-stroke and your sense of lido space soon stacks up with increased precision. I was finding my turning point with spot on timing. Still got it, I murmured to myself as my feet found just the right spot in which to launch another length.

Head rotations for air were alternated, depending on which direction up or down the pool I was traveling. No fancy training reason for this, simply that the late afternoon sun was glinting down from the eastern wall each time I passed. What a charmed life when your only consideration is to position yourself in the water without the disturbance of the sun dazzling through your goggles.

Shadows started to appear around the four walls. Conversations of some eighteen summers past could be heard; memories of the old male changing rooms where the gym now stands were on show, and even an announcement from Dangerous on the poolside PA system.

This is your body telling you that it is probably time to leave the water.

I showered off poolside, and then witnessed another wetsuit boy struggling to free himself of black rubber. Or maybe it was just another Transpontine hallucination?

Golden days.

The first lovely lido swim of the new season, and oh woe me without my wetsuit.

Whoops.

Fifteen degrees is generally recognised as the acceptable water temperature for a shreddies appearance, rather then the wetsuit rubber fetish faffing about. I arrived poolside to find the clear blue waters at Lake Brockwell hovering around 14.5 degrees.

Ouch.

Hey hoe. I pressed on ahead with the Walk of Trepidation past the Lido Cafe and towards the deep end. You have already done the hard part by simply turning up at the lido – you are going to swim rather than bugger off back to base.

But nothing prepares you for that first lido headfuck of the season as you dive into the water, and immerse yourself in the most refreshing hangover experience that South London has to offer.

My head started to throb as soon as I emerged towards the surface of the pool. No surprises to find that there was an absence of throbbing action down below inside my shreddies.

All immediate memories was erased. This is perhaps the reason why so many people are increasingly being won over by the benefits of a daily outdoor swim, rather than sweat it out in some soulless shoebox of a chlorine infested indoor pool.

Maslow’s hierarchy of human needs is your next consideration. You need to move your body, and you need to do it soon before your bits and pieces start to fall off. A pushing off from the pool edge and I was away. My brain could just about calculate that I had to keep on moving, else risk abandonment and defeat.

One length of the 50 metre / yard (still unsure) pool and mind and body were just about functioning. Time to push off again from the poolside and see if a return journey would be able to raise the body temperature slightly.

Four lengths in and I was flying. I reached the ideal equilibrium of allowing my body to feel fine, yet still be left in a slightly giddy state of conscience within. You want to empty EVERYTHING that is in your mind, and simply allow the twenty minutes or so of outdoor swimming to reboot your brain. I had a back up in the form of a hip flask, should the re-booting fail once I was finished.

Outdoor swimming is the superior activity for fitness. Put simply, you can’t hang about if you want to remain warm. I moved between the lengths, increasing in speed and confidence as memories of lido summers past, and possible thoughts for the future, echoed around the iconic art deco walls.

The ritual of lido life reminds you of your own life cycle. You see the same friendly faces each season, all wearing slightly expansive trunks and with a renewed vigour for the waters to wash away a woeful winter of cynicism.

Some might say that you are simply going through the motions, and in a way you are. Three strokes and then an intake of breath, rotating from left to right with each stroke, alternating the view and the ever changing lido landscape.

This was the same routine some eighteen summers ago – why change something that is so simple and life affirming?

I could have carried on for a couple of extra lengths, but commitments elsewhere were already counting down on the lido poolside clock. I showered, and then observed the wetsuit boys struggling to relieve themselves of a rubber casing. My shreddies were already packed away inside my towel.

Cheers, fellas.

The familiar cranking of the Brockwell Lido turnstile signaled my exit from the first swim of the season. It represents a mechanical notch on my aquatic bedpost.

You’ve achieved something – you’ve reaffirmed the lure of the lido.

Splendid.

A risible turn out for the bullyboys of the BNP [not linking] at Westminster on Saturday afternoon. Whilst other towns flushed out from the u-bend the BNP-lite EDL idiots [ditto], London was billed at the centrepiece for the BNP to flare their nostrils at anything that they don’t understand.

Turns out that the BNP threat is about as dangerous as a cold cup of tea. But that’s no reason not to hold the little runts [RUNTS] to account, and challenge them whenever they take up the right to poison their racist propaganda on our streets.

College Green was converted on Saturday afternoon to an outside broadcast of The Archers, as scripted by the most pious and pitiful collection of little people that Little England can muster up. The perceived threat came mainly from old men with crap haircuts. Thankfully they are a dying breed, taking their twaddle to the grave with them.

Tramp the dirt down, etc.

A village fete style PA (ha!) played out a distorted soundtrack of all the songs that are shit when associated with crappy far Right connotations. Jerusalem has long since been reclaimed as a Socialist anthem from the rugger buggers on the playing fields of the public schools. Either that or a bit of a racket to be tolerated ahead of Test match cricket.

Against the backdrop of bad haircuts and distorted pig faces, Jerusalem on the village PA reminded you why all the best protest songs come from Left.

Speaking of which, eyes left (aha!) and the BNP opposition was ten fold to the racist raggle taggle. Double this figure further still and you get an idea as to the strength of the police presence.

Never the twain, etc, but the police protection was more for the BNP thugs than those challenging their fascist views. A lone racist ranted and raved from within the safety of the pen that was protecting the racists. Spit dribbled from his face as the speed of his deluded verbose accelerated. He got a little lost in the argument talking about “starving white folk.” No need to worry fella; not with a 40″ waist.

The real fun however was coming from the other side of Parliament Square. If it’s FUN that you’re looking for in your political struggle then you should go with the Left every time. Heavy dub and an absence of bitterness in the faces of those dancing along.

The racists peered over at what they were missing, only to return to the inner sanctum of their pen, huddled around in small groups with no sense of purpose.

The police however knew exactly what they wanted to achieve – kettle the anti- BNP crowd at the earliest opportunity. Which was a shame, as the lone racist dribbler was now giving the Nazi salute to the Palace of Westminster, an action that was worthy of retribution.

A couple of commissioned double decker buses turned up to escort the dinosaurs back to their deluded corner of Little England. If they want to broadcast their hatred on the street, then they should have the bottle to walk it like they talk and make their own way home to whatever shithole they came from.

Was that the best that the BNP could manage? In central London? The dear old Countryside Alliance [not linking...] was more scary to be honest.

With the police getting a little over excited, I made my exit and backtracked over Waterloo Bridge. The tide was out and a community beach festival was taking place in front of the old river. Jerusalem wasn’t playing out of a crappy village PA system.

By pure chance later in the day and I passed through Bunhill Fields, the final resting place for Blake. It remains a peaceful location within the heart of the City. Vile and hatred is kept away – a fitting place for the great visionary Anarchist.

No ceasing from the mental fight; no ceasing from ANY fascist fight.

All You Fascists Bound to Lose.

With the Col du Galibie the next challenge for the Giro, I decided to get back in the saddle on Sunday morning and ride with the lovely folk of Colchester CTC out towards Maldon. It may have been a more sedate ride compared with the Dauphiné Alps, but then unlike the elite pro riders, I’ve not had the benefit of two weeks in the saddle to prepare.

Climb every mountain, ford every stream, etc. Plus don’t forget to stop off for mid-morning coffee at Perrywood Nurseries in Tiptree, a pleasure that the supposed glamour of the Col du Galibie is lacking.

Chapeau!

We got off to a watery sun sort of start as the small but perfectly formed pelaton rolled out along the edges of the Colchester Roman Wall. The Vicar of St James the Great gave us some encouragement climbing up East Hill. Backsides left the bicycle seats. The good Vicar wasn’t quite your crazed Col du Galibie cycling super fan chasing you up the hill whilst wearing a mankini. No sign of El Diablo either.

Once again my knowledge of route and destination was on par with my understanding of The Bible. Maldon was mentioned as the turnaround point, but this could have been Mount Sinai for all I knew.

A bicycle un-friendly cycle path around the back of the old Barracks was bloody awful. Gravel littered with broken glass and dog shit greeted us at regular intervals. A nervy touching of the front brake and you were looking at a bloodied face mixed in with faeces. Which wasn’t a million miles away from my Saturday night out to be honest.

We made hay whilst the sun wasn’t shining at Layer de la Haye. A buzzard hovering over Berechurch was a reminder as to how the ‘comfortable’ pace of a CTC ride allows you to take in your surroundings and actually experience the changing scenery.

It strayed dangerously into Graun reading territory as a crowd of Sunday morning lane cyclists engaged with nature whilst looking forward to the first Danish pastry of the day. And then the Mod squad of West Ham scooter boys sailed past at Layer Marney, slightly off route for The Boleyn, but looking cool as fuck all the same. Betcha they don’t dish up Danish down at Upton Park.

The mid-May arid air around the lanes was a reminder that North Essex is one of the driest locations in the land. I tried to counter-balance this in a hedgerow with my own contribution to raising the water table. All that I succeeded in achieving was cycling in a saturated pair of lycra shorts.

Whoops.

Now was no time for Nursery rhymes, but I know an old (ish) lycra lad that swallowed a fly. I don’t know why he swallowed a fly, but he did it again, again and again as a swarm of the little buggers did their best to upset my natural breathing rhythm.

A sign saying: Guinea Fowl Crossing just outside of Tiptree offered more hope than actual comedy moments. I was half expecting a lollipop lady with a featherless head to step out and allow a safe passage for the plumed pedestrians. Instead my back wheel skidded on some guinea fowl shit left in the middle of the road.

The CTC tradition of endorsing EVERY garden nursery cafe en route continued at Tiptree. A green canopy then greeted us as we left the Land of Jam and freewheeled down a lane laden with lush leafs growing from either side. A ray of sun illuminated the empty road as the branches tailored off towards the end. It was like a science fiction scene as the darkness emerges with a symbolic light at the end of the tunnel.

For the riders of Colchester CTC however all that we were greeted with as we rode into Little Braxsted was a homemade sign saying: Hardcore Wanted.

There’s a time and place for everything, Comrade. Lycra shorts and hardcore aren’t a good combination. But good effort, fella.

Purleigh was the perfect luncheon feeding station. My salmon and chips bap (classy) was enjoyed with a view overlooking the Blackwater – I think? The ramblers in the country pub looked as confused with the lycra set as I was with the three quarter pants preferred by the bobble hat boys.

Refueled and ready to roll out again somewhere close to Cocks Clark.

“Don’t worry dear, it’s only a deer“

…was a rather joyous turn of expression as a beautiful Bambi narrowly missed my front wheel as it darted across the backstreet lane. An estuary echelon was required as the wind started to blow up around the Blackwater. A slight turn of direction and soon it was blowing up our backsides, all the way back to the Leisure World skateboard ramps.

Sixty plus miles with the lovely CTC folk and still time to collapse on the settee in front of the cricket highlights back at base.

See you next Sunday.

Chapeau!

If it’s a Monday then it must mean that it’s The Oval. And so after living it up at Lord’s on Saturday, the call came out on Bank Holiday Monday of:

To South London!

…for the ‘rrey at home to Hampshire to start off the YB40 season at The Oval.

Fitting for any Bank Holiday, Monday was christened by the corporate types at The Oval as Family Fun Day.

Fuck that.

Bank holidays are all about booze and bat ‘n’ ball. The conversation in the queue to collect tickets turned towards carrot cake. Since when did Family Fun Day mean that cricket became the preserve of poncification of South London? I bagged a bag of chips from the Claylands Fish Bar, before offering up my excess saveloy sausage to a Yummy Mummy in The Oval queue.

Surrey were 9-0 as I took my seat in the Peter May alongside the sun drenched South London boys. These were Golden Days in South London. The combination of cricket and Carlsberg suggested a lively Bank Holiday ahead.

A pre-season fixture away at Hampshire had seen both sides batting in balaclavas (TRUE!) and temperatures of minus three degrees. When Will I See You Again, etc? Preferably in the more tropical South London conditions. Don’t forget the factor 50.

Hampshire won the toss and put the ‘rrey into bat for the first YB40 fixture of the season in South London. Dernbach’s line and length took the early wicket of Carberry.

Five overs in and Surrey were spinning it to win it. The introduction of Keedy into the attack coincided with the first appearance of the Family Fun Day balloon donkey.

Twists, turns and a lot of hot air.

And that was just the spin bowling of Keedy, etc.

A superb catch from Solanki saw off Vince for a useful 21, leaving Hampshire on 52-2. Cambridge undergraduate Ansari gave Hampshire a lesson in turning the ball, whilst a Captain’s catch from Smith in front of the OCS saw Surrey looking strong on 89-4.

A boundary from Ervine brought up the 100 for Hampshire at the halfway stage. A par score of 220 looked half decent. A parallel par score of eight cans of Carlsberg being demolished within the required run rate was also making steady progress.

The Ervine / Dawson partnership was finally broken when Ansari had Dawson caught on 36. Wheater fell for five in the 28th over, upsetting the natural balance in the Bank Holiday booze per over alternative scorecard.

Wood was run out for a 21, leaving the visitors on 188-7. Ervine slogged to 63, finally bowled by Ansari, now set up with a career bowling best of 4-37 in the limited overs game.

“They call him Domingo,”

…remarked a boozed up wag in the Peter May.

“He’s very placid.”

Boom boom.

It’s the way he tells / drinks them.

Hampshire were skittled out for 228 in an innings that neither threatened nor embarrassed the visitors. It was as non descript as the smuggled in alcohol. Part pleasing, part piss poor. But half decent, all the same.

A Captain’s knock from Smith settled the Surrey response. A fantastic 50 from only 36 balls – a shame that Davies at the other end just beat the South African skipper to the half-century.

Both batsmen reached 73 as Mr Duckworth and Lewis also showed the exact same score on The Oval scoreboard. If this was a boxing match then white towels would be thrown into every corner of the old ground, long before I had time to welcome the opening of can number eight of Carlsberg.

Smudger Smith finally came a cropper, caught on a fantastic 74 with the ‘rrey on 162-1. The Davies century soon followed off only 81 balls and with Surrey on 195-1.

Booze kinda clouded the remainder of the play, but no surprises that Surrey bagged their first YB40 win of the season, just as the sun was setting over the splendour of the OCS.

It’s beer festival cricket at The Oval next weekend, Comrades.

Same as it ever was.

C’mon the rrey!

Ahh, a cursory glance at the cycling schedule and it seems that the Grand Tour season has already started with the Giro d’Italia.

Chapeau!

The Grand Tours are the pinnacle of the pedaling world. You work your arse off during the Spring Classics to ride yourself into fitness, and then spend 2-3 weeks at a time racing around Europe in search of Grand Tour glory.

But bugger that.

I still had a booze hangover from the cricket come early Sunday morning. A grueling 17.2km team time trial might have been occupying Allez Wiggo et al, but I was all set for a bit of a leisurely bicycle ride to Braintree and back.

And whaddya know – those incredibly friendly folk at Colchester CTC had just the ride, rolling out of the glamour that is the skateboard ramp at Leisure World, just as the Grand Tour boys were descending from a similar style ramp on the Italian island of Ischia.

Ride yourself into fitness wasn’t far from my mind. If you can lose the eight cans of cheapo lager hangover by the time you reach Lexden, then the job’s a good ‘un.

Have roadie, will travel, has been the motto for my introduction to CTC riding. I’m clueless when it comes to route planning and preparation. I’ve taken to the approach of not even checking to see where the fine CTC-ers are actually riding to each weekend.

Which made Sunday morning something of a mystery ride.

How exciting.

Would it be Braintree? Boxsted? Or maybe even Brightlingsea, the North Essex rival to the Italian city of Turin.

Stanway is always a good starting point when you are exiting Sunny Colch. A dozen or so CTC-ers cruised out of the town, riding a combination of roadies, tourers, hybrids and even a Colne Valley Mini Wheeler, complete with the essential cycling accessory of sandals.

I didn’t read too much into the mystery tour destination as we took a turning into Turkey Cock Lane. Like I said – these CTC-ers are incredibly friendly folk.

All the gobble, gobble action led to a few mechanicals in the lycra shorts department. Less than ten miles out of town and I was caught short. It is every male cyclist’s etiquette challenging conundrum: do you pull over and lose the pelaton, or discreetly let the lycra soak up the ‘excess water,’ hopeful that it can be mistaken for sweat and effort?

I may be a lycra fantasist but I’m no dirty dog. A curbside stop in the great outdoors, and then I was pulled back into the pack with a domestique donkeywork ride from Wifey.

The toilet stop was badly timed – I had forgotten the CTC tradition of endorsing the tearooms at EVERY garden nursery en route. A sharp right hand bend and soon we were de-cleating at Coggeshall Garden Centre.

I pulled off the unlikely feat of puncturing whilst stationary – not in tyres, but the palm of my hand that took on board a particularly painful splinter. An aborted puncture repair kit effort to remove the splinter soon became a Coggeshall Garden Centre mini-medical operation. I challenge you to find any other coffee shop at a nursery garden centre that employs the skills of a splinter assistant.

Much appreciated, Madam.

Vanity got the better of me as the midday sun rose above the BIG Essex skies. The long sleeve lycra soon became shortened, all set for a cyclist’s suntan. Cometh the Pro look, cometh the semi-Pro big boys of Colchester Rovers, out on the club run and probably racing into Coggeshall for splinter assistance.

The passing of other Sunday morning cyclists has been an increasing theme of late. There was a time not so long ago when if you mentioned on Monday morning at work that you had spent your Sunday cycling, you probably would have been spat in the face.

Cycling was a WEIRDO pastime, the preserve of social inadequates who didn’t see the attraction of staying in bed all Sunday morning. Now it seems that half of Essex has taken to two wheels along the lanes each week. A critical mass has reached – not just by the sheer numbers out each weekend, but also in the attitudes of most motorists, observant and understanding of any weekend club run rolling out.

Not that we clogged up the roads for any other users. A speed of 25mph was clocked on the descent down towards White Notley. I’m not sure what I was more impressed by – the speed itself, or the fact that White Notely has a digital speed calming measure.

I still didn’t know where the chuffers we were, or where we were going.

Live to Ride, Ride to Live, etc.

Luncheon was taken at the charming old Rayne railway station. We sat in the shade dining upon our continental brie paninis (toasted cheese sarnies,) and then marveled at the steady stream of young families cycling along the old railway line.

Braintree and Bocking beckoned, via the back route of a fairly bleak industrial estate. Bluebells greeted us in Stisted, and then soon we were racing back through Wakes Colne, aka barn conversion country. A rotting pile of wood had a knobber estate agent sign hanging from it, boasting optimistically of a ‘barn lifestyle escape.’

Good luck with that one, fella.

“YOU BIKE WANKER!“

…was the welcome from the passenger seat of a speeding motorist at we entered Eight Ash Green. Still some work to do to reach that mainstream critical mass for cycling.

The sight of a Stars and Stripes flag raised above a front garden pole was a little weird. It would have made for an interesting doorstep conversation had UKIP come knocking the week before.

And then with 60-ish miles appearing on the bicycle computer, we were back at Castle Park and the lovely CTC ride was almost complete. I’m still not entirely sure where we went, or even why. North Essex and a love of garden nursery coffee shops sounds about right.

Chapeau!

I love getting roaring drunk and I love Lord’s. Combine the two, add in the heady concoction of cricket and I’m cooking.

Chin chin.

And so: To the Home of Cricket!

…on Saturday morning for Day 3 of Surrey Vs the ‘Sex. The last time I saw Surrey at Lord’s resulted in a botched blind man’s buff attempt to find my way back to Stratford after half a shandy too many. Surrey bagged the Pro 40 trophy and I somehow bodged it halfway around the underground.

Whoops.

But it was to be a more sober experience on Saturday morning for the prestige of the London derby.

That was the plan, anyway.

Blue sky and booze is always a brilliant way in which to start your Saturday morning at HQ. The online alcohol advice suggested a strict two pints per entry at the old North Gate. My mathematical calculations got a little confused. Eight cans of Fosters seemed the perfect fit. No bag search, either.

A fashionably later arrival in the Compton Stand meant that we missed the first (and last) wicket of the day. The fag end of the ‘Sex first innings was snuffed out, just as we were climbing the steps of the majestic meeja centre.

And so the ‘Sex were skittled out for 166, falling short of the 338 chase set by Surrey in the first innings. Cloud cover and an ‘optimistic’ weather forecast for the next few hours meant that the follow on was forced by Surrey.

Attack is the best form of defence. Especially so when you are in North London and flying the Transpontine flag that stands for the libertarian equalities of freedom, fair play and eight cans of Fosters.

And so the challenge was set by the boys from South of the river shortly after 11:15am. Which must mean that it was also an acceptable hour in which to crack open the first can.

The introduction of The Viscount Tim Linley into the attack coincided with the ring pull shooting its load. Linley appealed optimistically after his very first delivery, almost replicating the false promise of a can of a Fosters getting a little over-excited before hopefully settling down for the day.

The pattern of Linley appealing after every delivery – and the alcohol overspill – was to continue throughout the day at Lord’s.

The inauguration of some new Members at Middlesex is worth a mention. A guided tour of HQ was in place for the new North London card carriers. The inauguration of the new ‘Sex Members also coincided with the return of Jade Dernbach into the attack for the ‘rrey.

Short, short, long.

And that was just the ‘Sex inauguration.

Rain led to an early luncheon, and a sudden interest in the Lord’s shop. But at 500 notes for a top of the range bat, window shopping was as good as it got.

A trip to the audacious Art Deco toilets followed – or the ‘washroom’ as the P’s and Q’s etiquette of Lord’s dictates. No queues, but the pees were savoured in what is the most delightful of surrounds in which to syphon the python.

A strategic manoeuvre to the Grand Stand followed for the afternoon session. Blue skies beckoned, as did the sound of the first champagne cork popping for the afternoon. You say fizzy French wine, I say Fosters.

Dontcha just LOVE these North / South cultural misunderstandings, Comrades?

The ‘Sex made hay whilst the sun shined. 100 was soon clocked up on the scoreboard. Surrey puffed and panted with some pace bowling. It was fitting that 150 was achieved with four leg byes.

This was an innings in reverse. The ‘Sex went on the attack in the second innings, trying to forget the previous two days of cricket. It was a tactic that served the home team well at HQ.

Remind me – who is the Middlesex Batting Coach once again?

Grrrrr.

Another tactical necessity scene change for the post tea session. We returned to the Compton to catch the GLORIOUS sunrays that were shining down from across the river in South London.

This was the chatty chatty component to the day, aka alcohol comes close to stopping play. The patience being played out from Rogers and Robson at the crease was paying off. Both reached their centuries in the same over – a rare feat.

Remaining overs and remaining ring pulls dictated when it was time to leave. And so one wicket all day at Lord’s, and whaddya know – we chuffing missed it.

Whoops.

Which must mean that many more Lord’s memories are just waiting to be made / forgotten.

C’mon the ‘rrey!