We wait, more in hope than expectation

Secure Mail Services, neither secure nor much of a mail service, are hopefully, finally scheduled to be here between 12 and 2. I wait, all baited in the breath department.


UPDATE: They came at 13:55.

Secure Mail Services (Part Two)

Dear sir,

You are a liar. We did try to deliver your package. Your door entry system may well be linked to your caller id telephone. And it may well display DOOR when someone presses your number. And you didn't have DOOR displayed on Friday other than for the other two people who came to your property when they said they would. And we didn't call your mobile number even though we specifically asked for it. But you are a liar. We did try to deliver the package.

Yours

Secure (sic) Mail Services

Secure Mail Services

So secure, in fact, are the services of Secure Mail Services that they don't deliver. Security therefore is threefold. You are secure in your residence. Their drivers are secure in the cafe. My package is secure in the depot. Everybody is happy, even if they don't realise it.

Dear Sir,

Or Madam, because in fact we couldn't be bothered to read what you sent us, that includes the letter attached to your other sheets, I suppose we should call them a manuscript. Anyway, the basic gist is that whatever you sent us to read is being returned in this envelope because we couldn't be bothered to read it, however we are sending you this note to give the impression that we at least glanced at it although we are aware that only a monkey in the middle of lobotomy conducted by some half-eaten scampi will be gullible enough to believe us. At least we're keeping the Post Office busy and, in the end, isn't that the most important thing?

Yours, with a distinct lack of sincerity, whatever the letter says,



A.N. Agent

The Marching Song of the Covert Battalions

"Within minutes flames leapt into the sky along the banks of the Thames from burning warehouses and factories... Acrid black smoke from the bombed warehouse of the Silvertown rubber factory flowed across the North Woolwich Road, bogging down fire engines, ambulances and Civil Defence vehicles. The ghastly fumes of rubber, tar and paint mixed with a sweet odour of caramel as Tate & Lyle's sugar barges blazed."


North Woolwich, April 6th 2007 Photograph "borrowed" from flickr.com (http://www.flickr.com/photos/iandh/448204305/)
There is, of course nearly sixty seven years between the report and the picture. The report is taken from Juliet Gardiner's Wartime: Britain at War 1939-1945, a period of history, an element of the war that seems to be neglected, much like the area round here which took a fearful pounding. But much like the area today it scarcely warrants much of a mention. It's not a pretty area and although the north bank of the river may well get the boost of the 2012 knock on effect, it's still an area in need of regeneration. Of course, regeneration only works if it also regenerates the community currently living there, giving them a greater reason to participate and integrate. It's amazing how often solving the poverty gap reduces the social gap.
The fire last week was reported. It made the news! Well, the local news but considering the local news has a reach of around 8-10 million people (although an actual audience of three bored children waiting for their tea and a stoned hamster).
It's a shame no one made the link back to September 7th, 1940.
I've been reading about wartime Britain to aid some research I'm undertaking. It's a confusing period but a fascinating one. Descriptions of the Blitz leave me shuddering but wondering whether or not we bother to appreciate the bombing we conducted. We all know what images the word Dresden brings to mind but there's still a feeling, albeit relatively unspoken these days, that they had it coming. But us noble Brits, well, we really suffered.
We still haven't really come to terms with the idea that wars are brought about by a few people and conducted by the masses. Dying on someone else's behalf if not my idea of fun. Being the victim of bombing as a non-combatant (as I believe the terminology makes us) is even more pointless whether you are German, Japanese, British in World War Two or Iraqi, Iranian, British of Brazilian in the War on Terror (sic). But as Juliet Gardiner's book makes clear, there were many people who profited from the wartime economy, legally or otherwise. Although the Sun and ITV are £100,000 poorer and an individual member of the armed forces £100,000 richer, this is not a cause for celebration of redistribution of wealth. As a national it leaves us morally bankrupt.

And in all the excitement of multiple seaside visits I nearly missed it.

The return of Danger Mouse



Ah, them were days, when men were men and international heroes were mice. Gawd bless BBC2 for showing it. A quick glance at the old schedules suggests it's not on next week (crikey!). So for all you who've missed it this week (crumbs!) it's off to the DVD store for you.

Mind you the animation is/was pretty crappy anyway.

You went where?

Four days ago I got back from lovely Bilbao.
Twenty four hours ago I was trekking back from



Or sunny Southend as it's otherwise known.
Now it's a bit of an unfair comparison due to the time of day/quality of camera etc etc etc.
But there's a world of difference between stepping off the train at Southend Victoria to be confronted by a concrete circle of hell and the graceful style of Bilbao. There's several hectares difference between the sophisticated if somewhat faded chic of the sea-side suburbs to the north of Bilbao and the bright lights of the front at Southend in February. And you have to cross the galaxy to find a greater difference than the one that exists between the cool, cultured (if decidedly weird) Basque variations on the tapas theme and this:



Didn't Teddy Taylor used to MP for Sarfend on Sea? Teddy, "I'll defend England 'til I die even though I'm Scottish" Taylor? I could be wrong. But if he was, I get the feeling he was defending the indefensible. Those crazy continentals know a thing or two, Teddy. Perhaps we could even learn something from them about food, culture, bars, transport.
And football. Despite the glory of the mighty Crystal Palace's thumping (i.e. extremely lucky) one nil win over Southend United, the game was of the most atrocious standard (and I use the word standard with due caution). So bad was it that we felt no guilt about arriving late and leaving early. And as much as I loathe the indentikit blandness of Pride Park, the "Walkers" stadium, the Stadium of Light and so on, the sooner Roots Hall gets turned in low-cost housing the better everyone will feel. When the best things about a football ground are the turnstiles, you know you're in for a bad evening.

Where in the world is this monster?

Te he he.
A few days in the sun, a spot of culture and Rioja. And although these pictures do not really show Bilbao at it's most beautiful (and it is, in places, very beautiful) I'm putting them here anyway.



I have often been accused of being obsessed with the Woolwich Ferry although that exclusion order is frankly a disgrace. So I have to travel to the Basque Country to get satisfaction. It's an odd attraction, the transporter bridge. It's even funnier how they charge you 30 cents to ride its mechanised transporter thingy and 4 euros to walk across the non-mechanised bit at the top.



Everywhere you look their trees are ready for the next shot of the Magnificent Seven.



And now that the actors are here...



Ok already, that's enough. It's early and I have the gym to go to and an essay to write...

And the last shall be first and the first shall be last

Or to paraphrase Billy Bragg:

Help Save The Youth of Australia.

There was a moment, just one special moment for me. When Strauss caught Ponting. The reaction of the England team was not one of surprise but of belief. At that moment they weren't mopping brows because the greatest batsman of his generation was out cheaply, they were celebrating in a manner that suggested a win was inevitable.
And they won.
So I guess it was.
But thank god that tour's over and I can rest my radio until the latter stages of the World Cup (not that I'm expecting us to beat the giants of Bolivia and Guam (or whoever it is that clogs up the group stages of the second most pointless world cup - after rugby league...)

About fucking time too.

Rickey Ponting, Glen Mcgrath, Don Bradman, Alf Ramsey, John Howard, all the bar staff and supply teachers in London, Paul Hogan, David Campese, Jim Robinson, Burke and Wills, Men At Work, Skippy the Kangeroo, Oliva Newton John, Dame Edna Everage:
Your boys took one hell of beating.*




Picture from BBC website courtesy of my license fee.



(Ok, here's a slightly more accurate take on the actual translation but the first one was much more fun)
We are best in the world! We are best in the world! We have beaten Australia at cricket!! It is completely unbelievable! We have beaten Australia! Australia, birthplace of giants. Paul Hogan, David Campese, Jim Robinson, Men At Work, Skippy the Kangeroo--we have beaten them all. We have beaten them all. John Howard can you hear me?
John Howard, I have a message to you during your election campaign. I have a message to you: We have knocked Australia back in the Commonwealth Bank series of cricket. John Howard, as they say in your language in boxing bars around Madison Square Garden in New York: Your boys took a hell of a beating! Your boys took a hell of a beating!"









(Just don't mention the test series, please)

Normal service resumed...

Left flat at the end of the second over of England's reply. By the time I got to the gym three wickets had been lost.
It's better now.
We still wont win.
But in the spirit of the day I salute our dour bravery (?) with this:

Er, this doesn't sound right

I woke up around five and as has been the habit, stuck the cricket on the radio expecting to hear doom, gloom and disaster. And I did. Ponting and Hayden were on the go, and how. One hour later and suddenly it's time for a jig in the style of:



Now, I'm not suffering any delusions of associated grandeur. I know how this teams work. They shall overcome, we shall be undercooked. However, I know a bit more about cricket then your average media commentator/mug punter and there's always hope. That's why 170-1 can become 250-9.
Of course, to use the expression us followers of both Crystal Palace Football Club and the England cricket team are only too painfully aware of, and in homage to Escape To Victory:
"Come on lads, we can still loose this."

There's No Smoke Without Fire

I'm sure that's probably not entirely true. What do I know? I have an F for my GCSE in Chemistry which I often proudly told students, especially when covering Science lessons for weird professor types who, despite being exactly forty-three brain cells and two A levels short of starting a medical degree, should really have known more about looking after themselves in the winter time.
If there a point? Not usually. Anyway, here's a question for those of you out there in Her Britannic Maj's United Kingdom of So On And So Forth. The estimable Matt Haynes has said that for the third issue running he'd quite like to use something I'd submitted for Smoke (see links on the side guys). And that's brilliant because I love that magazine. But I feel I need to branch out a bit as well. Don't get me wrong, I plan to keep submitting to Smoke as long as I have ideas in my brain (stop drumming your fingers dear reader). Well, where are the opportunities? Ambit looks a bit, well, erm, pretentiously intimidating. Same for Stand. And don't even bother mentioning Granta. And there are some ho-hum websites around. Come on, I challenge you, where are the British Lit Mags that take things from little old writers like little old me?
And I'm not bothered whether or not they pay. Really. I'm not.
So, what do you think?
Out with it?

Riding Along In My Automobile, My Baby Beside Me At The Wheel

Every time I start one of these I know picture myself narrating The Wonder Years. And frankly that's getting annoying. Little did we know at the time...
Worth mentioning that Decoration's new CD, Flippant, is out and jolly fine it is too. Candidate is a blinder of a song in anyone's book although I'm not convinced this is the best version of it that exists. Oh, get me. Anyway, follow the link on the right and by the latest CD from the least hard working band in British rock! (makes stupid gesture with his fingers even though the term "rawk" doesn't actually apply to Decoration because they're the band that could make you like the Wedding Present, should you be so inclined, which, let's face it, not many people are. So, big recommendation from me then) Ok, I've got a reason why you should buy it, how many albums do you own that have songs with the word "fickle" in the title? Well, this one has got two! There you go.

So, this weekend I will be:
Using words like fickle and harrumph.
In the Bluebottle pub in Crystal Palace, annoying Liverpool fans while they try and watch the "Merseyside Derby" (insert squeaky voice) by adapting their songs to suggest that they might not win anything this year or by telling them they should support their local team however crap they are.
Supporting my local team, however crap they are (actually, technically Charlton, Millwall and West Ham are now more local than my beloved CPFC but that's not the point).
Getting half cut in The Cut (geddit, huh, huh, oh ok, it's a street near Waterloo with some bars on it).
And, retrieving half of my CD collection from the world's most environmental pixie (he's the man who put the mental into...) on Sunday. This will be the best part of the weekend, not because I love my CD collection (harrumph) but because the pixie and I haven't seen each other for ages (he lives in some backward country now, Gloucestershire I think it's called. It may be near the Cook Islands) and he wont have seen me in my new, improved, thin, contact lens, vaguely all right looking state. As Brian Moore (whose head looked uncannily like the London Planetarium) once said as Alan Pardew actually managed to pass the ball accurately for Ian Wright to score in the play-off final, second leg, against Blackburn in 1989, "That's the part I like."

Every picture tells a story but sometimes the story is similar from picture to picture

Get the picture? Right, let's go.
This was last Monday. Or was it Tuesday. Anyway, the water over the rail covers a footpath. I live in sight of the Thames Barrier. The wrong side of the Thames Barrier. The high tide level was high anyway but the whole of the barrier was up. Now, call me thick if you like but this surely means that the tide level down 'ere in old Woolwich Town was even higher as a result. I'm in one of the thin white buildings on the left here, sixth floor, don't panic the water wasn't that high. What do you mean you weren't panicking? What do you mean why are talking to yourself? What do you mean... enough already.

The sign here being obscured by the flash gives out details of how to contact the coastguard. Previously thought this was a redundant sign but if the tides keep rising then I may need them (or a small boat of my own) if I want to walk along the path there. The path that leads to Thamesmead. I appear to be able to hear the drumming of fingers on tables.

Or if I can't find a boat then I could always find an alternative means of transportation...
(Warning, you may need to tilt your head to view this picture properly. Grrrr, grrrrrrrrr, hrumph)

Now, lets all have a long hard think about this.

And we need to have a think too. Primarily we need to think about the last week because although the big story appears to be solely a media issue, it does actually reflect the way in which we use language in this country. And homophobic tendencies are just as apparent as racist ones. And sexist and so on.
So, when the "woman" as the centre of the storm is quoted in the News of the World this morning as saying

"things that I may not think are racist can actually be racist"

then we have to take notice. This is a simple, profound statement. Read it. Think about it. Read it again. Once we accept the point then we can move forward. I may not intend to offend but if someone finds my remarks offensive then they are offensive and in the future I shall have to consider my remarks, better still I must try to understand why someone might find my remarks offensive and learn from it. If we do not accept this simple point then we are stuck as a society. And think, Jade Goody (and her advisors) could end up being a force for good. Now who would have thought that?

Let There Be No Doubt

Who knows, who knows / I might never have found you / Touching your toes / in the alpine section of the garden centre / where anything grows

From time to time it's hard to avoid this sounding like the Wonder Years, a drippy voice over about things we learnt that weren't previously aware of. It's also annoyingly tough to actually write something here sometimes because I want to be specific but feel uncomfortable without hte backup of being able to say "aha, it's only fiction." Fiction hides everything. It can be about you but also an extension of you, you are a starting point. And yet really it is you. Or at least the you you wanted to be. still want to be or were afraid that you had become.
So, it's not really a surprise that I'm finding it hard to write here about the genuinely brilliant situation that has developed over the last 7-10 days. Really genuinely fantastic. And I can't write about it. But I think I get it. It's because I want to live it first. The moment it turns into a piece of writing then it is an experience to be shared with all manner of other people. But in truth it's an experience that only two people ought to share. I'm not saying you don't deserve to know. Hang on, that might actually be what I'm saying. No, maybe, I'm not sure.
Not every moment of everyone's life needs to be shared as a mediated experience because then the experience is no longer your own, you no longer own it for yourself. So, I think I've got there, I want to own this experience for as long as possible. So, still with me? I'll make sure I waffle on here about any old crap because, for the moment, I'm keeping the good stuff to myself.
And I make no apologies for it.
And I'm sorry about that.

I lied, I lied, I lied, I lied, I lied, I lied

Tag mission no nearer completion.

Things I like this week:
New Mexico
Ticking boxes
Reorganistion
Change (and not the small kind)
The NFT (Maltese Falcon last Friday, Casablanca next, who needs new releases? Well, ok, I am going there to see a preview of Hot Fuzz in February so I guess I do - the level of excitement I'm feeling explains the small change gag)
And the rest.

Bear with me.

Oh labels. How exciting. Now, wait a second or two while I go through and label up the posts and then refine the labels. Ok, it may take me quite a while, not becuase of the number of posts but because of the shame of using the word nitwit in the previous post. I may never live that down.
The shame, the shame.

And now, with the time coming up to eight forty, it's thought for the day.

Institutional blogging must stop.
Whilst the BBC and the Guardian are two of the media institutions I hold dear (well, probably the only two really) their insistance on calling everything on their websites "a blog" to indicate it is an opinion piece is really an abuse of terminology. It's an editorial, it's a column, it seems it's whatever they want it to be. But in truth all they've become is an excuse for nitwits that while away a couple of hours at work by getting in to a slagging match at the end of said "blog".
This is not democracy guys, this is not an expression of your communicative rights. It's, oh what's the point.