The Croom’s Hill Melee
Posted: November 11, 2011 Filed under: Blackheath, Greenwich, Olympics | Tags: Blackheath Fireworks, Blackheath Tea Hut, Croom's Hill, Greenwich Olympics Leave a comment »I hadn’t expected to be writing a follow-up to last week’s post, but I’m sure many of you were just as shocked as I was by the terrible scenes here in Greenwich last Saturday after the firework display on Blackheath. In retrospect, it seems incredible that, at a time of day which can only be described as “night”, more than 100,000 people were not only allowed to make their own way from houses, pubs, stations and bus stops throughout the borough to a piece of largely unfenced and unprotected grass, but were then allowed to repeat this act of initiative when leaving afterwards, despite by this stage having had their emotions roused by impressive pyrotechnics and possibly a burger from the Blackheath Tea Hut (which, in what seems like an act of complete irresponsibility, remained open throughout the proceedings, despite having no council-certificated bouncers, trained first-aid staff, or information point with multilingual brochures).
At approximately fifteen minutes after the launch of the final firework, I can report, crowds were so thick on Croom’s Hill that cars attempting to drive up or down the road – which, in what would appear to be another inexplicable and potentially lethal oversight by Greenwich Council, had plainly NOT been closed off since midday with all parking bays suspended and traffic diverted via Norman Road, Deptford Church Street and Catford – were forced to proceed very slowly, possibly even in first gear, in order to avoid hitting people.
Remarkably, some participants in what can only be described as this high-spirited and chaotic melee had chosen to bring children with them, some clearly under the age of sixteen. Many of these youngsters were manifestly not being prevented from writing their name in the air with sparklers, despite the obvious risk of distracting the pilots of passing helicopters, while others, too young to walk for themselves, were being pushed in what can only be described as pushchairs. If the organisers had carried out even rudimentary preliminary surveys of Croom’s Hill, produced a detailed consultation document, and then held a properly publicised public meeting, they would have quickly been made aware that Croom’s Hill contains several speed bumps which, if not temporarily flattened or cordoned off, could cause a small child on wheels to temporarily lose control of its Mousey and/or Igglepiggle, with potentially catastrophic consequences.
I do not like to use phrases like “free-for-all” lightly but, as I passed the Greenwich Theatre, it became obvious that the Rose and Crown public house was full of people enjoying a spontaneous drink: no security staff or marshals appeared to be present, there were no safety railings in place for those who chose to smoke outside, and anybody wishing to enter in a wheelchair would have needed someone to hold the door open for them. Similar scenes could be observed further on at the Mitre, and I’ve since heard reports of people enjoying unpremeditated drinks in pubs of their own choosing all over Greenwich, Blackheath and Deptford.
I am now clear in my own mind that the events of last Saturday should be a wake-up call, as it is absolutely imperative that there be no repetition of these shamefully shambolic and dangerous scenes during next year’s Olympics, when the eyes of the world will be upon us. For the duration of the Games – and let’s not forget that up to 65,000 people may be trying to get to the Park in broad daylight on Cross Country Day – it is vital that, at the very least, all stations and bus stops in Greenwich be closed, and all spectators driven to the arena in specially adapted minibuses from holding pens behind North Greenwich station, where they can be efficiently checked for suitable footwear, given protective helmets, some Kendal Mint Cake and a whistle, and then allocated their own personal marshal who will escort them to their seat and buy them a soft drink and a choc ice, provided they have a signed letter from their GP confirming that it’s OK for them to eat dairy.
It’s not too late for this still to be an enjoyable and fun day out for all the family.
… and on the left wearing blinkers, passengers from the 0931 from London Bridge
Posted: November 2, 2011 Filed under: Greenwich, Olympics | Tags: Greenwich Olympics, Straightsmouth, Theo Walcott 4 Comments »
When Woolwich Arsenal football club relocated to the Emirates stadium in 2006, my immediate thought was that this would, at last, provide a reason for Drayton Park station to exist. It hadn’t exactly been a huge distance from the old Highbury stadium, but it was within a hopeful upfield punt of the new one – Theo Walcott could make it from the platform to the club shop in under a minute if he didn’t unexpectedly go to ground on the corner of Whistler Street claiming his right ankle had been clipped by an imaginary Dutchman.
Except, of course, he couldn’t. Because Drayton Park station is closed at weekends. And, when Arsenal play midweek, they close it then too, just in case people start looking at maps and using their initiative. Young Theo won’t have much luck at the next-nearest station either because, although Holloway Road is technically open on matchdays, only westbound trains stop there; which, unless Theo lives in Wood Green, which I’m not sure he does, isn’t much help. And, even if he does – or in Southgate or Arnos Grove – he couldn’t get back there afterwards, as Holloway Road is exit-only when Arsenal are at home. Otherwise… well, people might try to use it.
Similarly, the nearest station to Wembley Stadium is the suggestively named Wembley Stadium station, which nestles snugly against the arena’s southern flank. It’s on the fast line out of Marylebone – TfL could run a non-stop one-stop shuttle whenever there were big matches on. Or, alternatively, they could pretend it’s not there and tell fans to take the Underground to Wembley Park, then walk half a mile down Olympic Way – it’s further, and puts extra burden on the Tube, but so what? It’s not like they’re running a public service, is it?
I’m bringing all this up because, like a lot of people round here, I recently trolled off to Devonport House to look at the plans for Our Olympic Summer and find out for myself exactly what we should expect when SE10 gets invaded by hippophiles hungry for a bit of al fresco dressage and cross-country in the park.
And, if I’ve got this right, the gist seems to be that, from June to September, we should all stay indoors with the curtains drawn and, if we’re absolutely forced to leave the house to buy more tinned goods, should do so in a strictly clockwise direction. Otherwise, Greenwich town centre could witness scenes not seen since the fall of Saigon. Oh and Cutty Sark station will be closed in case, despite all the announcements, people try to use the end set of doors in the front and rear carriages. And Straightsmouth, a cute and cottagey street just behind St Alfege’s church whose front steps are right on the pavement and which is too narrow to take standard-size dustcarts or deliveries from IKEA, will be renamed Olympic Way and lined with hot dog stalls and men selling knock-off T-shirts featuring pictures of Zara Phillips staring daggers at Mike Tindall.
It all seems a bit of an over-reaction. Train maps and bus maps are freely available throughout the city, and since 1936 Londoners and non-Londoners alike have been able to buy, from all good bookshops and without an introductory letter from a GP or other professional person, something called an A-to-Z. Can we not just let people use their own common sense? Because, frankly, if they genuinely can’t find their own way out of a DLR carriage, or to a large park within ten minutes’ walk of three mainline stations, two light-rail stations and a dozen or so bus routes, should they really be allowed to be in the vicinity of horses? They’re temperamental animals. And if there are queues at the station, so what? People could wander off and find a nice pub or do a bit of shopping – it’s not the end of the world.
Because that’s another thing. Despite having our park hidden behind two-metre-high fences for most of the summer – the woman at Devonport House reassured us that these would be completely opaque, which seemed to rather miss the point of the question – and despite not even getting any tickets in return, we’re consistently told that the whole borough will benefit commercially from the sporty influx. But if visitors are going to be forced to walk along a strictly marshalled route away from the High Road and then through the Naval College grounds before entering the park via a footbridge over Romney Road, then it doesn’t sound like there’s going to be much opportunity for them to be distracted by Noodle Time or to pop into the Mitre for a swift half of IPA.
I’m most worried about this new one-way-system for pedestrians, though. Because, unless I’m completely misunderstanding it, once I leave our front door, I’m only going to be allowed to turn right. Which is going to be really disruptive, because I have a routine. Every morning, once I’ve showered, I make a pot of tea, then walk to the newsagent’s to buy the paper; by the time I’ve returned, the tea is nicely brewed and ready to drink. But next summer it looks like, once I’ve bought the paper, bright-eyed young people in day-glo are going to divert me up Greenwich High Road in the general direction of Deptford Bridge; which means that, when I finally make it back to the house, the tea will be stewed. I suppose I could pop into Puccino’s coffee shop in the station, as that’s en route, but… it will almost certainly be closed, in case people are tempted to use it. So… I really don’t know what I’m going to do. Does anyone know if the Premier Inn or Novotel do breakfasts for non-guests? Or am I going to have to book a room?
The whole thing’s going to be an absolute nightmare.
Spot the Train
Posted: October 26, 2011 Filed under: Greenwich, SouthEastern Trains | Tags: Greenwich station, SouthEastern Trains 2 Comments »Hello and welcome to Spot the Train, our great new game inspired by all those classic newspaper “Spot the Ball” competitions and also by SouthEastern’s Dartford to Cannon Street via Greenwich service.
Above is a photo of platform 2 at Greenwich station (click on the image for a browser-size version). All you have to do, using your own skill and judgement and past experience, is nominate the square you think most closely approximates the point at which the last door of the rear coach of the 0819 to Cannon Street will pull up next Wednesday (2nd November).
Closing date is 6 p.m. on Tuesday, 1st November, and all correct answers will be placed in a hat.
You may find the following information helpful in making your decision.
Proposed time of Departure from Dartford: 0745
Proposed time of arrival at Cannon Street: 0835
Weather (based on current Met Office predictions): overcast
Mood (based on current mood): downbeat
This competition is not open to employees of SouthEastern Trains or their families, and the driver’s decision is final.
Good luck!!!
The Dolly Parton High-Wire Act
Posted: October 16, 2011 Filed under: Cable Car, Greenwich, Olympics | Tags: Emirates Air Line, Greenwich Cable Car 7 Comments »So, this cable car. You know, the one they’re building to connect the end of one of the service roads behind the Excel Centre to somewhere within reasonable walking distance of the Dome – that one. It’s been in the press again lately because the escalating costs – by which I mean the constantly rising prices, not how much you’ll be charged for using the escalators (providing sponsors can be found, no one will have to pay to go on the escalators) – have led people to start questioning the general value-for-money-ness and raison d’être-ness of the whole project, given that:
(a) Excel is on the DLR, North Greenwich is on the Jubilee Line, and Canning Town is on both and has escalators connecting the two (free escalators, I again emphasise – nobody, absolutely nobody, is – at this stage – suggesting we’re going to be charged for using the escalators)
(b) there’s very little overlap between those who love Dolly Parton and those who love cluster bombs, as the following Venn diagram demonstrates.
Sorry, is it just me, or does that look a bit like… no, OK, it’s just me. Though I might give it a different title later.
Where was I?
Ah, yes. My point was going to be that, in the ongoing debate, the question I really want to ask is a much more basic one than “What’s it for?” or “Is it worth it?”. What I want to say is: “Sorry, they’re building a fucking CABLE CAR in GREENWICH – a cable car???” Which admittedly isn’t, syntactically speaking, a question, but I challenge any of you to say it without your intonation rising at the end like you’re a 16-year-old Australian who’s just sat on her mother’s much-fingered figurine of Jason Donovan in his pomp.
Because this really isn’t just another misguided pitch by the Norfolk Mountain Railway Company, or the people behind the Inverness Solar-Powered Ski Lift, these are genuine plans for a genuine cable car. Like the one that rises to the top of Table Mountain, a kilometre above Cape Town’s blistered streets. Or the Caracas Aerial Tramway, swooping through the wooded ranges that ring Venezuela’s capital city. Or the Shin-Hotaka Ropeway in Takayama, which dandles those with a head for heights up the third-tallest peak in Japan.
Just like those. Only in Newham.
So… it’s an idiotic idea, yes? The accidental by-product of some all-too-literal blue-sky-burbling by bumbling Boris?
Heck. I’m not so sure. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m not a fellow to carry any sort of torch for our esteemed mayor – I wouldn’t know what he’d been doing with it, for one thing. And a cable car is, on the face of it, just as big a misuse of public funds as the impending Borismaster, despite TfL’s highly specious claims that it will connect local communities by carrying up to 2,500 people an hour across the river in each direction, something that would otherwise take 30 buses an hour to achieve – there aren’t any local communities and no one, as far as I’m aware, ever suggested laying on 30 buses an hour as an alternative, any more than they suggested laying on 400 elephants with 4-man howdahs, even though they could probably also do the job if they didn’t get spooked by the Blackwall Tunnel; it’s a cable car or nothing.
But… that’s the thing… it’s a cable car! And wouldn’t that be just bloody fantastic?
Greenwich Millennium Village: one day, people from all over Newham will be able to come here
Bear with me for a moment while I digress.
As a Leyton Orient supporter, I have very little interest in top quality sporting activity being pursued by talented and skilful athletes in peak physical condition. BUT: I went to school in E10, and every Friday morning at nine-thirty we’d be sent off to play football, rugby or hockey on some dismal, damp and desolate fen beside the old Temple Mills marshalling yards, just across the river from Hackney Marshes; and the idea that those neighbouring tracts of scrub and marsh beside the Lea – those barbed-wire belts of burnt-out cars and angry dogs through which, let’s be frank, no resident of Stratford or Leyton ever gambolled, despite what the internet placard wavers and petitioners now say, because they were GRIM – will, for two weeks next summer, be the focus of the world’s sporting gaze, is just really really EXCITING.
And anyone who says it isn’t has no imagination. And is, perhaps, also a little bit selfish, a little bit dog-in-the-manger, because I suspect that rather more people are going to get genuine enjoyment out of the Olympics – and, yes, out of visiting Westfield, catching the revamped North London Line to the newly landscaped park, and maybe even renting a poorly plumbed one-bed flat in the Athletes’ Village once the putters of shots and lifters of weights and testers of drugs have moved on – than ever dug an allotment on Waterden Road, assembled something provocative in a Hackney Wick squat, or plodded moodily up the Bow Back Rivers with a half-read copy of Lights Out For The Territory in their rucksack, shooting moody monochromes of pylons and sneering that they’re not interested in sport.
Yes, of course all that money could be spent on other, more necessary things, but… necessity isn’t everything. And, yes, of course a cable car across the Thames is a ludicrous use of the transport budget, but… won’t it also be absolutely glorious? It is, after all – as I think I said earlier – a fucking cable car!!!
Though I’d still like someone at TfL to confirm that all cabins will have some sort of built-in buoyancy tank for when they fall off the wires, and perhaps a box of flares and a map of the Belgian coastline.
A guarantee that we won’t have to pay to use the escalators would also be nice.
Greenwich House of Soap
Posted: October 2, 2011 Filed under: Greenwich, SouthEastern Trains | Tags: Greenwich house prices, SouthEastern Trains Leave a comment »Rather a lack of posts at the moment, I’m afraid, because, with the end-of-October tax deadline looming, I’m bogged down in accounts. Did you know that a pre-2007 Excel spreadsheet can only handle 65,000 rows of data? No, neither did I, till yesterday. Did you know that it’s actually possible to have more than 65,000 rows of data? Well, trust me, it is. I only had about half that number last year, but one of the curious things about accounts, as I’m sure anyone else who’s self-employed can confirm, is that the more your annual income falls, so the time it takes to do the requisite sums increases.
Anyway, speaking of impending financial distress, this caught my eye the other day.
Yup, that’s right. Twenty grand for a garage. A one-room, 100-square-foot, garage. Albeit one that’s only moments not just from Greenwich station, but also from an excellent selection of A roads for quick access in and out of London.
And this has got me thinking, vis-à-vis the aforementioned financial distress. We live quite near Greenwich station too – certainly as near as any jumped-up shed on Roan Street. And, though we don’t have space for a car, we do have a shower. We also know that quite a lot of Greenwich commuters, after a 13-minute journey from Cannon Street at the mercy of SouthEastern trains, are a bit sticky and harassed, and in no fit state to greet spouses, children, pets or internet dates at Cafe Rouge they strongly suspect will be well out of their league, because they always are, they always are.
So, here’s what I’m thinking. Trains are every 10 minutes, and a shower takes roughly 5 minutes. Add on 5 minutes for getting dressed, and that works out quite nicely – we could sell 10 minute slots specifically tailored to coincide with SouthEastern’s timetable.
It’s just an idea at the moment, but I reckon it’s got legs. Not quite sure of prices, so if anyone has any ideas, please let us know.
I’ll attach a photo of the shower.
Why East Greenwich is not like West Greenwich (Part 27)
Posted: September 25, 2011 Filed under: Greenwich | Tags: East Greenwich, horse head Leave a comment »
Sorry, could we just take a closer look at that? The thing up there on the left?
Ah, right. Thought so.
Henry’s Plinth
Posted: September 14, 2011 Filed under: Greenwich | Tags: Greenwich Park, Henry Moore 1 Comment »I feel such a fool.
Why? Because our Henry Moore is back. By which, of course, I mean Moore’s 1976 work Large Standing Figure: Knife Edge, which last week returned to Greenwich Park after being ignominiously carted off to Wakefield four years ago.
So why am I feeling stupid, rather than celebratory? I’ll explain.
When we moved to Greenwich, I had no knowledge of the sculpture’s shady transplantation to the West Riding. Why would I? – it happened in 2007, and we’ve only been here a few months. What I did have, though, was a second-hand copy of Geoffrey Young’s Walking London’s Parks and Gardens, and one of the first things I’d done once we’d unpacked was follow his annotated trek across the royal turf. But while I thus soon knew all about the sunken bath up by Chesterfield Gate that Queen Caroline used to share with Ignatius Sancho, and the bitter sectarian rivalry between the Romano-Celtic Temple and the Glasgow Rangers House, and the Ancient Oak around which Henry VIII danced with Anne Boleyn and, um, Cardinal Wolsey and Hereward the Wake and Dick Turpin [memo to self: buy a new history book if you want people to take this blog seriously], I remained bewildered by Young’s description of the Henry Moore sculpture. For something that was supposed to be “dramatic”, it seemed a bit… I don’t know… unobtrusive.
But then, barely two weeks ago, as I stood gazing again at that simple concrete plinth, I had an epiphany: not only was Mr Young right, I realised, but what we had here was nothing less than the very apotheosis of Moore’s art.
Moore is, of course, often mocked as the man who does holes; much like Picasso is still ridiculed by philistines for painting women with their eyes all over the shop. But those of us who know about these things understand that, by puncturing his sculpted forms with apertures and cavities, and contrasting the solid elements not only with the space around them, but also the space within them, Moore is essentially interrogating the human condition itself. And what we had here, on this windswept grassy ridge, was – I now realised – the ultimate extension of that idea: the space, the penetrating void, had expanded until it had itself become the sculpture.
And I said as much to the French girl in the black skirt and beret who was standing beside it at the time.
“Ooh-la-la,” she gasped, “mon dieu!” And then, brushing a strand of soft auburn hair from her cheek whilst moodily lighting a Gauloise, she added: “Quel beau concept. Vous êtes vraiment très intellectuel, monsieur. Intellectuel et… chic.” And her eyes shone like two rain-soaked conkers caught in the first flare of sun when the clouds part after a storm.
I’m sure you can imagine how I felt. And will therefore understand why I chose to ignore the small boy up a nearby lamp post who, as we passed beneath, seemed to be muttering incredulously to himself “But there’s nothing there! There’s nothing there!”
“After all,” I said to Eloise as we approached Crooms Hill Gate, “what do small boys up lamp posts know about Art and Love?”
But for some reason she seemed to have turned into a squirrel. It really was a most peculiar afternoon.
Oh well. At least she never found out what I fool I was.
And, looking on the bright side, we now have our ’Enery back. Indeed, as Anita Feldman from the Henry Moore Foundation said last week, speaking to Greenwich.co.uk: “It is wonderful to return the sculpture to the site Moore selected, particularly as it will be overlooking London during the Olympic Games. Moore once exhibited a version of this sculpture on a hillside overlooking the Acropolis in Athens – its upraised arm, arched back and tilted hip recall the triumphant gesture and humanism of the ancient Nike of Samonthrace.”
Which proves, I suppose, that I really do know nothing about modern art, as to me it looks nothing like an old pair of trainers belonging to some Greek bloke.
[I haven't taken a photo of the returned sculpture yet, as my camera needs a new battery, but here's one of his piece on the Brandon Estate in Camberwell, just in case you've never seen it.]
Mr Chambers’ Coffee House
Posted: September 6, 2011 Filed under: Blackheath, Greenwich | Tags: Blackheath Park, Blackheath Tea Hut, Cator Estate, Jeremy Hardy 2 Comments »
I’ve never really got to the bottom of Blackheath. As an East Ender exiled in Vauxhall, I never quite knew what it was for – it wasn’t even like it was on the way to anywhere. I knew about Greenwich, obviously – Greenwich was where Time began (I forget when, but I’m sure you can ask in the Tourist Office) – and, yes, the same reckless spirit of adventure that had once driven Amundsen to the Pole had occasionally caused me to venture beyond the observatory to Blackheath Gate. But those sturdy brick pillars were as far as I ever got. Across the bleak tract of grass beyond the wall, the pale spire of All Saints’ church was the unrigged mast of an abandoned ship slipping slowly below the horizon: to step beyond the safe confines of the park, it seemed, was to fall off the edge of the world.
Eventually, of course, I made it across – I twice failed in person to persuade the (now defunct) bookshop by the station to stock Smoke, once spent an enjoyable evening with Jeremy Hardy at Blackheath Halls (he was on stage, I was in the audience), and my critique of the 108 for Smoke’s regular “Bus of the Month” feature involved a round trip one afternoon to the Standard – but no visit ever left me feeling anything other than confused: Blackheath was weird. As befits, I suppose, somewhere that manages to be simultaneously both on top of a hill and in a valley.
Having finally upped sticks and moved to SE10, though, I felt I should investigate the matter properly, so… that’s what I’ve been doing. And what a fascinating exercise it’s been. Did you know, for instance, that the heath was the rallying point for the Peasant’s Revolt? Or that Blackheath is England’s oldest rugby club? Or that Jeremy Hardy once played Blackheath Halls? Well, obviously you did – you’re a native, and you know your onions; you probably even buy them from the market in the station car park on Sunday mornings. So, unlike me, you’ll be well aware that the name “Blackheath” has nothing to do with the Black Death and plague pits, but has its origins in an eighteenth-century house of refreshment set up on Shooters Hill Road by an ambitious young African gentleman by the name of Keith Chambers who, having been recently emancipated by the findings of the Somersett case, was now determined to make his way in the world.
Although some of the more reactionary and dim-witted locals complained about the newcomer, and grumbled that their village was “no longer English” – several eventually left to found a new settlement of their own four miles down the A2 – Mr Chambers’ Coffee House was, by and large, a big hit. As was, it has to be said, its proprietor, the handsome and urbane Mr C – even if his clientele, displaying not only their ignorance of socially acceptable idiom but also their preference for the East India Company’s latest leaf-based products, always insisted on referring to his establishment as, I’m afraid, Black Keith’s Tea Hut. Obviously to modern sensibilities such language is reprehensible, which is why it’s probably a good thing that, when the South Eastern Railway arrived in the 1840s, its surveyors misheard the name of the establishment into which they’d just dropped for a cuppa and, assuming that the houses in the dip across the grass must be the hamlet alluded to in the café’s name, (mis)signposted their new station accordingly.
The most visible legacy of Blackheath’s origins as a place of refreshment – other than the modern day Blackheath Tea Hut pictured above, of course – is the plethora of over-priced coffee shops and muffinaria in and about Tranquil Vale. The most visible legacy of those early residents who had so violently objected to Mr C’s presence was, until 1995, the BNP headquarters in Welling: these days, it’s the men with faces like clenched fists standing outside nearby pubs in the middle of the afternoon waving glasses of Stella and shouting incoherently at passing dogs; or marching down Eltham High Street in order to “protect the fucking proper people in a white working-class area” from…
The Others.
Where was I? Oh, yes, Blackheath. So, anyway, I’ve been cycling around, up and down, and… here’s the thing: yesterday morning, just off Lee Road, I encountered… gates. Yup, gates. Across roads. GATES! Wood-slatted white-painted five-bar gates of the sort which should have mournful cows peering over the top of them and a bit of snagged wool in the hinge, not threats of clamping stapled to the rungs – yes, that sort.
People of Blackheath!!! Listen to me. THIS IS NOT NORMAL! Roads aren’t supposed to have wood-slatted white-painted five-bar gates across them. And verdant verges edged with neat white posts. We live in a city! Roads in cities are supposed to be dangerous and hectic and grubby and noisy and full of kids in hoodies and drunk men shouting. There should be sirens. Oh God there should be sirens. Yet today, all the way from Lee Road to the Paragon – and don’t get me started on the Paragon – nothing disturbed the birdsong and the click of my wheels but a solitary slow-moving Toyota Landcruiser, a small pale child staring out forlornly from behind its tinted windows.
I need to do more research.
Postscript:
This afternoon, cycling down Charlton Lane, I found my route blocked by a level crossing.
Yup, a level crossing!
It seems like I’ve moved to Trumpton.
[This post is dedicated to the memory of John Cleese, who last week said that London is no longer an English city. We lose them all in the end.]
We Need To Talk About Neddy
Posted: August 25, 2011 Filed under: Blackheath, Deptford, Greenwich | Tags: London Riots 5 Comments »I don’t want to keep harking back to the riots, because I think most of us yearn to move on from those awful few days when Western civilisation briefly teetered dizzily on the rim of the moral abyss and God and his saints truly slept, to paraphrase Metro – I still have horrible memories of walking to the post office on Greenwich High Road at 3 p.m., and finding it closed – but… yesterday afternoon, cycling home past the southern wall of the park after a short excursion east to try to get my head round Plumstead – more of that another time, once I’ve got my thoughts in order – I came across a worrying notice sellotaped to a lamp post close by Blackheath Gate.
“Ned”, it said, “still missing”.
Ned, it turned out, was a five-year-old black labrador who’d recently gone AWOL from his home in SE3. A very sad state of affairs, of course, and I certainly don’t want to add to the distress of his owners in their time of tribulation, but… I wonder if they’re telling us the whole story? Because Ned, the notice said, was “last sighted running past Matalan in Lewisham towards Deptford”.
Oh, Ned! You silly, foolish dog! Were you just caught up in the heat of the moment? Did the adrenaline that pulsed through your daft doggy veins as you saw the smashed glass, wide-open doors, and hysterical, wild-eyed crowds, cause you to drop your moral compass like it was some old chewed tennis ball and leap, teeth bared, for the bright immoral frisbee of desire? Or was it the taunts and jeers of your peers that goaded you? Did a streetwise Staffie Cross from New Cross Gate mock your Blackheath accent, call you a poodle, deride you for not joining in? Are you, as I write, shivering in some squalid cellar at the foot of Tanners Hill, hungry and scared, fearful of every passing siren… and still, even now, not quite understanding what in the name of Scooby Doo possessed you to seize the seventies-print halter-neck playsuit and a three-pack of Pringle sports socks that lie crumpled uselessly between your trembling paws?
Come home, Ned. You need to face the consequences of your actions, yes, but your family still love you, and will forgive you. In truth, they blame themselves.
International Horse Consultant
Posted: August 20, 2011 Filed under: Greenwich | Tags: Greenwich Equestrian Events, Jenny Agutter, London Riots Leave a comment »
Say “Equus” to most people and they’ll immediately think of Sidney Lumet’s 1976 film about a teenage stable boy whose religiously inspired sexual fascination with horses culminates in an extended full-frontal nude scene with Jenny Agutter, as most things did in the mid-seventies. But it turns out that Equus is also the name of an American magazine for people who love horses in quite a different way, and I know this because I had an email last week from Fran, one of its columnists, asking how things were: American riders coming to Greenwich for the Olympics had been hearing reports of our riots, it seemed, and were getting jittery.
It’s at times like this one realises what an extraordinary thing the internet is; one moment I’m cheerily tagging photos of Noodle Time’s chipboard hoardings with the words “Greenwich riots”, and the next I’m advising the US Olympic Dressage Team on whether there’s likely to be anything occurring here next summer that might – and here again I’m forced to recall Miss Agutter’s energetic performance amid the dimly lit straw bales – frighten the horses.
Anyway – if anyone’s interested in a Stateside take on Greenwich’s riots, there’s one in the latest issue of Equus, along with an interesting piece on how to remove bot fly eggs. And, aware that Fran has linked to this blog and that being International Horse Consultant carries certain responsibilities, can I take this opportunity to point out to readers of Equus that since the eggs are, I believe, “sticky and yellowish and shaped like small grains of rice”, it might be best to check whether Dobbin has recently eaten a paella before getting to work with the bot knife.
[More riot photos on the Flickr page page...]
