Memories of a West London suburban childhood: West End Lane, Harlington

At this point, I'm 18, so kidulthood is a better title description really. Never mind, we're on a roll.

This is 65 West End Lane, Harlington – south of Hayes, but still in the conurbation – which my sister Natasha and I shared during the the late 80s. It may come as a surprise but brother and sister got on like a house on fire. We had one noisy row, about one of us leaving the heating on all weekend, when money was too tight to mention. Besides, our work and social lives crossed paths irregularly. The flat had a nice garden, (and we, being on the ground floor had exclusive access to it) but the major disadvantage was with the flat was that it was crawling with mould, though this was mainly confined to the kitchen. It was loosely furnished, but rooms were huge and felt (and were) mainly empty.


This is Swans Chinese takeaway, a frequent eatery when living at 65 West End Lane. It did some of the best sweet and sour pork balls in the West of London – well, at least in the UB postcode area. Celebrated here when I received an unconditional offer at Goldsmiths'. It's a shame a skanky, and rather spooky launderette is no longer on the High Street – if a village as small as Harlington can be said to have one. This washeteria was famous for having most of its fluorescents flickering or completely fried, so washing one's clothes meant entering and staying – often alone for an hour or two - in the post-apocalyptic place; a launderette from the dark side. Creeped both myself and Natasha out, which is why I ended up doing the washing, while Natasha did my ironing.

Memories of a West London suburban childhood: Waitrose and the Classic Cinema

You see the concrete Waitrose and the Classic Cinema from this shot taken from a 427 bus? No, because it's not there any more. What replaced it, a Lidls, would have been far more welcomed by my mother in the 1970s, as Waitrose wasn't any cheaper than it is now. My family was fairly typical Hayes demographic. So why was it located there at all? Regardless, this is where the bulk of our shopping came from, as well as the equally defunct Bejam next door, since she didn't have a car, and the Sainsbury's in Hayes Town (always a capital T – it was a different world entirely to north Hayes - lower case n – North Hayes only exists for the purposes of estate agent marketing, and snobs.

The Classic was a flea pit even back then, and remained so throughout its existence. Films seen there include Close Encounters, ET, Bambi and Grease – though that might have been watched at the ABC in Ealing Broadway. It seemed to show a lot of soft-porn towards the end of its life. More usefully (for a kid anyway) It did sell Kia-Ora during the interval, and sweets on the cash desk – a practice I'm glad to say still continues at the Picturedrome in Bognor, my parents' local house.

Memories of a West London suburban childhood: Mark's flat

We're drifting into young adulthood here - I was 18 years old.

This was the first place I lived having decided (within the space of a few minutes one morning) that I missed London too much and wanted to return. My parents moved to the south coast after the Hayes By Pass started its march across Cranborne Waye in 1987. So I asked a family friend, Mark, if I could stay at his spare bedroom for a few weeks. He agreed, and eventually a few weeks ended up being 8 months. I paid £12 per week to live here. Not expensive, even though the hot water was often not hot, the heating ditto, the carpet was in fact splinter ridden floorboards, and the bed was a more camp than Freddie Mercury. I had an absolutely marvellous time living in such grime (absolutely no irony intended, the time I had was sloppy and chilled – and of course, cheap). Which bearing in mind I was only on £8,300 was probably the reason I could afford to stay on in London. Mark W, if you ever stumble across this blog entry – you were great company in a “Men Behaving Badly eat your hearts out” sort of way. And the half fixed Apple 2 computers, gutted vacuum cleaners and martial arts mags really added layer of squalor to the already squalid ambience I'll never forget.

I like the sign below what would have been the living room window: "NO BALL PLAYING". And just how many TV dishes can you fit on to a building before it falls down?

Memories of a West London suburban childhood: Yeading Library

This is one of my favourite places on earth. At least it was between the ages of eight and fourteen. It was (hallowed ground...) the library on Yeading Lane, Hayes. And what a heaven, this was, an escape, a portal into the worlds of John Wyndham, William Golding and Isaac Asimov. The books were well chosen, by the librarian, a lady then in her late 40s who seemed to have a telepathic insight into what I'd like to read next, and would put books especially aside for me. I had, of course, quite a wild crush on her for a year or so. The Tories will have you believe that this kind of small, suburban library is surplus to requirements. But it is places like this all over the land which allow curious working class kids, as I was, to access to books they wouldn't obtain outside the immediate locality – because when you're eight taking a bus to the main library, in my case, in far away Uxbridge, would not have been possible. So under this lot, I'd have been deprived of books for education and importantly. pleasure. I learned to love books and literature in this building. How dare this government be so casually flippant about the importance loose with such small scale, local resources. Grrrr. Schools next, huh?

Memories of a West London suburban childhood: The Parade of Shops

At the main Uxbridge Road end of Brookside Road is a parade of shops frequented by the Cranborne Waye brat pack.

A nasty angle was required to take this picture, hence the lamp post being right in the way. The alternative would have been to stand amidst the dual carriageway and much as this is a labour of love, I'm not prepared to get whacked by a lorry for the sake of it.

The second picture was taken from the marginally safer top deck of a 427 bus – sadly the “real” 207 moved on from being a Routemaster to a single deckered bendybus. The parade used to contain, from left to right: a Spar (preceded by a Co-Op complete with lovely clanking Sweda tills with spinning numbers a la fruit machine). Next door a shop no-one knew what was inside because it was never open, a greasy café (called I think, Hayes Gate Café), a Martins newsagent, a chemists, a sub post office, a shop called Ajay's which we simply referred to as “The Indian Shop”. This shop had the distinction of being open until 10pm – whoopee. Next door was a shop whose purpose in life was to act as some kind of money magnet for kids. There was usually a couple of games (Space Invaders, Galaxians, Quasar, being the ones I remember) but it also seemed to specialise in dodgy deals of the insurance or loan shark variety. To be honest, I haven't a clue. Finally, there was an Indian restaurant of the flock wallpaper school of décor.

Memories of a West London suburban childhood: Brookside Road park and field

Popeye Park

The Field

Yeading Brook Bridge

Yeading Brook


A bit of a memory difference between Natasha and I. She thinks this the park was called Popeye Park, at least by the local brats. It was simply known to me as “the park”. Perhaps it was a generational thing, though there are merely two years between us. But when you are kids, two years can be a long time. Pleased to see it's here, more or less unchanged.

And unchanged also is the bridge over Yeading Brook. Not sure why us kids used to hang out by the bridge. Closeness to the park was definitely an obvious good reason, plus the open and generally empty car park meant you could do some really cool bike stunts such as wheelies and skids without having to deal with real traffic as the road comes to a dead end at the bridge. Much as it pains me to admit doing anything as public as dogging, I had my one and only taste of car sex here. But I'm not saying with whom!

The field. Once over Yeading Brook you end up in a place we just called “the field”. It goes nowhere useful. It is simply a buffer zone between Hayes and Yeading proper. And nowadays it looks pristine compared to the scrubby dump it was in the 70s and 80s. I've seen burnt out cars, motorbikes and even a fire blackened Bedford coach parked on the grass. The place felt forlorn and pointless to me, but it seems to have revitalised itself.

Memories of a West London suburban childhood: Cranborne Waye

The big house

The nice end of Cranborne

Swan necked street lamp

The nice end of Cranborne Waye

150 Cranborne Waye

150 Cranborne Waye. Home sweet home for 18 years. The house looks a bit tatty compared to how it used to be. Mum's green fingers made the place a riot of colour when we were there – azaleas were her thing. The house looks small, and hemmed in by the two bay windowed dwellings either side. The lumpy roof is caused by the loft conversion. Huge windows are on the back of the house.

Original 1950s (?) swan necked street lamp. A rare breed these days, though New Addington near Croydon still has plenty to spare. The white cased HPS fitting doesn't do it any favours. I much preferred the orange LPS lamps, and because Hilling don Council didn't exactly spread them close together, our road always seemed quite dark and almost secretive compared to those of nearby friends.

A little patch of green. My favourite end of Cranborne Waye. Speaking of which, “Waye?” Please!!! Why the extra E? I have been told I've made a mistake spelling my own address when a child. Wrong. The twee-est part of a tweely named road.

The “big house”. No-one knew why or how this house got to be placed alongside a load of Warren Bros designed 3 bedroom terrace houses. And people who lived in it were a secretive bunch. Well, I suppose because they didn't have kids, we never found out much about them.

The back bedroom. (Grr, it needs creosoting). Dad built what was known as the Summer House in 1985 or so, which was an extended shed big enough to count as a reasonably sized bedroom with en suite toilet and sink. And despite him not intending it to be used for anything but a place to escape to in the summer heat, I kind of moved in permanently. It was my bedroom and quasi recording studio for two years. My abiding memory of the place was waking up at 4am during the night of the '87 hurricane, feeling the wooden panelling dancing, and thinking, “oh, I wonder what's going on?” and falling back to sleep immediately. The other memory was finding our chicken (yes, I that was the clucking kind of bird you tend to smother with southern fried coating) doing a kamekhazi (sorry, the pun was intended The other memory was finding our chicken (yes, I that was the clucking kind of bird you tend to smother with southern fried coating) doing a kamikaze .He saw a chicken reflected in the water of the toilet, dived in for a fight and drowned his stupid bird brained self. Sophia, my littlest sister, was traumatised for months following the bantam suicide.

Short story: Soldiers

A leap into the unknown here for me. Having written a few stories for private viewing only, here is a short story I wrote about my locale, or close to it anyway, that I’m sharing with the net.

It’s a bit of urban horror, with a sprinkling of psychogeographical angst thrown into the pot.

http://bit.ly/ql6Ac0

Some background info:

In July 2007 I had an interview with my future boss, someone I had a happy working relationship with until 2010 when I left to go travelling with my wife. The interview was somewhat unconventional in that it was based in of all places, a pub. We sat down over Diet Cokes and she interviewed me as though we were in her office. Question 13 was “are you evil?” (Come now, admit it, that’s a cool question). This venue was chosen as a result of awkward logistics, eg, the building where her company is based gets locked up at 5.30 and since I was already working in central London, arriving there in time wasn’t a realistic option, as I didn’t want my then- present employer to know I was job seeking.

So we agreed the venue, the Britannia, in Barking, East London, also known colloquially as the titty bar because of its stone mouldings of bare breasted sea nymphs outside. The route to the pub took us through a subway and into a housing estate, which is pretty much described in the story as the portal and the flats respectively, though obviously I’ve never been inside any of the blocks. My imagination was captured by this unusual underpass, as the main character Burton is too – what is the purpose of the lighting? I never got to find out whether the installation was ever given a name or was just one of those ways to splurge some end of budget money on the arts. I’ll add a picture to the blog if it still exists these days. I also sensed the bleakness around this locale, atomisation and isolation built right into the fabric. The ideal setting for a short story of urban malaise, I thought, somewhat cheerfully, since if there is one place I feel comfortable writing about, that's it.

few days later, I’d written about one quarter of the completed piece. It got abandoned when I couldn’t think of a decent way to end it which didn’t involve huge amounts of death; never a bad way to end a story, but I wanted something different to try; a bit less predictable.

The locations are most definitely where they purport to be, the rest of the story comes from the author.

Hazel is the name of the mum-in-law I never had (because me and her daughter split not once but a rather careless three times. What an encyclopaedia of London knowledge Hazel was. In fact she was possibly the most knowledgeable Londonist after Peter Ackroyd, or at least more clued-up than anyone else living in Battersea at the time. So a wee doff of the cap to her.

My formal knowledge of psycho-anything is not so hot, but my experience of human nature isn’t so bad. So any psychologists reading the final part, who thinks “fuck, that’s wonky bullocks” – you’re right, I know, so please correct me on the “isns’t and I’ll thank you profusely and in public on this blog.

Hop Farm Festival - the audio report parts 1 and 2

It only took me a week, but it's been one MF of a week (and M-F doesn’t stand for Monday-Friday, dammit). So, had to be put on hold for the time being, even though I'm only doing a bit of cutting and pasting for this entry.

Right, before your ears are a couple of Audioboos (audio blogs, essentially) of the Hop Farm Festival which myself and a few friends were fortunate enough to have our fat arses at last weekend.

And here....they....are.

http://audioboo.fm/boos/404014-tour-of-hop-farm-music-festival
A quick audio tour of the festival

http://audioboo.fm/boos/404019-ocean-colour-scene-at-the-hop-farm-festival
Ocean Colour Scene - my festival fave

We interrupt this rant...AGAIN

Oh irony of ironies. I write a blog entry about how annoying it is to be part of the great 2 million claiming banker's get-out allowance, when...hang on, haven't we been here before?

Oh yes, the deja vu is justified - we have. Last blog entry. And the reason why I'm wriitng (or copying and pasting) all over again is because I've been offerd some MORE work. At this rate, I'll be back on full time fiarly soon. This time, it's support work: up to 30 hours per week of it. Mostly admin, but work I've done before (in the mid 90s) and thoroughly enjoyed.

There are a number of conditions which need to be ticked and tucked away before I can start. I'll know by tomorrow afternoon, and so I'll write more about what's expected of me, if it comes to pass that it is. Otherwise, it's back to Jeremy Kyle and mindless app form fillage. So wish me luck. Cross your fingers - and write more it in the fullness of.

Forced unemployment: or, "we interrupt this rant to bring you"...

Oh irony of ironies. I write a blog entry about how annoying it is to be part of the great 2 million claiming banker's get-out allowance, when for a short while, I have become one of those who isn't. The work I've been asked to do is a rather intensive one day training course which is going to require from me a whole week's worth of prep-work, so I am going to speculate that the amazing, scintillating part 2 article accompanying you've guessed it, part 1, isn't going to get written until after then. By which time I may have been offered some kind of full time work (two offers, but the fat lady hasn't yet opened her cavernous mush yet, let alone exhaled joyously, so I'm still only at the crossed fingers stage).

Let's see. In the meantime, I there will be a festival update coming soon, if not imminently.

(In case there is any doubt within you, dearest reader, I am not complaining).

Forced unemployment: the introductory rant

Being unemployed, without any say-so in the matter, is a sack of cack..

Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. I wouldn't have believed me two years ago either. I haven't usually dissed my previous employees on this blog, mainly because I didn't mind working for them, but of course, should they have read this blog with its hypothetical employer whines, I'd possibly have been up before HR. This has happened. But on the occasions when I have mentioned particularly crudola circumstances where work has just been TOO MUCH, I've often thought to myself...”hmm, the life of leisure....how pleasantly desirable that might be”.

There was this time, not so long ago, when I sat cooped up in a windowless office in Barking, away from the sun, and most definitely, the fun. Or rather , the perceived fun that you , being cooped up, isn't experiencing by dint of that fact. This and being fuelled by the notion that the whole world (on those days off you took for annual leave) seemed to be occupied by leisured, well dressed personages having a jolly good time away from the office – perhaps forever away - and (so one thought in one's bitter way) probably looking at the likes of you, on said pathetic measly day off and let out for the afternoon amongst the rarefied air and privileged, permanently-on-holiday majority (it seemed) in the way which said, “ah, poor guy. Bet he's going to be cooped up tomorrow in some stinking trading estate”...and so on.

When you are stuck somewhere you haven't actually elected to, given a hypothetical choice, be – and despite the fact that my last office actually was in Barking (on the unglamorous trading estate side of what is not actually a glamours place even *on* the glamorous side of town, if you catch my drift) and yes, the office was indeed completely windowless, there was a reason to get up in the morning, whine, scratch your head about the pointlessness of working for a piffling salary (and by the standards of equally unworthy people like Fred The Shred, one could only wonder why my mum was who she was and why I, Adam R. W. Holdsworth, could not have been born to parents who, if not wealthy and privileged, were smart enough to take you to where the influence and smart money actually is. Working as an intern for your uncle's law firm. Or at least naming me Miles or Giles or Charlie. Oh I dunno, this all sounds like envy, and for heaven's sake, it is frigging envy, I know, I know, but this is my RANTS and burblings site and that's what I'm doing. Don't try to convince me I'm selling you a pup here, you came willingly to this joint to hear me fart on and on and on. No, please don't click the back button, honest, I'll be more measured and circumspect from now on....

OK, back to the plot, the one I haven't lost. I'm going to write, over the next few days, an article per day; and please don't hold me to this, life has a habit of getting in the way of a this blog; about how my life has changed since becoming one of the Big Society, without an excuse not to be part of the volunteering, kind, airy fairy bollocks* enabling me to actually have an opt-out excuse. Er, sorry guv, I'd love to work with little kids in wee homes, little cuties who are being whacked around by junkie parents but I have this commitment called a job which steals 37 hours of my week, then adds another 15 hours worth of travelling, then calls me to work when I get home, then means I have to be on call over the weekend, and yadda yadda blah. I, ladies and gents, don't have the opt out any more. I'm at home, cooped up on in front of of the computer, often with Tweetdeck chirruping sweetly every couple of seconds, with the very real option of watching Jezza Kyle for three hours per day, should I choose.

And because unemployment is so rubbish, sometimes, JK is the only cure. It's the only reason to get up, knowing that with the press of the on button, then the three button, you can see how your life, shit though it is, could become a few steps further down the bell-curve on the detritus index.

And so, over the next few posts, I'm going to explore what it is like for a 42 year old, partially sighted male, neither especially stupid but who has managed to live by wits much of the the time, over qualifications; one who used to have ha degree of self respect and at least could hold down a job for years on end with no question...just what goes through one's head? What do us scroungey types do all day? And more seriously, a few words on disability and unemployment. So join me, sweet workers of the world and celebrate your employment. For tomorrow, there is the Big Society, Jeremy Kyle swamp life, and an email in box full of Guardian job ads to brighten your day.

Next: I ask the Talking Heads question: “How did I get here?” And follow up with another song title, this time a Beatles one: “A Day In The Life”.

* By the way, I don't in all seriousness for one nanosecond, have any beef with volunteers, especially those working with kids in such vile conditions. My dad was one for a long time (and he had his own business to run full-time too). I have the ultimate respect for you and indeed for anyone who gives up their time for a good cause. I obtained my first full time job after volunteering too, so I can see its financial, as well as the altruistic value. I do hate this issue being force fed us by the present lot that we are all duty bound to work for free - “we're all in this together” malarkey. We're not. Simple as that. You volunteer because you're a good person or because you have a particular affinity with a cause. Not because some wanker in a suit, attempting to save some government cash, cash you've already paid in, tells you that you should. That's all.

Those Eden Kane Moments

My mum, quite a hip chick in her day and still pretty lively for an old girl, used to own a record by a band called Eden Kane, whose main refrain went something like:

"Boys cry
Where no-one can see them
When no-one can hear them cry
No-one can see them cry".

I used to rather like this record, mainly because it had rather a jolly tune counteracting the somewhat plastic sentimental lyrics. So the Edens may not have been the "new" Beatles or Stones, but the record was a workmanlike enough piece of 60s filler to have been stored in my memory from about the age of 4 when music started really meaning something to me. BTW, I can also remember advertising jingles and slogans from when we had a black and white telly as our only telly. How very pointless, but there you go.

So to the lead-in to the blog article de jour. Music and crying. While I was thinking about it a few weeks ago while trundling round London, iPod giving my tinnitus something to think about, that bloody arsehole student betraying Judas Nick Clegg spoiled my very show by admitting that he cried to music. Well Nick, old china, old pal. My horse had been stolen by a more famous person than me, making *my* bloody idea appear unoriginal and me-to. Not the case, believe me, I got there first, just for the record if only by a few hours.

Music, is the ONLY fricken thing which has ever touched me in the crying department. Nothing else can. Some old bit of American country song wisdom says that a man is entitled to cry only when his "mom" or "dawg" dies. My mum is fortunately still well and able. I cannot guarantee for sure that I won't shed a tear or probably more like a bucketload when she does pass away, but hopefully she's a few decades left on the mileometer yet. Let's hope so. Unfortunately though, in the weeks between starting and publishing this post, I have had a mutt pass away, the sometimes q.v.'d Nicki – and yes, I bawled quite a bit over that, so buy me a Stetson, a car with no wheels, yet with enough battery power left to play the still- working eight-track of Willy Nelson best of moments and let me gurn into my bourbon glass.

Get me on a tube in the rush hour, in the right (or wrong) mood and then insert one of the following tracks between my ears on a decent set of Bose (or just a cheapjack piece of shit will do) and…………blubberitis, here we come. Help. Public embarrassment doesn’t come into it. Not being able to remember what stop I’m approaching doesn’t come into it either. I’m a lost cause, and sometimes end up actually lost.

Sad films can do it too. But the music has to work with the film. No sad music, no saltwater from moi. I don’t think, for example, that the admittedly moving plot of Atonement would have worked half as well if the Dunkirk soldiers’ singing hadn’t magically – in a moment of almost breathtaking pathos inducing beauty – morphed with the orchestral soundtrack. I almost fell over when I heard this, except I couldn't because I was in Goa, on a hostel bed, so not too many places to fall. Partly wonderment is down to the sheer skill and artistry demonstrated by the person responsible for bolting soundtracks together, and partly because it was just so fucking poigniant.

I don’t come from a particularly macho family – as an older brother to three sisters, that was always gonna be a hard one to pull off anyway, but I can count my dad as introducing me to one of the bawl-tracks mentioned below. Whether or not he cried when listening to is, I’ll never know because I wouldn’t ask him. It’s mostly a private business this crying to music bolllocks, and the only reason I’m sharing it with the world is that I doubt I’m alone. But fear not, I shall return shortly to the joys of assembling flatpacks, the trams of Croydon, or something else more prosaic.

So there it is, my confession. And also below, is some of the music that does it.



Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto in A Major, Adagio
Surely one of the most gorgeous pieces of music ever committed to score? So, its Mozart. So, you’ve heard it a thousand times before. For a reason.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zsvgIW2YMWA&feature=fvst


Wendy Carlos/JS Bach – Brandenburg 3, part 3
Two things turned me onto electronic music. The second thing was discovering under a Chiswick bed and covered in dust, the Moog Prodigy, belonging to my then-girlfriend Nicola's dad and just having to footle with it. The first was being played this, aged 4 by my dad who I think was as besotted with it at the time as I became later. Works on so many levels. I’m so glad myself and Ms Carlos met while I was such a musical virgin . It was the best selling classical music record of 1968. Not surprising.

I could not find the exact track on Youtube – Ms Carlos seems rather precious about copyright for whatever reasons. Here's something from the the other end of the same concerto “in the style of”.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XJo5q-SbvT0


Livin’ Joy – Don’t Stop Moving
A complete change of tempo and style here. Early 90s dancey,ravey floorfilla with heaps of Korg M1 piano, one of the most evocative sounds from this generation. This track is actually a piece of utter smileyness and never fails to put a humongous stupid grin on my face even during the depths of depression (and there have been some prize moments). And it makes me bawl out of sheer euphoria. One of the most positive lyrics going methinks.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XIbFO-kXeyU


One Day Like This – Elbow
I can’t think of a more poetic, beautiful love song than this - I tell you, when I look at these lyrics, I suffer from extreme song envy. Guy Garvey sure knows how to sum up what it might be like to grow old with someone. And the orchestration, my goodness! Overflows with joy and optimisitc good vibes. Guy Garvey might have a show on 6 Music known as his “Finest Hour”, but this was easily his finest 6 mins, 51 seconds. If someone ever wrote me a song like this, I'd be boholden to them for-bloody-ever!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QfVejpYc8Zc



Little 15 – Depeche Mode
It's the key shift DOWNWARDS starting n verse 3 wot does it. Aaaarrrgghh.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SfA2U4V2DZY


Nervously – Pet Shop Boys
Chris Lowe, the “other half” of the PSBs, knows how to combine textures in sound and chords to break the heartstrings of the toughest hod carrier. The schmaltzter is aided and abetted by one of the kings of analogue synthesis, Harold Faltermeyer, let loose on this number.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eS30s3X5ccM
(as an aside, I've just noticed that these two last songs are in the same key – coincidence?)


Set You Free – N-Trance
More dancey stuff that shouldn't fit into the mould of a classic bawl song but does - for me. This is a kind of lament to lost youth and quite likely reflects possibilities never fulfilled. Can almost see myself, aged 24, wondering in a scratching head, “doh!” sort of way what would happen next and not fully recognising the opportunities being dangled. I have relatively few regrets, in life, but there *are* some, and this is one of those songs which can transport me back to that less responsible, almost but not quite carefree period.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pWbmmsH4SJU


Please comment and add your tracks if you're man (or woman) enough to do it. Come on, I am not alone, am I?

Ad's eats: Chutney's

Address: 124 Drummond Street, Euston, London NW1

For the review, click the link:

http://boo.fm/b356945

This blog post is not like others I've made so far. So, here's a bit of information about it.

After being introduced to the audioboo concept by Jen F, one of my followees/followers, on Twitter, I though I'd give try it out in order to do something which I do on this blog anyway, which is to knock up a restaurant review. If you're too wimpy to click on the link above and find out, a an audioboo is a recording you make on your laptop or phone, which then gets sent to Twitter, Facebook and Linkdn - or whichever combination of the three that best suits.

The concept is neat because its immediate and can actually be done in the restaurant concerned, providing you've got a decent 3G connection or wi-fi availability. But the fact that you can produce a singing, dancing review in five minutes rather than half an hour, is an idea which appeals to the king of laze that is myself.

This review, for a restaurant I know and very much love, Chutney's, is my first attempt at such a review,

One thing I should have mentioned, simply because I try to do this on the blog, is mention whether the place is guide dog friendly: well, this place has handled a whole barrage of bouncing, biting and woofing beasts without batting a metaphorical eyelid.



(by the way, if you wish to follow me, the my moniker is daggersduck, spelled like the quacking animal this time, not like some member of the illiterati as per this blog).

The Upminster swastika?

Found in the ticket hall at Upminster Bridge station. Does this look like a swastika to you too? Bloody hell.

The fall of the great British phone box - kinda

A few days ago, I was in Kingston, Surrey. I used to hang out here quite a lot when I was in my teens, and pleased to see that the object shot below is still there, aherm, *several* years later. Back then I never had a camera ready. It was chekcing out girls with my mates that was really on my mind (Ealing Broadway, Kingston and for some reason Epping were good check out spots - I wonder if they still are?). All three places are wealthier than average by the standards of London suburbs, but Kingston *just* had the edge on class - nicer clothes and better hair. Ealing ruled for the amount of skin on display though (and it was only a quick 207 bus ride away for me too which was handy...anyway, digression, digression).

I thought at the time that these phone boxes were going to be an installation - here today, gone tomorrow. But it appears the domino booths were a permanent fixture. I wonder what their history is, why they are here at all, and why they remained? Anyhow, at last I got a piccy this time round.

The picture is not all that well framed as I was conscious of people walking around, so it was a quick snap 'n'' go jobby.

Ad's eats: Brilliant Restaurant, Southall, Middlesex

Food: Indian
Contact details:
72-76 Western Road, Southall, Middlesex UB2 5DZ
www.brilliantrestaurant.com

We visited The Brilliant in Southall, Middlesex, today. As I grew up in nearby Hayes, I was miffied that during my time there, my parents had never taken me here, as it had a good rep even back in the early 80s - it is actually a Southall institution, having been in the same area since the early 70s. As Southall is one of the demographically "Indian" suburbs in Britain, let alone London, calling your restaurant The Brilliant in this environment is almost a taunt: "come, criticise me, tell me I'm not brilliant, tell me I'm rubbish". In its favour, it has won plenty of awards. But the only award that matters to us (insofar we came from distant suburban East London to be here) is what we think of it. Will we return? Will we recommend it to our friends? Was it in fact, brilliant?

Let's find out.

Firstly, the guide dog situation. It is really, really difficult to eat Indian or Chinse while being accompanied by a guiding beast. There is a point, after you've had maybe the third or forth row about whether the dog is allowed in, when you just assume that you will go into an eating establishment, all guns blazing. Though I refuse to take nonsense from anyone about this (to refuse a guide dog is breaking the law and ignorance is no defence in my opinion). Not a problem in The Brilliant, perhaps aided by the fact that one of the staff was obviously a dog lover and wanted to pet Nicki the Labrador while she was being good beneath the table. They get a huge brownie point for the no-fuss welcome. What a relief.

The decor here is cool but in a friendly, inviting way, with dark wooden floorboards, spotlights and a clean, no-fuss style that doesn't intimidate but still has enough sophistication, suggesting this interior design has been thought through. No job lot tables here - everything is in dark brown and dark orange. All just-so. (9 out of 10).

Our service was friendly and the food arrived in a timely manner without any hanging around (a pet hate of mine is being left for ages after the main course before your dessert order is taken). Service then was brisk and polite. (9 out of 10).

We ordered poppadoms as a pre-starter. I tend to find that a good, crisp, not-too-greasy poppadom indicates how the rest of the meal will turn out I was right on this occasion, as we'll see. By the way, we ordered spicy poppadoms and blow me down, they were peppery. Fortunately, we both love pepper and there are plenty of chutneys to dump them in to assist sweetening them up and bringing down the heat level a bit.

Our starters were tilapia fish pakora (9 out of 10). The high mark is given for the light batter made of gram flour, which didn't in any way kill off the delicate flavour of the fish. I had meat samosas, filled with finely minced lamb. I give these 7 out of 10 - better than average and good quality meat.

For the main course, we had a lamb curry which Lynn described as basic but tasty and awarded it 6 out of 10. I had the lamb masala which on the menu, was described as coming with a thick sauce flavoured with ginger, tomato and garlic. It left nothing to be desired: this was a dish delivered exactly what was promised. I can barely think of anything to fault it on and will give it a full 10 out of 10 because it really was that good. Bravo. If my stomach had been any larger I would have gone for second helpings.

Desert was a better than average pistachio kulfi which I'll give 7 marks for. It was served on an unusual long plate which didn't do anything for the flavour, but did add a little interest presentation-wise.

So overall, was the Brilliant, brilliant. I think so. It is one of those establishments where you think every award was justified and gained from hard work and attention to detail, as well as old fashioned customer service, rather than from "I'll scratch your back if you give me a plaudit" mentality. There are few Indian restaurants this good in my view and I would go there far more often if only had the fortune to live closer.

Finally, if you are interested in finding what what good places there are to eat at, places that also have good accessiblity (eg, guide dog friendly, helpful staff when it comes to menu reading, etc) then may I recommend the Access-Eat blog written by Graham Page. It can be found at:

http://access-eat.blogspot.com/

it mainly concentrates on restaurants and pubs in east and central London with occasional soirees to the home counties too.

Heston's pie: suck on this

When I think of Heston, being an ex-Westie, I think of the service station on the M4 not a million miles away from my childhood home of Hayes, Middx. That, and perhaps, the book "Crash" by JG Ballard, set in and around this area, though a somewhat fictitiously located Northolt and Shepperton are also mentioned in this novel. Anyhow, I digress...

Heston, for the purposes of this blog entry, is a reference to Heston Blumenthal, owner of the Fat Duck in Bray, near Maidenhead, where they apparently use Bunsen burners, chloroform and nitrous oxide as part of cooking methodology. Waitrose hired him to create some of their not so cheap pies. And so he has. These are housed in wee boxes, right next door in the chill cabinet to the normal Ginsters pasties, porkie pies and other cooked pastry-with-meat delights.

I like pies. People who know me know this. And I know what I like in pie. A pie must have good, slightly crispy but not burnt pastry, with copious butter mixed in. And the filling should be loaded high, with lots of what it says on the packet contained within. If it says steak, one chunk of ratty crap is not good enough. No, there should be whole cow buried therein. Pie Minister pies have certainly got what it takes, though you may need an extension on the mortgage to purchase one.

And so be the case equally with Heston's creation. The filling - in this case chicken, bacon and leek - was plentiful, with loads of cream and a good dash of tarragon for flavour. All in all, a happy sort of pie. The sort of pie to come and see you, make me smile. But there is a dark side.

Remember, I mentioned that this this pie was in the chiller cabinet? Well, what I think when I buy a pie from such a location is that the pie is cooked. Well, it wasn't. I ate the pie on the tube after spending far too long travelling and becoming rather hungry. This evening's tubes were rubbish and my hunger was increasing. So I popped open the pie box and found....

....raw frigging pastry. Raw pastry. Yes, it was raw. And it was glutinous, sticky and - yes, I say it again without shame - raw. The filling wasn't. That's the weird thing. Naturally, by this point, my hunger was that of a rabid wildebeest deprived of zebra for maybe three or four months. It had to be eaten. It was, and I quited liked the filling.

But Heston, old son, old pal, old bean. Puh-LEEEZE tell us on the box that the thing needs slinging in the oven for 30 minutes (a fact I discovered by my second bite) before committing it to mouth.

I can't grade this pie out of ten simply because I've never eaten such a weird one. I'll give it a go though:

Filling: 8
Pastry: 1

If you can beat this pie eating experience, please let me know by popping a comment on this post.

The blog is back!

Back on the blogger at last, having been a WordPress kinda guy (with the travel blog). Hope to see you soon.