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the suburb formerly known as edgware Eight months is actually the longest single span of time that I've been away from England; all the other times I lived outre-mer I managed to get home every few months or so. So naturally, many things have changed - I was up in Edgware the other day, which used to sit fairly comfortably above Burnt Oak in the scummy area standings, but has now not only gone to the dogs, but gone for a curry and puked up in the taxi home afterwards too. It's awful up there now, and I base this mostly on the fact that my favourite record store in the world, Loppylugs, has closed down. I walked down to the corner of Station Road, hoping to pop into the little store for old time's sake, but was greeted with a postered-over shopfront and the peeling paint of an old Loppylugs sign. Admittedly, they hadn't really had my business much over the past few years, nor anyone else's by the sound of it, but it was still a shock to find a gravestone in place of a record shop. It had been there my whole life. I'd bought my first David Devant record there ('Ginger'; I stupidly only got the CD, and not the ginger vinyl as well, oh how I wish I had that now). I still remember the old 'Loppylugs Records' adverts that were announced in a faux-US accent in the long-gone ABC cinema that used to be the focal point of Edgware (replaced by flats and a gym). Also gone was Music Stop, a guitar shop at the other end of Station Road. I wasn't sure, as it was not yet decorated by the wanted felon Bill Posters, but on closer inspection not an e-string was left in the store. While my nose was pressed sadly against the window looking for ghosts of basses I never bought, the guy who used to work in there told me that it was forced out of business a couple of weeks ago. Everything in Edgware is going, he said. Around the corner, the old second-hand bookstore where I bought scores of Jackson/Livingstone gamebooks as a teenager, had vanished into history. Just across the road, the venerable (and supposedly listed) mock-Tudor Railway Tavern, one of the few proper pubs left in Edgware, lay empty, ready for conversion into - you got it - more flats. It's incredible that a place sliding so far downhill it could end up in the English Channel is suddenly destination number one for new apartment buildings. As if anyone would really want to live there any more. A few years ago this young film-maker made a short called 'The Edgware Walker', which is often shown late at night on ITV or one of them channels. It's about this guy, reputedly a doctor in a past existence, who we used to see wandering about Edgware in little more than shorts, his grizzled body hunched and bent over, marching up and down Station Road, day and night. I forget his right name now, but I remember him, and I remember when he died. Anyway, this short film spoke to people all over Edgware, from Broadfields to Whitchurch, who knew of the guy, a permanent fixture in Edgware life, before depressing them with news of his death. He summarised by saying that when the Edgware Walker died, Edgware died with him, 'a shit town'. And he's right; behind the Ben Sherman shirts and flags of St George, the soul of this frontier suburb has been diluted to trace. It's a sad tale. |
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2.6.06 14:41 |
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and tesco banned the st george flag - for 10 minutes I don't get it. Prescott has an affair and plays croquet (the scoundrel), and the nation calls for his head on a plate (admittedly a large plate). Dick Cheney shoots someone in the face and exposes his own CIA agents and endangers the planet but isn't hounded anywhere near as much. I'd love to see some mullet-haired guy thrown an egg at Cheney's face, see how he'd react. Cheney and Prescott, now there's a dynamic duo. And then on the radio I hear that Morrissey has said to animal testing labs that "we're gonna get you". The LBC commentator (whose name escapes me, but it rhymed with 'stupid obnoxious self-absorbed prat') told his audience to condemn him for incitement to violent acts. People ringing in were snarling maliciously, "I would like to see them do medical testing on the Smiths instead!" (as if they are still together or something). What would they say if they heard any of the Smiths' music, I wonder? Calling for unity among shopifters, should he be prosecuted for telling people to steal? Or for dating comatose women? As for hanging disc jockeys, well he could start with morning show presenters on LBC. Oops, better not incite them. And then there's the Daily Mail. My mum, despite my many lectures as to why she shouldn't, still reads it. There's a newspaper I haven't missed at all. Nor the Evening Standard really, which I've boycotted since they targeted Ken Livingstone as a racist. Of course, it's been pretty easy keeping up this boycott, living five thousand miles away. However, I've missed the Metro newspaper, that one you get free on the undergound in the morning. We were looking through it last night for funny articles; apparently, back in the US, a group of people were arrested in an undercover operation in a park (it was probably raining, hence being undercover). they were all having sex. There were 29 of them, so there must have been one odd one out, or a threesome. Except there were 28 men and 1 woman. Unfortunately those were all the details given, so there was much left to the childish imaginations of a group of 28-30 year olds in a pub in Chancery Lane. The finer points of the British media; you gotta love it. |
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2.6.06 15:04 |
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sixsixsix What the hell is this? I know it's the long-awaited blog software change, and I know that I decided to stick around her because I saw the German one and thought, what's the problem, that's fine; well now my actual blog is in this dodgy format I don't think I like it. Yeah, I've put my own 'headerbild' up there now, but where's me little pic of young cap-gun pete? I don't like the titles, and some of the other stuff too - yeah, I think I will have to think hard about a blog move. When I'm back in the US, anyway. I already set up another one, just in case. I'll have to give this one a bit of a run first. Spent last night at my brother's, in a Mario-Kart sesh. Though I started ridiculously badly, I rallied back (once he was drunk on Murphy's) and we drew 16-16. My thumb hurts. And World Cup fever is hitting me. I cannot get enough of it. I am lapping up all news of Rooney's foot, all the 'greatest world cup goals' shows (why can't they ever tell the difference between a chip and a lob?), swapping Panini football stickers with my six-year-old nephew; it's only once every four years, and I absolutely love it. And so it is SIX-SIX-SIX. An Omen remake comes out tonight, but thankfully the world appears not to have ended. Still a few hours yet, though, got to give those cataclysmic meteors and antichrist wannabes a chance. |
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6.6.06 18:55 |
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Week Thirty-Six: World Cup, Flags and Broken Feet The hype is building here now for the 2006 Deutschland World Cup, and as I write Wayne Rooney's foot is awaiting the results of its latest scan. Beers are being bought en masse from Tesco, armchairs being moved here and there to find the perfect position in front of the telly, and then there are the flags. I've never seen so many bloody flags. They used to fly the Union Jack (more properly called the 'Union Flag'; it's only a 'Jack' when it's on a ship). Now the navy blue has been thoroughly washed away, and only the red cross of St.George remains, and it is everywhere. Our house is probably the only one in the street which does not have at least one giant England flag hanging from the top windows, but some houses are completely decked out, I mean roof to roses in white and red. Cars all over suburban London are flying the flags, looking every bit like diplomatic vehicles (if that diplomacy includes throwing plastic chairs into Belgian fountains). There are more England flags than I have ever seen. For decades people were afraid of flying it, thanks to the sinister associations it had with the National Front; slowly and surely, that association has been eroded. I hardly saw any in France 98, and for 2002 there were lots out alongside the Union flag, because the World Cup coincided with the Queen's Golden Jubilee. By 2004, for the Euro in Portugal, the country had completely reclaimed the flag, and shops had cottoned onto this new patriotism in the same way that American shops had done, post 9/11. But this year? Five times as many, without a doubt. But will they be up for long? Will England get very far, with or without Wayne's foot? I hope so, of course, but I doubt they have been practising their penalties with too much enthusiasm. England cannot take penalties, and the Germans, unfortunately, can. So therefore I have predicted that England will go all the way to the Berlin final, dispatching Brazil along the way, where they will meet Germany, and it will come to penalties. The deciding penalty will be taken by Wayne Rooney, who will use his dodgy metatarsally-challenged foot, scuffing the ball weakly into scummer Lehmann's arms. I'm so sorry, everybody. Mystic Pete has spoken. Enjoy the World Cup. |
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7.6.06 12:36 |
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mystic pete speaks Just a couple of hours until kick-off now for World Cup 2006; I have a big pile of Panini stickers, a load of Pepsi Max, and I'm getting ready to watch Germany roll over Costa Rica. I never published this tournament's Mystic Pete prognostics. Seeing into the future is a particular skill of mine, one which I am remarkably inept at. For several years I would predict the winner of the Champions' League at the start of the season, only for said club to fall away in the first stages. Pete's kiss of death. In 2002 I was confident that Argentina would carry back the golden trophy, only for them to pass off an excellent Scotland impression (aah, the Flying Scotsmen, always first on the plane; the World Cup just isn't the same without them). And I always give Spurs the FA Cup, even in years that don't end with a '1' (it's usually a 'zero', sadly). Yet still I have faith in my prescience. I'll give an overview of this year's Mystic Pete predictions, but not the full montgomery, just the main teams: GERMANY: Hosts, not the strongest ever team, but they'll win it on luck, beating England in the final on penalties. ENGLAND: Read the above - sorry mates. It'll be Rooney's dodgy foot that misses it, and Sven will rue the day (or 'Roo the Day', as the tabloids will have it) he put Defoe back on the plane (today, actually). BRAZIL: Everyone says they'll win it. It's so bloody boring. I'm bored of Brazil with their bloody samba and their classic kit that everyone in the world buys despite having no connection to South America. Sure they have spectacular players, but they don't have Peter Crouch, simple as that. An Exit in the Semi-Finals, and some robotic dancing on the cards. FRANCE: "Nobody is talking about France," people say, as if there is some way that these ageing horses are in any way dark. People aren't talking about them because they will not win it. Quarter-finals, no more. HOLLAND: A great kit, but will they self-destruct as ever? We all know the cliches, best-team-never-to-win-it, but that's wrong - Hungary in the 50s were the best team never to win it. I would like them to do well, but they won't. Quarter-finals. ARGENTINA: They will get out of the groups with the Dutch, and Messi will probably clean up, but only the quarter-finals for this lot. CZECH REPUBLIC: They have some real brilliance in this side, and I have a soft spot for them, especially as Nedved is back and still amazing. I foresee the Semi-finals, which means they'll probably go out in the first round. I doubt it though. ITALY: How romantic it would be for them to win. Not for any specific reason, it's just always romantic for them in the big tournaments. I still think they should have won in 94, when Baggio was the best player on the planet, but couldn't keep the ball down here with him. Quarter-finals? SPAIN: Spain? Spain? Do me a favour. They will piss out of their easy group, and then get bashed about by the big boys. As usual. Yet they have one of the best leagues in the world, and Spanish players are always excellent. They will need a miracle if they are to actually win it though, and Greece nicked all the miracles in 2004. USA: Ha ha ha ha! They have no chance with the group they are in. They were great last time, but against the Czechs and the Italians, and Michael Essien's Ghana? They'll need more than Landon Donovan. I'm supporting them of course, but it aint gonna happen. You get the idea. Top scorer? I would put some money on Peter Crouch. Ronaldinho is up for a few I'm sure. Teams to look out for? Everyone's talking about Ivory Coast, but I think Ukraine will be a big surprise, but I think it'll be a relatively upset-free World Cup. Except for all those England fans who will be upset when Wayne fluffs his penalty, and Klinsmann falls over on the way to lifting the World Cup. I apologise, but Mystic Pete has spoken.
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9.6.06 15:56 |
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This is a great game so far, Germany 2-1 up against a Costa Rica team whose red shirts have splotches of blue and white paint across their shoulders. Jonathan Pearce and that cretin Lawrensen are doing a fair job, chock full of cliches and speculation about Klinnsmann's fictitious spat with Ballack. And comments about the way the goalkeepers are handling the new ball. WHY oh WHY do Fifa always bring out a new ball just before the World Cup? It always turns out to be some flyaway toy. They should bring it out at the start of the qualifiers, not now. Then again, both teams have to play with it, the 'disadvantage' is equal. I dunno.Oh, half-time, Hansen's going on about the defending. This is what it's all about. |
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9.6.06 17:49 |
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world cup minus big ron What I love about the BBC is that for the late night Match of the Day they have the (ahem) prettiest folk available. In the US, it would be perfectly brushed hair and big shiny-teethed grins, with big, booming announcements. Here, we have Martin Chiles, Lee Dixon and Ian 'mirror-cracker' Dowie. Brilliant. And their correspondent on the streets of Berlin is none other than Alan Ball, who to be fair speaks highly of everyone. Earlier in the day, the battle between ITV and BBC1 is between Gaby and Gary; Gary parries blows with the inimitable Alan Hansen (I say inimitable, but even the talentless Rory Bremner could do a half-decent impression of him), while Gaby flutters her famous-footballing-father eyelashes at Ruud Gullit. At least Ron Atkinson isn't on though. No, he popped up last week on Countdown, now fronted by smooth-and-confused Des Lynam. I couldn't believe Big Ron was still allowed on TV, and when the letters I-N-G-G-R-E came up and he quickly announced he had a six-letter word, they knew they'd made a mistake. (Clue: it wasn't 'ginger')
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10.6.06 00:51 |
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Sweat and Sven's Ability Said a few goodbyes today, it's never easy. I'm coming back at Christmas of course, when it will not be quite so hot and sticky, and there will not be quite so many England flags (we now have a line of St George's crosses across Norwich Walk, from the Smiths to the Daniels). It's a good job England won yesterday, though it was not convincing. There was less formation than a jellyfish in a crack-den, Sven. My artistically-minded nephew and I went down to Tate Modern today; did a few sketches, saw a few hitherto-unseen artists (such as Tacita Dean, Nathan Carter and Tamoko Takahashi). Found a sculpture by Jacob Epstein that looked incredibly like General Grievous (or a Battle Droid at the very least). I was impressed at how many people came to look over my shoulder while sketching; all of those incredibly famous and talented artists on display, and they want to see my lopsided scribbling. Modern art makes me want to rock out. And this heat is unbearable. Yes, yes, I'm coming from Davis California, but it's such a dry heat there (I nearly said 'back home' then; well, 'home' is where my wife is). Here it is ridiculously sticky, I had forgotten that I could sweat like this. I'm sure you don't want to hear about me sweating, but this humidity is awful. I am trying, after all, to log the differences between here and there, and this is one that I've noticed in a big way. Whatever happened to the London rain? I blame Sven. |
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12.6.06 02:23 |
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Week Thirty-Seven: Holiday in a Past Life I left England yesterday afternoon, landing in the cool air of San Francisco in the early evening, back at last with my wife, who I have missed enormously. My nose was in agony after eleven hours of allergies that had been all but invisible in London. The god of jetlags was trying to strike me a deal - sleep as soon as you get in the car, sleep as soon as you reach home, and your body clock will not be disrupted. Sod that, I replied, with purple eyes; I want a Taco Bell, and to sit in front of the TV watching the replay of Brazil vs Croatia in Mexican Spanish with a cup of tea and my wife. Now, after a night of heavy sleep and dreams of the restoration of English magic (Strange and Norrel, not Eriksson and McLaren), I am up; it is five in the morning, and still dark. You don't get that in an English June. It was a strange sensation being back. I felt like Sam Beckett from Quantum Leap, returning to a past life to live out old routines, old thinking. I've only been eight months gone, but I could ring the changes; London felt angrier, especially in the suburbs. The high density of St George flags in the windows and walls of Burnt Oak pointed to a bubbling defiance at the way things are going; far from being the reclamation from right-wing associations that the media is congratulating itself on, a simple scratch of the surface revealed that a lot of people felt divided and threatened by the surrent situation regarding the large number of immigrants that have very recently and very rapidly changed the character of many suburban areas. Poor immigrants arriving in poor areas, eyed suspiciously by poor locals who hear daily tales of muggings and knifings and free housing and exploitation of the NHS; I felt a tension brewing that I know is being echoed across the country, and the proliferation of St George's crosses still appeared to be a declaration of some sort, ands it had nothing to do with Rooney's foot. I didn't travel into Central London anywhere near as much as I had expected. The Underground's prices had rocketed for one thing, but mainly it was because of all the people. It is simply too busy, with people charging all over the place with busy faces and busy frowns. Bus drivers were rude and unhelpful, and buses themselves were completely unequipped for temperatures above twenty degrees Celsius. New paint and advanced window technology have been employed to solve the sweaty bus problem, but surely a simple air-conditioning unit would suffice? Where's all this extra money going, Ken? (I note this was not as much of a problem on the old but airy Routemasters) I attempted Oxford Street only once; I am the master of Oxford Street, and can zone out the people as though I'm walking through the Matrix, weaving swiftly through the crowds without being held up by a single person or being run over by a single errant taxi. My mind forges a deep connection to the mystical energy known as the OxForce. But this time my brain was telling me - why bother? You don't need to be in crowds, Pete, you don't like crowds. So on every subsequent trip downtown I would slip casually into the system of back alleys and short-cuts that I've grown to know over the years. It was great to see my family; I managed to spend a good deal of time with them, keeping them updated of my new Californian life. My nephews and nieces are getting so much taller. I didn't see as many of my friends as I would normally have done, but spent some quality time with the ones that mattered. I rattled through areas I've known my whole life, even going down to Watling Park for a quiet read by the stream where I used to play every day of my childhood. There was even a mangled shopping trolley rotting in its shallow, greasy waters. The park was full of dodgy hooded youths - but was it not ever thus? I could always map out that park in my mind as a kid, knowing which bridges had the most gluesniffers, which benches had the most winos and smackheads, which places you were most likely to be pushed into a thorny bush for having ginger hair. I drew a couple of pictures and left to watch the World Cup. And now i'm back in Davis, and in a couple of hours will have to go back to work. I dread to see what has piled up in my absence, but I come armed with Cadbury's Heroes, the shadow of jetlag and the syptoms of World Cup fever ('you give me fifa, fifa all through the night'). I'll have to dust the cobwebs and black widows from my bike, and write home with photos and wishes; but for now, I have a big pile of panini stickers, a cup of tea and some hob-nobs, and I'm going to watch some early-morning footy. And then, when the sun is fully up, it is back to reality. |
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14.6.06 13:42 |
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the footy is easier to avoid out here Yesterday I had to act like one of the Likely Lads in that stupid World Cup episode, the one where they are trying as hard as they might to avoid the football scores until they get home. We recorded the England vs Trinidad & Tobago match, and I had to fight the urge all day to check the scores online; any non-Americans I encountered at work (and we're pretty international) had to be warned at the start of the conversation not to let anything slip. It wasn't easy. But it was worth it; England's late goals saved them, and I really thought that the Trinidadians would pull it off for a moment. And my wife and I danced about the room when Rooney darted onto the pitch. Rooooney! It was a very British encounter; not because most of the Trinidadians play in the UK (for the mighty Gillingham, or Falkirk, or Wrexham), but because there were absolutely no players sporting long, shampooed hair tied back with a girly, Argentinian headband. That is how you can tell it was British. There were a few moments of hilarity. The Mexican commentators referring to Beckham as 'Spice-man'. Shaka Hislop suddenly falling over and producing a great save from an invisible shot (having just watched the real ball fly harmlessly over the bar) - it's actually a condition called called Klinnsman Syndrome, you'll see more of it in the knockout stages, but from the strikers, not the goalies. Peter Crouch, looking as gangly and awkward as ever, fluffing open goals and attempting a scissors kick but ending up with more of a garden shears kick. And Dwight Yorke, lying on the turf in agony, his hands down his shorts, boys back in the barracks, before getting up and pouring water into his underwear. Wonder if that's ever happened to him in the nightclub? I heard that when Trinidad did a tour of the Middle East, Yorke disappeared before the match against Jordan, because he thought the child support agency would get him. Right now I'm watching Argentina leading against Serbia. Ther second goal was brilliant, a neat succession of passes followed by a cracking shot. They look very good for this Cup. they have just gone 3-0 up, and the Mexican guys are screaming 'gooooooooooooollll!!!!!!!' I'm still having doubts about England. |
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16.6.06 14:45 |
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