Lavender Hill (up against the wall edition)

“All politics is local.”

— Tip O'Neill

Wandsworth Council quite clearly have so much money they can just piss it up against the wall.

There's an interesting example of digging holes and then filling them in again happening on Lavender Hill. An act of such pointlessness it would be funny if it wasn't for the fact the taxpayers are taking a beating again.

Lavender Hill had pavements in red brick. Bricks tend not to break and fracture like concrete slabs. The pavement is therefore in pretty good condition (excepting the non brick, stone slabs outside Battersea Arts Centre).

The brickwork pavement in Feb 17. Pretty good condition, no? Gone. A memory.

So what are the Council doing? Digging up and skipping a perfectly good pavement and then putting down another. 

As an act of pointless waste of tax payers' money this is quite high. I literally cannot understand what the hell they are doing. Maybe, they signed some bullshit deal with a contractor that means they have to rip up the pavements every X number of years. Irregardless of condition.

Wandsworth is a Tory Majority run council. You can't trust the Tories when it comes to money. I suppose they had to justify their 3.99% council tax increase in 2017/18 somehow.

Of course, Labour / Lib Dem / Green would just hose the money into the Thames so it's a choice between  a kick in the goolies or being shot.

--- --- --- -- --- ---- ---

So here I am. Worrying about the state of the pavements in Wandsworth. I think - girls - I should start re-engaging with you. But, once you turn on that switch, there's no turning it off. You have been warned...

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Concrete slabs. Waiting to be broken.

A La Recherche du temps se souvenait.

Tim's 70's Songs (Remembered Edition)

Here it is. The official Tim 70's song list. Based on what I liked in that decade. So, there's not much before 1973. I'll do another list (when?) of my favourite 70's songs now but - to be honest - young Tim had great taste!

Abba - Dancing Queen (1976)

For so long this was my fav track. Abba's comeback track after their career stalled 1974/76. Familiarilty and Mama Mia have dulled some of the brilliance of this - the springy piano, the trademark girls' harmonies, the effortless melody.

Terry Jacks - Seasons in the Sun (1973)

Probably the first record I really remember. (With the Osmonds) My God, it dominated that winter of 1973/4. It soundtracked the Heath government going down in flames and the dawn of Wilson's last administration. Yeah, it's morbid, sickly, over sentimental but aged 5, I liked it. Strange, my kids do too. One hit wonder.

Elvis Presley - Suspicion (1962 / re-released 1976)

Man - I loved this song and would wait around the radio for the Top 40 just to hear it. Hit Number 9 in Feb 1977. Recorded in 1962, Elvis is on top form and just hearing the intro gives me chills, even now. He was dead just months later and 'Way Down' stormed to the top. Taken way too soon. This was my first Elvis fav.

Boomtown Rats - Rat Trap (1978)

Never really punk, but the Rats looked it, this was before Bob Geldof became Saint Bob and then - pace Brexit - Bob the Nob. Great tune but what makes Rat Trap so special is the narrative style lyrics. The way the song builds - detailing urban decay and hopelessness - until we get to final double couplet:-

"She finally finds Billy down at the Italian cafe
When he's drunk it's hard to understand what Billy says
But then he mumbles in his coffee and he suddenly roars,
"It's a rat trap Judy; and we've been caught...."

Glen Campbell - Rhinestine Cowboy (1975)

Like a shiny beacon from the 1970's. Glen Campbell on top form, coming back after years of irrelevance. Yep - I'd sing along to the radio on this one. I've been known to busk versions of this song when the mood takes me. Good times.

Queen - Bohemian Rhapsody (1975)

This packed both a punch and a tutu. Impossible, over wrought, it shouldn't work but it sure as hell does. Number One 1975/76 for 9 weeks, to my 6 year old self, it seemed that Top of The Pops couldn't finish without this scary song with that scary video being played. Yeah, sure, it's ubiquitous now but I listened to again recently and yes - thanks sixth form - I still know every word. Loved the revival in Wayne's World.

Wings - Mull of Kintyre (1977)

First single I ever bought along with a million or so other Brits. Fashionable to knock this as a McCartney piece of fluff but - as every guitarist knows - it's a great strum to practice to. And when those bag pipes come in near the end! Scottish rock! Can't say I play it much now but when I do hear it, it always brings a smile to my face.

The Buggles - Video Killed The Radio Star (1979)

Fuck! This was the future when it came out. It still is. So far ahead of it's time. So clever. So well produced. Probably pop's finest ever three minutes. This is in my Desert Island Discs. And that reprise at the end! Spine tingling! The girls singing "Ow-A-Ow-A!". When people say the 70's were shit, this is a great counter argument. It wasn't.

Grease - Summer Nights (1978)

How BIG was Grease in the 70's? Huge! Unlike Star Wars it had songs which ruled the charts in 1978. And they had an inbuilt video to show on TV. I saw the film when it came out in Rochdale. All the smut and innuendo ('Took a holding in the arcade' - anyone?) went right over my 10 year old head. This is just a great song and who hates this? 

Blondie - Dreaming (1979)

A toss up between this and Denis, Dreaming came out of the blocks like some poster child for a pilled up new wave kid looking for a fight. My group used to do a (crap) cover of this. I remember 2 things about this song. 1) It's bloody good and sums up new wave better than any other song of the era. 2) Debbie Harry. Yeah. Debbie Harry. No more needs to be said.

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The Mamas and Papas

Stealthily, I’m penning an article on my memories of the 70’s. It’s a think-piece with much first-hand material, assorted recollections, warm memories. There’s laughter, tears; insight. If you remember the 70’s, you were probably there.

In the 70’s I got my music mainly from the Radio 2 – Terry Wogan or Stupot rather than Radio 1 and Tony Blackburn. We are all victims of our parents’ choices. Obviously Thursday nights and Top of the Pops or the music slot on Swap Shop was important. But for repeated plays I would need to raid my parents record collection. Hence my love of The Carpenters or Abba, I guess.

And the Mamas and Papas.

I created a Mamas and Papas playlist recently to play on the train to work. I love the Mamas and Papas. Although the group was of the 60’s* they are inextricably linked to the 70’s for me.

I played and played the Best of The Mamas and Papas LP. It was the British best of compilation with just ten tracks. I knew every word. They informed my evolving worldview. My nascent thoughts on relationships were crystalized by “Sing for your Supper’, “I Saw Her Again Last Night’, ‘Dedicated to the One I Love’. Before I actually had relationships, I had an idea of what they were about.

So; who were the Mamas and Papas?

John Philips – tall, songwriter and vocal arranger. Boss. Obsessive. Drug casualty.

Mama Cass - Big, bold and brassy with a belting powerhouse of a voice. The heart and soul of the group. Fancied Denny. He preferred Michelle.

Denny Doherty – Lead singer. Dressed in a kaftan at the Monterey festival. Looked a prat. Slept with Michelle. Wrote ‘I Saw Her Again’ about this.

Michelle Phillips – Ethereal, heartbreakingly beautiful. Thin soprano voice but she had the look. Wife of John but also known for shagging Denny and, briefly, the late great Gene Clark of the Byrds.

And their sound?

Bright if somewhat wistful songs with complex multi tracked musical arrangements that utilise interweaving lead and backing vocals. A unique sound – briefly with us and then, gone forever.

After their hippy beginning (documented in the hit Creeque Alley) the group only really lasted two years in the public eye – from late 1965 to late 1967. They reformed in 1971 to complete their unsuccessful fifth album - as demanded by contract - but they were essentially a mid 60’s group.

I hesitate to put in a list headed – My Favourite Mamas and Papas songs. I’ll instead entitle it:

Some Interesting Mamas and Papas Songs

Twelve Thirty (young Girls are coming to the Canyon) – I discovered this later, in the 80’s. Moody, reflective, with tinkling piano underpinning one of John Philips best songs juxtaposing an unfriendly New York with the warmth of California. The possibility of renewal.

Look Through My Window – The opening line, “It’s not that lovers are unkind,” is a wonderful, if oblique, start to this wistful romantic vinaigrette. “Look through my window, to the street below’. It takes a formulaic set up –someone reflecting on a break up whilst looking out of a window- and turns this into a wider metaphor for alienation. Great vocals throughout, resolved by Denny’s softly repeated ‘She’s gone,” at the end.

For The Love of Ivy – One for hard-core Mamas and Papas fans. John Philips’s masterwork, constructed over many, many sessions in his home studio. Harmony, piled on harmony, choirs of Mamas and Papas trying for more! More! For The Love of Ivy sails past like a doomed battle cruiser sailing to war; so stately, so magnificent, you want to stand to attention and salute it. It shouldn’t work, but it does! This was my 70’s favourite.

California Dreaming. Their calling card; a massive hit, it introduced the Mamas and Papas to the world. But despite its ubiquity, the song bears repeated scrutiny. From the acoustic guitar figure at the start, the signature vocal harmonies, Denny’s impassioned delivery, the flute solo, the abiding sense of yearning. There’s an air of decay – of the seasons, of a relationship that’s run its course leading to the yearning for something better. California.

Finding a live performance from the group is rarer than rocking horse shit. There's the stuff from Monterey but Michelle's mic wasn't working. To be honest - they were a studio band. With all the harmonies and double tracking, they couldn't replicate their sound live. So - I'll post a video of them miming. Live. If only to hear their music as it should be. And to see how beautiful Michelle was.

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* They released People Like Us in 1971 to fulfil a contractual obligation. 

Well - It made me laugh

A packed commuter train at East Croydon on the 7:52 to London Victoria.

The train is about to leave the station.

Some tourist with the world’s biggest back-pack forces himself onto the train just as the doors are closing. There’s no room but he somehow manages to leverage himself into the carriage. And his bag.

We all shuffle up and the train slowly starts off.

Two minutes later - as we pass Selhurst - the tourist starts to look agitated.

“Gatwick! Does this train go to Gatwick?”

For a while no-one answers.

“No, it’s going to London Victoria,” says a kind soul.

The tourist looks mortified. Visions of missed planes flash in front of his eyes.

“But I have to go to Gatwick!”

There is an embarrassed silence as everyone looks the other way. Then a voice pipes up from somewhere down the carriage.

“Well you’re going to London now, mate!”

Pause. General laughter.

The Visible Slap

“For unto every one that hath shall be given, and he shall have abundance: but from him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath”

— The Parable of The Talents - Matthew 25:29 (KJV)

And lo! My bitching and moaning got my wifi sorted.

8:30am Saturday morning a good BT engineer turned up. Often they are shit and uninterested. You're just a number. Not a name. They turn up, fiddle about and then leg it knowing the thing ain't gonna work and that some bitch in customer service is going to get a thrashing.

Rightly. 

I can't help feeling my thermo-nuclear eruption on Thursday had something to do with my resolution in record time (still late, of course). My non sweary rant had me 'personally' go for the customer service rep. I alluded to the fact that Sky tape their calls and hoped her manager would be playing this back to them soon. And how it should be used in their annual appraisal to determine her annual pay rise.  I made my formal complaint against both Sky and the customer service rep. Unfair perhaps? Random - certainly. Cruel? NMFP.* Effective. Yes. 

By the way the rep was confrontational, incompetent and insensitive.

All my years in customer service has proved to me one thing; he who shouts loudest gets their complaints dealt with soonest. It shouldn't be that way but nine times out of ten it is. 

It's only when people are personally engaged that you get great customer service. From a company stand point that means allowing the front line to override policy if they deem it necessary. To reward regularly and comprehensively incentivise the front line.  From a customer point of view you need to get names, set deadlines, invoke complaints policy, make it personal. Only then will you be taken seriously.

I'm basically on a one man altruistic mission to improve Britain's utilities. Eliminate errors, drive down costs, improve efficiencies, cut down-time; compete globally, bring wealth to the country, bolster tax revenue and simultaneously reduce tax rates whilst increasing spend on social necessities.

The parable of the talents is one of the strangest biblical parables. It seems Jesus is a Gordon Gekko capitalist - 'Greed is good, greed works, greed clarifies!' A little bit like the Samaritan quote that got Thatcher in so much trouble in the 80's (wrongly). 

Driving costs down is a moral mission, brothers and sisters.

No, I'm not pissed.**

* NMFP - One of my favourite Malcolm Tucker-isms - Not My Fucking Problem

**Yet

*** The Visible Slap - The Invisible Hand!!! Geddit? I do stand up too.

Literally; bend over and take it!

Over the course of my working life I've had many jobs. Let me list a few:-

- Corporate Real Estate Portfolio Manager

- Boss's bitch

- Gigalo

- Paper Boy

- Customer Service Rep

- Parliamentary aide

One of those may be made up...

But customer service rep... Customer is always right. You never win an argument with a customer. You love a complaint as it allows you to turn an unhappy customer into a happy customer. Blah. Blah. Been there, got the T-Shirt. I remember manning the phones for American Express in my early 20's on a Sunday Morning with a proper hangover getting chewed out by Mr Angry demanding to speak to the CEO. "Come off it, big boy; it's just you and me. What do you want, and do you mind if I put you on hold whilst I throw up?"

Yeah.

Anyway, I've had the unlovely pleasure of moving recently. That entails getting wi-fi transferred. As it happens, one of my earliest blogs on this site (Jan 2015) compared the wi-fi / BT Open Reach / Sky 'not me gov' fuck up approach to Britain in the 1970's and - specifically - nationalised industries. Well - do I ever learn?

BT. Sky. Yeah, guys, between you, you fucked it up royally - again! The surprise is, er, no surprise. Four weeks notice? Days off work? Unhappy children? Missed appointments? Useless engineers? Snide customer service reps talking bollocks.? Yes, let's tick the box on all of these. Oh - and can we welcome into the building that feeling you get where the customer is just the bitch in some gay porn shower scene? I guess I dropped the soap by moving...

I foolishly invoked Sky's Customer complaints procedure today... Asked for a manager. Told them I was making a formal complaint and that they had 24 hours to respond and give up on their  'an engineer will turn up in three weeks' bullshit. And do you know what? They showed as much respect to me as the hillbilly in Deliverance shouting 'squeal piggie' whilst analising Ned Beatty. No - you can't speak to the manager. Of course not! He's too important and too busy counting his bonus. We'll respond in 56 days. Which is about the same time as it takes to get wi-fi in this country moved from one address to another. With Sky.

Why didn't the EU ever do something useful like KILL BT, for example? Open up the market and get wi-fi transferred quickly? Bring in the free market? I might have voted for them if they did  (well - not really). But you know what I mean. Being without wi-fi in 2017 is like fighting the invading - and gun toting - Spaniards in South America with spears. You lose, you get humiliated.

So - Sky's customer service policy:-

"Bend over, spread yourself; its gonna hurt and you're gonna pay for it too!"

Where's the free market in all of this?

How To Troll

I love trolling. What's trolling? Basically the deliberate act of winding people up online via newspaper website comments boards. Getting some tedious 'the science is settled' lefty impotently raging gives me the horn. 

So how does one do this successfully?

1) Pick your battle ground. Obviously The Guardian website is the gold standard of trolling. It's where virtue signalling lefties come to feel good about themselves. My role is to make them leave a little less smug, a bit more angry.

2) Never read the article you're commenting on. Let's face it, The Guardian is just rag a for journos who never grew out of sixth form 'it's not fair' agitprop. I can guess their viewpoints by the headline. The only originality is how ridiculously leftwing and authoritarian they can get. Blah blah blah. Ignore. Just fight the fanboys underneath.

3) If you have good arguments, use them. Show off. Pull apart threadbare assertions, expose ignorance, exploit contradictions. Make your arguments short, pithy and - most important - deliberately provocative. Earnest discussions are for bores. Take your point and simplify whilst amplifying. This acts like catnip to lefties; they can't resist piling onto a forbidden viewpoint. A full throated support of Trump usually works.

4) More fun - play the man, not the ball. It's so unfair and exasperating but it's guaranteed to get your target hopping mad as they fall off their high horse and scrabble around in the dirt with you. 

5) Use humour. Lefties hate humour. They have this smug, condescending de haute en bas kind of sneer which - on the BBC and Channel 4 - passes as humour. Not to be mistaken for real humour. Doesn't work with a hostile audience. Drag your target from the comfort of a Radio 4 panel show circle jerk to a working men's club in Sunderland and 'did you spill my pint, mate?'

6) Create straw men and a fictitious mythology about your target. I owned one self-righteous lefty by constantly suggesting he used to work for Stephen Byers - the dreadful ex-Blairite cabinet minister (nothing more insulting to a Wurzel follower). They tried ignoring me, laughing it off, attacking me, using appeals to authority and then just outright fury. I win. You lose. Loser.

I call this strategy the 'Shakey' strategy. One ex-colleague made the mistake - just once - of coming to work wearing double denim. I made up this whole back story about how he was Shaking Stevens' biggest fan. It used to wind him up but he thought that by playing along with it, or laughing it off or ignoring it, I'd stop. Yeah, right.  I'd be on a call and say "Sorry, I can't hear you as XXX is playing fucking Green Door at top blast again." From then on he was known as the Shakey guy by all. He left. We don't keep in touch.

7) Dicking about with people's online moniker's is always fun. If you can twist it to something obscene - great! If not change it to something funny. Or juvenile. Diminish your target by making them ridiculous. Although everyone pretends to be high-minded and want to follow a debate, if you change someone's moniker from 'love_Corbyn' to 'love_farmanimals' no one will take them seriously again. I win. You lose.

8) If all else fails, just go for straight out abuse. Something like 'I can hear the rustle of tin foil', 'did mummy let you use the computer again?', 'Isn't it time for your meds?', 'Shouldn't you be at school', 'Does it hurt not having a girlfriend?'... Low but effective.

9) Parroting. Just copy and paste your target's contribution but change a couple of words so the meaning is the opposite of that intended. Then end it with a jaunty - 'fixed it for you!' Keep doing it and ask them how long they've been a member of UKIP posting such right wing tosh.

10) For people who write pages of tedious shit bloviating about a subject in some lawyerly or condescending manner, just attach a comment at the bottom - like a teacher - 'Too long. Learn to be more succinct and people might read your stuff'. For the serious minded this triggers them like nothing else. You can then move to employ mockery or straw man whilst changing their moniker to something stupid or rude.

This may seem pathetic, girlfriend displacement activity but those cultural wars need to be fought. Mad ideas need to be challenged by all means necessary. Ridicule and mockery are actually serious weapons. All dictatorships hate humour. For in humour we find truth and the truth is often not spoken about whereas false narratives (like the emperor's new clothes) abound. Banned. No platformed. Fight. Fight the power.

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Me & The Devil

Bye bye Warelands. 

Some blues.

Deep voice - must be serious. It's the last kitchen tape from this house. The Beatles leave Abbey Road. Elvis has left the building. Tim leaves Warelands... 

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Rocking The Ides of March

Famously Caesar was warned by a soothsayer to beware the Ides of March (approx 15th March). He ignored the soothsayer. You know what happened next. Probably - if you asked the spirit of Julius about his view of March - I suspect it would be along the lines of:- 'Not my favourite month to be honest, prefer July actually'.

But me? Well March has proved to be a record breaking month for this website. More of you have read my street philosophy - with more visits, more followers, pages views; basically, more of everything, more than any other month like - evah! Bigly. Even with the usual stalkers discounted, the graph of my fame - for that is what it is - is off the chart. Well it would be if I hadn't recalibrated the scale, but you get the point. 

Now, as a man of introspection and self reflection, I could ask, why.* However, I prefer to ask, 'why not'? But let's turn the telescope the other way and look at why. Well, I started my 'Things I don't give a fuck about' series in March. Hardcore writing promoted on Facebook. Dragged in the punters like a stripper in an after hours Rochdale pub. Then there was the Chuck Berry's obit. Serious. Measured. One string bender to another. Remember the video of Tim playing a medley of four favourite middle of the road songs? One for both the ladies and musicians. What's not to like?

Bizarrely though, the most popular blog post was something I wrote in December about Mick Taylor playing Sympathy for the Devil on Get Yer Ya Yas Out with the Stones. There were loads of website hits from the States for this piece of stellar rock history. BTW, if you haven't read it yet (why not?) go and search it out. Fun, opinionated, well researched with a decent video at the bottom, it's by far the most popular thing I've ever written. Not the best though. My recipe for Beef Ragu still brings tears to my eyes (the honesty, the flavour. I rock in the kitchen).

So - as the Monday night running club hums around me here in The Battersea Arts Centre - lots of lycra, lots of girls** - I must put March behind me and rock into April. 

There's stuff about April. Me and April. April in Paris. Long, long ago. Get me pissed enough and I might write about it, here in the record breaking Tim Robson blog, Click that RSS feed now!

Until then, cheers, I couldn't have done it without you (break records that is, the writing I could have done on my own, but you know what I mean). 

Cheers

(See the video below. Sort of this blog set to music - silky, hip, ethereal; probably better 20 years ago.)

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* Just joking - shallow and inane. That's how I like it!

** Some random 40 plus nerd is wandering around the young girls in lcyra in his running shorts, leching. They ignore him. Like, doh! What a prat - mate, just put them in your bank and move on.

70's Films

I've been working on a blog post about the 70's for a while. Handwritten memories in a leather notebook...  Yeah - I can remember the 70's. Lots of long hair, rounded collars and power cuts. A few years later - in the later 80's - I worked for a Tory MP and edited a Conservative In-Touch leaflet for voters that basically painted the 70's as a huge 10 year drift into communism (fault of Callaghan, Wilson, Benn, Heath and other assorted fellow travellers). There's something in that, of course, but my actual memories of the decade - as opposed to my political views - are fabulous; warm, comforting, happy.

I'll post the 70's article when I've finished it and - more importantly - edited it into something readable. But let's not shy away from a list when one hoves into view. So, today's listette is the best films of 1970's with a slight bias towards films I actually saw. Yeah. In the 1970's at ABC Cinema in Rochdale.

Star Wars - of course. I saw it when it came out in 1977 and was pissed off it would 1984 before it came on TV. These were days before videos. Amazon Prime etc. Christ this movie is big now. BIGGER in the 70's when the tech wasn't so dated. I collected the cards. Swapped them at school. Iconic movie. 70's classic. It doesn't get much better than this.

The Long Good Friday - Obviously didn't see this in the 70's! Bob Hoskins on fine form and Helen Mirren looking (as she always does) stunning. Dream girl. London as it was late 70's - a shit-hole but ringing to the song of Cockneys. A time piece of a world in transition before Thatcher reinvented the country.

The Three / Four Musketeers. Richard Lester screwing over Olly Reed, Michael York et al by claiming to make just one movie but then cutting it in half and releasing two. Funny, irreverent, full of humour, British character actors and daring-do. I think I saw this one rainy holiday in Dorset 1974.

Manhattan - I thought this one better than Annie Hall. Shot in black and white. When Woody Allen was vaguely funny. Didn't see this until the 80's. Plot: Woody forms an inappropriate relationship with a much younger girl. Mmm, yeah. An artist, right?

Animal House - I don't think I've ever progressed beyond this story of the worst Frat House on campus. Kent Dorfman. Wow! Tim Mattheson, John Belushi lead the lads into one gross out misdeed after another. Sporned a genre.

Apocalypse Now - "Saigon. Shit!"  President Andrew Bartlett goes off to kill The Godfather to sound of the Doors while reading Heart of Darkness. Or something like that. It goes on for, like, nine hours and is always on when I come back pissed from the pub. A bit here. A bit there. Oh, the deleted French scene. Must be director's cut. "I love the smell of napalm in the morning!"

Monty Python's Life Of Brian - What can I say? Possibly one of the most iconic and funniest films ever. So many scenes that are now comedy gold. Hard to see that it was controversial at the time. Christianity is a bit of a soft target though, isn't it? Not then, apparently. I suppose one could imagine a comedy team doing a piss-take of another religious figure from a different, militant religion now? Edgy, no? No? They'd rather take lame shots at Trump? How we've progressed since the 70's.

The Godfather 1&2 - Mario Puzo / Francis Ford Coppola's epic tales of a mafia family in New York. What's not to like? Marlon Brando, Al Pacino, Robert de Niro, James Caan, Robert Duvall. "Forget about it". Not.

Well there you go - some great films. Some good times. Superman in January 1979 at the ABC in Rochdale was memorable only because it was the Winter of Discontent and so the heating was off. Good times.

BTW - I reserve the right to add a couple more as I want to publish this and I've left my initial notes at home... Yes, I do draft these out sometimes. I know it looks stream of consciousness but, it ain't.

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I Swear It's Not Too Late

“No more: - where ignorance is bliss, ‘tis folly to be wise.”

— Thomas Gray (Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College)

It's the gaps that hurt...

Helping with one of my girls' history homework recently. This is a pretty safe bet for a bit of daddy show-off time. I mean what can schools throw at me that I don't know? Backwards. Upside down. Usually, the only problem with me helping out with the homework is a) that it's either The Bloody Tudors because 1485-1603 is like, the only time in history. Ever.  b) Wet behind the ears 22 year old teachers doing lessons on how Britain was a racist, imperialist piece of shit that exploited the rest of the world and so caused all subsequent poverty, famine and wars with sidelines in - don't you know that Islam kinda invented everything in the 12th Century and that Christians persecuted everyone, everywhere and like, SLAVERY! man. Only Britain and the US had slavery and it was only brought to an end by some freed slaves doing a dance somewhere and, who's William Wilberforce and the West Africa Squadron anyway? Yeah.

But history lessons... Although the actual topics within the eras the school picks may be bollocks on stilts, I know the broad facts, right? Usually true but this week it was all about the pre Civil War reign of Charles I. And I know jack shit about this. Well, okay, I know more than 95% of the population, but that's a pretty low bar. Ignorance isn't bliss. I'm tortured by my lack of knowledge. It physically upsets me. Why don't I know? How can I be a sentient human being if I don't know about the Ship Monies? I'm the anti-noble savage. I have to know everything.

And as I write this three general thoughts occur to me:-

1) The shocking ignorance of our 'leaders' who feel they can invade Afghanistan, Syria, Libya with no understanding, appreciation or curiosity about the history of where they are committing troops. How can supposed sophisticated politicians make life or death decisions from total ignorance? It's really quite sickening. 

2) The flip side. Clearly, ignorance can drive decision making but pursuit of knowledge can make one appear weak, unsure; unable to make a decision. I have a split personality; on some things I always need more data before I form an opinion; on other things - mainly personal - I make my mind up in nano seconds. But for historical pronouncements, I've found it expedient to temporise fully aware that my high level of knowledge only makes me more conscious that I actually know nothing.

3) The universal truths of history. Always forgotten. Every generation thinks it is the first.

So what is the point of knowledge? What is the point of studying history? I heard the drumbeat of war for Afghanistan. For Syria. For Libya. It seemed wrong at the time, worse now. These days - inexplicably it's Russia that's the MSM bad guy. Why? Who is pulling the strings?  I get bombarded on TV and radio about Russia. Trump and Russia. But for what end? - Ukraine? Crimea? Georgia? Sanctions? Who understands these counties anyway? This region? I find ignorance so all-prevailing that the only sensible position to take is scepticism. 

And the main way we can fight back is to read. Read history. Ancient history. Understand the Renaissance. The Enlightenment. Understand why we are where we are where we are. It is no accident. See patterns. There is 'nothing new under the sun'. And then withdraw your support. Not in my name. Vote for anti war candidates. 

I'll leave you with one thought to think about. What is the difference between Russia/Syria booting nutters out of Aleppo and the US/UK/etc/Iraq booting nutters out of Mosul? One was daily charged with war crimes, the others painted as liberators. I see no difference. The bombs still kill innocents whether you're an evil bastard or saintly. All is vexation. And vanity.

Interestingly, Aleppo conjures up images of battles long gone, long forgotten, bigger, more catastrophic. I look at a map and see that Marcus Crassus met his end with his legions nearby at Carrhae. One of the great disasters of the Ancient World. Is that comforting? Possibly. 

“And ye shall hear of wars and rumours of wars; see that ye be not troubled; for all things must come to pass; but the end is not yet. For nation shall rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom: and there shall be famines, and pestilences, and earthquakes in divers places.

All these are the beginnings of sorrows.”

— Matthew 24: 6-8 (KJV)

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And here's the Byrds singing the wisdom of Solomon (Ecclesiastes 3) with the tear-jerking modern addition of 'I swear it's not too late' after "A Time for Peace'.

Chuck Berry

Who started rock n' roll? How did rock start?

Well, it goes back to Fats Domino, Muddy Waters, Bill Haley perhaps. But who are the archetypes? 

Elvis. Of course. Little Richard. Awopbomoloola! Jerry Lee Lewis. Great Balls of Fire...But if you're a guitarist, it was Chuck Berry who died yesterday.

Like many, I came to Chuck Berry second hand. As is well known, The Beatles and the Stones sprinkled Berry songs all over their early albums. The Stones continued to blast out a couple of Berry songs live late into their career. So, I'd be listening to Get Yer Ya Yas Out for example, and you'd hear amongst the well known Stones songs - Little Queenie, Carol.

It's safe to say, that not a day goes by without me hearing a Chuck Berry song (as I tend to have the Stones live on my iPhone and so, Let It Rock etc are always there). Interestingly enough, the latest song I downloaded last week was a Chuck Berry song by the Stones - Bye Bye Johnny.

His career is well known. His brushes with the law. His partnership with Johnny Johnson. His combination of upbeat R&B, electric guitar riffs, clever lyrics about school, cars, girls. His trouble with the law. His miserliness. His take the money and run attitude to live performances... Yeah, he wasn't a perfect individual. But I guess he didn't have to be. He was an original.

And me. My group used to play Johnny B Goode. And that is all I will say it. We killed Chuck long before yesterday. He deserved better!

It's funny but the scene in Back to the Future where Marty plays Johnny B Goode to the 1950's kids provides one of the best obituaries. Rock n roll was an alien force that quickly took over the world. Chuck Berry led the way with his twin string lead attack.

BTW I don't apologise for showing the Stones below playing Chuck Berry in 1969. My experience of Berry was second hand. He created the platform which elevated others - masterfully demonstrated by Keef and the boys here.

Oh, and if you go back to April 26th 2016 on this blog, Chuck Berry is one of those I said I would write about if they died. One of the greats.RIP Chuck. You had a good innings.

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Things I No Longer Give A F*ck About - Dancing

“We dance to a couple of tracks. About 10 years ago, I learnt the art of looking okay whilst dancing. Less is more. Kind of sway and essay a few small but rhythmic swishes with the arms. Nothing flashy but nothing ridiculous. The aim of the game is to keep female interest neutral. The dance test is there to weed out the drunks and the arseholes. It’s not there to impress a girl so the trick is to avoid succumbing to the masturbation of your more expressive moves. No matter what beer or bravado might tell you.”

— Tim Robson - In Sambuca We Trust

What happens when your dancing days are over? When you jerk awake to find yourself on a dance floor - drunk (t'was ever thus) and surrounded by people half your age sniggering at some bald granddad making a penis of himself?

Oh readers, this epiphany happened a couple of weeks ago. After a heavy session in Brighton I 'found' myself on a dance floor staring at my feet realising that all sense of rhythm and dignity was absent and that I was a figure of ridicule. One foot moved. And then the other. And the arms kinda did their own thing. Neither timing nor beauty was achieved. Just lumpen dad dancing.

And thus mortified, my sober self came to a pact with my drunken self. Dancing; it's something I don't give a fuck about, anymore. Back in the day, you know, 16-30, if you wanted to meet a woman then the disco (club now grandad) was the place. And getting down on the dance-floor was where it was all at. I remember the days when porting a bottle of beer and cigarette on the dance floor was the height of cool (maybe shades too). And then the 'erection section'... That's the last dance to you young people, when the DJ would play a few slow ones at the end to facilitate the evening's romances.

But not anymore. You see, number one these days is my looks (clearly). Most women come onto me because of them. Naturally. But, for those that don't - few, weird - my major selling point is verbal. I wrap my partners in a blanket of humour, knowledge and experience. They know they'll be okay with me. Looked after. 

But dancing. It's no longer within my repertoire of seduction. I've retired this particular aphrodisiac. It's been growing in me for a while. Obviously my friends and I go to 'age appropriate' clubs these days. You know, basically late night bars with a small dance floor, a DJ and blokes in suits and girls of a certain age, not unaware that older guys might have a roll of cash on them. 

“I suggest Megan and I leave the dance floor. Drug dealer is still flanking the edge, now looking a bit meaner, a bit harder. I’m sure he likes to get stuck in, show some steel; impart the leather. He steps in my way as I attempt to pass. He smiles in a ‘man of the world’ way I could never pull off. It’s all a game to him. Everything here is mortifyingly serious for me. ”

— Tim Robson (In Sambuca We Trust)

And yet. And yet. Maybe it's a place-time-mood thing. Getting down / strutting my stuff seems easier in the summer, feeling slim and wearing my mate Dan's Hartington floral shirt. Yeah, all over that like a rash. So, so, maybe, dancing is not yet in the Things I Don't Give a Fuck About just yet. If - like Glenn Miller - you're in the mood. Not pissed. Toned. With the right girl. Maybe I could bring this technique back from the dead. Show those youngsters how a 'Like a Virgin' era Madonna fan used to do it at Tiffs in Rochdale in the early 80's.

“The music changes. Nirvana’s ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit. William starts jumping around like it’s 1991 again. I do too. Big mistake. Suddenly the floor is filled with pogoing Neanderthals. All the women have fled, leaving a horde of sad, drunken men air guitaring. How attractive do we look? Not very. ”

— Tim Robson (Route One)

I'm conflicted. Aware that I could look like an arse but also aware that, in the right setting it's who you are, firstly, and then it's who you want to be. Some say your dancing style is analogous to your love making. I'm good. Sooo good. I got moves. Just a bit rusty, yeah. 

And that dear readers, is my take on dancing. And now some Shakey. My dance teacher.

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Play that Funky Music - White Boy!

When I pick up my guitar my fingers form themselves around the same old familiar chords and runs as I tend to return to a short list of songs time after time. I've tried over the last few years to remember new songs but I forget them after a couple of plays. Drink I guess. Age. Befuddlement. Whatever.

So what would you hear, listening in at my kitchen door?

The Ballads

It's Too Late - Carole King / Wichita Lineman - Glen Campbell / Walk on By - Dionne Warwick / 

The Blues

Me & the Devil / Hoochie Coochie Man / I'm a Man 

Stones

Honky Tonk Women / Country Honk / Brown Sugar / Love in Vain / Satisfaction

Others

Proud Mary - Various / I Get A Kick out of You - Frank Sinatra / Return to Sender - Elvis Presley / Run to Him - Bobby Vee

80's

Wake me up before you Go-go - Wham / Wanted Dead or Alive - Bon Jovi / Say Hello, Wave Goodbye - Soft Cell

As a special treat I recorded especially for this article - for you - this video of four of these songs.

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Things I no longer give a f*** about (1)

So I'll start with sport because that was really important to me but it's now less significant than a trip to the barbers with a picture of paul mccartney in my hand asking if I can look like this and coming out looking like a fuzzy egg instead. sport was really big with me in the 70's and the 80's when it all seemed to matter and things and life were more real and went onto to become memories and not regrets or worse nothing. i supported liverpool from bob paisley's time - keegan, clemence, case, hughes, heighway - you'll never walk alone - but had a season ticket at man city in the year they bought Trevor Francis for over a million, you know a couple of years after cloughie paid a million and forest went onto win the European cup. euro success was sort of relay race in those days as Liverpool forest villa swapped who was the boss club which reminds me that Liverpool won the European cup in rome in '77 against Borussia Mönchengladbach with nine english players, one irish, one welsh. the players in those days came from the cities around the ground and cared about the club weren't removed in big houses in cheshire with agents and hangers on and wags and spit roasts but seemed decent blokes you'd meet down the pub and watch a game with*. rip brian greenhoff. yes I used to care but now i don't. and then ovett coe and then ovett coe and cram and don't forget peter elliott tough of the track yorkshire man who made it hurt for the others and had more balls than any runner i've ever known except kris akabusi who went toe to toe with the american individual gold medal holder on the last leg of the 400m and beat him. kinda did that phil brown thing and BTW there's a phil brown road around here in an estate off wandsworth road. but ovett and coe were the class in a glass trading world records and gold medals other countries' runners were just filling up the quotas in their races. but that's all gone now and i hate athletics as all doped up cheats and i hate football as all overpaid mercenaries falling in the penalty area and what would tommy smith or ian gow have made of these ballet dancers - ripped them off at the knees and taken the red like a man throwing their shirt on the pitch in disgust and served their three match ban like men whilst worshipped by the terraces and winked at by the manager who probably graduated through the ranks themselves. yes terraces all gone now after bradford after hesel not the fault of the fans the fault of the greedy clubs who take the money and despise the fans the passion the loyalty. doesn't matter now all about tv revenues and far east shirt sales and marketing rights and buying players abroad rather than give kids here a chance and nurture talent. greedy bastards. so i no longer care about sport not about football not about cricket hate rugby athletics golf and in fact any fucking sport sorry sorry but i find it all rather pointless and contrived. i'm aware that somewhere something is missing and that some moments stick in my head that make me cry and make me yearn for those days when the cop ruled and when we had the best runners but do you know what i don't miss sport i don't have the time for sport and i don't have the energy for sport and so sport would be the first thing i no longer give a fuck about...

But if I ever met Steve Ovett. Or Seb Coe. Or Steve Heighway. Kevin Keegan. Ray Kennedy. Iain Rush. Phil Neal. 

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Brian Greenhoff used to drink in the bar where I worked. Always down to earth, good to chat with never gave it the I'm a star treatment. He was a man who liked his drink, his fags and had some good stories to tell. RIP Brian - there's some great Youtube moments out there.

The One That Got Away

Had a great idea for a blog post last night.

But I've forgotten it.

Can't have been that good.

Somehow, I don't think Balzac had this problem.

Yeah

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What's a DVD anyway?

I like the word cohere. It's one of those words, not complicated, not a tongue twister, that sorts the linguistic sheep from the inarticulate goats. The donkeys from the asses. The Trumps from the Hillarys.

I mention this not because I'm a pretentious nob - I am, of course - but because it reminds me of something I once wrote (I paraphrase):-

"The list format helps the struggling writer cohere a random set of unrelated facts and opinions around a predefined structure to save them actually having to be creative."

Or something like that. Snappy, eh? Some of my best work lies on the cutting room floor of the draft folder, or banished into the dusty corners of the hard drive.* Which is my way of backing ungracefully into a flimsy article which has a list at its core.

Tim's Top 5 DVDs

DVD's - remember them? Yes, grand-dad, I do. What we had before the internet and Amazon Prime and Netflix. I still have some DVDs, tucked away in my French oak coffee table. Well, that is, until I sorted them out yesterday and packed them up in cardboard boxes. I'm moving house, you see. 

Necessarily, this little list has an air of a few years ago. I don't mind that - so do I. 

Clerks - Foul mouthed, funny, low budget, clever.  "36?"

Groundhog Day - Bill Murray relives the same day over and over again until he finds redemption.

Lost in Translation - Bill Murray has an unconsummated but profound romance with Scarlett Johansson (haven't we all?)

Before Sunrise / Before Sunset / Before Midnight - Ethan Hawke and Julie Delphy in a classy, verbally rich, trio of films shot over 21 years.

The Wicker Man - Early British 70's horror set in Scotland with great folk music, Britt Ekland and a shocking end for Edward Woodward.

And that's it. I thought you might like to know.

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* Beating it hard tonight. 

Lavender Hill

“I commute into Clapham Junction everyday. My office is a twenty minute walk up Lavender Hill and Wandsworth Road.”

— Tim Robson - Bang The Beat!

Lavender...

The word lavender conjures up the sun drenched, hazy fields of Provence. Or perhaps some choppy, warm-toned Impressionist masterpiece. Or it's a section of a busy thoroughfare in South Central London. Yes, it’s probably the latter.

One thing you won’t find much of on Lavender Hill is, well, lavender. Maybe some discarded pizza boxes, plenty of rubbish strewn waste bags, an upturned supermarket trolley or a decaying Christmas tree thrown onto the street. But not much lavender. The shrub that gave this area its name has gone. Long gone.

The green fields of Lavender Hill. Picture TR

My entrance and exit point to this urban dreamscape is Clapham Junction railway station. Not sure what a junction is, but as to the Clapham part, well, that’s a little bit of historical postcode snobbery. A fib. This is Battersea. Not Clapham, which is posh and a mile away. Battersea is working class. Engineering and manufacturing back in the day. Less so now. Maybe we could rename it Lavender Junction? Help shift those new million pound apartments, no?

There’s a pub. There’s always a pub, isn’t there? The Falcon is pretty special though. One of those big pubs you only get in London. The ones dripping with large baskets of flowers, partitioned rooms, and back lit smoky glass. This one sports a famous horseshoe bar (the UK’s longest apparently). I don’t drink there though – nor the Slug and Lettuce next door. However, the facilities are handy so I’m pretty much a regular.

The Falcon. Piss stop.

So up we go, up Lavender Hill, ambling wistfully through these London fields. Past the retail splendour of Arding and Hobbs, sprinting past Fitness First, KFC and numerous Lebara money transfer shops where bored staff sell cheap booze and fags, whilst conducting mobile phone conversations that sound important, but probably aren't.

There was a girl once. There's always a girl, behind the memories, driving the words. We were students at South Bank University on Wandsworth Road. I used to catch the Number 87 bus up and down Lavender Hill to Clapham Junction. If I was more observant, as I sat on the bus all those years ago, I would have noticed a local oddity – a genuine London eatery – the Pie and Mash shop. The historian in me likes the fact that this relic of old London, of its working class eating habits, is still there. I like that. But I don’t go in. Not a fan of eels unfortunately. But it's cheering to know it’s still there nestling amidst the numerous Thai, Indian, Italian, Japanese, Chinese and assorted restaurants.

Eels. Jellied. Yum.

Battersea Library, police station but, most wonderfully (and where this drivel is mostly written) the Grade 2 listed building that used to be Battersea town hall but now doubles as Battersea Arts Centre. They used to build beauty, those Victorians, put the effort in, make buildings things of wonder and aspiration.

“Kate and I are meeting in Battersea Arts Centre. I’m late. I scan the bar. At a corner table is a woman who bears a passing resemblance to Kate’s online dating profile.”

— Tim Robson: The Bottle and the Sock

However, money was always an issue, even in the 1880’s. None more so than The Church of the Ascension, a big, bold - God is terrible, God is almighty, repent ye sinners - church at the top of the hill. It’s a massive stone structure with Byzantine influences by way of Carcassonne. It should have been adorned with an equally gigantic phallic tower but the original architect pissed the money away, was sacked and the church was completed sans spire. Nerdishly, I own a copy of the original architectural plans from 1875.

French / Byzantine architecture meets Victorian brick shit-house, muscular Anglicanism.

“There’s a tramp whose regular perch is the low surrounding wall of the Ascension of the Lord Church on Lavender Hill. Kicking back with his can of strong lager, he likes to shout abuse at the passing world. His favourite trick is surprise; hunched harmlessly over his carrier bag one minute, and then, as though roused from sleep, pouncing like a lion the next.”

— Tim Robson - About Twenty Minutes

And then we're walking downhill. Go past - hurry! - The Crown pub. Last week, as I was leaving, I witnessed some ritualised urban ballet as two drug dealers squared off to each other out on the street. Held back by their various women folk screaming, "Leave it out Jon, he's not worth it!" I waited for my Uber to take me to the station as the performance played out. Don't know who won. It's probably on YouTube somewhere.

This part of Lavender Hill is all shit council flats and massed ranks of mopeds parked on the pavement outside nondescript takeaways. Let me explain lest you live in a town where cuisine laziness hasn't yet set in. Every eatery on Lavender Hill - and there are many, so many - has a fleet of mopeds waiting to take the indolent, the obese, the time poor banker-wankers, their genuine, wood fired Neapolitan pizzas. This, children, is what decadence looks like. Fight, fight, against the dying of the light and cook from scratch you lazy bastards!

“We continue walking down Lavender Hill keeping our own counsel. Once again, our pace is well matched and we walk together, three feet apart. As we near the old Cedar pub, she slows.”

— Tim Robson: About Twenty Minutes

Lift up your eyes. There is beauty in the most unusual places.

There are many places that offer a 'massage'. Strangely they always want to massage - for extra, for cash only - those parts that don't often get massaged in - say - more mainstream establishments. Happy endings are promised. Not always delivered. I avert my eyes, clutch my pearls, lift up my skirts, and run from these places. 

And so, after a mile or so, Lavender Hill finishes at Cedars Road and hands the A3036 baton over to Wandsworth Road in a fistful of Tesco Expresses, coffee shops and Premier Inns. We are now entering Lambeth and our story must end here.

What happened to Battersea? Abolished in 1965, apparently.

And so where does all this take us? An old London Street. Full of Victorian buildings. What signifies?

“And with clear, cold eyes
And newly acquired candour,
I sift these departing delusions;”

— Tim Robson - Delusions

Well, everything. And nothing. From the confident Victorian public buildings, to the sturdy 19th Century housing for the workers, to the bold and confident Anglicanism. To the many, many cultures that have taken root here, left their mark on the shops, restaurants, even the pizza delivery boys that criss-cross unknowing through this urban thoroughfare. To the pubs, open and closed, converted or renovated, silently bearing witness to wars and coronations, disasters and triumphs. History shines through, hiding amongst these stones, these relics, peeping shyly from under the brim of modernity. The breath of London, old London, still blows gently in this cityscape. And if you look hard enough, you will find some lavender. Yes, even on Lavender Hill.

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Lavender. On Lavender Hill

All pictures of Lavender Hill, Tim Robson February 2017

It's Worth The Wait

I've been penning an article on Lavender Hill for a week or so. And taking the pictures. As it's quite close to my heart, I wanted the words to be just right. I need to do justice to the place, to what it means to me.

Okay - I've been on the piss for a week.

On Lavender Hill.

Sorry.

Tim

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Bricks and Mortar

One of my date destroying, oh is that the time, passions is urban architecture and how cities change over time.

I’ll explain.

Take a large corporate plc with many employees. Staff come and staff go. There is no such thing as ‘the staff’ over any period of time. There can only ever be a snapshot of employees at any given moment.

As Pocahontas said – I paraphrase – you never can put your hand in the same river, it is always flowing, always different. *

It is the same with urban architecture. Cities constantly change and the only thing that tricks us into thinking they do not is that bricks and mortar typically change more slowly than humans (or rivers) and so we don’t see it.

When I was eleven, I used to walk through a housing estate on my way to school. Every day I would pass a house -  a house where a rather large extension was being built. Day after day, I would trudge past with my briefcase and French horn and for a few months, this state of incompleteness was my experience of this house and this journey. Now, of course, the extension has been built for thirty odd years and has taken on a look of permanence. But I remember a time when it wasn’t there and a time when it was incomplete. My ‘snapshot’ is different to most.

Stuff in transition is more interesting than in a resting state.

Battersea Power Station 2016. Yep, just one chimney, not four. It now has three. Before having four again. Transition. Photo TR

Old pictures of Rochdale, Brighton or London, for example, excite my interest. I found a picture once of the Houses of Parliament being built in the 1850’s with Big Ben only partially constructed. How the Londoners must have marvelled and how that incomplete tower must have been their reality for months, if not years. History literally in the making.

So urban architecture in transition is always of interest to me and if I see something being built or changed I try to snap a picture and record that moment of transition between one solid state and another. Capture the ephemeral nature of the built environment.

Unsurprisingly given the above, I did a master’s degree in portfolio management in the 90’s and, as part of it, authored many theoretical projects to develop the South London and Brighton built environment. This was an interesting period – right after the property crash of the early 90’s – and there were many underused or derelict sites lying undeveloped, in places we would now see as property hotspots.

A partially built i360 in Brighton late 2015. Photo TR

I especially remember the site at the bottom of Edward Street opposite The Royal Pavilion in Brighton. It had been a derelict shell for years and was being used as a temporary car park.  My limited proposal was to build a hall of residence for the polytechnic (Brighton University now) as you couldn’t give away flats or office space in those days. But what’s most interesting now to remember, is that this site – right in the heart of historic Brighton – lay abandoned for years. It’s hard to imagine now, but cities ebb and flow with the years; we, who live in them, just don’t recognise this.

Long ago. Things were different.

An interesting aside to this period in my life was that I was in charge of real estate for American Express Corporate Travel - the division with the largest portfolio of space in the UK. When the lease of the HQ building in the Haymarket ran out, I was tasked with acquiring the replacement. I found it the time-honoured way by walking around the then unfashionable district of Southwark - south of Blackfriars Bridge. This was the real old London experience where you could still imagine the Ripper stalking through the narrow streets of tall warehouses, wielding his knife on unsuspecting late night revellers.

I acquired a building on Blackfriars Road that was – in Amex terms – incredibly cheap. At that point the Jubilee Line extension hadn’t been completed and Southwark tube station – just yards from my building – wasn’t yet complete, let alone open. Today the area, with great tube links, is a thriving commercial part of London but when I was in the market, it was a backwater, and - as some eminent real estate professor at my university told me - like the perennial late night black cab driver - no-one wants to go South of the River!

Walking past ‘my’ building these days, I experience several emotions. Firstly, pride in my accomplishment, of course. Then, reflections about how this decision influenced hundreds, if not thousands, of lives. People met people, people left people, new jobs, new connections. Oh, the power! Yes, the beginnings of my nascent God complex…

But what strikes me now - as I walk around - is the contrast with my first impressions of this central London area, next to the Thames, that – 20 years ago - had no tube, no intrusive glass towers and no high rise and unoccupied apartment blocks. No wanky baristas in small batch coffee shops. Back then, the area was covered with post-war Corbusier-inspired brutalism, but also, some rather marvellous backstreet pubs filled with growling cockneys and cigarette smoke. All gone now.

It’s not just buildings that change the character of cities!

In that period – mid 90’s - I couldn’t give away office space in Argyll Street or New Bond Street. Can you imagine that? I’d go up from Brighton to meet the agents – in Brook Street no doubt - who’d tell me how my space, right opposite the Argyll Theatre, amongst all the high-end fashion shops, was difficult to shift.*** That I’d have to lower the price and give rent free periods. Them was different days! This was before the internet really got going and everyone became their own start-up.

Property – in particular commercial property – exists in periods of feast or famine. Under supply and over demand lead to oversupply and under demand. And the cycle repeats itself. It’s like some visible manifestation of capitalism.

Here in Clapham I walk the same route up and down Lavender Hill / Wandsworth Road twice a day. I get to see the urban environment incrementally change. Scaffolding erected, demolitions, gangs of labourers, white vans. For instance, the nearly complete new Premier Inn off Cedars Road. The whole of the last year this old temple / church has been patiently restored and extended. Even the derelict Victoria pub next door has been spruced up for a new leasee. It looks good. **

And the point? For me, it’s stories, it’s backdrop. Someone once said that it’s almost impossible to write a history of an event because history is not neatly divided. There’s always a back story and there’s always consequences afterwards. The same applies with the built environment. And so it reveals to me stories. Streets challenge complacency, they show progress (or regression). But the urban environment is never still, never complete.

By this time, my date has left and I’m left with the bottle and the sock. T’was ever thus.

 

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Notes:-

* The wisdom of Disney. I use the best and I use the rest.