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: June 2008 Cans Festival

I was brought along yesterday to a terrifying subway beneath Waterloo Station; an arched redbrick road running directly under the unused old Channel Tunnel rails. The Cans Festival was there last weekend and the work remains (largely) untouched.

It’s wonderful idea; take a disused pissy tunnel and make it bright and wonderful for free by allowing stencil graffiti artists to run wild . Make a point of going to see it if you’re in London.

Full photos here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/waxydan/sets/72157605637352766/

Some irony of course snuck in. Genuine irony that is; not the Hoxton kind so adored by the artists. A large billboard at one end read “Gentrify This!!” as though the stencils were somehow ‘keeping it real’. You are gentrifying this area, and every area where you spray, with this work you moron. You think property is expensive by Old Street station because people just love urine-stained postwar housing? You’ve filled an old filthy tunnel with bright paint and middle class nonces with cameras like myself.

Cops are also patrolling the station to fend off any further spraying which, while not as amusing, is kinda ironic too.

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?“

My London June 2008: Nazi bombs and commuter delays

There are many cities where one faces commuting challenges and difficulties. I think here in London the delaus are so uniquely terrible that it has a wonderfully positive impact; people read. More than any other city I’ve ever travelled through; the population read. Great stuff.

Also only in London can my tube be delayed for 30 mins “due to an unexploded World War Two bomb on the tracks”.

I love this town