Ludlow, Go, Go.

I'm here in Ludlow amongst English tourists, quiet retired people; the sandals and socks brigade. I’m out for Ricky’s 39th birthday. It’s 8.30 pm and I’ve known Ricky for nearly twenty minutes. I’m on holiday, visiting friends and relatives for the week, which roughly translates as hanging around other people’s lives for the week. Today I’m here with the proprietor of the Globe restaurant and bar, my friend Adam who’s out on a Monday night for Ricky’s birthday and so, by default, I am too.

Earlier, sitting in the beer garden at Adam’s bar on a sunny Monday afternoon, he asks when we first went to Glastonbury.
“Oh that was years ago, 2002."
"It was longer ago than that.”
It had a 2 at the end.
“1992.” Boy, that was a long time ago. So we’re not young anymore after all. We used to live in a squalid house in Toxteth, next to a burnt out petrol station left over by the riots. The early nineties were so long ago I’ve taken ten years off to make it more palatable.

The past, the present, the future. It was all making sense on the train here. The train rolls along in no hurry, but that’s ok, it’s great when all you have to do is look out at the pleasant valleys, the round bails of hay in the fields, the wild red heather. Everything makes sense on a train when you’re headed somewhere that’s away from your everyday reality.

Reality is only a phone call away though. The next morning my landlord calls to tell me he’s been getting irate calls from the council for non-payment of council tax. Funny thing is I’ve paid my council tax. The council had the flat as Flat 2, I’m living in Flat B and paying for that, so they’ve decided as no-one is paying for Flat 2, which isn’t real just a part of their wilful imagination, they have to send the baliffs round to demand the money they’re not owed. Which means at sometime on their records, it must have said there was one flat on my floor and then when another one magically appeared they didn’t bat an eyelid, they just charged for it. Bureaucracy fails us every time. Don’t get me started.

Later, I’m sitting in Adam’s pub garden again, which is pretty empty apart from a retired antiques dealer who apparently comes in every day and buys a pot of coffee which he makes last all afternoon. The council tax people ring to say they’ve sorted it and called off the Dogs, as if it wasn’t really their fault at all. There’s a pause to allow me to speak my gratitude but they’re not getting any from me. A quick visit to Ludlow castle, feeding the ducks at the river, a delicious Thai meal and then I have to get back on my train and head off to someone elses life.

Seaside

The grey cloud hangs heavy over the beach. It’s warm but threatening to rain. We walk along the promenade, above us, at the top of a grassy hill, a fairground hangs precariously on the edge, blaring out chart hits from 10 years ago. People are lounging around and cooking food from blue beach huts, a candy striped beach hut and other brightly coloured ones built into the hill. Below them people are scattered on the beach, a couple are even swimming. Two old people on old people vehices glide past. The fellow is smoking a fag, neither of them look particularly happy. Above us a plane dives and loops around.

We started off with breakfast at The Golden Globe in Chertsey, which is the pub at the end of Keith Moon’s drive, when he lived here at the start of the 70s. It was reputed he’d bring in a shotgun and fire it at the ceiling to get served quicker. There’s a picture of Keith in the corner by the pool table. He used to live in a pyramid shaped house, which sadly has been knocked down and replaced with an even more space-age looking round house, the top of which you can just about see over the huge wall. It’s 11am and even though we’ve brought our shotguns, there’s no queue at the bar.

We continue the wrong way round the M25 for 3 hours, in a bid to outwit the grey cloud which seems to have followed us from London, until we reach Whitstable, a small town on the Kent coast. I had this idea to go swimming but the lack of blue sky has changed my mind, so now we’re walking along people watching. I’m always convinced I’ll see someone I know, despite the fact I don’t know anyone who even lives anywhere near here. I scour the faces but don’t recognise a soul.

The thing with English seaside towns is you have to deal with the fickleness of English summer. Although warm, it’s too cloudy and there’re not enough people for it to feel like a real beach day out. You need the sky blue and the smell of salt sea air to overpower your senses. Sometimes you’re desperate to get out of the self-possessed charge of London for the slow dancing of English towns, but when it finally happens it doesn’t quite feel right.

We go for food at 5 o’clock, but the pubs have stopped serving. The shops are closing and everyone is packing up and going home. The suburban streets are empty, it’s like Day of the Triffids but neater, someone hasn’t bothered overturning the buses, they’ve just been left in the bus lock-up from teatime till morning.

We go the right way round the M25 and get back home within an hour and a half. The next sunny day we’ll sneak out early and try again.

Danielson

The first day of the summer holidays. Is there a lovelier phrase in the English language? Friday and I’m home from work, the music on, waiting for Tracy so we can go to the chip shop. I need a shave. Forget it, I’m on holiday, I’ll grow a beard. I’m bouncing around to the Ramones on Tracy’s exercise ball (c’mon it’s the summer hols) and thinking of all the possibilities. This is the best part; a week of freedom stretched out before you, beckoning. Maybe we should go to the Boogaloo and dance all night. Maybe I should ring up some friends who live round the corner and we should go for a few drinks?

Maybe I should phone Richard and ask if he’s going to be in London this weekend. He texted on Thursday to say he was in Cambridge and Nik Kershaw was playing on the jukebox. I texted back to ask if he was coming to London. No reply. I guess he just needed to communicate the Kershaw problem on the jukebox. Maybe, maybe, maybe. In the end I don’t do anything, we venture no further than the chip shop and back to slob out.

It’s hard to do nothing. Even if you convince yourself you don’t want to do anything the guilt makes it impossible. People say chill out. Saturday, and I don’t venture too far either. I make a few plans for Sunday and Monday but that’s about it. I’ve earned this I tell myself. I can read and watch tv all day if I like. But I can’t. Mr Miyagi wouldn’t approve (is he still called Mr Miyagi in the new Karate Kid?), and besides this three day beard itches so I’m going for a shave now.

Tomorrow, I will be busy.

Out in the Country

In London there seems to be this obsession with pretending you’re in the country. For instance places are named as villages, like Marylebone village, which is nestled between the remoteness of Oxford Street and the quiet clippity-clop of the horses on Marylebone road.

I like to do this myself, I’m always looking for a quiet lane to walk down. I found just the place today on my way back from collecting my vegetable box, from a place called Farm direct (more country references). There’s a row of mews houses on a quiet lane off Ronald’s road which snakes up towards Highbury Fields. It’s also where I found this lovely coloured gate pictured above. Nice isn’t it? Saturday is the perfect day to admire a finely coloured gate.

As I walk down the hill to collect my veg box, the fancy dress brigade pass by, a stereotypically dressed Red Indian, Mexican and Frenchman - complete with onions around his neck. It’s 10.30 am. I’m not sure where they’re going at this hour dressed like that, but they are looking very proud of themselves.

At the bottom of the hill I see a wasp attacking a butterfly. I kick the wasp away, despicable creatures, remind me of estate agents. The butterfly is still flapping around distressed so I put him in the hedge so he doesn’t get trampled on.

My good deed done I continue to the farm shop. I had to take my car for its MOT yesterday. I was driving to the garage, becoming increasingly paranoid that something was wrong with it while trying to map my way via tube stations; there’s a tube station to the right –Tufnell Park, I can’t be far away. I take a right, then a left and down the hill until I can see a tube station on the left, that should give me some clues – Tufnell Park, oh well, if I drive in circles all day they won’t be able to fail it. I sat in work waiting for the call and they phoned to say it had passed. I couldn't believe it, first time in 5 years.

I collect the vegetables, go for a run and my morning chores complete, I wonder what to do. I take a bus to the centre of London village, for no real reason, but I’m sure last time I past Bloomsbury square, close to the British Museum, there was a newsagents with a huge sign that said something like ‘purveyors of quality Viz magazine’. Can’t be. I must have dreamt it.

I board the bus and it drives past a pub garden, where a group of lads are sitting dressed as cops and robbers. What on earth? It’s only 2pm.

Whatever happened to Alex Cox?

Tracy's Uncle Alan comes to visit and we are late when we meet him in Covent Garden. I think a place fades the more you live in it; you just stop noticing things. When we meet him he's buzzing about a juggler he's just seen who, dressed in only a pair of shorts, juggled a sword, a cricket ball and a chainsaw. All I saw was the back of the head of the idiot who tuts on the tube when the driver announces a delay. We go off for a delicious meal and then to the Duke of York's theatre where we are getting scared by the sights, and (mainly) sounds of Ghost stories. I need a holiday, but until then visits to fictional worlds will do me just fine.

Tracy has this idea of a cinema club where a group of us watch a film every Sunday night. It's the perfect night for films. It cushions you nicely against the Sunday night blues as work approaches on the Monday, giving you another world to escape into. The cinema club will be like Moviedrome but without Alex Cox. Do you remember Moviedrome? It was ace, it ran in the late eighties, early nineties, and on Sunday nights Alex Cox would introduce a cult classic. He had a real passion for the films and lots of facts which would draw you in and make you look forward to the film. He had an odd accent, kind of half Scouse, half LA. Whatever happened to him? I saw him in the Everyman in Liverpool one time years ago.

It's funny, I googled Moviedrome and they had a selection of the films played. I didn't recognise the names of very many of them, yet, in my mind at least, I used to watch those films every week. It was a last release from the drabness of the working week. Maybe Alex Cox needs something to do on a Sunday night, and could come and introduce the films at our (currently imagined) cinema club.

Although we had a film at the ready, but not the audience, we didn't see a film on Sunday.

The Canals of Our City

By bike the road is revealing every bump, every pothole; all uneven surfaces, however small, prove to be real bone shakers. I may as well be on a Penny Farthing. I don’t remember the roads being like this when I drive, but perhaps that’s because they’re not. I think the Mayor’s getting up in the wee small hours with his drill to ruin the roads he doesn’t use.

On Baynes street I drop down to the canal, riding across concrete slabs, which sound out like moving wooden slats on a bridge. It's quiet apart from the occasional ringing of a bicycle bell (not mine). The curtains are drawn on the barges but the plants on the roof are enjoying the morning sun. A man photographs a Banksy under a bridge, which under close inspection seems to have been put up by a rival. I pass the zoo, then head back up to the road.

On the way home, girls in summer dresses sit drinking, their feet dangling over the edge towards the water, bright yellow canoeists circle round, drunks sit on benches and lurk under bridges. A guy plays acoustic guitar, the acoustics amplified by the bridge he's under. The Camden market sellers are packing up for the evening. The punks occupy the same spot as last night with their juggling balls.

Yesterday I missed my turn back onto the road and ended up near King’s Cross. As I rode up Caledonian road a family opened a door to my left, and the smell of chlorine poured out. It seemed such a busy road for a swimming pool.

When I reach home I find an advert for a 2010 version of the Penny Farthing. They've modernised it. I can't wait to see one around here. Hmm, this may be the second cycling blog in a row, but it’s all new and exciting to me and next week it may just have proved to be a passing fad.

I want to ride my bicycle

So my bike has spent the last two years collecting dust in the underground car park at work. It's no place for a bicycle in summer. Wednesday night I rode it home; it took 25 minutes, the tube takes around 40. The tube is stressful whereas cycling is exhilarating. So even though I saw Ian Brown walking towards the tube last night, it's time to pedal.

I cycle right past the tube station, follow the way round towards Holloway road and take the road opposite. It's funny, London streets have a little bit of a cycle route then they trail off for a while. Get it sorted Boris. I'm across Caledonian road and I've found myself in a cycle gang. I'm surrounded by a clump of cyclists and we cycle as one. One by one though they take left turns whereas I want to go straight ahead towards Camden. I'm trying to do the route in reverse that Jon showed me on Wednesday.

Near the bridge I want to go straight on but it's one way. I take a left and then find the way down to the canal. I've always wanted to cycle down by the canal. It's not too narrow but boy are those bridges low and I have to duck each bridge I pass under. I should have followed the canal to Regent's Park but I get off at Chalk Farm road instead. Tomorrow I shall adjust my route.

You want an update on Mr Wright's behaviour last Thursday? It was great to see him, and really there's nothing to report, Mrs Wright.