Fun on the escalators

I've whinged in the past about the Tube. Working in the middle of town, I am often amazed and baffled by the fascination foreign visitors have for this subterranean nightmare. Its not just the general filth, air of underfunding, constant delays, endless 'maintenance' and hopeless overcrowding. Its more the people that it attracts.

Take yesterday, for example. I tend to come home late most days, mostly to avoid other commuters. Tube travel's sole gift is the time to read. Engrossed in a good book, I scarcely noticed a young fellow brush past me onto the escalator. Bedecked in jewellry with the inevitable backwards-baseball cap and ludicrous clothing, this gold-encrusted fool loped up the steps, sporting the unmistakeable gait of the terminally dim. Imagine my surprise when I then sighted two similarly clad oafs coming down the opposite escalator. Only these were sitting down on a step and, remarkably, they had somehow managed to spark up dog-ends in the ten seconds since they'd left the ticket barriers above. Inexorably the chavs moved closer and closer together until, like a burberry meteorite approaching a binary system of bling, they passed. And then the fireworks started. The pair fired a salvo of invective at the loner, for no apparent reason. Naturally our hero responded in kind:

"Come on then, you fucking cunt"
"Yeah come on then you fucking cunt"
"You cunt, come on I'll fucking fuck you up you fucking cunt"

and then, rather limply:

"Come outside now!"

The war of words carried on like this for some time, with the shouting increasing in volume as the distance between the idiots grew. I wept inside.

There would be no battle, with the deadly duo safely at the bottom of the escalator and clearly not taking the bait, but our plucky rude boy's gander was up. So he turned to me and yelled

"What are you fucking looking at, you cunt"

I don't mind admitting I was ruffled.

I wish I had said something mystical and mystifying in response, something to demonstrate my peace-loving credentials as well as a certain mastery of the English language. Sadly all I could muster was a fairly feeble "excuse me" at the top of the escalators. A very British response, I like to think. Next time I'll offer him a cup of tea and a digestive.


Last week I recommended backing West Ham at 500-1 each way for the title. Anyone who took this advice is now sitting pretty; our two new Argentinian signings this evening have stunned the football world. Bye bye Spurs.

This week's recommendations:
The O'Neill bubble to burst. Villa to go down at 10-1 (bet365)
Dinky Loop for some great tunes
Dungeness for some excellent migrant waders.

The wonders of MySpace

I'm new to all this. But I've already found MySpace to offer a wonderful new angle on life.

For example, I am now offically friends with the world's number one human beatbox, Doug E. Fresh.

How cool is that!

They say you're only ever six handshakes away from any other person on the planet, but Doug and I put this well-used maxim to the sternest of tests. Now, though, we are just a mouse click apart, brought together by the wonder of the web.

I was quite a fan of Doug back in the day. Beatbox was my forté, practised and rehearsed endlessly - a turn that offered a surprising degree of kudos in the bearpit of a 1980s boy's school. Others could do robotics, body-popping and break-dancing, but I could roll my 'r's, which just about helped me keep my head above water with the cooler, tougher kids. But sadly Doug and I drifted apart when I discovered Joy Division, started dying my hair black and took to wearing long overcoats. You must understand.

But now Doug's back, and we're friends. Maybe we'll go boating, beagling, or even birding together. I just don't know. If he's prepared to teach me some elementary turntable mixology I'll happily show him the wildfowl of east London. That's what friends are for.


Recommendations:
England to win the Ashes at 4-1. A steal.
Fan of The Hoff? See http://www.flickr.com/photos/vitamin_k/19580114/

Forays into the world of celebrity: a celebration

Here we go then. A 'blog', as I believe the kids call it. God almighty. I might talk about stuff that's happened to me here. Or I might not. I might just waffle on like some silly old twat.

I love celebrities. Well, not all of them. There are some on life's z-list, such as Goody, Ingram, Hamilton (C and N), André, Edmonds, Best (C), Sleep, Elton, Brandreth, Anderton (Sophie as opposed to Darren), McGrath, et al. that I'd happily scalp with a rusty blade. Having said that, brushes with fame are few and far between for most of us, unless you happen to be a pap or a stalker, or you actually are a celebrity. However, while working in the middle of town, with the misery of the tube, pollution, regular doses of pigeon shit, ceaseless boredom and the regular epiphany of a life more or less wasted to contend with, can occasionally be a little tiresome, it certainly does have its celebrity-related compensations. So I thought that for my first entry I'd regale you, dear reader, with some of my crazy exploits in the wonderful world of the business we call show.

As you may or may not know, central London is a celebrity hotspot. I've bumped into McCartney a couple of times. He was still with that dreadful woman then, poor love. Grant Mitchell has stomped about outside my office waiting for people to recognise him. Stephen Fry has been known to lope past . But its really the minutiae of the minor celeb I enjoy most. For example, I've seen Martin Fowler from Eastenders' stalker (you know, that woman with the buckled face) eating an apple before kissing an associate in luvvie fashion (mwah! mwah!). I've watched a beige-suited Peter Purves - now a genuine silver fox - amble down Dean Street. That really got my star-spotting juices flowing. I've seen Irene Raymond from Eastenders buying perfume in Superdrug. I've seen Hugh Dennis frowning, Tamzin Outhwaite checking her makeup, Bob Mills in elasticated jogging bottoms going into Tescos. I've even seen dear old Michelle McManus stuffing her face with cake in Starbucks. That, as you can imagine, was a particular joy.

Celebrity may, in many cases, be a transient and ephemeral phenomenon - but we should embrace and cherish it. Where would we be if we couldn't look snootily down on the vainglorious vanity of others? Is it right to gawp like a slack-jawed redneck at minor celebrities in the street? Of course it is! These clowns knew what they were getting into when they agreed to appear on The Bill, Big Brother, Driving School/Airport/Vets in Practice or any similar BBC docu-drivel, or whatever. Without these winners-but-still-losers London life would be a lot less fun. So keep 'em peeled ...


Recommendations: This week I am recommending:
West Ham to win the premiership at 500-1 (each way)
Thom Yorke's new album
Cider - the new lager
Sports Shack in Oxford Street - superior leisure gear at competitive prices.