Londoners Life 23 – by Phil Ryan

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.

 

Londoners Life 6 by Phil Ryan

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.