Copycat Rioting
There's a lot of talk today about copycat activity. You get one group of people rampaging around, pillaging and brazenly acting beyond the law, and inevitably people copy it - especially when it appears the authorities are powerless to do anything about it. These are people that don't care about their own communities any more - they just want to get whatever they can immediately, and forget about the consequences and who they hurt along the way.
So it's clear that after years of watching the bankers and financiers and politicians and corporate heads doing it and getting away with it, it was going to influence others.
The financial crash that has put the poorest areas of London into special 'austerity' measures where people have the limited facilities available to them cut back or removed was caused by looters.
I am furious at criminality on any level. I am seeing communities and lives around me ruined by people who are ignoring the law and being driven by greed. Whether its short selling or smashing a window and stealing a telly.
The sadness is that it's always, always the poor that end up most intimidated and harmed.
Frank on Cross Street
Frank's London Memorial
Wow. Two posts in less than six months. It's a miracle. Anyway. I was overjoyed to see this wonderful piece of 'street art' or whatever wanky phrase nice graffiti is being referred to these days ...
Mr Sidebottom gets a fab memorial - I've no idea by whom, and why it's here but I'm really glad it is. It's a nice pal for the Banksy round the corner.
There's a couple more shots on my Flickr page.
Is this the most neglected blog ever?
Very probably. But in the interests of tedious consistency, here's an update on the former Carlton Cinema / Mecca Bingo Hall:
Stiffed and Disappointed
An interesting evening. In my mind I'm going to put what's best for the country ahead of my rabid hatred of the Tory ethos. (I was going to say "ethic" but it's an oxymoron.) As someone somewhere said this is better than the other option, which would Tebbit and Letwin et. al. with a chainsaw in one hand and the keys to the country in the other. Anyone wishfully thinking this coalition will fail is misguided. It's a new right-centre powerhouse that will leave Labour out in the cold for a long time unless they return to their roots - campaigning for social equality and pointing out the inequities being forced through by the Tories. Not playing centre politics like they have been for the last 15 years. The annoying aspect is that the Tories have finally and accidentally got the modernisation they were desperately casting around for - and it's been handed to them by the party I supported financially and with my vote for the last 20, primarily with the aim to keep the Tories out. But the wrong thing to do now would be to go with my gut and scuttle off to Labour. It was their fault this happened - they listened to their backbenchers and leftie bloggers who have all suffered torrid election campaigns against Lib Dem opposition, the Labour old guard came out against electoral reform and it all fell to bits. And in any case, Dave is on paternity in a few weeks, so we'll have a Lib Dem Prime Minister. For a bit.
Sitting Ducks
Watch out for those buses, man! You could like fall in the road and they'd run right over you.
I know local newspapers are an easy target. In my formative years we couldn't wait for Thursday when the Surrey Mirror (known locally as the Surrey Error) hit the streets, and all the hilarity that ensued. The Error is still responsible for my favourite sandwich-board headline of all time, and I've quoted it so often I'm now not sure whether it actually existed or whether it was just a figment of my imagination. Anyway.
Tragic Steamroller man dies a hero
will take some surpassing. Although the one on the left comes a close second.
But I digress. I came here to moan about the Islington Gazette. Two subheadings from this weeks issue caught my eye.
Baby Unit Faces Axe - The Whittington Hospital's maternity unit – where Islington's X Factor winner Alexandra Burke was born – could be axed.
I mean, I know we live in a society obsessed with celebrity, but perhaps the fact that 'The City Of London Maternity Hospital' was founded on that site in 1750 and has been supporting the pregnant of London for the last 260 years would perhaps stir the outrage slightly more than the loss of an amateur crooner's birthplace?
(Actually, it wasn't called 'The City Of London Maternity Hospital' until 1918. When it was founded in 1750 it was called 'Hospital for Married Women in the City of London and parts adjacent and also for sick and lame outpatients'. Snappy.)
This morning's second headline of annoyance reads:
Campaigners have won their battle to stop strippers and naked table dancers from performing at the former headquarters of Labour MP Jeremy Corbyn.
I know that the Islington Gazette and its owners Archant (formerly Eastern Counties Newspapers but obviously in need of a rebrand into something insipid and pointless) are big blue flag-wavers, which is perhaps a foolish approach in an area so staunchly socialist, but this sort of guff is just hastening the rapid demise of the local newspaper industry, which is already on its knees and gasping for breath. The Islington Gazette itself managed to shed over a quarter of its readers between 2008 and 2009 and is now flogging just over 6,000 copies a week. In an area with a potential readership in the hundreds of thousands, it's a bit pathetic. These feeble attempts at sleight-of-hand digs at local politicians and drawing obscure celebrity connections show the local newspaper for what it is - desperately out of touch with its area and the people that live in it.
(Incidentally, I can't check the links to the stories above, as the website is down.)
Eating Food
Kiran in the morning, when he's at his most perky
Just a quick one to say this blog isn't forgotten ... had a lovely evening sharing a quiet late birthday celebration with Sam and Chiggy in Le Montmartre. Sadly we were the only people in there, which on a Sunday night is a bit disappointing, but they've only been open a couple of weeks and I'm happy to report that the food is as excellent and voluminous as ever. And as we were the only people there the service was reasonably good too! So. Yes. Le Montmartre. 144 Essex Road. Tel. 020 7354 8610. (I'm only putting this information because I noted if you google the place, I'm the second result at the moment. You could look at view london, who also have gone to the effort of taking photos. Which I didn't. Hence this morning's picture of the boy.)
Schnee
Snow falling on ye olde Dickensian bendybus
So I was out in town today, and dropped in to see my fine showbiz pal Geoff to anorak for a while and conduct a little bit of business. (I just realise that makes me sound like I'm dealing or buying drugs. I'm not. Honest. I'm too much of a scaredy cat.) I exited into the cold and rain, and headed underground as any sane individual would. Upon arrival at Kings Cross, I was intending to change from the dark blue to the black, as I had business to attend to in Angel. (Pick up photos from Boots.) Incidentally, since the new northern ticket hall opened at KX, you now have to walk about half a mile to change from the Piccadilly to the Northern, through labyrinthine new tunnels, three escalators and one flight of steps. However, to change from the Northern to the Piccadilly requires one short bendy corridor and a flight of steps. Why is this? Surely people heading home from the West End to the north of London are more likely to be carrying bags, or just grumpy after a long day's work. It should be the other way around. Or there should be a contraflow. Or I should be running bloody TfL.
An unusual destination for an international railway station.
Anyway. I was on this long trek in a circle to get to the Northern Line, when my eyes alighted on this sign, illustrated here on the right. (Incidentally, I'm still getting my head around the formatting on this site, so this bit of text may be ridiculously squeezed, depending on your screen resolution. Sorry if it looks daft.) Not just one, either. At every turn of the corridor, at every escalator, there was the sign again. Why, I pondered to myself, would one need directions to the Regent's Canal? I internally applauded the use of the apostrophe, but even so - what new delights had been added that warranted a sign directing the mass hoards using Kings Cross interchange towards the Canal? "Blow the Northern Line!" I thought to myself, and followed the sign to Regent's Canal.
Well, the escalator finally tipped me out opposite the SouthEastern trains ticket gate line in St Pancras Station, and there were no further signs pointing me towards Regent's Canal. To be honest, thinking about it, the only way from there was down along the taxi queue in Pancras Road to the bottom of the hill, then right up Goodsway, then perhaps into the Camley Street Wildlife Sanctuary, which would get you to the canal. Otherwise, you've got to walk all the way back up the hill to York Way, cross over the road and then drop down to the canal. Quite a long way, up a steep hill and certainly not warranting signs in Kings Cross Underground Station. Anyway. As I pondered all this, I noticed that it was snowing. Not just snowing, but big fat whopping snowflakes that were settling nicely and making London look that rare thing that one only normally experiences towards the end of an alcohol-assisted evening in the West End - sparkly and magical. I slid my way down the side of St Pancras station before I finally succumbed to taking a photo, knowing as I do the bad results when you combine cameraphone with darkness and snow.
Does this need a caption?
So, this is the best I could come up with.
But London was fab as a result, and so I decided to walk home, if only for the entertainment value of watching bad driving skills coming to the fore as people tried to get up Pentonville Road to the Angel summit. I wasn't disappointed. What did disappoint me was that after my visit to Boots in Angel (where I had a very nice conversation with the girl behind the counter about various things including commuting from Chingford and how her collegue was useless because he didn't know what eye shadow was even though he has three sisters and works for Boots. I couldn't disagree with her) it had stopped snowing. This didn't stop the sliding however, and I was a little peturbed walking down Essex Road to see a 476 heading towards me at approximately 20% skew. I stood to one side until it had passed. Anyway. I had a point but it escapes me at the moment.
London. Snow. Good.
Le Montmartre
Mmmm. Snails.
Another quick one - I'm overjoyed at the return of Le Montmartre to Essex Road ... it was an institution, a landmark - opposite the station on the corner of New North Road, and I'd whiled away many happy hours with red wine and ridiculously unhealthy French cooking. Then it upped sticks and headed to the establishment - i.e. it moved to Theberton Street off of Upper Street. Well, the Islington incongniscenti didn't take to it, because apparently they preferred the place that it took over from. It frankly wasn't poncey enough for them. Well, it's heading back to its roots - sadly not the original location which is now a (very good actually) japanese restaurant called Akari. It's taking over one of the ever-shifting premises just up from the Banksy opposite the Carlton - the place that most recently (if I recall correctly) was a Russian restaurant. Anyway - I for one will be welcoming it back on my birthday in January, and you're all welcome to join me.
More Carlton Cinema
Still trying to convince us
I realise this is less a blog and more a historical reference to two or three weeks back in September, but having invested so much time in getting the blinkin' thing working, I am fully intending to use it more. In the meantime, I've just noticed a big sign on the outside of the Old Carlton Cinema saying they're doing another exhibition this Saturday. I'm not sure why - whether the plans have changed, or they're just giving people the opportunity to have another look at the existing ones - but there it is. I doubt there'll be a chance to look inside, but I'll be popping over just in case.
Worst. Parents. Ever.
It seemed like such a good idea at the time
So it's Uncle Raja's birthday today. Raja Mama, as they say in an area of the world with vastly larger population than here, meaning that Mama is a more appropriate term than Uncle. Anyway. We thought, collectively, not apportioning any blame at all, that it would be a nice idea to send him a card with the boy's handprint along with the signatures.
"What shall we use to make the handprint?" we wondered.
"It has to be something safe" we affirmed.
After much rummaging amongst the staggeringly quantiful amounts of junk we seem to be hoarding, I came across the distantly-remembered set of poster paints. Sure enough, they seemed non-toxic.
Let me tell you, getting an 8-week old's head around the concept of a hand print is not an easy one. Making a fist of it, as it were, is something he's very good at. Flattening his hand out long enough to place it on a piece of paper without waving it around in an entertaining but otherwise paint-spreading manner? He's not so good at that.
It didn't take us very long to realise that this exercise was doomed to quite spectacular failure. I'm sure there are still patches of blue, lying quietly just waiting to be discovered, months possibly years down the line.
But Raja Mama got his card, with an indistinct blue blob at the bottom of it.
We'll try again one day. Probably.