1. The writing tree in Clissold Park - an ancient horse chestnut on a little mound in the south west corner of the park
2. Genesis Cafe on Blackstock Road (fast wireless internet and good coffee)
3. The no. 29 bus between Finsbury Park and Camden Town (but only if you get a seat)
4. The table near the window in that little cafe whose name I can't remember on the corner of Lordship Road and Stoke Newington Church Street
5. The cafe of the Clissold Leisure Centre. Though not the tables near the counter.
6. The front seats of the 141 bus between Clissold Park and Old Street.
Bike chains and feng shui
On Riversdale Road today, on the same part of the road that was the other day covered in rubbish, one of my neighbours was trying to put the chain on her bike.
"Her chain's bust," shouted the tall Irish bloke from across the road, out tending his front garden on the other side of the road.
I stopped to help. The bike wasn't in good nick and I couldn't get the chain to work. The Irish bloke came over and we started discussing how this part of the road might be haunted, as my hands got more and more covered in oil.
"It's bad feng shui" said the tall Irish bloke. "All the chi is flowing off down Wyatt Road. That's why I'm poor," he laughed, pointing at his jumper full of holes. I told them about the New River which used to flow under their houses and we started discussing plans to reinstate a stretch of it on Riversdale Road.
"Did you know there was a battle between the Danes and the Saxons round here," said the Irish bloke. I said I did, though I can't remember how I found it out - perhaps on a rainy afternoon in Guildhall Library from an obscure book whose title I wrote down in a now lost notebook. The area was once known as Dane Bottom, a reminder of a group of Scandinavian lads who came over for a European away tie and never went home. We discussed the possibility that the road might be haunted by the ghost of a Viking, then the tall Irish bloke realised he hadn't done any front yard tidying for at least 15 minutes, and scooted off home.
Dirty foxes
Walking home along Riversdale Road I see the tall Irish bloke who's always cleaning and painting his front yard. He's standing in the road looking forlorn. As I get closer I can see rubbish - papers, bags, crap, clothers - strewn all over the place.
"How are you?" I say.
"Foxes." he replies. "They can smell the dogshit. What a mess."
I decide to help him clear up the rubbish. It's in front of his house and he's very proud of his place, I know. As if reading my mind he says "I like tidiness. I hate mess like this."
I find a brown shoe. "It was a stylish one legged fox," I say. He laughs. I find a copy of Marie Claire. "It was a stylish one legged fox who is into fashion and make up tips." He laughs again.
I see him later in the day and he waves. He is once more cleaning his front yard.
Goodbye Football Tree
A while ago (I can't remember - was it three years or six months?) a wicker sculpture was placed on top of the remains of one of the old trees that had died after the 2003 drought. It seemed to be saying that the tree could continue to have a life after it had died.
Every day my two year old son and I walk through Clissold Park and go up to touch the Football Tree.
"Football Tree!" my son will say. We'll then both have a quiet think about how great football and trees are, and walk on.
But the Football Tree is no more. The other morning as we approached it as part of our daily pilgrimage, we saw the wicker sphere lying smashed on the ground. Next to it was an iron pole, part of a nearby fairground display. Still fresh in the air was the sense that someone had decided that good stuff was rubbish and had to be ruined. Was this part of the artist's planned trajectory for the sculpture - to hire a gang of bored and drunk idiots to destroy it?
My son said he wanted to fix the football tree. I told him that it couldn't be fixed because it was a metaphor for the world's problems. Or the problems of bored and drunk idiots hanging around in parks at night. Or the England football team's problems. Or the problems of sentimentalising outdoor installation sculpture
The Tufnell Park Tavern, Tufnell Park Road, London N19
I've had some good nights in the Tufnell Park Tavern over the years. And a few really crap ones as well. However, this review is really to register my displeasure at the name change. The pub is now called Tufnell's and it's up there in bright shiny metallic clubbiness. What kind of brand manager modern celeb-fixated small brained philistine was let loose on this pub? It's in Tufnell Park. It's called the Tufnell Park Tavern. It should be so simple. Is it because Phil Tufnell is now a minor celebrity? Ha ha, nice one.
Ha ha ha ha ha.
I didn't actually go into the pub on this occasion. I was on the top deck of the No. 4 bus with my two young sons.
"Why are you growling Daddy?" asked my 5 year old. Then I started to moan.
What hope is there for us as a society, as a civilisation, as a species,when people make crazy decisions like this? How can we claim the idea of constant human progress when we change the names of pubs from something old and good to something modern and useless. Another culprit is the Arsenal Tavern, now called the @ Club (reviewed here last year).
When is the Government going to sort out a proper Pub Czar* to get all these pubs to change their names back to the originals?
* Though the whole concept of Czar might need looking at. I mean, the Czars didnt exactly cover themselves in glory did they and ended up as a sad pile of bones in a piece of rough ground. Maybe there should be a Czar Czar to rebrand the whole concept.
Rapid E15 Stapler
This 35 cm long stapler is a real boon for people like me who run a thriving and news-packed community newsletter. It allows you to staple in the middle of an A4 magazine and, if I was a different person, I'd say it was one of the most valuable items in my expanding stationary cupboard. Sadly, my thriving and news-packed community newsletter doesn't actually exist - it is something for that parallel universe in which I am a highly organized and motivated person. Instead my Rapid E15 stapler gets used for things like making space rockets out of toilet roll, or as a ruler, or a baseball bat, or a ramp for 1:72nd scale soldiers (Italian Alpini regiment) to storm the enemy (the Care Bear/Power Ranger Alliance) stronghold on the arm of the sofa.
Clissold Park Bowling Green Martial Arts Society
The old bowling green in Clissold Park has recently become a martial arts zone. Of particular interest is the modern hybrid form practiced by two white-tracksuited youngsters. It looks to be a combination of tai chi, judo, robotic dancing and generally hanging around looking bored. Quite how this form would fair in straight combat is hard to say, though the bright white robes/shellsuits might be off-putting enough to an attacker for the martial artists to leg it in the other direction.
Goodbye cherry blossom
The cherry blossom of Kingsbridge House, on Lordship Road, has gone, blown in the wind towards Seven Sisters Road. Up there amid the concrete they would have been greedily awaiting the annual visit of the pale pink swarms. The wind also trapped a red plastic kite in the branches of a Clissold Park plane tree, like a sliver of raw flesh hanging on thin ribs.
My kids find more blossom at the side of the road on Grazebrook. I explain that it's probably 40% dog urine but they don't care, and run down the path with it, letting it fly out of their hands behind them.
The Lincoln Lounge, York Way, Kings Cross
If the definition of a good pub is a solid pint, battered old seats, some books lying about, a view out the window of a 19th Century gas holder and a hard working yet bewitching Irish barmaid then the Lincoln Lounge is most certainly a good pub. Situated in the shifting atmosphere of the greater Kings Cross urban zone, The Lincoln Lounge is a late Victorian old men's pub done up for the new old men of the early 21st Century. And if it's not too busy then your not-too-cold Guinness will be brought to you on a tray by the resident high booted Irish goth barvixen. Nice 30s style mural on the back wall too.
Buying a good coat
For years I've been meaning to buy myself a good coat. This year I had a decent budget and went up the west end, but with no success. On my way home, walking along Holloway Road, I went into that mad little second hand clothes shop near the college and picked up what looks like a mint condition tweedy overcoat that used to belong to Jacques Chirac, made by some posh tailor in Paris. It only cost £20 and now I am hooked. I've a feeling that this same shop has some of Francois Mitterand's old shirts, a George Pompideu suit and a very tiny 1998 era Manchester United shirt that I'm convinced must have been worn by Nicolas Sarkozy.
Golden skies over Holloway
The daffodils are out in Clissold Park. Squat dogs round and through them.
"Kaiser! Butch! Over here!" shouts an angry looking man with little hair. The sky over Lower Holloway is golden but greyness is descending as the wind picks up. A blue plastic bag joins us on our walk and keeps pace for a while before blowing up into the branches of a tree.
Return of the Dog People
The Dog People of Clissold Park have been growing in number since the end of the summer. Now they are all over the park, hanging around in factions. Today the weather was bad and for some reason two of the Dog People factions had decided to face off on the footpath at the north east corner of the park. There were around 30 dogs in all, covered in mud, racing around happily. But the Dog People didn't look happy. They all just stared off into the mid-distance at the other Dog People faction as if to say "they don't know ANYTHING about dogs". Now and then someone would chat, probably about dog biscuits or flea powder. Then they'd carry on staring.
These are tense days in Clissold Park.
Three foxes in search of a box of half eaten pizza
I was working late the other night when I heard a commotion outside - it sounded like someone trying to kick over a compost bin. Expecting to see some alco-popped adolescents expressing theire distaste for conformist society instead I just caught sight of three foxes sprinting away. They then had a sniff around the bins of number 55 across the road before one of them made that strange foxy yelp-bark and off they ran towards Clissold Park.
I wanted to shout out to them "You're wasting your time. They're all vegetarians in Stoke Newington." But it was very late. And I don't speak foxy yelp-bark.
The 2008 two pages per day desk diary
The 2008 two pages per day desk diary is the biggest diary I have ever bought. The bloke at the stationers shop asked if I was going to be writing out every single thing that happened during the day in order to fill up the two pages of A4, "you know, like 'got up in the morning', that kind of thing". It made me think that the 2008 two pages per day desk diary was only on sale in his shop to ensnare passing anal retentives for the purposes of mockery.
I intend to start doing arm curls of the 2008 two pages per day desk diary. Then when I enter the World Stationary Lifting Championships my local stationer will be laughing on the other side of his face.
How to get a plastic boomerang back from your next door neighbour
My kids got a yellow plastic boomerang thing a few weeks ago. It actually looks more like a propellor than a boomerang but, if you throw it correctly, it does come back to you. I attempted to show them how it worked. It sailed over the fence into next door's garden but didn't sail back.
An hour or so later I saw our neighbour and said "Our yellow plastic boomerang thing is in your garden. Can you chuck it back for us?"
"Yeah, sure," he said.
"The yellow plastic boomerang thing will soon be back," I said to the kids. But it didn't come back. For several days it stayed in the same place in their garden. Next time I saw our neighbour I kind of did boomerang actions with my hands. Possibly my attempt at mime looked like I was saying he was a wanker because our neighbour resolutely ignored the boomerang thing for another week. He even walked about in his garden and probably trod on the yellow plastic boomerang thing.
I didn't see him for ages after that. He was avoiding me. Perhaps he'd tried throwing it back but it kept returning to his garden. Then, just before Christmas, the boomerang thing returned. What a great guy our next door neighbour is.
As soon as it gets a bit warmer I shall be showing my kids how to use it.
Magpies - saluting and de-saluting
This morning I saw a magpie and, without thinking, saluted it. "Good morning Mr Magpie!"
Then another magpie appeared from behind a tree trunk and I realised they were a pair. And I attempted to de-salute the first magpie. But it's tricky. How does one do this? It's obviously some kind of uninstall procedure. But do you say the words backwards? Or do you explain in depth to the magpie that you are taking back your greeting? Or do you let the greeting stand?
Trouble was, I wasn't wearing my glasses. As I got closer I realised they weren't magpies but rooks.
Action points: Attempt to access rational brain. Get eyes tested.
Tatran (Slovak Shop)
On the borders of N5 and N4 is the quiet corner of Finsbury Park Road and Mountgrove Road. The latter used to have a variety of shops – accordion seller, antiques, bikes, two Chinese takeaways, design agency, Sylvanian Family franchise. Some of these have gone to be replaced by apartments but new businesses keep appearing – latterly a 1940s furniture emporium and a computer repair shop.
When Tatran appeared on this corner two or three years ago it seemed perfect for a street which for a long time has been threatening to become more interesting. A few times I took my work there and sat in the back of the café, where you could get away from it all and sip virtually tasteless yet strangely enjoyable Slovakian milky coffee. The place was usually manned by attractive Slovak chicks who would sit at a table near the window leafing through what looked like the Argos catalogue and Heat magazine.
But now Tatran is no more. It closed for the summer holidays and never reopened. At the time of writing the place is being done up – the peachy orange is now brick red and the handwritten "Slovak Shop” sign painted over. Where will we get Slovakian chocolate bars now, then? Or Solvakian vacuum packed frankfurters? Or idiosyncratic Slovakian biscuits? And where, in the whole of London, will we get virtually tasteless yet strangely enjoyable Slovakian milky coffee?
Searching for chips in the Highbury Vale Fog (Arsenal v Steaua Bucharest)
It was a midweek night and I was waiting at a Green Lanes bus stop for a 341 or 141 to take me up to the Salisbury for a few beers. The fog around Clissold Park had been collecting all afternoon and now lay in a thick band over the little river valley that was the former course of the Hackney Brook. All of a sudden there was no traffic. No cars, buses or cyclists. Had everyone decided to watch Arsenal v Steaua Bucharest on the telly? After what seemed about half an hour but was probably 20 seconds, a white van steamed past seemingly anxious to get into more normal territory.
I'd seen some of the Steaua players earlier in the day, sauntering around Oxford Street in their smart tracksuits and pointing out their favourite Christmas window displays. "Good luck tonight," I said.
"Ah, you must be a Tottenham fan!" smiled one (he looked like the midfield general).
"No, I'm not. I said 'good luck' from the perspective of a neutral who wishes you to enjoy the atmosphere of the Greater Blackstock Road area. I hope you have a good experience and possibly go for chips afterwards. I don't care about the result."
But they'd already stopped listening. I have that effect on professional footballers. Like the time I got Bob Wilson's autograph when he came to my home town in the mid 70s and I wanted to know why he didn't play against Leeds in the 1972 Cup Final but he was looking away, off into the mid-distance at Arthur's Tuck Shop at the edge of the market place (though it was actually owned at that stage by Derek Marwood who possibly had kept the 'Arthur' sign up for a bit in the hope of getting some 'goodwill passing trade').
It was about 20 minutes later that a 341 appeared. The driver looked nervous. Clissold Park had almost disappeared. Green Lanes no longer seemed part of a city. The bus sped up the slope towards Manor House - then after the crossroads we slowed down as if the driver knew he was in familiar territory. At the Salisbury the London Pride was off and the gents toilets weren't open. The silent TV on the wall played a tape loop of Vladimir Putin sitting down at a table before at last the football results came in. In the end I hoped that the Steaua players had gone back to their hotel for Bells whisky miniatures, rather than searching for chips in the Highbury Vale fog.
My Amazing European Photo Album
My Amazing European Photo Album charted my progress through various western European countries in the autumn of 1989. At the very moment Europe was changing and the iron curtain was coming down, there was me having my photo taken with various gurning characters in bars.
About 15 years ago I decided to go off to live in S. America for a while and so one night just before I left I said to my wife, who was living in a flat above the big laundrette in Blackstock Road, "can you look after my Amazing European Photo Album?" I can't remember her answer - we were both pretty drunk - but after that I stopped worrying about the photo album because it had now become her responsibility.
When I returned my wife (well, she wasn't actually my wife then or even my girlfriend, but I'd obviously worked out that I could dump responsibilties at her door then blame her if things went wrong) had moved to a new flat in a different part of town and claimed not to know anything about the photo album. So I'd lost it.
Every time I go up to Finsbury Park to buy some stationary or bagels I pass the laundrette, but it has never occured to me to see if My Amazing European Photo Album is still there. Until now. I saw a couple go into the flat the other day and thought they looked like reasonable people. I think I will write them a formal letter.
Where the hell has the Vortex gone?
It had been a while since I walked down Stoke Newington Church Street but I was shocked to see that the old Vortex building has gone. Having been away for a year and a half I kind of half expected that the Vortex would have been saved at the last minute (like in the movies) by a kindly anarchist-philanthropist, and was once again happily jumping to the sounds of atonal improvised sax playing.
But the Vortex had gone, to be replaced by a load of scaffolding. No more will I come staggering home at half past two in the morning, dying for a waz, and be suddenly seduced inside by the strange wails of freeform jazz. No more will I be able to ruin a perfectly good evening by suggesting "hey let's go and see Penny Rimbaud out of Crass live in Stoke Newington." In its glory days there was also a rest home downstairs for all those lost texts about structural film theory and feminist cultural critiques.
Has the Vortex by any chance been put in the British Museum?