Tag Archives: council

Londoner's LIfe 21 – By Phil Ryan

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The big sleep is over and now we begin to take stock of the year ahead. And for Londoners the hardest thing to come to immediate terms with are the usual high price rises on the tubes, trains and buses. It now being cheaper to travel in London by car! Honestly I worked it out. 2 people in a car popping across to say Camberwell (not of course via the congestion charge zone that’s only for the super-rich and white van drivers). Not very green I’ll grant you but very nice. Comfortable and clean. You get to listen to your own music and not the tinny wasp farting noises from the headphones of the JB sports clad gimp in the hoodie glaring at his iphone from a seat saying for pregnant ladies and the elderly. In an average sized car you shouldn’t use more than a fivers worth of fuel per trip. Cheaper than two Oyster card worth of trips. Of course there are a few drawbacks to this concept. Thanks to Camden and Westminster Councils whose Chief Executive Officers are more like Afghan warlords than public servants nowadays you can’t stop easily. Not without facing the ludicrous parking charges and restrictions they so delight in inflicting on us AFTER public consultations. Where are these public consultations? We had one in Camden once about the greatest con trick of all – the dreaded Residents Permits (or a tax to use your own street every year). The Council sent out a questionnaire using hysterically loaded questions. DO YOU WANT STRANGERS FILLING YOUR STREETS AND RAPING YOUR FAMILY? Tick A or B. You know the sort of lies they use. A bit like the new green re-cycling madness. I now have SIX bins. I’m not making this up. Everyday some trucks trundle up and down my street taking away stuff. It’s getting very specific. I saw a bin by a bus stop that said only suitable for 18th century manuscript paper with a picture of Jane Austen on it for the hard of hearing.

But in an Olympic year my favourite new London game is spotting the very tenuous Olympic links everyone is using to push prices up. Of course top of the charts are those soulless parasites the London estate agents. Every borough I’ve been in recently apparently is perfect to access the Olympic stadium from according to estate agents boards and ads. Including far flung spots like Barnet, Roehampton and Ilford presumably viewing the Olympic Park by radio telescope. Of course there are those local areas directly around the stadiums who are also twinned with Helmand Province in the safety stakes which they handily fail to point out! I’ve also realised the prices going up now will presumably not fall afterwards despite the fools and suckers buying an overpriced flat to see a waste of money that only lasts a month. That’s property in London I guess. But many new terrorized folk will at least be able to shuffle around the Stratford Westfield shopping centre or take in the empty velodrome. The great legacy is getting vaguer. But the areas are certainly being built up. Mainly ‘so called ‘luxury’ apartments with names like The Point, The Wave and The Shoe Box (I made the last one up) But take a wander around Canning Town station to see the ghastly rabbit hutches being thrown up left right and centre. With ceiling heights too low for the average hobbit and walls thinner than a cream cracker these ‘architect designed’ monstrosities will presumably fill up quicker than Cheryl Cole at her next sacking. And bizarrely they all have tiny balconies allowing them to see other people on their tiny balconies. Just a sample of the new examples of the wonderful ‘design’ we can expect over the coming property developers feeding frenzy Olympic year.

And on the subject of London’s ever changing design I have to say the new layouts around Exhibition Road in South Kensington are just very surreal. Apparently it’s all based on a Dutch concept of ‘space sharing’. In plain speak it means ripping up the pavement, covering the surfaces of the roads and streets with curious red and white flat cobblestones and then letting pedestrians ‘share’ the road space with cars. It’s akin to the way that South Africans ‘share’ the coast line with Great White Sharks. I was having tea in Le Pain Quotidien amusing myself by watching baffled tourists soiling themselves as various Buses and cars apparently mounted the side streets they were walking along and chased them. Window shopping suddenly stopped being ‘charming’ instead becoming a kind of game of chicken. It’s a very nice concept. A bit like socialism. But in practice it turns a quiet stroll into a dice with death. Very exhilarating I’m sure but not great for the terminally nervous. And as for the locals do they like it. No not really I was told. But did they care? No not really. It’s a London thing.

Londoners Life 8 by Phil Ryan.

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Londoners Life 8 – by Phil Ryan

Well, in London, Christmas and the New Year are truly over now. It’s the end to that weird kind of period of semi-social vacuum. Londoners generally indulge in the early sales tradition (strikes permitting) and catching up with all the less important friends on their list. It’s a brief respite that many enjoy. But now we’re all back with a vengeance – coping with the new EVERYTHING IS GOING UP mantra that the London authorities are now teaching us to swallow.

From Oyster Cards to restaurants, the price of everything is on the increase. But the London way is to shrug and just carry on as usual. I watched people on the London News just rolling their eyes at the various reporters’ daft questions. As if to say: “Huh? This is London – plus we have no choice. Asking us how we feel is a pointless exercise. We don’t have time to feel! We’re Londoners. Busy busy.”

So what are my London predictions for this year?

Well, house prices don’t seem to be heading down, no matter what the market does. So expect the rental market prices to keep heading skywards. And the price for first-time flat buyers to remain tantalisingly out of reach – unless you’re 12 and from Qatar or Russia – in which case you’ll buy the building from your pocket money. Plus you’ll sadly notice an explosion of posher estate agents appearing in your area. Luxury properties will remain immune to the price issues and continue to rise. You’ll see the expansion of trendy middle class folk fleeing to Lidl and Aldi (as seen in all the fashion mags where various ladies enthuse about their products) and you’ll see lots more branches of said lower cost German brands appearing.

I visited a friend the other day and they were enthusing about their tins of low cost and catchily named schweinekartoffelaffensuppe from those lovely well-known folk at Krauten Valley Fabrik GMBH and some huge packets of weird looking cakes called Kuchenzuckertortestrassezitrone from Panzer Backerie 17. The kids love them apparently, but are now all diabetic.

You can expect a lot more London local high streets to empty of smaller shops and fill with shuttered fronts as the huge shop opening programme of Tesco and Sainsbury continue to suck the life from them. In my own area, we have two mini Tesco’s about eight minutes from each other, now to be joined in a month’s time by a Sainsbury’s sandwiched in between them. Convenient, yes. I suppose. Food quality, sadly crap!

So, expect more small shops to bite the dust in droves, aided by the ever-increasing ramping up of parking revenues from London Councils now sending ever growing hordes of Parking Attendants, or whatever new name they’re calling them, out onto the streets scaring customers away. Check out the new parking times arriving near you soon. In many areas, meters will soon run from 8.30am until midnight. As I say – you can drive where you like in London – you just can’t stop. Well, not without giving up your life savings anyway. Which means more local small shops will vanish thanks to the Council’s greed.

Unsurprisingly, because of the economic factors you’re going to see a lot more churchgoers this year. Especially among the young and fashionable. It’s a trend that’s expanding. Cool churches with bands and singers. More of an open mic night with Jesus. So Sundays are going to get busier in your area. But the crowds will all turn the other cheek which is nice.

Apart from that the Olympic juggernaut will roll on – relentless ads of people telling us how fantastic it’s going to be interspersed with the truth about ludicrous and impossible ticket prices, private roads for Olympic fat cats and the fact that the Government will be flogging all the buildings and venues to Overseas companies at knockdown bargain prices when the whole ghastly thing is over.

And expect the Underground to get worse if that’s possible. Regular upgrade closures and strikes will really be the order of the day. Hmm. That’s about it. Oh yes, I nearly forgot. Expect the West End to overflow with even more film to musical adaptations this year. I see ‘Shrek the Musical’ is on its way (good God!).  I was looking forward to ‘Saw IV the Musical’ myself but apparently it’s not been written.

So predictions over. Something I’m noticing is that real theatre is now virtually on its knees in London. It’s only kept alive by smaller groups and brave theatre collectives thankfully, but the big boys seem to have thrown in the towel generally. Three new plays came into the West End last year. Wowee! (we should take Kevin Spacey’s passport away to stop him leaving – he’s almost singlehandedly propping up real theatre – give him a knighthood or something I say)

Finally, while I’m on the subject of entertainment, this is the year of relaunches of various new London Clubs,  including the Blitz Club and possibly some new remakes of closed venues. But it will be interesting to see if the money and the appetite is there to support such ventures.

The London appetite for nostalgia shows no signs of abating as I also notice lots more old fashioned Tea Rooms opening up. Proper ones too, I’m pleased to report. Not the organic designer kind. Real cakes. Normal teas.

So that’s it. Predictions REALLY over. Doom and gloom with glimmers of hope here and there. But will any of this stop us having a good time? No. Not in the least. It’s a London thing.

Money For Nothing – And The Trick’s No Fee

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When Britain lost the War of American Independence in 1783, we nonchalantly withdrew, safe in the knowledge that the fledgling nation had taken on board our delights of fighting a Civil War, and subjugating and exterminating the indigenous people.

Meanwhile, Britain returned to its attempt to turn every schoolroom world map a lurid shade of pink as the British Empire expanded by wont of deciding we knew far better than the cultures of vast swathes of Africa and Asia.

From such unlikely beginnings, our special relationship with the USA has grown and grown. We were never so glad to see our former foes fight alongside us in The Great War, and there can be no doubt that the influx of tens of thousands of American troops turned the tide of a muddy, bloody stalemate.

And, while late to the party again in World War II, American forces once more helped to bring an end to six years of devastating conflict. Meanwhile, GIs (Overpaid, Oversexed, Over Here) brought nylons, gum, jazz and chocolate to a beleaguered and grey England, while getting brides – and surprise children – in return.

Glossing over our penchant for gambolling playfully at America’s feet in gratitude and thus embroiling ourselves in two unwinnable guerrilla conflicts in the Middle East, our tradition of cultural exchange continues to this day.

They gave us Elvis Presley, we gave them the Stones and Beatles. They gave us Hollywood glamour and Marilyn Monroe, we gave them Carry On and Ricky Gervais.

Not forgetting that Halloween barely existed as an event in Britain when I was a kid. The first trick-or-treater I ever heard knock on the door was around 1983.

Faced with one of the local children proclaiming ‘trick or treat’ on the doorstep, my puzzled mum replied: “Trick!” There was a brief, equally baffled pause before the child went to find someone more clued-up.

And though I’ve been a long time out of High School, I don’t recall any talk of Prom Nights in Britain until around the late 90s. The UK didn’t go in for that sort of thing, probably because the film ‘Carrie’ scared the shit out of everyone in 1976.

Suffice to say, my last day at school consisted of a myriad of shirt signings, revenge on those who had royally pissed you off during the year and hasty fumblings with girls who had suddenly become more romantic and attractive as the parting of the ways beckoned.

I digress.

Something else we’ve learned from America is how to sue.

The USA is the most litigious country on the planet. Frankly, you can get sued in America at the drop of the hat, particularly if that hat then trips someone up. And now, we’ve cottoned on to making a fast buck in the same way.

Students, the unemployed or unemployed students who, between watching Jeremy Kyle’s show about British pond life and David Dickinson’s mahogany features on The Real Deal, are no doubt familiar with those ‘no win, no fee’ adverts from legal types.

They tend to show various idiots who have fallen off ladders, tripped over lethal plastic box-ties, or swallowed a pint of weed killer in a misguided attempt to eradicate their own gene-pool, and are now holding fat cheques after successfully blaming someone else for their own incompetence – albeit not quite as fat after the victorious lawyers have taken their mammoth commission.

Trouble is, it’s really no joke. Councils now spend tens of thousands of pounds on compensation every year, ranging from people falling over pavements, being grazed by falling tree branches, hitting heads on low signs and, in the case of a landmark ruling against Hounslow Council, a £100,000 payout to a couple with learning disabilities, who were subjected to abuse by their neighbours.

Regardless of the rights or wrongs of the latter judgement, it doesn’t take a mathematician to realise that if people weren’t suing the council for tumbling over uneven pathways, there might be more money available to get them fixed.

Meanwhile, a number of councils have realised it’s cheaper and easier to fell mature trees rather than put up with the fiddly business of keeping them maintained and so cure the problem of possible conker-shaped bruising.

Speaking of cures, doctors and hospitals now routinely take out malpractice insurance in the event of a legal challenge. Not that loved ones shouldn’t have the right to compensation when something has gone wrong, but there’s something definitely amiss when a man sues the NHS for allowing him to get to 70st.

As Barbara Ellen sagely pointed out in The Observer: “I’m confused. Did his GP say to him, ‘yeah, you look great at 50st, just keep eating”? As he ballooned to the point where it became a military operation to get him to hospital, were nurses feeding him fry-ups? Well, no. Paul Mason is now 37st, thanks to gastric surgery performed by the NHS.”

So, thanks to all this ‘fall down, get rich’ culture, we now live in a Health & Safety wonderland, where school trips are cancelled because of fears of litigation, packets of peanuts come with the disclaimer ‘warning, contains nuts’ and cards for two-year-old toddlers state ‘not suitable for children under 36 months’.

I would go on, but I’ve inadvertently crushed my fingers with the iMac after rooting around for a stray crisp. Now all I have to do is find the name of a good lawyer and Apple’s arse is mine.

Image: Chris Sharp / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

http://www.freedigitalphotos.net/images/view_photog.php?photogid=584

The Londoner Life Part 2 October {Opinions}

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The Londoners Life – October – By Phil Ryan

If there’s one thing that vexes the average Londoner it’s the state of public transport. Mainly because it doesn’t actually work often. It sort of nearly functions. I marvel at the regular announcements on the Underground. Today we have a good service. Two things always strike me about these announcements. One is they are setting me up to get ready for the bad service days by alerting me to the fact that to every equal there is an opposite. And the second is the thought why announce that the system is doing what it’s supposed to be doing. That’s like walking into a restaurant and the waiter coming over and announcing they have plenty of food. That’s the point isn’t it? But once you’ve managed to actually struggle around in the day on our crumbling and ever fragile transport infrastructure the next even more pressing problem is the late night options. And these can be summed up in three words – The Night Bus.

These are effectively large slow moving vehicles designed to contain as many drunks and werewolves as possible. Sprinkle in the few members of the occasional psychotic street gang, the unconscious guy who smells of vomit, and the elderly man wearing a tin foil helmet singing in a curiously low mumbling voice and voila – you have an average Night Bus passenger manifest. Where it says destination they might as well put Narnia. As the doors open the smell of alcohol and chips hits you, you nod at the driver cowering behind his bulletproof glass, he shrugs and off you go. It’s like buying a lottery ticket. And interestingly offers the same complete element of chance. I once got onto a Night Bus in Camden Town. It was packed. So I made my way upstairs onto the top deck. It was full of silent people all dressed in Gorilla suits. I went back downstairs. London. With its unique social fabrics. Difficult to fathom.

Just like asking people for directions. No matter what area you are in, if you pull the car over and tentatively call to a passerby they will do one of three things. Run in terror. Blatantly ignore you. Or smile and say they are not from round there. It’s guaranteed. I now believe that every morning everyone in London goes to a completely different area. Everyone. En masse. They walk around. Fill the cafes. Sit in the offices. Thus guaranteeing nobody is from anywhere local ever. A month back I was in Balham. Somewhere. In a friend’s car. Late and lost. First I tried the obvious approach of asking people walking by. They displayed the three standard characteristics I mentioned earlier. Then I went into a shop. Three guys behind the counter. Sorry mate they chorused. We’re not from round here. It was a 24 hour shop. When did they have time to be anywhere else? A conundrum. But paling into insignificance compared to the new phenomenon that I now struggle with. Re-cycling confusion.

I now have four bins. I used to have just one. But now I have two yellow bags. A brown bin. A blue bin. A green box. Four collection days. And a handy explanation guide from the Council. Written by a dyslexic gibbon. It’s the new thing. Re-cycling. In reality it means stuffing your home with small piles of waste. Rotting food. Great stacks of paper and cardboard. It’s like living in a well furnished refuse facility. The only thing missing is a flock of seagulls and a bunch of those weirdos who turn up in orange boiler suits on weekends. The ones that find a broken chair and reclaim it. They carefully fix it up until it looks just like a broken chair covered in gaffer tape. Coincidentally one lives next door. My next door neighbour is a pinched face woman. She wears one of those knitted Peruvian hats. Her dog is called Krishna. A keen re-cycler she once told me. I’d commented on her orange boiler suit with ‘This is my Planet’ stencilled on the back. And I made the mistake of asking her to explain the new system to me. Sadly she explained it. For an hour. I went back inside. I’d been doing it wrong. I’d been mixing paper with plastics. Food with waste. And batteries with old nuclear warheads. It was ridiculous. I felt bad. I was destroying the planet singlehandedly. But then that’s the whole idea. To put you off balance. As they guilt trip you they can now charge little bits of extra cash. For special waste bags. To pay for new trees in the area. To keep the park nice. To mow the verges. To stop the icebergs from melting. To save the Patagonian purple booby hawk. A Green levy they call it. To pay for things your Council tax used to pay for anyway. I once met my local Council leader. He smilingly told me they ship all my rubbish to China. Very green. Ten billion gallons of diesel and a filthy old cargo ship chugging from Camden to Shanghai. Oil slick trailing behind it. I hate my Council. I have to. But all Londoners do. It’s a London thing.