With no particular axe to grind. Part Three.

Prendre vous vu se que ils faits à Dial Square?
C'est maintenant une parc de stationnement.
(I suspect this translation website I'm using is a dial of steaming manure but until my A level French comes back to me - I failed - I'll keep on using it)
I have no particular axe to grind against Arsenal. I'm a Palace fan. Four times I went to Highbury to see my team play (my team! Delusions) and we lost 4-0, 4-1, 4-0 and 5-1. Thanks. Highbury is now on the way to becoming a housing estate. But Dial Square is now a car park. For those of you who don't care enough to know/read on, Dial Square is the original name of Arsenal FC, it being the part of the Woolwich Arsenal where the players worked. Only one side of the square remains but as the whole site is being constantly developed (and it looks pretty good actually) more car parking space is required.
I think I think it's a shame (if you see what I mean) but I'm not sure. I suppose that everything changes at some stage but it seems a shame that when so much of the site is listed that this one relatively small area couldn't be set aside for, I don't a Square with a bit of grass and maybe even a couple of goals. Still, I wonder if any Arsenal fans care. Perhaps they'll all be clambouring for the spaces.
I don't really know if I'm trying to make a point about anything. The importance of football in our culture? Whether or not concrete is part of our culture? Preservation of historic sites and whether or not we sacrifice recent history in favour of the more glamourous past? Does history matte anyway? Is it anything other than a series of codes devised to impart a sense of an artificial national identity?
But maybe it's just a story about une parc de stationnement. But sometimes a cigar isn't just a cigar. Sometimes it's a smoke
Enough already

Riding the Woolwich Express

I have a Freeview box. The gym to which I have recently been attending on a regular and dedicated basis has all of the Sky Sports channels. It is, therefore, no surprise that at 7am this morning I was in the gym preparing to saddle up on an exercise bike in front of Sky Sports One to watch the cricket. Seemed to be more productive than lying in bed listening to the radio, trying to work out if England were doing better when I was lying on my left or my right side.
Sadly, the gym opens at 8am tomorrow by which stage the match will either be over (and the Ashes with it) or Australia will have batted us out of the game so convincingly that watching will be unbearable.
On the upside, I managed an hour on the bike and twenty six kilometres. I don't know if that's good or bad but it seemed pretty decent to me.

How often does that happen?

An aircraft carrier went past my living room this morning. Possibly the most bizarre sight since I moved into this flat nearly two months ago. The aircraft carrier had four tugs and three police boats with it. In such sensitive times (as announcements on every train station platform remind me) I still find it weird that the navy needs a police escort. But then this is Woolwich and they still had Thamesmead to go past. Without the police there the local residents may have stripped the ship of all its metal in a thrice.
The river at this end of London is fairly busy. It's not the most upmarket part of London but there are enough yachts to give the impression of more peaceful climes. Huge cargo ships arrive every so often, there's a new ferry service operating a couple of minutes walk away to take residents of a posh new housing estate up to London, most evenings there are some grotty looking party boats no doubt the guests are too surprised to complain about not seeing central London ("We're where? You mean the Dome is all we'll see?" "Don't forget the Thames Barrier!"). But of all the boats I see, I'm obsessed with the Woolwich Free Ferry, the lumbering, ugly vessels that take HGVs from one bank to the other. All day. All week. The journey is brief, it's value, with no Thames crossings for miles either side, is huge. It's such a simple, old fashioned operation, I hope it stays that way forever. You can keep your huge navy ships, I'll keep the ferry named after Ernest Bevin. You can keep the occasional oddity on the river. I'll hang onto the mundane, the everyday.

People get ready...

I’ll be forty when the Olympics finally roll into town. It’s all due to start on my fortieth birthday. A fitting celebration I feel. But what to do when it gets here? Which event should I choose? I suppose athletics is probably out. Running has never been a strong point. Ditto jumping. And throwing. I could probably fire the starting pistol but I can’t be certain of my aim. So, twenty-three more sports to choose from. I’ll rule out any that need an impressive physique. Or any level of fitness. No swimming. No gymnastics. No pentathlon. No cycling. Definitely no rowing or beach volleyball.

What’s left? No, really, I’m asking. What else does the Olympics provide? For most people it’s all about the athletics but south of the river in dear old Greenwich there will be four or five events. There’ll even be one in Woolwich. There’s always the football although that’s an under 23 tournament so I’ll be too old. I’ve never been near a horse in my life. That’s eight sports, sixteen to go. Is canoeing the same as rowing? Does anyone care? Could I partner Tim Henman in the doubles? Would anyone care? I’m quite happy to give hockey a go. I’d easily qualify for the heavyweight boxing but I’d want to wear a shirt, one that the blood would come out of easily. They do that silly Greco-Roman wrestling which just looks like an excuse to roll around on the floor for five minutes. I’ve got the height for basketball but not the skill. So I’m stuck. The Olympics are coming to London and I really want to take part.

If only gambling was an Olympic sport. I could have a go there. And I’d be a cert for gold in the couch potato event. I’d consider commentating but trying to crowbar three hundred words into the 9.8 seconds of the hundred metres would be slightly daunting. Mind you, I’d just have to repeat the athletes’ names, quickening up and increasing the volume as they approach the line. No, it’s programme selling for me. Not much to worry about there. Or perhaps I’ll go where the real money is. I’ll find the place in the whole Olympic movement that there is a guarantee of some ready money. I will be working in East London come 2012. I’ll be an estate agent…

Please note archive fans, photo added so that I can get it hosted and therefore on the profile.