A joy report - special edition

We moved offices to Kings Cross last weekend, and believe me, this is cause for celebrations in the daggersdukc household. i shan't be missing Neasden. i refuse to feel even the slightest inkling of sadness for removal of myself permanently from this shithole. See previous blogs for my feelings on it. - believe me you do won't be reading anything new. A generally pleasant week having moved in. All the computer systems worked and we were doing 'real stuff' within ten minutes of arriving. Very efficient move from Bishops Moves. I've been exploring the area between Kings Cross station and Russell Square looking for new eateries, and can recommend Panini D'Ora for a start. There's also a new Waitrose just opened at the Brunswick Centre (Catherine Tate's childhood area).

Very happy to be there, and settling in well.

However, what the fuck happened to the tube on Thursday? Me and Mrs Dukc were meant to be meeting Carly in Slough we she's been on a piece of work experience for her Physio degree. We didn't get further than Baker Street as EVERY LINE was screwed. Even the ones which were reported as having a 'good service' eventually conked out. Rather ominously, we were sitting on a westbound Picc Line when the driver announced, having had the train stop at the station for 10 minutes, that there was now a code amber alert. I'm not sure what this means but it sounds rather onerous - shades of 7/7 all over again. Even more ominously, the news that all of the tube was virtually stood still, and several mainline stations, including Paddington, were closed, never made it to the London news either that evening or Thursday. Even the incredibly informative Going Underground blog by Annie Mole (from whence the picture was filched - sorry) was deafeningly silent as to any reasons, both for the stoppages and for the lack of news coverage. I do rant on about the TfL Politburo, but in this case, I think I have a point.

TfL, as I mentioned last year, were pretty wise in NOT scaring people when asking them to evacuate the underground by telling us white lies. But by claiming 'severe communications problems' over all lines, which seemed to be the excuse de jour on Thursday, is blatant rubbish, and seeing as as we've been there done that, somewhat irresponsible. Each line's communications systems are self-contained and therefore only effect single lines or affiliated groups of lines. For many years now, delays caused by an 'incident' has meant anything from a driver being taken ill, to a 'one-under' - itself a metaphor for passenger suicide - to a major punch up amongst passengers. Are we to believe that a 'major communications problem' is a euphamism for a suspected terrorist attack? The problem is that once a lie has been told, anyone who was there will instantly assume that given the gravitas of closures, will be looking for a mysterious code word indicating something entirely different - sheep on the line at North Greenwich meaning, perhaps, a broken down train at Amersham. Not as ridiculous as it might sound. Anyone heard an 'inspector Sands' message? They have been broadcast on station tannoys for the past five or so years and simply mean "this is a fire test". Tourists and casual travellers might not know this, but any seasoned users will.

Enjoying the sunshine

No rants for once, just my thanks to the weather god for providing us with a sunny, breezy day. Perfect weather for doing nothing. I was meant to be mowing the lawn with our super-high-tech pushalong mower, but after yesterday's barbecue in Tottenham, and the resulting over-inebriation on the part of yours truly, the word "motivation" is not high on my words de jour. Slobbing around listening to the Freak Zone on 6 Music instead, joined at the hip with this sort of weather. One of the most innovative and least mainstream radio prog there could be and about as close to the Peel ethic that non-internet only radio manages. But the FZ is one of those progs that makes you feel proud to be British, having, fortunately, a broadcast system that isn't strictly commerical, and hence by necessity playing to the lowest common denominator. I bet a lot of fellow freaks and weirdos from SanFran, NYC and LA might 'get it', but most American radio I've received online doesn't get close...

Going for a carnivore's convention of befridged leftover barbie meat this evening.

And tomorrow, my place of work becomes civilised once again. Life is beginning to reveal some sorely missed good parts again. At last.

Healthy grub for those on welfare

When you are on the dole, you should really try to economise. Food is expensive you can easily blow a week's welfare cheque on rubbish soda pop, fags, beer, chips, 'babs and KFC. Beat those doley woley blues and buy a breakfast cereal (which of course soaks up the old White Thunder cider at any time of day or night). You can buy it at your local Aldi, where this photo was snapped, and as you can see, not only are they cheap by dint of being sold at a 'deep discounter', they ar also very healthy. And to help you find them, they even mention your lifestyle.

Wedding in York

Our two fine friends Graham and Tracey were married at the weekend. they are a lovely couple and they deserve many happy years together. I'll post a photo when I download the lot I took at the wedding. We went up to York (thanks GNER for the two broken down trains), but trains - and grumpy hotel manager - aside, we did have a wonderful time. Many weddings feel like a production line process, but not theirs. Their friends are many, and wide-ranging, and the fact that lot of Christians were there helped since it was a church wedding after all. Funnily enough, our own wedding which also should have been a Fordist affair, being in Gretna Green, wasn't either - many people we know, independently, have mentioned that they were almost in tears during the ceremony.

Back in York though; the service was fab, the reception lunch was large and thoroughly enjoyable, and Lynn and I got to meet Mel for the first time, who I've been emailing on the cafe list for the past couple of years. Nice to put a face to the name, and she's nothing like I envisaged (far less 'northern' than I expected and quite well sorted out head-wise - I imagined a slightly flakier bod).

The stars of the show though, were G and T, who met on the very same list, and met up in person in March 2005 - apparently it was love at first sight, though seeing as they are both bacon rind, it was possibly love at first sniff. Tracey's quite ill and by 10pm was feeling rather bombed out. After they left the disco, we all blundered off home.

And the next day, we managed a quick ride to Acomb on the ftr tram-bus thingy which is rather like a glorified bendybus.

Movin' out

The photo says it all. But since that won’t mean much, I’ll explain. Five years ago, several teams at the place I work, including mine own, were shipped out, for purely political reasons – though few of us realised THAT at the time - to a bunker in Neasden, North West London. This was inconvenient for me since:

1) it is in the wrong side of London for easy commuting, not that commuting anywhere in London is either easy or pleasant. The direction of town would be OK (ish) if that place had been, say Golders Green or St John’s Wood. But it wasn’t…

2) …it was in Neasden, NW10. Anyone who knows anything about this godforsaken shithole knows that the best thing about it is the North Circular Road, which takes you east or west out of the place. It is as grey as an elephant’s arse and even the sun seems to skip the area entirely on its westward course across town. It has the charm of a Russian service station c. 1976. And that’s being somewhat unfair to Russian motorways. I may even leave a picture of the place when I leave this org so you can get a full idea of the extent of the nastiness of the place. I don’t want to ID my employer yet, I still need to pay the mortgage.

Now that the political side of things has been sorted out, my less-and-less beloved employer has decided that “oh, yes, there was enough space at head office after all”). That’s VERY GOOD then.

So, we are moving back to where we should have always been. In the thick of central London, near shops, fooderies, pubs (Neasden even lacks THEM – well it lacks any that you’d care to actually drink in).

When we leave this building, I’ll be baring my arse at it, then taking the Jubilee Line, not taking a backward glance. Goodbye, oh cancerous rot-fester of my life.

I am still applying for jobs elsewhere anyway. I am losing any sense of respect for and even benevolence toward my employer. Sooner I leave, the happier my state of wellbeing.

Hungarian holiday

We have just returned from a week in Hungary which was excellent and which I may blog later properly with some pix, though knowing me, this entry will end up sufficing. Needless to say we did the usual tram-fest (lots of old beauties there) and ate lots of goulash at a restaurant about 10 minutes walk from St Stephen’s Boulevard (sorry, can’t remember what its called in Hungarian, but that’s a good-enough translation), which was phenomenally good, both in terms of the gargantuan portions and the recklessly cheap prices, and which we visited 5 times, the food was so scrumptious. We tried a more expensive one for reference, but nah, the cheapo eatery was both better value and for food it was the dog’s danglies. I don’t know how they do it. Best thing about Budapest though was although he was a very touristic sort of town, it wasn’t touristy. Unlike Prague, where you feel there is ‘you should do/see/buy/go to this’ agenda, Buda seems to be a sort of city with enough going on not to have to force you down a well-trod route. “Go on”, it seems to say “there’s so much here for you to find…come and play”.

Hungarians, if our stereotype aerials were working properly, seem to be a very chilled out bunch, lacking both the poverty that their past history has bought – we’re talking relative wealth of course, since buying stuff over there is dirt-cheap mostly compared to the UK – and some of the national bitterness that seems have remained in certain ex-Iron Curtain countries. Lovely, hard working people and gorgeous women, too. They reminded of the Dutch in some respects, who are equally pragmatic and tolerant, and with equally attractive women (question to self, am I turning into a middle-aged Eurobabe horn-doggy saddo? Those German and Polish women, now then, yummeeeeee….).

The she-wife decided we would stay in a four star hotel this time, rather than our usual ex-Ukrainian mining overseers wayzgoose refuge (£8 per room per night, one or two star concrete communist era bunker favoured by moi – as was the Daggersdukc trip to Krakow), so this was not a cheapo’s holiday, but we managed to only spend £400 between the two of us living pretty luxuriously considering our joint tightwad nature. And Sleazyjet only charged £120 return for a very late-booked flight – and only screwed up the outward flight with a four hour delay, so overall, not bad.