Weekend in Lille

Just had a blast on the Eurostar to Lille, Northern France. Journey pleasant and so was the city, mainly.

So what is there to say about Lille? OK, a few thoughts:

Good

Great food, wonderful Normandy and Breton cider. I could get seriously addicted to it. People not half as stroppy as Parisians, though even New Yorkers with their rep for surliness lose out here. Paris has got to have some of the least tourist friendly bods around, although I admit, it is a beautiful city.

Lille's Metro (or VAL) is one of the best in the world. Small, regular trains which have two speeds. Stop or full speed. They are automatic and if only London Underground could invest in some of this technology the tube would be a much pleasanter way to travel. I was deeply impressed with Lille's metro system, although it is only two lines.

Some lovely central areas not blighted by tourism.

The mad, bad Sunday market. Highly recommended for its size and scale. Very popular with the locals - make sure you come armed with your London elbow since no-one will move for you. This isn't out of a sense of rudeness (in fact, Lillians - or whatever people from Lille call themselves: Lilloise??) don't have anywhere to move either. The number on 'pardonez-mois' and 'mercis' put us Londoners to shame. My parents love France and they always stress how polite the non-Parisian French are. True in this case. Its VERY cramped. A great vibe there there. Nice to hear the barkers hollering in French.

Our hotel was in a central, sleazy area in what passes for the red light district - its rather titchy. This means all night fast food joints, noise of people yelling and much ambient noise generally, and sadly this brings us to the bad point. I its the guy who wrote 'A Year in the Merde' who mentions the copious use of street cleaning machines in Paris. Well I can testify to the fact that there were at least two as possibly as many as four of them circulating round our part of town for most of the night. How to Parisians sleep through this racket? Do they wear earmuffs? Do the machines travel through the suburbs as well or just circulate in the centre? I really need to ask someone familiar with French city life this question because I know that it would drive me nuts, being the insomniac I am.

The other reason to avoid Lille, and I'd include the whole of France, is that Sundays and French tourism don't mix. The only shops open on a Sunday are restaurants (and I'm being kind to them by referring to them as 'shops') and station based newsagents/tobacconists etc. Even Paris was completely dead the Sunday we travelled to it four years ago, and we incorrectly assumed that this particular Sunday was some kind of public religious holiday. Nope, its always like that. So, like Germany, unless you've got family over there and therefore have someone interesting to talk to in their abode, then don't bother touring France on a Sunday because unless you enjoy engorging yourself on admittedly some of the finest food any nation can offer, all day mind, there really isn't much else to do.

Would I recommend it? Yes, its a more representative slice of real France. Just don't go on a Sunday and if you are there over a weekend, buy all the things you want to bring back with you - chocolates, cheese and northern French cider in our case - then get it on Saturday or not at all.

Don't go to Leyton if you ain't a Muslim

I used to live not so far from Leyton. I spent six happy years in Hackney and always thought Leyton to be one of those parts of London that had not been poncified by outsiders too much. It has rows of terraced houses and although the parades of shops are filled with kebaberies rather than chippies as would have been the case before the 70s, it was still, in my opinion, a bastion of real Londoners. Places where people like me, born here, could afford to set up home and intended to. Just the sort of place for me.




Oh darn, I should really consider converting before going here


Well, we missed the housing market boat too and moved out to Dagenham instead. Cheaper, but at least on the tube, and again, a London-y sort of place, even though some residents are proud of its ‘Essex’ identity. It didn’t get a London telephone prefix until the 60s. But back in Leyton, it seems I’d got it wrong all along – silly old me. Yes, as Abu Izzadeen reminded John Reid, Home Sec, that it is in a fact a “Muslim area”.

Oh yes, indeedy.

It wasn’t done with any sense of pride, or in the sense that a ‘Jamaican area’ might be blessed with white sands and aqua seas. No, it was in the Arnie sense of “get out, asshole”. His words to Reid were “"How dare you come to a Muslim area when over 1,000 Muslims have been arrested?" I’d forgotten that London was in fact an open city and as long as you keep to the law and remove yourself from trespassing on private property, you are basically free to travel anywhere you choose.

I was also reminded by the same person that "We believe Islam is superior, we believe Islam will be implemented one day. It is very rich for you to come here and say we need to monitor our children when your government is murdering people in Iraq and Afghanistan.”

A few reminders to this chap:

1. He is right, our beloved and oh-so-in-touch political elite has sent innocent soldiers to be butchered in a war that isn’t wanted by the majority of anyone and whose complexities are understood even less, Muslim or not. My sister’s boyfriend is one of those soldiers and deserves better, or at least potentially more random way of needlessly dying, say, by being hit but a drunk driver.

2. If Islam is truly superior, then let me declare now that I disagree. I, being a fat, ageing, grumpy fucker, think fat people who give copious grumpdom to the world, and who never receive any thanks for it, and who happen to be heading to towards their forties and all the sag that entails, are in fact the most superior people on earth. So naah naah na naah naaah to you, sonny Jimal.

3. If you really don’t even wish to start considering the possibility that even at its worst, a British (or at least Western) way of life is better the hell-hole you left to come and incite your racist, anti-democratic shit, then (expletive deleted) off, for the good of all of us. If Afghanistan is the logical conclusion of what happens when Islam is “implemented” (I still can’t get my head around what this might mean) then give me a Godless Sodom on speed every time.

And then politicians scratch their poor overworked heads when the BNP are gaining council seats You heard it from me first, or maybe not, but I’m very much afraid the only thing which will be “implemented” is the growth in support of the BNP, who are getting rather canny at picking off not only the usual suspect underclass white voter (my fellow Dagenham citizens being a case in point – and I don’t use the word ‘underclass’ in a derogatory sense, because I suspect I’m one of them, at least in the eyes of tosspots like Izzadeen). Even those whose families came from overseas in the 50s, 60s and 70s are allegedly joining. Those who have chosen to try and fit in with a society which is slowly acknowledging their vital necessity, and in the case of ex-commonwealth nations, their every damned right to be here. It hasn’t been an easy ride for them or us Anglos, but at least both sides, on the whole, have felt a need for friendship rather than race-hatred. Not a perfect ride, but a slowly moving truck in the right direction. I think Izzy would be happiest watching the attempts of his moderate brethren’s attempts to engage in dialogue jack-knife at high speed.

Mobile phone jihad

Here’s an example of how to sell an idea. Honestly, it really works.

1) First, take a pop at the opposition who has made a careless, and that’s being kind, speech. We’ll use X-Mobile versus 03 as an instance. X-Mobile has just “dissed” 03, saying that 03’s is a heartless company who exploit children and their phones kill people by irradiating their heads.

2) 03 refute this. They say that X-Mobile have caused them grief, hurt, have been slanderous &c &c.

3) There is no independent evidence to prove that what X-Mobile says is true. But on the other hand, there is no evidence to prove that X-Mobiile don’t share similar shady business ethics since all the company records are stored in locked cupboards guarded by Steve Irwin-slaying stingrays and black African boomslangs. Amusingly, the stringray with the longest tail and the sharpest sting is called “Allah”. But hey, it’s a free country isn’t it? And you can say what you like unless what you say is obviously slanderous. Of course, 03 say that it is, but don’t do anything about it, such as take X-Mobile to court or launch a counter-attack of any meaning, pith or logic. They just publicly whinge loudly about how hard-done they’ve been by X-Mobile.

4) Instead, just to prove how kid-loving their company is and how well they treat children, 03 then launch a campaign of killing kiddies who use X-Mobile handsets and setting black African boomslangs on their parents. Just for fun, they also have the odd pop at an innocent bystander or two. Voddy-fone and Banana’s customers occasionally find themselves being executed on the street while telling their ‘birds’ they’ll be 10 minutes late or travelling through Liverpool Street, Edgware Road or being unfortunate enough to be on the no. 30 bus. 3 ½ ‘s customers don’t stand a chance as they are allied to the ‘evil empire’ of X-Mobile by dint of sharing the same network when roaming in the Ukraine. They just get shot at.

If you think this is stupid, then this is what I think of the recent outburst by the Pope and the reaction to it by Islamists who claim to be peaceful individuals whilst happily shooting nuns.

Like I said, this really works and I intend to fly over to my nearest X-Mobile mosque on the way home from work to sign a 24-month, aherm, no, year, contract.

Iraq was and is crap and wrong, and fuelled on rather transparent lies. Even Americans know that now. Bush and Blair are really not popular guys at the moment. The Pope was probably not so well advised when he said what he said. But the reaction to it does NOT justifying killing anyone. If being a “peaceful” Muslim means killing everyone who isn’t, then I’m a peace-lovin' Hindu, baby.

Maybe I’m just a frigging infidel. Or maybe whenever I hear about Muslims kicking off once more I think about how I nearly lost my wife who was on the train behind the one that got blown on during 7/7. A train which came in from East London and therefore had a high probably of being packed with, guess who? Fellow “peaceful” Muslims. If the 9/11 and 7/7 murderers don’t have the care to give a shite about their brothers in arms, then really, they were a lost cause anyway. At least the IRA, until Omagh, had the decency to discriminate as to who was the enemy.

Having near-death of spouse rammed in your face – well, it kind of affects one, you know. I really don't want to dislike the whole damn tribe of Islam - its the ole racist cop-out I know, but my best childhood friend, for nearly 15 yeasrs was a Muslim, and like American, I don't have much of an axe to grind with those who I've met in the course of my life. But some of the loudest, bitter ones; the kind with the "I'm more victim than you'll ever be" mentality REALLY PISS ME OFF.

Bletchley Park and 70s TV games

Mrs DD, myself and a few mates went to Bletchley Park on Sunday, home of the Enigma codebreaking facility. The people there did a lot more than this or course, it also housed for a while Britain and world’s uber-geek, Mr Alan Turing, a pioneer if ever there was one. Like the Kelvedon “Secret” * Nuclear Bunker, it was a place that wouldn’t necessary jump out on anyone’s ‘must-see’ agenda, but I’d recommend a trip up there just to sample the atmosphere alone. You don’t have to be a code or WW2 junkie to enjoy it, although if you are either, there’s even more a chance that you will.

The most enjoyable part of the trip was spent about 2 minutes before the place closed at 5, however. In Block B, one of the main exhibition spaces was a selection of very old computers indeed, including my first real computer, an Amstrad PCW8512. Yes, I said . It wasn’t a Speccy anyhow, and did “real” work, like get me through my A levels, and a good chunk of my degree. ‘Twas sad to see the back of it, though given a race between the spellchecker and a three legged, drunken tortoise, the jury would be out as to who would cross the finishing post.

Nestling innocently amongst the 80s behemoths, including the first IBM PC, Amstrad PCs (I failed my A level business studies exam on one of these as hard drive corrupted all my work before getting to print, leaving nothing but random crap and a befuddled PC support guy), a BBC Model B, VIC 20 and C64, was a silver coloured box. I stared at it. It stared at me. I questioned it as to where the hell I’d seen its brother before.

Then…

EUREKA. The orange label read ‘SPORTEL’. My childhood friend Andrew, the kind of person for whom ‘My Perfect Cousin’ was written about, only he wasn’t my cousin, owned one of these. We’d spent hours playing Pong-like games on it, huddled around the telly at his parents’ house in Greenford. Bloody hell, nostalgia struck me with the impact of a class 375 Electrostar as it reaches warp speed between West Horndon and Basildump.



Those TV games, the ones that go bip-bip-bip-BIP as you paddle a couple of over-large pixels into a “goal”. Who needs Fifa 2006 World Cup Stimulator when your ‘players’ could consist of two long lines and a variable angle? For that, ladies and gentlemen, bought up on the X-box, was how they did it in 1977.

These Pong games may have had the brain of a mongol child, (well actually their “brain” was a General Instruments 8700 chip, mostly) but boy, were they fun if you were of a certain age (under ten I suppose would is about the right level of maturity that best suited).

The model pictured above, nicked from www.old-computers.com, wasn’t the machine I had, which was a Grandstand ten-gamer, but it was that my neighbours owned, and one that I deeply, deeply coveted in ways which only an eight year old boy sans cash, can. It was available at the Southall branch of Woolies for about £16. It came with a riffle. You’d aim it at the telly and try to knock out a flying ball (a bigger square of pixels this time). I still haven’t a clue how the technology works – magic I reckon - but if you managed to get your sights lined up the ball and fired just the right time, it would disappear and your score would go up by 1. I think 15 was the max you could get.

The end of summer, energy and the North-South divide

Last week, apart from being the usual hectic chasing-of-tail dance-e-tron at work, appears to be the last unofficial week of summer, with campsites being booked to capacity, parks full of evening picnickers, as was indeed the hardly beautiful Mile End Park on Thursday when we sat by bank of the Regents Canal eating kebabs. It seems that collectively society senses that if it is to indulge in summery things, this is the last opportunity we'll have this year.

I was cleaning up the living room earlier on, an onerous task, and my attempt at Spring cleaning, only 4 months too late this year. When I ventured out for some lunchtime rolls, the air contained a slight, but distinct winter chill. Between now and the time just before we return to Greenwich Mean Time and the need for the SAD light becomes a reality, is my favourite time of year weather-wise: the temperature is perfect for doing all those things you really ought to do in the summer, but for which activities its just too darn hot to accomplish. As summers go, its been a mixed bag in Britain this year. A promising start in March with clear days and reasonable temps, then one month of rain. The a heatwave lasting a fortnight, ending with hot, cloudy days. I think days like these, with temps at 15-17C, clear skies and no rain are about as good as they get. I'm not a heat freak, but the old current bun doing what it does best in the sky doesn't half elevate my mood.

Farewell summer. Hello autumn. And may winter be cold and crisp the way it should.

Only thing is - crisp and cold winter means a good excuse for the Russians to hike our gas bills and for the New Tories, the arrogant fools, to pretend to us that there is nothing they can do about it. And for us, John and Jane Q Public, to pay the expenses of these halfwit politicians who become less and less attached to the society we pay them to govern while they care less and less about our concerns, while spinning the bullshit that of course they do care, and they are listening like billy-o (Blair whittering on about this very same concern this morning made by blood boil - sorry pal, but your chance for listening was three years ago and you patently failed to do so). Our gas bill has doubled since we moved to Daggers six years ago. If anything, we use energy than we did then. I'm just so glad we're not into the fuel poverty zone. I don't think it can be long before the average earner, and not just the financially hard-up who will be struggling to pay for the lecky.

Earlier this week, a writer's comment in the Grauniad's Comment Is Free section shrieked out at me: presumably she was from the north, and she was complaining that Nu Labour were a London-centric conspiracy and had lost any support and any connection to the people of the north. England should be politically divided with a north-south barrier, she suggested. I'm going to have to correct her: I was born and raised in London and I reckon I have more in common with any brother and sister from the north than with the Notting Hillbillies in Government. Sorry love, but there are two, perhaps three Londons. Super-rich London and Rich London has as much contempt for those way out East where I am, as they they do for anyone from Yorkshire, Lancashire or Northumberland. And what about Cheshire, the Surrey of the North? - shouldn't the citizenry there be considered token Southerners? I understand her point though. Its just that just as some Londoners reckon that the M25 is the border at which it all ends, Northerners are just as guilty at assuming that because you're a southerner, you have a certain level of wealth and a fixed mindset. Can we get back to reality and substitute North/South with rich/average-to-poor? In which case, I'm a Yorkshireman through and through (actually, my surname appears to be most concentrated around East Lancs/Pennines so I may be a northerner by bloodline in reality anyway. Find out about your name at:

http://www.spatial-literacy.org/UCLnames/Surnames.aspx

Her point was she was pissed off at being governed from a mentally distant London-based bureacracy with little connection to where she lives and the kind of society in which she finds herself. Our house is 24 tube stops east of Westminster, but it might as well be 300 miles up the GNER for all the impact the kind of people who live here have on the ruling political class. These idiots seemed generally surprised that 11 BNP counsellors were elected in my borough last may. I'm not. I can put my hand on my heart and say that I don't believe this has anything to do with racism. The opposition where I live was non-existent. When all the bosses look and smell the same and you want a change, then anyone offering an alternative wins. There wasn't a Green or freak party candidate in sight to register a protest vote. So guess what....?

From this day forward, and just to make things straight, I declare that Dagenham is now a suburb of Manchester, in fact, the whole of southern Essex is coming your way, oh land of pigeon fancier and betrousered ferret. Its a reluctant move we make, for the simple reason that pie and mash doesn't sit easily on the northern stomach and so, as a kindness, we'll keep the consumption of such regional food to an absolute min and only after the 'bab shop closes. In order to show solidarity to real people, the removal men have been phoned and are coming soon.

Ee up lad.

Travelling to Harlow

Me and Mrs Daggerdukc travelled out to Harlow in Essex, a new town I used to work in during my twenties - Piers Morgan and i apparently frequented the same college, though I was a teacher of sorts. Anyway, while I worked there, I kind acquired a liking for the place and every now and then I've been bored, I've visited it just to see what new thing are going down. I'm particularly taken with the layout devise for it by Frederick Gibberd (sorry if I've spelt his name wrong, I'm feeling too lazy to crossref). I like the sense of green space all around the centre, and, although it is unashamedly car-centric, out of the all the new towns I've visited, this one seems to be built on a human scale. Though it has its fair share of blight and decay, it has stood well the test of time by comparison with say, Craigavon, where Mrs D'D originates from. Of all the planned-for utopias our governments have indulged themselves with creating for us proles, Harlow seems to have come out of the potential for dystopia rather well and old Gibberd can congratulate himself for having the foresight to plan the spaces so well, in harmony with the countryside around it and for refusing compromise when the government was urging new towns to cram as many citizens in as they could.

So - things to like about Harlow:

The sense of space.

The contrast between the green landscape and planned city feel - eg, the tower blocks planted in the middle of town which look out over green hills. The Lawns, built in 1951, is Britain's first tower block and now a grade II listed built, deservedly so.

It feels like a proper community has grown up. This is perhaps because the original settlers were picked from the North London boroughs of Islington, Edmonton and Harringey. Peterborough never felt like much a community when I spent a good deal of time up there.

The way it has had good times, bad times, but never so bad that it has tarnished the residents' in the same way that happened in Corby.

The fact that it has some great civic architecture without allowing middle class artists' indulgences to get the better of it. The Passmore pavilion in Peterlee, Co Durham, for example, is a building I rather like, but it was plonked into a working class district, probably in a well meaning gesture to 'better' the lives of the scum who live there (I'm not saying that Peterlee residents are scum, but they, like 99 percent of the rest of us, are seen as such by the great 'n' good. Harlow experienced nothing in a way of vanity art, but it did get a massive and very gorgeous town park which really does feel like the grounds of a manor house and must be considered one of the most well laid-out in Britain.

The fact that it is a town. With boundaries, which end. So all the sprawl is planned for sprawl - it hasn't just drifted outwards and outwards, being filled in with execu-homes when and where the big building companies decree that they'll spill them there.

Bad things about Harlow:

WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO THE WATER GARDENS AT THE SIDE OF THE HARVEY CENTRE? Could a Harlolw resident please answer me this question? This was my favourite bit of civic architecture OF ALL TIME and now the pisswits have killed them. Twunts. I almost cried when i saw the oh-so-average flats that now occupy the space. City centre flats are great and all that, but not at the expense this beauty.

The quite awful transport excuse-for-a-system. Not so much the transport links actually, which are up the crapola standard of any given provincial town in the South East, but the almost complete lack of information available. Like timetables on bus stops, you know. And the fact that its so close to London, but so inhabits a different world transport wise. My thanks must go to the chap(ess) who maintains the saucily named but essential www.harlowride.co.uk website. Despite it sounding like the punchline to an Essex girl joke, without the information which he or she must glean from thin air from what I can tell from looking around, a public transport user is screwed. Too many companies - no link, co-ordination or indeed anything between them. Typical mentally impaired Tory transport policies still in action. Kenny Livingstone, for making London's buses sane, for that in itself, I salute you.

In praise of Deptford - and Cuisine a la Leke

Mini plug for an area and a restaurant. A few weeks ago we went to a wonderful African restaurant in Deptford, SE8, called Cuisine a la Leke. Yep, ‘African’ is a bit generic but that’s how it describes itself so who am I to disagree. No dog trouble that is always a good start. Then after sipping some large bottles of Afro-beer, the food arrived. It was spicy (watch out for the ‘chilli gravy’), well cooked and came with a ‘rice cocktalk’ including joloff beans, peas and that brown rice beloved of Nigerian restaurants everywhere in London. Happy, smiley, genuinely NICE service. A restaurant I’d be happy to recommend to anyone. Go there and thank me later. Its at the top of Deptford High Street which has been voted the ‘UK’s most diverse High Street’ (http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/london/4292533.stm) and really does have a great atmosphere, a fantastic range of shops, and houses some of the finest urban eateries in the whole of London. Special mention must be made of the Orient Chinese, which I would happily vote as London’s best, certainly within its price bracket, which is budget-budget – and I’d say that even some posh restaurants would struggle to match the quality of the food here.

Take it from a Londoner – yes, one who admittedly spent three happy years living here as a student of nearby Goldsmiths’, but don’t let my bias put you off. An area for real Londoners, whose businesses are run by real Londoners. Long may it remain the scuzzy, colourful, delightful, diverse, dirty place that it always has been. Forget the touristy East End, take the train to Greenwich instead, but get off one stop too early. Then enjoy the exuberant, clotted heart of the real capital where clone-brand shops fear to tread. My only gripe? Where have all the pubs gone. The Noah’s Ark – RIP. The Scent of Urine (Centurion) – RIP. I recommend the Deptford Arms on the High Street, and also the White Swan, formerly Mamie O’Leary’s (which serves Thai food at the back). The Bird’s Nest in nearby Church Street isn’t a bad watering hole either. But it’s a far cry from its heyday when there were around ten pubs on the High Street alone. Still, much to recommend it.

Dagenham's new low point

If Croydon is hovering around the Man U/Arsenal area of the Premiership, Dagenham must surely now be in the Sunday league of chav towns.

When the local paaaaahnd shop is forced to close then you know a community is facing hard times. I took this while on my way home from work.

I like the rather optimistic message implying that this would be summer clearance. Oh yeah, right? That's why its truly closed.

Hot phone sex

Lest to so foolish as to believe the the office toy porn was a mere one-off, then how wrong can you be? This tasty clip shows who you are dealing with when you call one of those expensive 0906 numbers promising a good time. Be told, oh optimistic user, that are you not getting an overexcited student babe who needs to top up her grant. You aren’t even getting a grandma in Bangalore. No, you are getting this fella. There’s nothing he likes more than to give pleasure over the phone. And pleasure is what he’s experiencing to the max in this photo. Just remember him, next time you fancy a quick monkey thrash, and use the good old internet or a paper-based product from the Paul Raymond empire. Cos he’s never been on ANY guy’s mind.

Shankill Mural

What I understand about Northern Irish politics you could write on a postage stamp. My views, such as they are, are obviously informed by having in-laws with deeply held proddy beliefs. I was, however, quite pleased to be driver up the Shankill by my sister in law. I like Belfast - its a city I think could live in, anyhow, and it has all the features required by a London exile apart from maybe the tubes, the manic crowds and so forth. Socially, when compared to London, my wife's family's best estimate though is that NI society is about 20 years behind that of England; which can be a good and bad thing depending on how you look at it. Society there is pretty traditional, and there hasn't been the same level of immigration as say, to Dublin. But all this is changing fast and with the huge mostly untapped potential of the province up for grabs, I suspect that NI society is going to change faster than just about any other in the UK. Give it five years and Belfast will be the new Dublin. House prices have risen 25 percent in the last year alone, while the rest of UK's only managed eight. Investment for meaning projects would be a great benefit to the place and to the UK as a whole.

The future's bright...though not necessarily orange.

Fantasy babes

Anyone who knows me also knows that I'm into fat girls - I married one didn't I? No complaints, in fact, the bigger (and preferably taller) the better. On Channel 4 this eve, at 9pm, there is a fat girls' beauty pageant. I have high hoopes for this programme, and in the spirit of semi-pornographic beauty shows all over the world, here's my contribution - a description of my fantasy candidate:

"Deirdre is 34 and lives in Cheltenham with her parents after splitting up with her stupid, thin Peruvian boyfriend Zanaxxio. She has a 44 inch waist, 50 inch hips, weighs in at approximately 20 stone and 3 pounds and stands at 5 foot 11 inches. Dee has a delightful complexion of pale pink with freckles, large, green eyes. She sports russet brown hair cut short to her shoulders and is wearing the Stella McCartney tank-style bathing costume in powder blue, which reveals the ripples on her thighs to perfection. Deirdre works as a dinner lady in a local primary school, and performs stand-up comedy part-time, and her two wishes would be to alleviate child poverty in Africa and increase the size of her double-pneu."

PS, the programme was a pile of shite. Lots of shouting from a Northern Irish chick and not much else.

Harmondsworth - traffic hotspot

Harmondsworth is a village to the west of London near to where I used to live. I travelled over there to take a picture of the Hillingdon Hospital wall, a cacophony 1960s stained glass madness which captured my imagination as a very small child during a period where I seemed to be spending most of my days. The wall, as feared, has been PFI'd out of existence and its replacement is a rather miserable affair which I shan't dwell on. I'll try and get an old picture of the old Hillingdon Hospital wal though, it really is gorgeous.

But never mind - I trekked off to Harmondsworth on a 223 bus for a walk along the back roads to Harlington, a place where I once lived and enjoyed a great deal. Harlington, Sipson and Harmondsworth are places that time has left alone since the 70s and are all the better for this.

I like the picture - well not so much the quality of the snap, taken on my Nokia 7610,, cos its crap. This was taken on Harmondsworth Lane, not a spit away from Heathrow Airport. Its a quiet, almost country backwater. And yet, half way along it, are these set of traffic lights, which appear to be a fully configured set in that there is potential to control traffic both east-west ad north-south. But why? Firstly, the road going across the road leads to nowhere, unless you count a cornfield as a destination you'd be likely to visit.

Even better is that the traffic lights are turned OFF. The scene reminds me of the Depeche Mode album cover for Music for the Masses which feature red-painted air-raid sirens up the sides of mountains. Not as sinister I guess, but kinda nicely surreal.

Oops, wrong helpdesk

As well as being a computer slave, one of my jobs is to monitor the helpline for the database we use where I work. One of the users wrote this unintentionally amusing message this morning, which was meant, for site services. However, I couldn’t resist blogging this – or replying.


From: Anonymous user
Sent: 04 August 2006 08:54
To: Database Helpline

Subject: FW: Its still v e r y cold in our department



Good morning

It is very distressing that we come in early into the office and it is very cold. Yesterday you said it will take a little while, I stayed upto 6pm and it was still cold in then, nothing had changed, if anything we were all more cold. No one has come up here to check if the temperature was correct.

Also the vending machine does not work as I used to have hot chocolate for 20p, hmmm, I am sorry to complain but am sad about these matters.

Please help

Thanks
ANON USER


-----Original Message-----
From: daggersdukc, on Behalf Of Database Helpline
Sent: 04 August 2006 09:26
To: Anonymous user
Subject: RE: Its still v e r y cold in our department

Dear ANON USER

I'm sorry to hear about your complaints. We have been working hard to make Pivotal work for all our customers. However, although the main server has been working its little heart out attempting to process our many customers data, it is obviously not pumping sufficient levels of heat to make the office a comfortable place in which to work. We will try to remedy this by doing even more work, thus ensuring a climatically neutral office environment.

Also, while you will find that [name of database withheld] abilities are many and varied, I'm afraid that nobody asked us to spec in the ability to sell cold drinks and food.

PS - I think you need to email site services!

Yours, ironically

daggersdukc

Hot office action

What happens when you’re bored, at work, and are surrounded by cuddly toys?

This.

Here is my first picture of spontenously performed office porn, as demonstrated by the soft toys which congregate around mine and my colleagues’ desks.

In this picture, Clanger gets done by Green Dog. Zippy, the old prevert, ogles the lustful two in a lecherous manner. Just give him a plastic mac and h’d be a happy bunny – well, Zippy. Don’t worry, Zippy got his pecker out later. The shagging and lewd sexual acts were extreme and I know you, dear reader, wait with baited breath. Tomorrow’s dirt-packed entry will prove to be just as exciting. Just you wait and see.

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.