Disney’s new “Cars on Ice!”

Had a exciting day earlier this year… well busy at least.

The snow came down famously 0n the Sunday night to nearly a foot in depth so making my way to the train station and discovering that all transport (even the tube) was down was a bit of an adventure Apparently the deepest snowfall since the Great Snow Day of ‘86… Actually I remember that day, RedLeeroy, Ovak and I dug tunnels ‘nam style through the depths of someone’s garden. Exciting times and good training for our later careers. Leeroy worked in the diamond mines on Jupiter. vVak became a moleman for a short period and I worked in giving free colonics to hobo’s in Nevada.

All very pretty though (the snow, not the colonics). I met up with a few mates in the park nearby and built a snowman of epic proportions which was silly but a lot of fun. Until some kid tried to knock it down as his parents egged him on. I still hope to this day the 9ft collusus fell and broke his weasley little head.

My other half had a slightly more frustrating day though. She crashed the car on the way into work. She’s fine and the car wasn’t too badly damaged. She was just stopped on a downward slope but the car kept going; handbrake still on and everything. She was a bit shook-up so drove the car into a nearby park and walked home where I met her and we got some lunch and then walked back out… by which stage the really steep drive into the park had iced over.

It was a surreal spectacle that greeted us upon our arrival; there was a truck gradually driving its way back up, the driver hopping out to dig out under its wheels every few metres; a cretin speeding up the slope only for his car to careen out of control and slide at speed back down the hill toward other cars spinning in circles as it do so and finally a gang of stoned drunken snowboarders speeding a landrover around and around with a guy on a child’s sled attached by a tow-cable to the back of the car who would let go at the last moment and fly toward the rear wheels of the truck… So driving the car back up the slope in the middle of all this was like something from a Grecian hell

We found the car partially buried under a snowdrift. Some local oiks had set up camp atop it, taking great delight in rubbing away at the windows to peer inside. We saw them off quick smart, fearing we might be shanked if we dallyed too long.

Positioning the car far to the left of the incline (to avoid the truck that had begun to slowly creep and inexorably creep back down the slope to the right) we waited for our window of opportunity…. waited until the moron’s car had spun past us and collided with the sledger below… and GO!!! Ice flew! We yelled encouragement! The engine roared! … and the car ground to a complete halt… grinding its wheels deeper and deeper into the snow.

Then the locals arrived. Like a scene from a low budget zombie tale they arrived clawing at the windows.

Six old dears knocking on the windscreen “No no dear, steer to the right.. no dear to the left, I said to the left”. The moronic fool, having abandoned his own efforts to escape, grabbed the underneath of the car itself “You need to drive sideways!! Sideways!! Here! I’ll move the car for you”… the car leaped and skidded with his mauling… A half dozen snowboarders appeared to our front, leaping out of their landrover “We’ll push you up with ours! Won’t bash your bumper too badly”…

Like a hell.

All fine now though… but the fear still lingers… the fear…

Bloody Tories

I really like my area and, while laziness and sometimes even genuine business procludes me being as active as I’d like, I try to involve myself as much as possible in what’s going on. Be that local exhibitions, shopping locally, or submitting comments to local council plans.

This is why I say ‘bloody tories’.

There’s a local group (more active really on Facebook than elsewhere) where people trade ideas for where to eat, highlight local concerns and so on. It’s apolitical and genuine in its goals. Or so I thought. The creator of the group has revealed himself with much mock comedy to be running for local office as a Conservative and has used the group to publicise this goal.

Which is why I say “bloody tories”… Because it always seems to come back to self-promotion. While I can hardly claim that the Labour or Lib Dem supporters are entirely selfless in their politics; it does still seem to be a trait particularly apparent in Conservatives that whatever political movement or local organisation they may be involved in, at some point, their involvement will be used for personal gain. A tendency toward partisan politics and self-promotion too often emerges.

I’m sure this isn’t what he deliberately intends but it’s disappointing.

Stoopid tory

Kew Garden visit

Kew is rather lovely really. I went last year and it was lovely

Have a look:

A character?

Sitting on the South Bank a while ago I noticed a young keen photographer moving about among the skaters, tourists and riff-raff, snapping happily away.

He had a decent zoom lens and was, I’d guess, going for some of that classic street photography (http://www.flickr.com/groups/beginnerstreetphotography/pool/) stuff.

I watched him for a short while; curious as to who his subjects might be and then went back to my book.

I was surprised a few minutes later when I heard a tentative ‘ahem’ behind me.

“‘Scuse me” he said, all bright and full of studenty enthusiasm, “I’m doing a project on the characters of the south bank. Do you mind if I take a few shots of you?”

…?

Now, I’ll admit I wasn’t quite resplendent in all my dapper finery but a ‘character’? Yeesh.

Testicles and the Pre-Justinian Period in Mr.G’s

I found a proper East End Caf (“Mr. G’s”) near my workplace on Monday some weeks ago. I was delighted with the find as, disappointingly given that I work on the Mile End Rd, there isn’t much beside Chicken Village knock-offs (one, very amsusingly, called FCKC in a double-brand knock-off)

Mr G's Cafe. Image poached from Trustedplaces.com

and poor curry houses. When I first moved to London many moons ago I had a rich fantasy of Alfie’s in markets shouting about apples and pears and chimney sweeps dancing on their commute through the skies. Confronted with rotting bananas and market stalls selling nothing but cheap flimsy underwear I was sadly dissappointed.

So I was thrilled to find this proper (or ‘propAH’ to use the local argot) cafe. I ordered far far too much food; an Egg, Bacon, Beans and Chips (ala http://russelldavies.typepad.com/eggbaconchipsandbeans/) that nearly killed me. Then settled down to read and watch and listen.

Up front two pensioners argued. One remained quite austere as his companion put sugar upon sugar upon sugar into his tea, well past the saturation point so that the soupy mire spilled out across the counter and his chin… forming a thin crust on both.

He announced his political views to the world: “If you were mugged – there! – on THAT road – that road there! And they had stocks! It wouldn’t happen again! No! No – shut up now, I’m talking! It wouln’t happen again. Put him ‘in stocks, innit? And leave the tomatoes from the market there beside ‘im”… and so on. A good ten minutes of “stocks!”, “bloody holiday camps, that’s what the prisons are!” and “whip ‘em I say!” ensued. It as a lot of fun. The owner, catching my eye and winking his comraderie toward me, urged him on: “Now really, that’s far too much. I’m sure those, what did you call them, ‘oiks’? … those young oiks don’t mean any harm”. The irate gent near exploded with rage: “On TV last night I saw a documetary ’bout the Romans, right? They knew what it was all about, right?”.

At this the eyebrow of the sucrose-drinking man rose sharply.

“The Romans right? The Romans wouldn’t have stood for this! A Roman citizen could walk across the world (shades of the West Wing: http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/The_West_Wing) without fear of anything. Anything!”.

The the sucrose-drinking man put his tea down sternly.

“The Romans under, in this TV show this was before Justin, they should have stayed in Britain”.

The man stood quickly; knocking aside his chair: “TESTICLES!!! TESTICLES!!! THAT’S WHAT YOU KNOW ABOUT THE PRE-JUSTINIAN PERIOD!!!!! YOU KNOW FUCKING TESTICLES ABOUT PRE-JUSTINIAN ROME”.

What followed was a fascinating and genuinely eloquent discussion on Roman history between this enthralled amateur TV viewer and, it turned out, a retired professor of Roman history.

I love London. I really do.

…

So, onto the Billy and Me scores:

Billy: 8
Eoin: 9 (just for the floor-show)

My London: Gordon’s Wine Bar and the Ghost of Theodore Bromley

Gordon’s Wine Bar in Embankment (Tuesday 12th November 2002)

Had an odd thing last night. A friend of mine and myself met outside in Gordon’s Wine Bar. If you haven’t been there (and you can somehow secure a seat; note that this was far from a balmy summer night and we sat under the stars) it’s well worth a visit. The cellar bar is an old creepy affair rife with sentiment and age. The cheese on offer; both youthful and crumbling beneath its age kept Billy happy and content. It’s arched ceilings force visitors to bow down close together to avoid colliding with the dust and moss. The walls are adorned with aging photographs and rotting newspapers of times long past. It was only here in this place that I could have met Mr.Theodore Bromley.

We sat down outside and ordered a bottle of red and, having not had the opportunity to meet in some months, shared a fine time in one anothers’ company. Both of us wrapped warm against the encroaching winter; me in faux moody hoody and overcoat and her in dainty bright scarves and hats.

We had thought that we were alone in the narrow laneway when a large figure abruptly dropped down on the seat beside us. I acted fast to save our table from capsizing at his sheer presence.

He was a large gentleman; in both stature and charisma. He was also evidently quite drunk; apparent from both his slurred voice and powerful aroma. His words dribbled out from beneath his proud thick ‘tache in a wonderfully rolling bassy English accent:

My name is Theodore Bromley.

Oh, hello. My name’s Waxy.

(A long stare; he didn’t like that, not one bit).

I am from… Australia…

Really?

I *AM* from Australia.

We’re from Ireland.

My name is Theodore Bromley. Whooooo are yooooo?

This continued for some time, his voice rising with indignation, until finally he lent in close (slyly pilfering a bottle of white from a neighbouring table). I leaned forward to hear his words, quiet as they were.

You have done my country wrong, sir, you have done my country wrong!!!!

A tear crept down his face.

I think you might have mistaken me; what wrong was done to you?

You have done my country wrong. You have done my country wrong. You have done my country wrong. You have done my country wrong. You have done my country wrong. You have done my country -

Mr. Bromley collapsed forward in a tide of grief and flatulence. Our table capsized; our drinks safe.

He swirled to his feet and faded off into the night; vanishing a moment as the shadows overwhelmed him.

A ghost?

Seemed like a pleasant fellow.

My London: November 2002 Homeless guy in cafe

“Two.

Two – SIXTY???

… Interest you say?

I’m sorry, but that simply can’t be done you see. You understand that I start with nothing each day. What goes into my account must stay there. YOU know what happens to money don’t you? It slips away down the drain as soon as your eyes leave it!

A summons? For me? Now that wouldn’t be very nice would it, sir?“

The Delhi Brasserie

The Delhi Brasserie
44 Frith Street
London
W1D 4SB

Well… you can’t beat the tableside entertainment at least…

Oddly the Europride festival was timed exactly alongside the England match in the World Cup. It was difficult to tell who was who as virtually everyone there was a barechested male skinhead… We took to spotting either Red Bull or Stella Artois in their hands, which was a reliable method. See here as the Red Bull’s walk on by while the Stella’s try to smash a bus engine with their fists.

The food that arrived was perfectly adaquete; prompt, plentiful and fairly tasty, as you can see…

… but nothing to really write home about.

So I won’t.

Billy: 6
Eoin: 5