It was Friday, the end of the week, and for Jools it really was that, as she had the day off, so could take me into town to be measured up for a new pair of glasses, as I lost my lat pair. And then drop me off at the station. Before then, there is the usual stuff.
Coffee, feed the cats, breakfast and then work. You will not be surprised to learn I answered mails, calls and then chaired a meeting where I got to order people about. I mean, I am a fairly likeable person something like 99% of the time, but once the meeting starts, I am mean. Real mean. Anyway, that was fun. I had to send a follow up mail, the wrap up, and time to hit the road.
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I have to have a new pair of glasses after the other week I was in a parking garage and couldn't tell the difference between a 1 or 0 from about ten metres. Time to do something. It was a fine spring morning, and in the fields between here and town there were fields of sheep and the new bundles of fluff of the new lambs, all looking fragile and mostly sleeping, or suckling with tails wagging like crazy. Must take some shots I think.
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I am going to London to meet up with a friend to see a gig that night, and after feeling last night I should do it, I am now having more than second thoughts. But, I counter that with what to do with my time before I meet Henry and his friend. I remember a Flickr contact of mine had just snapped the new Crossrail station at Canary Wharf, and I was very keen to snap the rooftop garden and arched roof which stretches over the plants. If it was open.
So, the plan was in my head now, get off at Stratford, Jubilee Line to Canary Wharf and snap away. Good. Believe it or not, despite being such a varied city, I have snapped so much of it, I was struggling to think of where to go. But that sorted, Jools dropped me off at the station and me with a smile on my face, grabbed my bag and waited in line to get my ticket; £42 for a weekender ticket, which had me aping Barry Mooncult as I walked along the platform so I could snap some train action as I waited. A Javelin came in from London, and then a few minutes later, one came the other way, and we piled on, me selecting a seat facing the sea as we went along Shakespeare Beach, and all the other things I like to look at as the train whizzed its way to London.
I got off at Stratford, but not going to the DLR station, but instead walking through the shopping centre, all lit up with neon and populated by orange ladies and meatheads, who spend their days shopping, shopping for many more things like they already have. Or so I imagine. I see so many shops, most with fanciful names, all selling almost identical things. Who buys all this? Do they all make money Should I car? no.
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I get on a train leaving in less than a minute, getting a seat in the front carriage, just enjoying watching East London slide by until we leave Canning Town and the line delves into a hole in the ground and become truly underground. I get out three stops later at Canary Wharf, where once was the centre of Docklands, now the alternative business district, a massive concentration of skyscrapers built around a network of long-abandoned docks, now looking very fashionable, some with massive yachts moored. This is otherworldly, but in a financial sense. I feel out of place, expecting the cold hard hand of security stopping me from snapping, but I'm fine.
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Being Friday afternoon, half two, pubs seemed to be full of people starting the weekend. I look in a few places, and all I wanted was a place to get a drink and read a magazine, maybe have a bowl of chips. Then it hit me: the club.
So a few minutes walk away, I go up the steps, flash my membership card and am inside. At the back there is the entrance to the bar/lounge area, beer and bowl of chips comes to a fiver. And there are free tables. So I retire, look through my shots, and sup on my beer. Soon, freshly cooked chips are brought, and I think that that'll do. After checking in, I go up to my room on the 4th floor (room 125, Tony), on a corner and overlooking the busy tracks west of Waterloo East station. At first I loved being so close to the railway, thinking it was like a scene from the Blues Brothers, but then the noise of the trains, wheels scraping on rails, drowing out the sound of the radio, I began to regret it.
Anyway, I had brought earplugs, so sleep should not be a problem.
I have a shower, get dressed, and at five begin to make my way to Kentish Town.
Kentish Town is not in Kent, nor looks like Kent. In fact I have no idea why it is called that. But, should take about half an hour to get there, find the pub and wait for my friends. Or friend and his friend.
My plan was to walk along the South Bank to Blackfriars station, catch a train north to Kentish Town, which if my reading of the rail map was simple. Dusk was falling as I wound my way beside the river, mixing it with tourists and joggers, stopping to take some shots of the cityscape of The City. I was glad to get to the station, out of the crowds. The first three trains did not stop at Kentish Town, so I catch one north to St Pancras thinking that maybe I made a mistake.
At St Pancras it still made no sense, so I ask. I was right, I just had to wait for one of two trains an hour that were slow and stopping services that would stop at Kentish Town, a mere couple of miles north of St Pancras. Ten minutes later a crowded train stops, and I squeeze on. Getting off at Kentish Town as diusk fell, I stop to watch a couple of HSTs race by, then walk up the steps and along the road to the pub, getting pint for the almost unbelieveable price of six pounds fifty.
I get a seat outside and watch the naked city pass by, other drinkers arrive and just stand in the gutter, smoking and toasting their luck at having made to the end of another week. They seemed not to mind the prices. I nurse my beer like it was precious, which it was at those prices.
My friends were coming, so I wait standing at the edge of the pavement, as the rush hour traffic crawled by. How can people live like this? But they do. Henry and York (yes, York) arrive, and we swap text messages and find each other. We decide to find dinner instead of getting a mortgage out for another round of drinks.
A short walk away was a Lebanese please, not a restaurant, but a shop that did meals, a selection of meat and vegetable dishes which they heated up, and a plateful came to £5.50. I had chicken shoama, a aubergine stre with chickpeas and chili potatoes. It was simple and great, and too much to eat all of.
Anyway, why were we here, in a busy suburb of London, gathering after dark? Well, for a gig, Theatre of Hate supporting Stiff Little Fingers. Many 50-somethings like us, balding and with expanding waists were coming together to gather in The Forum to witness the 40th anniversary tour of SLF, a punk band from Northern Ireland. Teatre of Hate were a post punk band fronted by Kirk Brandon, who changed name to Spear of Destiny around 83, but were back at TOH again, rather than silly SOD.
Spear made a frightful buy rhythmic racket, a superb drummer, bass player and rhythm guitarist, and Kirk just played apparently one note on a lead over the top, screaming into his microphone. Now, I am not too familiar with most of their work, but Do You Believe in the West World was their hit, and their finale, of course. They also had a sax player, making it a bit X Ray Spex too, in a good way mind. I enjoyed it.
But SLF were the main act, and the stage was cleared, and more people came in, so the temperature and humidity rose. Was it always this hot and uncomfortable? I suppose so. SLF came on to a driving drum beat, and launched into three face paced, guitar driven songs with no pause between them. Like being punched in the stomach.
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But by half ten, aching feet, knees and back from each of us meant we bailed before the encores, stumbling out into the cold night for the short walk to the Tube Station.
We had a short wait for the train back south to Waterloo. We make arrangements to meet up again, for Henry and I it is an orchid hunt. But soon we are getting out, walking along the platform, up the two sets of escalators to the concourse. York goes for his train back to leafy Richmond, and Henry and I to our respective hotels on Waterloo Road. One final handshake, and we are parted, me walking over the road, now empty back to the club, grabbing a beer and going up to my room, where my t shirt is still damp from the humidity of the venue.
The beer was flat and dreadful, I pour it down the sink and lay on the bed. My feet are throbbing, my back screaming and ears ringing. Sleep would be a long time coming. I watch a Massive Attack documentary on TV, then lay in bed, after fitting the earplugs, just able to hear the trains rattling past, and the streetlights outside meaning it was only half dark.
It was nothing, if not interesting. I dropped off around midnight,
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1 comment:
125 - I saw that ;-)
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