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Londoners Life 24 – by Phil Ryan

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Londoner’s Life 24 – By Phil Ryan
Abandon hope it’s snowing! I hope you all note that I your Frost London columnist predicted the snow! It arrived last night as I left a fantastic Thai restaurant on the Harrow Road (more of a café really as it’s the size of a large packet of cornflakes) But it’s called Boys Thai and its cheap and good. I got in the car to return home and all my fancy gizmos kicked in to stop me sliding all over the shop. But on my very slow and careful thirty minute journey home (usually fifteen) I passed three cars broken down and two crashes! Admittedly the wind was fierce and cold and the snow was falling steadily but wow. But it’s North London not Alaska. If the Iranians would switch from trying to make nuclear weapons to making snow we’d all be screwed! As I sit and write the airports across London are closed, the trains have virtually ground to a halt and only one or two tube lines are running a service. It’s barely three inches out there. I just measured it with a ruler.
And so my fortune tellers guide to the London media this week in sound bites (with the actual truth in italics).
Council spokesperson: “We had our gritters out immediately and found the snow fall outpaced our capacity. And of course our main priorities remain vital main roads as opposed to residential side streets” TRUTH “Sid and Kamil from the depot bumbled about a bit dropped a few tons of salt we had out the back in the remaining trucks we didn’t flog cheap five years back and went home. We haven’t got that much salt as it’s expensive and the lads don’t like going up side streets as they can’t drive at breakneck speed”
Airport spokesperson: “We would like to apologise to passengers for the ongoing disruption but we are attempting to maximise passenger safety” TRUTH “Listen cattle these planes ain’t cheap so we are not going to get any of them grubby or damaged just for you whiny lot. Plus what do you expect for £60?”
Government spokesperson: “The recent snowfall has been unprecedented however we have a good stock of road salt and are confident that our efforts to keep the roads and transport systems running will be successful” TRUTH “Suckers”
The Mayor “I would like to congratulate all my departments for their valiant efforts and my colleagues at TFL for keeping London moving” TRUTH “Every bloody year the same disaster er do you reckon the great unwashed will forget about it in the coming elections?”
So the cold weather will probably result in the usual paralysed city nonsense for a week or two and then we’ll forget about it and carry on like we do every year. My advice. Panic buy weird stuff to confuse the big 4 supermarkets. Don’t buy water and bread. Buy paper napkins and Peruvian Beaver tea.
And yes the London Mayoral elections are slowly unrolling. And of course it’s the usual two clowns. The Boris and Ken nonsense as usual. Not a decent candidate apart from that ex civil service woman Siobhan Benita who actually seems normal. But don’t quote me. You have Brian Paddick for the Lib Dems who seems to resemble Beaker from the Muppets more and more. His grand idea is to increase Police numbers in London until we all get our own constable apparently. Then for the Green Party that mad old bint Jenny Jones whose hair appears to expand year on year until she comes across as more of an animated shrubbery than a human. Her ideas include and I’m guessing here – free bicycles on the NHS – solar powered clothing and returning to living in caves to cut down on greenhouse gases. And in truth what do they all have in common? Taxation. Yes that’s about it. They all stand around dreaming up new ways to charge us for stuff that was once free and they promise us a glittering new future with wind powered triple decker buses made out of wicker and better schools etc etc. My local council Camden (or the Politburo as they are usually known) have been busily closing down most of the things we pay Council Tax for (begging the question what do I actually get for my money – answer – very little apart from an overbearing grim implacable bureaucracy) And now they’re handing over most of our libraries to small local consortia as they don’t want to pay for them anymore. And I like the idea in principle instead of them being closed and flogged to private vampiric property developers, although it’s great for Camden who can now waste even more of our money on digging up the streets on a monthly basis and voting themselves pay rises.
But local libraries could be the new community centres if the locals get it right. Cheap cafeterias, things for toddlers, the unemployed and the elderly. But how does it get paid for. Yes you’ve guessed it. We’ll have to pay for it. Not a lot mind I understand. A quid a go probably. Side effects local cafes won’t be delighted and nor will those who USED TO GET IT FOR FREE.
Ho hum. But finally back to the snow fall in London. I just watched the news and the truth is we’re doomed. Apart from the sounds of champagne corks popping in the British Gas offices I can hear nothing – just the sound of happy kids and damp parents from every park across town. But is it a problem? No buses no tubes no trains. Nah. Why? It’s a London thing.

 

 

Londoners Life 23 – by Phil Ryan

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Yes the cold snap is starting to hit London. Weather forecasts predict us being hit with snow flurries very soon. And we all know what London does when 2 centimetres of snow arrives! And just as we were coming to terms with the white death we then then got more scares over an oil depot going into receivership. Now we get stories about also being hit with petrol prices in London shooting up to £2.00 a litre and all of us freezing in our cars as we ran out of fuel in sub-zero temperatures on the M40. (Although I suspect they are just softening us up as they’ll get to that petrol price level within 6 months at this rate anyway regardless of oil depots closing – not including death on the M40) And for the first time ever I briefly toyed with the idea of one of those electric cars as I am noticing more of those blue charging posts as I whiz around town in my gas guzzler. But to be honest when all is said and done they are just old fashioned milk floats with a bit more comfort and zero style. I mean have you seen those G-whiz things. Is it me but does everyone who drives them look huge and somehow ghoulish – little eyes screwed in concentration as they avoid trying to hit a pigeon or a crisp packet which would probably spell instant death for them and anyone stupid enough to be their passenger. They look like damaged egg cartons with comedy tiny wheels where a human has been forced inside like some novelty act from Cirque du Soleil. And you can feel the smug waves coming off them from a hundred feet away. Look at me I’m saving the planet. But to balance it out they all look very weird and devoid of cool and have the tensile strength of a bowl of porridge. And yes I know the new Renault ones look a lot more cool – but still drive a Renault? However London of course is now leading the way with more and more electric vehicles now being put onto our streets to silently mow down children, the elderly and the slow moving. Many London Councils are rolling them out as Council vans and maintenance cars. Quiet death from your local service provider. Perhaps they’re thinning out the vulnerable in a bizarre cost cutting drive nothing would surprise me where local Councils are concerned. (I think Westminster have introduced recently culling of the poor haven’t they?) But the march of the electric car moves forwards. Green yes but you can’t hear them coming!!!! If I had my way I’d fit them all with a loud clockwork toy noise. That’d brighten up your day wouldn’t it?
One observation I’ll make is about the various foreign embassies we have across London. Some of them are in the weirdest of places. For instance Tonga’s embassy is in a residential street off the Hendon Way – how very glamorous. But others have very swish addresses in Knightsbridge and the West End. But my main thought is the amount of protests outside half of them. Concerned citizens of each country seem to now gather on a weekly basis to shout at those inside. I’m not sure the rulers of the various countries are paying much interest and my guess is they’re not actually in the building. The Ambassadors are probably somewhere else too – you know getting piles of Ferrero Roche at some fancy black tie function. So in effect the protesters are shouting at a bunch of secretaries and cleaners. But I realise they have to show these repressive governments that in London at least free speech is fine and dandy. Good luck I say. Although I do get a bit miffed when the protestors attack the poor police folk who turn up trying to keep the peace. I’m not sure it’s sending a signal to Syria to stop killing their own people by punching Constable Smith sharply on the nose. But when they protest here we’ll protect them which of course is right and proper. But then sometimes they shout about the fact that we in Britain shouldn’t let their bad governments stay in power while often shouting anti-western slogans. All very confusing I fear.
Now a new bugbear with me in 2012 is London Theatre ticket prices. They seem to be heading skywards and I’m not sure it’s healthy for good theatre. I realise that with rising rents and costs these shows are costly but come on. Half the theatres are up to £85 for a seat you can actually see the stage from and don’t even get me started on the cost of drinks and snacks. Just like cinemas and service stations it seems that theatres are now operating an ‘alternative universe’ policy. Whereby the costs of normal things are inflated to such an extent that people hand over the cash whilst still in a state of shock. On what world is a bag of Maltesers £5.00 and a glass of wine £9.50! I’d take all the impresarios knighthoods back just like they did to Mr Fred Goodwin. So Mr Macintosh and Mr Lloyd Weber tell me when is it reasonable to pay £5.00 for two mouthfuls of ice cream and £10.00 for a programme? A paperback novel costs less and has had a damn sight more creative energy poured into it. If you honestly want kids and anyone on a low income to embrace the theatre stop being so damn greedy. I originally thought that Wicked and Les Miserables were show titles not descriptions of how the pricing policy works and makes the audience feel.
Finally more rip off nonsense from The Olympic legacy Company. It seems that us Londoners have paid £93 billion pounds to give away land, housing and stadiums to a host of private companies who will charge us through the nose to either visit or use facilities we’ve already paid for! I think every scrap of Olympic housing stock should be turned over to Social Housing – after all it was paid for by the public. And the stadiums should be free to Londoners who paid for them whether they wanted to or not. And look out for the ridiculous concept of Stratford International Station whose train station doesn’t even connect to Europe directly! Instead you have to slope off back to St Pancras. Shouldn’t they just re-name it Stratford Local or something? But when you ask the locals they just shrug and smile about the whole fiasco. Do they care? No. It’s a London thing.

 

Londoner's Diary 13 – by Phil Ryan

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Yes, it’s coming up to the great invasion now. Londoners are bracing themselves for the Tourists. We had the Royal Wedding rush, but now June is coming and so is the world.

I generally avoid the centre of town over the next months (I stay out on the leafier fringes). But a very good place to take the pulse of tourism is in our London street markets. Camden in the north and Portobello in the west have now gradually been reduced to a very long shuffle that takes hours to complete. It looks like a scene out of that penguin documentary film – but without the cute voiceover. Great for the stallholders, mind, but not so much fun for the visitors. And to add to that disappointment is the now almost generic nature of much of the goods for sale.

They’re not very London. In fact they seem to be mainly Chinese and Indian in manufacture. Seems weird to me. You fly in from Spain and go home with a Japanese rubber watch, some Indian scarves, some Chinese jewellery and when people ask where you’ve been, you say London! That said, we do have some great young fashion designers in many of the markets, like Spitalfields in the east, who do sell extraordinarily brilliant and authentic London designs. So it’s not all bad.

I particularly like the visitors who buy those tall Union Jack hats with bells on. Come to London, city of great fashion and style. What do you choose – a felt hat that makes you look like a twat! Classic. I think they just get confused by all the choice. But at least they can lose their money gradually in the markets. The attractions are now charging crazy prices. The London Eye, Madame Tussaud’s, The Tower of London, London Zoo. They’re all close to £20 entry. Last time I was at the zoo, I took a monkey and a meerkat home. Well, I wanted my money’s worth.

Frankly, I’m amazed the tourists still come. London is now one of the most expensive cities to visit. And our beloved Mayor is now pointing out that the tourists are all using his Boris bikes. Hardly surprising, they’re all strapped for cash. An oyster card would probably finish them off financially. They’d probably root in the bins except the locals have probably got there first.

And if tourists aren’t baffled and broke enough, it’s charity running/walking/crawling season here in London with a vengeance. You can’t go near a park or open space without finding scores of grinning sweaty folk dressed as nuns or in pink, blue or green, covered in balloons and sprinting at you waving plastic buckets. It’s all very laudable but annoying. I give to charity in my own way. But it’s like a load of highwaymen without any style have been let loose. Every underground station now seems to have a bucket waver in residence and my local high street has posted at least three a day along its length.

It’s like some surreal computer game. You devise strategies. Maximum points. Cross over. Lift your paper and become invisible. Glare wildly. Mutter ‘no thanks’. Get someone in front of you to block them from seeing you. Pretend to answer your phone. Avoid eye contact. Look at the floor. I’m exhausted after a day out!

I’m all for charity, but not when it walks up to you and demands money with cheery menaces. I’d like a central fund I could pay a tenner into once a month. Then all the charities have to fight it out with pillows in a giant mud-filled arena which you have to pay to go into to watch. Brilliant eh? Money and entertainment. Maybe it’ll catch on.

But London is getting crowded with visitors and the tubes are getting to be even more of a nightmare. I love the recent saga of breakdowns and then the accompanying explanations. A bolt fell off and jammed a door open. Signals wouldn’t talk to each other. My favourite: an animal of some kind loose in a tunnel. An animal? What? Bigfoot?

However, I witnessed a pure London moment last week. I was at Finchley Road waiting for a Jubilee line train. On the platform behind him I heard a Metropolitan line train approach. The station announcement proudly said: “Ladies and Gentlemen. The train now arriving on platform three is one of the brand new Metropolitan line trains now in service.” So I turned around and a new shiny and gleaming train pulled in. It was really brand new. Bright paint job. Clear glass in its windows. Modern. Inviting. It looked very nice. Inside there was about 50 happy people, all looking very pleased to be on such a nice shiny and clean train for a change. Some of them stood up to get off.

Meanwhile, people on the platform all looked pretty pleased to see such a nice-looking carriage. You could see it was pretty cool. At last. New trains. Comfortable, wide, air conditioned, a pleasure to travel in. But the doors wouldn’t actually open. So it sat there while various TFL folk appeared and poked it for a bit and then it pulled out. Bizarre. Hapless travellers inside banging on the windows and shouting rude words. Resigned travellers on the platform letting their shoulders drop. It had been a cruel trick. The next train arrived. Old, crammed, dirty but with working doors! Reality restored. When I later got out at Bond Street I asked a TFL bloke about it and he said: “Yeah, the doors are so new they’re sticky and they don’t really open. Give it a year or two and they’ll be fine.” Priceless.

So there you have it. We’re being crowded out with tourists. Prices for attractions are at mortgage levels. The tube doors don’t open. And the streets are full of charity muggers. But do we care? No. It’s a London thing.

Londoners Life 11 by Phil Ryan

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Well the riots are over, the streets are full of tourists and London is getting back to Spring. And if there’s one thing that the London spring brings onto the streets it’s the Lycra brigade. Suddenly there’s someone looking like a Nike ad pounding along every pavement. My favourite recent sight being of two yummy mummies jogging along in Kensington pushing those ludicrously large buggies that look like they’ve been designed to withstand a bomb blast. But not only were they running in their designer sports outfits and chatting as they pushed their future investment banker along they had a Nanny in full running gear engaging with the little darlings. Poor thing looked a little like a dunkin donuts lover so was puffing and red faced as she staggered along. The children seemed delighted at the entertainment. Squeaking happily now and again. Both whippet thin, tanned women would yell encouraging things to her such as “do keep up Svetlana” and “No gain without pain darling”. I couldn’t quite see the point as both of them were smoking as they ran and one had a little Patisserie Valerie bag swinging from her buggy. Presumably not for wobbly Svetlana who really needed some kind of drugs or medical assistance. But the fitness bug hangs heavy on the breeze. It’s apparently time for Londoners to shed those winter pounds and don your trusty arm mounted ipod. Then hit the latest JD sports sale (sales still running continuously since 1668 – see Samuel Pepys Diary “Wednesday April fecond 1669 – Up at mid morning to the fplendid fprts fale at Master JD’s in the Ftrand- purchased fome kick ass trainers and a Flazenger trackfuit. Returned to my desk by afternoon to write. Wish I had a laptop) There’s no doubt running about is in – as coming hot on their heels is – wait for it – fun run marathon season. Support Endangered Lemurs in Putney etc – Never have two words been so mismatched. Fun and run. I should point out that I see these people mainly as I’m sat in the various cafes I frequent. I like to wave an éclair at them for encouragement. I exercise at home regularly and keep my tai chi routines going. It works for me plus I’ve never been a fan of sweating heavily in public or getting a rash in front of complete strangers.

But if you like sweating in public the new fitness programme from TFL kicks in with a vengeance this month. By cleverly closing Tottenham Court Road for 8 months and now regularly shutting down various lines at random every weekend they’re really getting Londoners out onto the streets walking. It’s a shame they have paid for tickets which they can’t use – but hey look at the health benefits. But it’s all necessary as the new Crossrail works are forging ahead. It could be just me. But as far as I can see we have to put up with a rubbish transport system where the prices go up year on year until 2018 or something. And then presumably the tickets will be so expensive no-one will be able to afford the eye watering prices to ride on the shiny new trains and lines to everywhere you’ve ever heard of in London. Crossrail. I’m just cross.

And talking of TFL and weight loss that brings me to our porcine Mayor. Soon we’ll get to see those Boris bike figures apparently. Turns out that as I said that the idea that it wouldn’t cost us a penny is half right. It hasn’t cost Londoners a penny to implement the bike scheme. It’s closer to 11 million pounds. As I said I kind of like the idea but I just don’t want to pay for it. Well certainly not if I never use it. So currently most of us are forking out for tourists to wobble dangerously around the streets. See London and get crushed by a lorry. Catchy tourist tagline huh? Finally whilst I’m in my fitness mode I notice that lots of gyms seem to be closing down – pour quoi? Maybe people are cutting back although presumably starvation will assist many in their desire to lose weight. The new recession diet.

So finally spring is with us. Which also heralds the tourist invasion. It’s started already. I was at Kew Gardens last weekend as coach loads of baffled Italians were being herded through the turnstiles. They seemed bemused. I heard one ask the tour guide “Is a big park no? Where are the rides?” Clearly they hadn’t quite given him the whole description. So look out for every museum and art gallery to be rammed every weekend. Forget about using the nearby cafes as they’ll be full too. The invasion has started and because the pound is so weak it’s going to be a big one this year. But do we mind sharing our space with the world. Do we mind our shops filling up with arm waving women? And do we mind our parks becoming al fresco dining rooms for every nation. No. It’s a London thing.

Londoners Life 7 by Phil Ryan

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The recent London attitude to bad weather has been weary fortitude. Usually it’s rain. But more recently add to this mix – Tube strikes. Tube breakdowns. Train breakdowns. Student protests. Council cutting back on bad weather provision. Freezing cold. And then to cap it all. Snow. Look at the London news and it’s a repeat of every other year. Fed up people complaining. The train company did this. Or more accurately didn’t do anything. Nothing works. Where’s the grit? It’s part of the London cycle.

We just repeat the same problems. My more surreal moments in the inclement weather being watching an elderly man on skis in Hampstead High Street. Calmly floating down the pavement he looked very determined. And so did the small dog he was using to pull him along. A spaniel. But my favourite being a miserable looking bus driver repeating in a monotone “Snow off your shoes please” to every passenger. This elucidating a frenzied procession of semi Flamenco moves from a bunch of cold people who just wanted to get on and sit down. It looked like a street dance off with shopping and elderly people.

But it’s Christmas now. The race begins. Buy. Buy. Buy. And all the local papers go into charity mode. Good causes. Smiling old age pensioners in hats. Cheery looking homeless people grinning over a bowl of soup. It’s so very Victorian. And so very London. The TV is straight on it. Out come all the Dickens analogies. It’s as if the presenters can’t help themselves. “And here’s a real old curiosity”” It’s a bleak house tonight” and one that made me choke during a report on a local council closing a toddlers club “The spirit of Christmas present lost in a scoogelicious committee decision” Scroogelicious! And then comes that unique London traditional phenomenon the absurd pre Christmas sales in the posher shops. Items such as a Swarowski encrusted hot water bottle or a platinum apple phone. Slashed from mind numbing prices to surprisingly staggeringly high prices. Who is buying this stuff? I thought there was a recession on? But the London Christmas rolls on. It’s party season. You can tell by the tents set up in Leicester Square to deal with the incoherent drunks paralytically spreading the yuletide cheer. I think we should wait until they’re completely unconscious and then stick them in air freight containers so they wake up in say Bolivia or Morocco. Watch the drinking statistics drop away!

But food and drink feature large in a London Christmas. The major restaurants falling over themselves to do deals. The Evening Standard is full of coupons suddenly. Who cuts them out? It must be very difficult to go on a date with someone who surreptitiously starts sliding coupons under their credit card come bill time. Not really giving the right impression. Hi I’m sexy but very cheap. But the 2 for one offers often come with a sting in the tail. The good stuff never seems to be included. And then when you do stray from the deal it sends the price into the stratosphere. But that is the London way. Just like the Traditional German markets that suddenly seem to be appearing everywhere. Londoners just accept the fact that a load of fake alpen huts will start springing up on every corner. Bratwurst. Hot wine. Weird looking ginger bread. All to the accompaniment of brass band music. They have a thing called Winter Wonderland at Hyde Park with a huge German fair. And it’s a mixture of baffled looking Japanese tourists uncertainly smiling unsure whether they were tricked over the war and hardy Londoners braced against the cold munching on surreal looking sausages in rye bread that has the consistency of an elderly carpet tile (and a similar taste I might add) all secretly longing for a bacon sandwich. But it’s Christmas in London which means anything goes. Apart from Christianity. This is a no no with most London councils. I saw an article with some Council leader who seemed confused at the concept. He thought it was an economic opportunity with a holiday attached. The Christ and religious bit clearly passing him by. Hence that horrendous Winter Festival concept put about by the more moronic ones. Even though they all get the cast of East Enders in to turn on the Christmas lights. Huh? But they’ve figured out that upsetting Christians is easy – they’ll just turn the other cheek. The most radical things some local Christians round here did was to sing a load of Carols outside the Town Hall. How vicious was that? God bless them. Or as my local council would put it. Winter bless them.

Oh yes just a quick update on my human signs. They’ve now got them dressed as furry animals. Quasi Disney Characters. With holly and tinsel stuck all over them! They still have Golf Sale and Cheap Computers written all over them but it’s nice for the children. And very confusing. Goofy clearly reduced to sidelining in cheap Golf equipment since his falling out with Mickey they must suppose. Anyway finally after the shopping then comes the final Christmas ritual. The big get away. In London we head for the airports and the streets fall silent. It’s a very odd time. The usual rush and whizzing around replaced albeit temporarily with a brief period of tranquillity. I tend to stay to enjoy the peace and once everyone else comes back then I leave. The prospects for the New Year a bit uncertain this time. The austerity year I heard it called. I chatted to some people in a café the other day and asked them their fears and thoughts about the coming year and all the cuts. I listed all the things that were going to be closed and cancelled. They all shrugged. So what they said. And ordered another latte and biscotti. Denial. No. It’s a London thing.

Well that’s it for this year! Merry Christmas to you all. And here’s crossing my fingers for 2011. So whoever they may be – may your God or non belief go with you.

Regards Phil

Londoners Life 6 by Phil Ryan

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Londoners Life 6 – by Phil Ryan

I see the London spirit of Christmas is unrolling now. Which brings me to the real growing spirit of Christmas. Spirit. You suddenly can’t move at the moment in London for drunks. It’s not just me. Even the local paper round here commented on it. Maybe it’s the coming second recession? Getting on the tube on a Friday night after eleven nowadays is like getting inside a can of Fosters with seats. You just breathe in and you’re intoxicated. And take a look at Leicester Square at 12.00ish on a Saturday. It looks like a rehearsal for a Zombie movie. Shuffling shambling weirdos staggering down every side street. Like children’s puppets on Calpol. Admittedly some are the Hare Krishnas but you can usually spot them by the drummer. And as far as I know they don’t drink. Well not when on duty. I often try to imagine the nightly parade up at Krishna Head quarters. Right lads were going out now. Keep a good formation. Plenty of Hare hare’s. Flog those CDs like your life depends on it. Vishnu you were off time last night. Get it together lad! It’s up on the first syllable and down on the next. The rest of you try and look blissed out of your faces. You know the enlightened look. And keep that constant shuffle going. But I digress.

Seriously the drink issue in London is not hard to see. It’s like the 11.30 guy. You see him every weekend. Unconscious on the Circle Line. A line of drool slowly escaping from one side of his mouth. He’s slumped in his usual I’ve got no idea who or where I am position. His snores barely audible. He’s always in a crumpled grey suit. His tie way off at an angle. He’s probably missed his stop four times. But he gets home. Eventually. Somehow. A bit like pigeons I suppose. Some instinct. A navigation device provided by nature. But as a drunk he has to overcome one huge and deadly hurdle. A true London hazard. The hot dog guys.

These charming creatures are usually shifty looking murderer lookalikes and dress in the oddest uniform. Beanie woolly hat. Leather jacket. Jogging Bottoms. And nameless training shoes. They all smoke. Furtively. Most are unshaven and have that curious blue stubble face like a cartoon. Presumably it all comes as part of their training package. Just part of The Hot Dog University of London’s student body elite. Make no mistake. This is food for drunks. But woe betide the innocent tourist they entrap. Their next view of London will be gazing down one of our finest toilet bowls. A view of their hotel they really weren’t expecting. But as I say it’s the drunks who must be their main prey. You’d have to be drunk to be lured into buying one. The noisy sizzling. The heady aroma of onions and rat urine drifting like an unheavenly cloud on the breeze. The hot dogs or unidentified waste product as they’re better known in Environmental Health circles all soaking in the year old grease (as they cook for the ninetieth time). Only the completely inebriated cannot resist. Wily Londoners know this. Drunken ones flock like wasps round a jam jar. And you can often see where after consuming one they have charmingly decided to eject it! I believe the vernacular has it as pavement pizza. Still it beats an enema.
But with the sudden explosion in health food shop/cafes in London that’s often taken care of for you. London seems to have suddenly stealthily filled up with little trendy looking delicatessens on every off high street location. All boasting a small café area inside. You can’t miss them. Everything’s wholemeal. Staff included. And they all smell like an old stable. The shops and cafes I mean not the staff. Usually a cute little bell tinkles when you warily step inside. Like an old fashioned shop. Nice touch. But beware. Smiley young staff in forest green looking aprons stand about trying not to burst out laughing when you ask the price of a titchy jar of Andulisian honey. Trust me. Don’t ask. It’s all pricey beyond belief. But kind of nice in a trendy sort of I have too much money sort of way. I’m sure it all tastes very nice. I’m thinking of applying for a loan this week to buy some Cornish artisan otter cheese and two loaves of Kentish granary and grit bread. Don’t get me wrong I hate supermarkets. It’s just this lot are the other extreme. Food as fashion and a statement about you. Honestly. They don’t seem to sell normal food. Even when you sit down for a cup of tea to get over the shock it’s always Burmese green tea or burlap, wood and dandelion infusions whilst the cakes look like Buffalo excretions dusted with Bear excretions. It’s all about grains. Apparently. Nuts. Seeds. Earth. Natural roughage. Hence the free enema point from earlier. This stuff passes through you quicker than the time a Camden traffic warden takes to ticket a disabled person’s car. But it’s healthy I’m told. Smaller independent shops (which I’m all for) selling locally sourced produce. Look around. They’re everywhere now. And do we buy it. Yes of course we do. It’s a London thing.

Londoners Life 5 by Phil Ryan

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Londoners Life 5 – By Phil Ryan

Winter is here in London. It’s official. The clothes say it all. And right now you can clearly see the London tribes. Clear and defined. In cloth, leather and appliqué. The Hoxton and Camdenite trendies. The monied Sloane’s of Kensington. The shady street dealers of Shepherds Bush. From the ludicrously large Fur Trapper hats and skinny jeans, to the silver and gold Puffa jackets plus obligatory bling. The thigh length Cossack boots to the new Paul Smith stripy scarves. Postcodes struck in wool and leather and nylon as clearly as an assay mark. A friend once remarked that the onward march of the chain clothing store would eventually destroy all individuality in style terms. But be that as it may, just like the swallows flying south each year off to Capistrano following nature’s imperative, the winter looks are as clearly and definitively ingrained at a genetic London borough by borough level.

In Whitechapel it’s the portly types in the Primark Gangster collection crossed with JD sports sale items. In Chelsea it’s the slim model like folk in black Yves St Laurent mixed with Yamamoto. London brands its citizens by fashion and by income so very clearly at this time of year. I’m surprised it’s not on their passports – a second picture of them in full seasonal look. Oh the customs officer would say peering at the small image of them dressed head to toe in Burberry check. You’re from Stratford. Through you go.

And as certain as the winter fashions the other London winter signs are gathering pace. The chestnut sellers are back from wherever they go in the warmer weather. You’ll find them at every piazza or open space. Traditional London winter prices at about 90 pence per charcoal blackened cremated chestnut. Or to translate – £3.00 for three grudging half mouthfuls once you’ve discarded the charcoal and eaten the non burnt bits. And of course the ever perennial pre-seasonal dodgy perfume sellers. Honest guvnor’ this Calvin Klein is genuine. Just a litre for a tenner. The crowds swarming round them like hyperactive bumble bees on Ketamine. Sadly without the sense of your average drone. Stolen or not – no respectable crook is going to give four bottles of Chanel no 5 away for nothing. So come Christmas they’ll watch in baffled dismay as poor Auntie Vi’s face falls off into her soup or the smell from the bottle attracts Zombies from as far away as Peru seeking dead flesh. A little bit of Del boy mixed with Jeffrey Dahmer. Typical. You just can’t trust criminals eh?

But London’s street people are changing. The old perennials giving way to more foreign imports. From Romanian pick pocket gangs to increasingly rabid street preachers. I saw two the other day on opposite sides of the street. One a Yemeni Muslim the other an American Christian Evangelist. Both completely barking mad. Yelling weird slogans about saving us all. Finding our way to their truth. My immediate thought being what and turn into you two nut jobs?

Just like my last column I’m sure I could be missing something here though. Did they have a spiritual truth? But the answer is in fact no. I’m just not convinced my path to eternal salvation starts outside the Car Phone warehouse. With people unburdened by the pressure of sanity. Although, if it has to start somewhere for me, there has to be cakes. And in London right now there’s a new cake shop explosion. I of course refer to the new muffin places. Time was you’d be lucky to get a chocolate one. Now there’s a plethora of new places offering every type you could think of. I saw Passion Fruit and Peanut butter muffins the other day. Although, this could have just been the first day for the new guy. He’s off the medication now and his doctors are hopeful he’ll soon be able to live a normal life. Muffins I ask you. A new fashion. Who’d have thought it? £4.00 a pop or £1.50 per tiny micro mouthful. But I’ve been to five separate boroughs recently and they’ve all got these trendy looking new tea rooms. Or Café’s de The as they like to poncingly call themselves. It’s a studied look. Coolness and kitsch in one. Brushed Oak and steel benches next to pictures of polka dot pinnies and old posters of apple cheeked children at a gas stove.

Cake stands with frilly lace overhangings next to a sleek black ipod docking station. Earl Grey tea caddies next to Red Bull cans or those weird energy drinks you’ve never heard of with extract of ginko root and killer whale ears. And the people who run them? All the owners all look like successful architects with a hint of mental illness. The women. Prada meets a lady factory worker from the fifties. And the men all look like Bertie Wooster meets Karl Lagerfeld via Oxfam. The rest of the staff doe eyed eastern European beauties working for the minimum wage. Of course the word home-made figures prominently everywhere. As does organic. As do eye watering prices. But hey ho. It’s cute. It’s retro. It’s wildly overpriced. But do we mind? No. It’s a London thing.

Londoners Life 4 by Phil Ryan

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Londoners Life 4 – By Phil Ryan
It’s a given that in London you see odd things. City things. Things you don’t see say in the countryside. Urban things. And though they’ve been around a while I saw a thing in town just now that left me speechless. A large man. Standing on a main thoroughfare. Outside John Lewis. In a dayglo boiler suit. An almost radioactive lime green reflective material. The words Computer Sale written all over him. Up each leg. Along his arms. On his chest. On his back. And adding indignity to indignity. On the large sail like top hat he was wearing was an arrow. Pointing to presumably the place holding the computer sale. A human billboard. With a pocket thing. Full of leaflets.

Sadly my initial thought was what must the job interview be like? That said. Oh my god. Who came up with this idea? There used to be guys holding giant signs on poles. They were always listening to something on headphones. Presumably the words “don’t kill yourself” on a constant loop. But the pole was a tangible thing. It said I’m a signpost to the golf clearout. The guy has to hold me or I’ll fall down or blow away. But the suit sign phenomenon. A black hole for human dignity. A nadir in exploitation. It’s just a few steps away from children up chimneys isn’t it? Yes I’ve seen people in costumes before on the streets. There’s a party place near where I live. They do fancy dress. Fireworks. Novelty stuff. Every now and again there’ll be a guy in giant teddy bear costume outside holding a bunch of balloons and dancing around on the pavement. He waves to the cars. We toot our horns and wave back. He waves back. We all smile and feel a little better. Of course I could have this wrong and it could be some earnest protest about the exploitation of bears in circuses. Maybe the balloons are just symbolic. Maybe the party place hires out endangered bears. Perhaps the Giant teddy is begging us to help stop this. His little dance and wave actually blind fury as we smile and wave and drive on. He’s not waving he’s shaking his fists at us. Thoughtless swine. But I like his Teddy bear suit. It’s very nice. Friendly. Evocative of childhood. Whereas the dayglo guys just look frankly naff. And conjure up slavery and low wages. Damn I can’t stop thinking about that Teddy bear now. But as a Londoner my conscience is pricked about ten times every hour.
There’s the smiling young people with clip boards. Fresh faced. Innocent. Optimistic. Students I’m guessing. Saying hello. Giving you a thumbs up. They wear little tabards saying Christian Giving. Starving Children or Africa it’s awful isn’t it. Apparently it’s called chugging. Which is shorthand for charity mugging. They try and stiff you for two pounds a month or someone will die. And secretly they hint it’s your fault. Then there’s the misery tables. Usually the pasteboard ones you buy at B&Q to paper the downstairs lav. But now covered with pictures of beagles having a fag. Monkeys wearing makeup which I thought was quite cute until the earnest young woman put me straight. I gave her a quid. But one truly unique London thing is the anti regime tables. Solemn looking people holding books of people who have disappeared. Down with the nasty regime. They want you to sign a petition. I always do. But of course I can’t help thinking A) I’m not sure the nasty regime is going to be bothered by a petition.

 Especially from a load of concerned Londoners, as currently they’re happy killing people who probably need a bit more protection than a petition but the B is the more worrying. Maybe I’ve now upset the regime by getting involved. Plus now they’ve got my name. Sometimes my postcode. Maybe they’ve got Google Street map. These guys kill people. Uh oh. But that’s another issue for another time. I guess the point is that the streets of London are now covered in stuff. Year on year. People in your way. Stopping you getting where you are going. Don’t get me wrong it’s all generally good. Big Issue. Great. Salvation Army. Fantastic. Red Poppy appeal. Marvellous. But I have to say finally there is one group of London street people that just baffles me. The Hare Krishnas. Uh? A load (sorry make that four to six) of people in thin orange pyjamas shuffling along banging a drum slightly out of time (very annoying if you feel like grooving) and repeating themselves in a sing song voice. And always two of them who don’t have all the orange gear. I saw one the other day with the orange shirty thing but wearing leather bondage trousers covered in zips and high heels. His friend had the orange pyjama bottoms but was sporting a rather fetching pink Puffa jacket with the legend Street Fighter embroidered across it with matching Ugg boots. Clearly they were half krishnas. Not quite fully orange. Trendsetters if you will.

But be careful. If you catch their eye they’ll immediately stop and try and flog you a book with some bloke and a blue elephant on the front. Or sometimes a weird looking CD. So the pavements are filling up. But do we care? Really. Does it bother anyone honestly? No. It’s a London thing.