Trampolines in high winds are the latest status symbol.

We have had some relatively strong winds overnight and the BBC invited people to post pictures of the damage. Here are 2 examples:

These images tell us more about the people inhabiting the Home Counties than about the weather; they scream: "Look at me, I've got a trampoline in my garden". I doubt if there are many of us who could give a stationary fuck, let alone a flying one about a piece of flimsy gym equipment that the owners failed to secure properly.

I look forward to the new phenomenon being taken up around the world after hurricanes, cyclones and tornados.

Perhaps 'the comparative distance travelled by a trampoline' could be added to the international measurement of stuff index (alongside the equivalent distance in double decker bus heights or football pitch lengths or the toss we couldn't give length).

Cyclists should dismount from their high horses!

The guy in the picture is not a youth who has nicked his bike, he is not an arrogant courier or 20 something king of the road. He is a late middle aged man who should know better. He is blithely cycling the wrong way down a one-way street.  He is one among many hundreds of idiots who do this every day, endangering their own lives as well as the lives of pedestrians. And probably, like all the other idiots on two wheels, he doesn't give a flying fuck about others.

I constantly hear the whinging of cyclists about their safety but if they refuse to abide by the rules of the road they have no come back.

A few days ago I watched as a cyclist got knocked down by a car in Portobello road. the woman driver was understandably distressed. The cyclist picked himself off the road, extracted his bike from under the wheel of the car and then, waving, yelled: 'It's ok, I was going the wrong way on a one way street'. then got back on his bike continuing his wrong way journey.

Cyclists pay no road tax, therefore we can safely say that they are using roads that are financed by motorists. They are the privileged  guests of said motorists and should show a little courtesy.

Cyclists do not, like motorists, have to take a test, so we only have their word that they are competent. Many of them are not.

Cyclists should, like all other road users, be registered and display that registration on high vis clothing and on their bike.

Cyclists should also acknowledge that footpaths are for (surprise surprise) those on foot.

Cyclists should dismount from their cod-eco, moral, high horses and accept that the world does not revolve around them!

Oh, and it is not just men:

Monkeys on Lancaster Road. W11.

My dog is not a TV, my dad is not an alcoholic. How sad is that.

A guest blog from an 11 year old boy.

I got a puppy for Christmas, outwardly that looks brilliant, but after a week or two the polish wears off.

I cannot watch TV on a puppy, I cannot play games on a puppy,  I cannot google porn on a puppy. All a puppy does is live and breathe and love me.

You would not believe the things a puppy does: it shits and pisses and expects me to clear it up. When I shit and piss I have my mum to clear up after me because thats what mums are for. Kids like me are for having puppies that play computer games and stuff & puppies that sit on my lap when the TV is on so I can say I am busy puppy minding when I am really just watching TV. Kids like me are not designed to look after a fucking puppy that no-one said was going to piss and shit or require feeding.

No one told me I'd have to walk the fucker.

Modern society has not taught me that I have to consider anything other than myself and my selfishness.

It is not my fault that my puppy does not understand this. I did not ask it to love me or need me.

All I ask of it is that it enjoys Spongebob Squarepants and craps on somebody else's watch.

I wish my dad was an alcoholic so he would use my puppy as an excuse to go to the pub every day.

Then I wouldn't have to walk it.

And I might love my dad a bit more even though he was an alcoholic and probably would beat my mum up when he got home from the pub.

A dysfunctional family is a small price to pay for me not having to look after my puppy.

Butchers, bowels and burgers.

Provenance, the butchers in Kensington Park Road opened a while ago, a welcome arrival after the closure of the Edwardian Butcher on Portobello Road.

Provenance won the New Butcher of the year award and quite rightly so. They sell very, very good meat, they are pleasant, patient and informative people. Good news.

A number of people I have talked to have complained about the price of their meat. they should consider a couple of facts:

Half  a kilo of Wagyu flatiron steak will cost them about £14.00. That is enough to feed four people at (I'll do the maths for you) £3.50 a head.  We eat far too large portions of indifferent meat in this country and would do well to go for smaller quantities of better produce.  The complainers will happily spend £8.00 on an indifferent burger from a stall yet moan about spending less than half the amount on excellent beef.

Flatiron steak is not a well known cut of meat in this country, it is, as its name suggests a flat piece of steak. It needs fast hot cooking before being sliced. It is, when served this way, incredibly tasty and perfectly tender. If you like steak well done then stop reading and go and buy a burger!

Provenance sell very good burgers too, which, if you so desire you can incinerate.

Their black pudding (We like the triangular one) is proper black pudding, not the pastiche sold by supermarkets. Enough for 4 people to have a slice costs £1.00, the same price as a bag of haribo jellies, How is that expensive.

Last Christmas, instead of the usual insipid turkey or overpriced goose we had a large chicken from Provenance. It was agreed by all that it was the best Christmas lunch ever eaten. It cost £17.00, how much was your Tesco, shed reared turkey that you had to overcook then smear in cranberry jam in order to introduce any kind of flavour?

You could always go to the popcorn shop round the corner where their stuff works out at over £85.00 per kilo.

So... Instead of complaining about the cost of quality they should be thinking about changing their dietary habits and minds. After all, minds are like bowels, better when frequently opened!

Provenance. 33 Kensington Park Road, London W11 2EU 020 7229 8814

Orange coffee, Portobello Road.

Forget the likes of Starb***s, N**o and Rep****c. forget the expensive hipster places. If you want a good coffee on market days visit Orange coffee.

This is the sort of thing that will go if RBKC and Westway Development Trust get their way with the proposed development of the area. Ironically it is exactly this king of enterprise that makes the area so popular with Londoners and tourists alike.

They are opposite the tented market by the Westway. Their Facebook page is HERE

More on the Westway Development Trusts proposal for Portobello.

I swiped this from the Portobello Radio Facebook page.

Chris Sullivan writes:

As you might know the campaign against the horrific development under the Westway is underway see petition above) but here's what Rishard Adams has penned to underline what will be lost :

With regard to the proposed Westway Portobello Village development, it might help you to better understand their proposal if you were to google:

http://www.thesourcemag.net/index.php…

A. The development is shown as artist’s impressions:

Site A: Portobello Green Arcade
Site B: Elevated restaurant
Site C: Acklam Road Car Park
Site D: Acklam Village

B. Having now had the development looked at, we can surmise this is a:

1. United development with raised pavement linking the four elements
2. Is a retail lead destination common in new-build mini shopping malls (Site A)
3. It seeks to generate its own brand
4. Is targeted to generate value and increase high-end foot fall
5. There is cultural element, but the focus is on corperate events (Site D)
6. There is a leisure/ cafe/ restaurant/ terrace/ attraction, again targeted at generating high-end footfall (Site B)
7. There is a small vintage market under the elevated restaurant (Site B)
8. There will be a development of high-end luxury flats (Site C)

C. What are the consequences of the above?

1. The were no black people or people of colour in the architects site visualisations. Of the 40 people pictured in Site A+B+C+D, 85% were white, 4-10% could not be identified, a single figure, or 2.5%, might be a person of colour. To date, both the architect Stiff & Trevillion and The Westway Trust have made verbal apology, but black residents who saw the drawings are clear that all parties engaged in their generation have behaved in an ínstitutationally racist manner

2. The Portobello Road as a tarmac road with paving, will go (Site A+B)
3. The International Brigade Memorial under the Westway at Portobello Road, will go (Site A)
4. The Portobello Green stall area by tube bridge, the colonade area, will go (Site A)
5. The vintage market canopy will go, the market area will reduce (Site B)
6. The ‘Saturday' market stalls from the canopy to Ladbroke Grove, will go (Site A+B)
7. The Ácklam Road/ Norfolk Place stall area will go (Site B)
8. The four motorway bays 55, 56, 57, 58, will go (Site D)
9. Bay 55 that is currently for market stall storage - for the vintage and Council markets, will go (Site D)
10. The Acklam Village and the Pop-Up Cinema, will go
11. All the current shops trading in Portobello Road and Portobello Green, will not have their leases renewed. They may apply to come into the new shopping mall or they will go

In summary everything you see today on weekday or market day will no longer exist. This development, led by a private consultant Phil Dibsdale, is akin to the Highland Clearances: seemingly 'no blacks, no poor, no bohemians' in the Portobello Village

Westway Trust and Phil Dibsdale want to go to planning in the summer, traditionally the time when people are away on holiday, we must devise every strategy now to defeat this appalling scheme. Letters, press, creative demonstation, everything that chips away or implodes the Portobello Village brand.

Please forward this information to all the people you think will share our concern 

FURTHER INFORMATION
The deadline for ‘comments to consultation’ looms. The deadline is on Friday, 20th March, but in my experience if the body of protest goes beyond the date by a few days, then the sheer weight of public opinion can’t be ignored. The person to write to is:

Angela McConville, Head of Westway Trust
The Westway of Trust
1 Thorpe Close
London W10 5XL
Angela.McConville@westway.org

Portobello Radio are HERE

Middle aged men on kids scooters

Walking up Kensington Park Road the other day, pushing a buggy, enjoying the spring I was suddenly confronted by a fat middle aged guy hurtling downhill towards us on a scooter. As he passed I said: 'Aren't you too old for that'. He ground to a halt, turned around and came back. He said: 'You said something'.

I said: 'Yes. I said aren't you too old for that'.

He said: 'Why'.

I explained that while I understood the need for small children to be allowed to scoot on the pavement because the roads were dangerous I felt it was rather dangerous for adults to belt about the place without any care for other pedestrians.

He said: 'I don't agree. It is fun and it is good exercise'.

Having said his piece he then turned tail and scooted on down the hill.

The guy was FAT, he was exercising one leg on a part time basis. Had he been walking he would have been getting 4 times the exercise, had he been on a bicycle he would have been getting 8 times the exercise. He was fat and lazy and in denial.

What was most interesting was that by the fact that he came back to discuss the matter he let me know that he knew that he was fat and lazy. Aggressive defence being the refuge of the obese.


As the population grows we need to be more aware of the space we occupy and the space other people occupy. Just because we are fat and guilty does not give us the right to bully the people we envy.

Envy is nasty. Envious fat people should just eat less and leave the scooter at home.

Portobello Documentary.

This is from 2011, I have not seen it before. It is ok but it could have included a much wider range of voices.

St Patrick, patron saint of English binge drinkers.

The Welsh don't do it. The Scots don't do it. The Irish do it, but he is their Saint. So why do the English wrap themselves in this faux Oirishness and proceed to get bladdered on St Patricks day?

I suspect it has something to do with national self esteem or the lack of it.

Portobello Live coming soon.

'Portobello Village' development from a child's perspective.

A guest blog from Morgana, aged 22months.

I have looked at the drawing of what Westway want to do and it isn't very good.  There are no cars or vans in the picture but in real life the place is full of them, making me think that the drawer can't draw cars and vans or they want to make it a dull pedestrianised area like Huddersfield town centre (I like the word Huddersfield because it almost says shudder which is what I did when I saw the drawing). Huddersfield town centre only has pound land shops, hair salons, nail bars and a Greggs. Oh and lots of expensive coffee places that cost twice as much as Wetherspoons which is the only pub left. I am not allowed beer or coffee so I don't think that is very good.

Cars on high streets are good because they make people walk on the pavement close to the shops and see what is in the windows rather than walking down the middle close to the drinkers and homeless people and the concrete planters full of dog poo and dead plants.

Vans would have been good in the drawing because it would have told me that there was still a market there because all the market people have vans for their stuff and if there were no vans there would be no stuff to sell so the market people might as well stay at home. Especially when it is cold.

I don't like the big pink thing in the drawing. It is not very good and I could make a better thing with my lego and it would be colourful not pink (even though I am a girl and supposed to like pink). This building will take up space where, on non market days, us children learn to ride bikes or skateboards, play with remote controlled cars and stuff like that. I particularly like practising my walking there and have recently moved on to an unsteady sprint. I like climbing the concrete blocks that stop the tent blowing away when it is windy.  Kids do this stuff under the tent because the park next door is full of smelly people drinking or taking drugs or letting their scary dogs run around pooing everywhere. The other nearby park in Tavistock road is just the same. I thought parks were for everybody but it seems not, these days parks are only for the aggressive disenfranchised (I found that word in my thesaurus and like the shape of it, it is nearly as good as hippopotamus).

They should have a little cafe in the park with tables and chairs for the grown ups to sit on while we play and the people who run the cafe could tell the nasty people to go away or they could get a slide shaped like a fierce dragon which would frighten them away ( and their dogs who are frightened of dragons too).

I hope Westway change their minds about this drawing. I have a new set of crayons and will do them a better one if they want or I could make them a lego model (I only have big lego at the moment because I could swallow the little stuff and I'm having enough trouble swallowing the nonsense that Westway are giving us).

People say that not enough people go to the shops under the Westway on days when the market isn't there but if they put shops there that had stuff people wanted to buy every day the shops would be full.  We need a proper toy shop, a sweet shop, a big pet shop with lots of real animals in it (not dog porn like the shop in Westbourne Park Road which is for ladies with rich husbands, not children who want to look at pets or buy a toy for their new puppy. I have a new puppy called Pandora, she is 10 weeks old and I would buy her lots of toys if there was a shop under the Westway to sell them to me) and a place full of coloured balls like at Ikea. Oh. And a Poundland!

Mothers day for the now generation.

The boys came home at three
they are not my boys by the way
but my partners boys but my boys all the same
I love them as best I can
it is harder to love someone else's boys
loving your own boys comes easy by comparison
but i love them as best i can

i love the way they hate me for not being their dad

the boys make me think hard every day

the boys came home at three
after three hours with their dad killing time
killing time like they do each week or whenever their dad deems to turn up
killing time, killing respect, killing love


the boys came home at three
and said they had asked their dad
if they could buy something for mummy for mothers day
he said no.

Yes he said no
no shit he said no

the boys came home at three
after their dad had said that they could not buy their mummy
a mothers day present
because tomorrow
tomorrow
tomorrow, when mummy is having a lie in
you can go out and buy something with Jan

the boys came home at three
having completely lost respect for their father and hating me for that

I love the way they hate me for not being their dad

of course i will take them out shopping


On mothers day.

Petition to stop Westway Development Trust from ruining Portobello Road.

Westway Development Trust are planning to develop the tented market on Portobello Road. If they succeed in their plans they will rip the soul out of the area. Westway do not own the land, they manage it on behalf of the people of the area. They have no right to do this but as RBKC/Tory poodles they naturally have no consideration for the wishes of the local community.

Please click HERE and sign the petition

My letter to Westway Development Trust:

The proposed development of the Portobello Green area is wrong for a number of reasons:

While the area is somewhat shabby and requiring some money spent on it It does not suit a development of the nature proposed. The anti-social behaviour problems cited as one reason for this 'improvement' is caused mainly by weak policing by WDT and by a lack of interest on RBKC's part in the needs of the local community. Sadly, street drinking and sleeping, angry dog ownership in order to demonstrate resentment and vandalism is endemic in our cities and will ever be so until more thought is put into how to address the problems. Building this development will not put an end to anti social behaviour; at best it will force it elsewhere in the area.

The tented market is, along with Portobello Road as a whole, quite rightly world famous. It is world famous because it is unique. It is world famous (and loved) because it allows individual traders to market their wares with affordable overheads. And believe it or not it is world famous because of its shabby originality and integrity. The proposal will destroy this uniqueness and a once vibrant thoroughfare will become just another soulless city street.

We do not need a 'fine dining restaurant' in place of the tent. The term fine dining says it all; it will not be for the benefit of the local community but of benefit to the well heeled incomers, who on the whole, from my experience, resent the local community and consider us to be rather 'infra dig'. There is enough fine dining to be had elsewhere in the area.

We do not need Westfield type shops. There are more than enough in Westfield itself.

It is horrific that the residential part of the proposal will be 'high end'. If any residential development takes place it should surely be affordable housing for the locals. Westway after all manages the land on behalf of the community and therefore I find the idea of them carrying out private developments on this land unacceptable. It wouldn't surprise me if it was illegal too.

On a personal level, as a resident of Cambridge Gardens (directly opposite the 'tent') I would like you to explain how building your shoe box on stilts and blocking our sunlight for a large part of the day, benefits us. I would also like to know how having a public balcony directly overlooking us benefits us in any way.

By all means spend some money on the area but do it in such a way that retains the dignity and the soul of one of Londons great assets.


More HERE

Cost effective childcare.

Rusty writes from Lizard Bend, Idaho:

'Lula Mae spends most of her time baking these days leaving me with the child care problems.

I've got it sorted:

Dominos 3D pizza printer.

Breaking news:

Dominos Pizza are about to announce the introduction of a 3D printed on line delivery service.

You order the pizza, click a 3D select button and the pizza is printed out in your home within seconds.

A spokesperson told me that the end result tasted like plastic, but then, don't all Dominos pizzas!

                                 A 3D printed pizza.

If I were a poet.

If I were Pam Ayres
I'd rhyme bloater with a
new coat her
brother bought her
to go to the palace
to pick up her gong
for rhyming bloater with a coat her
brother gave her
but Laurie Lee ate.

If I were Mcgonagall
I'd jump in front of the train
before it got to the bridge.

If I were Ted Hughes
I'd have left Sylvia too
I'd have left her to the crows.

If I were Bukowski
I'd have drunk more
and written less.

Portobello Radio: Two old gits who can remember bugger all.

Before you complain about the title 'Two old gits who can remember bugger all' it is a direct quote from Chris Sullivan on the radio this afternoon.

Chris is doing himself, and co-presenter Piers Thompson an injustice, they remember quite a lot and as the area is being rapidly eviscerated, its once vibrant guts being replaced with a wealthy prosthetic community, it is good to hear two old gits trawl over what once was and what remains of local culture including where to get a scotch egg for two pounds on a Wednesday (the Red Lemon on All Saints if you must know).

The show is laid back and informal to say the least but all the better for that, reminiscent of sitting in the Cow a few years back (back in the time when the Cow was a dog having its day) listening to Piers, Chris and others shoot the breeze.

They play some music too.

If you live, or once lived,  in the area and fancy a lunchtime session without the hassle of walking to the boozer (which probably doesn't exist any more) you can do no better that tune in.

Chris Sullivan and Piers Thompson present Portobello Radio, the authentic voice of Notting Hill, every Friday from 1-3pm onKtoKradio.comor viahttp://tunein.com/radio/Kilburn-to-Kensal-Radio-s197467/.

Something is wrong in the world of children's literature.

OK. Here we go… You want to write a contemporary children's best seller, make it as dysfunctional and as negative as you can, avoid adventure (unless it is escaping from abusive parents/carers), make sure it is set in an orphanage, ensure there are plenty of zombies and threats of death, ensure that there is no hope (but indicate that hope might be forthcoming in the sequel) and ensure that there are enough adult themes that children want to pretend that they understand but don't to keep them mystified.

What is wrong with good old fashioned adventure and fantasy?

I'll tell you what.

Modern children's writers do not write for children, they write for publishers who demand formulaic best seller books which only satisfy the accountants.

Modern kids don't want to know about Rob Roy or Ivanhoe or Treasure Island or Swallows and Amazons even because they see them as dated and boring yet the irony is that all of the above mentioned books involved action beyond sitting in front of a computer screen bitching about having nothing to do except bitch about the world they can't really be bothered to take part in.

Schools are equally to blame… They judge children on their ability to read words rather than their ability to understand what they are reading. Schools these days are about awarding points for being seen to do things rather than the actual ability to do them.

I'm re-reading Stig of the Dump, its great.

Cross dressing.

I have no say in the matter
it's all chosen by them
the colour, the fabric
the length of the hem
the style of the collar
the cut of the tights
the straight jacket baby-grows
with ghastly highlights
accessory garments
for the accessory child
are hardly condusive
to the babe meek and mild.

I hear all the time
that I am a blessing
so why do your best
to make me so
FUCKING CROSS DRESSING.

Why hipster incursions into the KPH might not be a bad thing.

I visited the KPH on Ladbroke Grove last evening in order to drop in on a friends birthday party, the party was still in the sit-down at dinner stage when I arrived so I sat downstairs and had a beer.

I've criticised the KPH in the past for its prices and was pleased to note that my beer was 50 pence cheaper this visit. A good start.

The pub was relatively busy and I was surprised to note that a fair number of the punters were exotic types from East London on an 'ironic' visit to the West. This curious phenomenon might be just what this part of London needs.

For years now the combined efforts of RBKC and the hoards of wealthy incomers has succeeded in wiping out the quirky, lively, left-field, multi-cultural life of the area replacing it with expensive, elitist shops and cafes that none of the locals can (or want to) afford. Most of the pubs have gone and those providing live music are few and far between and are being silenced as a result of the demands for quiet being made by the wealthy incomers.

The KPH itself is being threatened with change of use to retail/residential, wiping out yet another local landmark.

There is virtually nothing of a cultural nature in the area for young people; very little live music, no boozer that doesn't have pretentious of gastropubbery, no cool hangouts apart from MauMau on Portobello Road. Perhaps if the hipsters of Shoreditch continue to make visits then places for them to visit might spring up and in doing so create places for the indigenous youth to frequent.

A good start would be for the KPH to be saved from the developers.

http://thekph.com

David Cameron hoax calls.

I am told that David Cameron has been making hoax calls to various world leaders claiming to be in charge of the UK.
















The USA and Russia have both flagged the Downing Street number used and state that they will not fall prey to such hoaxes in future.

A spokesperson for Cameron stated that she was too busy playing Candycrush to know what was going on but did say that Cameron was unable to wipe his own arse let alone use a telephone. So the hoax may be a hoax.

At the same time Miss Pretty kukucachoo of Burkino Faso wishes to announce her engagement to David Cameron of London town assuring us it is not a hoax, she will love him long time and guarantee a happy ending.

Not waving but drowning. The Countess Alex Zapak. Genius!

Fired up at Mode. The Lipstick Melodies and others.

UPDATE.  26th April 2015.  Saddened to hear today of the untimely death of Alan Wass of the Lipstick Melodies.  Another one gone.                                            

There is nowhere for kids to go in Notting Hill, by kids I mean the youth and by Notting Hill I mean West London.

I went to Fired Up at Mode tonight. Mode is the recent reincarnation of what was Supper Club and before that Subterrania.

Fired Up is the inspiration of Mickey P!

At first sight it looks interesting, there is a half size spitfire hanging from the ceiling above a stage backed by a steam-punk organ. Sadly the balcony above appears to have been designed by someone thinking it is a 3 star hotel in Swindon complete with William Morris wallpaper and badly framed art.

There were very few young people there apart from the bands and their followers, there were too many middle aged folk, me included, who should have been elsewhere, but in W10 where else is there.

Where were the youth?

I know a lot of the local kids prefer to stab and shoot each other rather than hang out and listen to music but there must be a few who want to hear and see some old fashioned rock n roll.

Because old fashioned rock n roll is what it was.

The first band, the Lipstick Melodies were great, as if the Stones and Led Zep had met as kids and decided to go a different way. I like the Lipstick Melodies, I'm 60 years old, the Lipstick Melodies should be worried about the age of their fan base.

Pink Cigar followed.


I left.

Good luck Mickey with future events but I suggest you get some kids into the audience.

Orphans under the Westway.

Over 50 years ago, in the dark but more enlightened times the powers that be decided that a Motorway link should be pushed into West London in order to better serve the twin gods of Mammon and Motorcar. A whole community was disrupted and displaced by the event without any real care or consideration for that community.

The residents (mostly impoverished and a great number of them immigrants living in slum streets that were unceremoniously bulldozed to make way for the road that didn't even have the courtesy to run at ground level but arrogantly flying overhead) were rehoused without any real thought for community bonds or spirit. Post War planners and Architects were still fooling around with Brutalism, balcony high rise building and the social experiments of Bauhaus and Le Corbusier which have all proved to occupy a rather shabby cul-de-sac in the history of social housing.

The unlucky ones got to be rehoused in poorly considered estates, the even unluckier got to be herded into the abominable Trellick Tower and therefore able to look down on the Westway worm that had eviscerated their community.

But under the belly of that worm something stirred.

'Orphans' documents some of that stirring.

Under the Westway back then kids started occupying the spaces, building their utopian fantasies within the dystopian environment: discarded building materials became the wherewithal for adventure. Times were freer then, sure some kids got hurt but not as many as now where kids carry knives and will stab one another at the mention of a wrong post-code within nanny England's sterile but 'safe' environment.

Once the powers that be saw that there was potential use for the spaces they were taken away from the community under the premise that they would be developed for the benefit of said community. This is of course nonsense.

Apart from a few bays the entire area has been developed for commercial reasons with little thought for what the community really wants or needs.

'Orphans' occupies one of those few remaining bays, alongside the pop-up cinema and a splendidly tatty bar and music venue.

'Orphans' is an Art Installation by Steve Mepsted that plasters the innards of the Westway with enlarged images of how it used to be before the powers that be saw it as a means to profit.

Irony abounds at  'Orphans'.  Next to a enormous photograph of 60's children playing in a self built construct under the west way a bunch of 21st century kids have to make do with a vacant stage in front of images of 60's kids because nanny Britain deems nothing safe for our children and therefore our children have nothing safe to play with except the guns and knives of deprivation that we now give them.

Westway Trust is somehow sponsoring this. Westway Trust should be thinking long and hard about how it can ensure that the spaces under the flyover can remain of use to the community and benefit the people who need it most.

Westway Trust is one of those quasi-charitable organisations who like to be seen to be doing the right thing while they sell the birthright of the people they claim to represent to the highest bidder.

I spoke to Steve today. I said: I'm not going to review your show, I'll leave that to the professionals but I surely will moan about Westway Trust and RBKC and their desire to eradicate the indigenous population in favour of wealthy incomers.

'Orphans' is under the Westway for the foreseeable future, go and have a look.

And while you are there, grab someone from Westway Trust and ask:

Ask why the pop up cinema doesn't have proper funding, ask why all three bays will probably go to a supermarket, ask why Those 3 bays should not remain in perpetuity the domain of the community that the Westway Trust is supposed to serve.

Oops. I forgot. The Westway Trust only serves itself.

Let mummy sing in the garden.

Mummy is crying in the garden

because

I am growing up too quickly she says
and as she weeps
she lets me watch the stuff she thinks I want to watch

you know
the gratuitous sex
the violence
that she thinks I think I want to watch.

I am seven for fucks sake
and I shouldn't know the meaning of innuendo
let alone learn that
women are tools
to be fucked and then killed horribly
by James Bond (my hero).

What I really want
is a parent who allows me to watch
what I really enjoy watching
not the things that peer pressure (my 11 year old brother)
makes me think I want to watch.

Let me cry over the death of Bambi's mum
before I lose the ability to cry over anything.


I want mummy to say NO!

And sing in the garden.

Mayor of Sorrento sues Vesuvius for vandalism of early Banksy.

The mayor of Sorrento has started legal proceedings against the volcano for what he considers to be wilful criminal damage to valuable graffiti.

The graffiti, considered to be the earliest known example of Banksy's work, had been obliterated by ash and pumice for nearly 2 centuries, depriving the community of a priceless work of art valued at lots of money.

The mayor is quoted to have said: 'We are talking lots of money we have lost over two centuries, fuck whether it is art, it is money that could have been lining our pockets".

Neither Banksy, his ancestors nor the thousands of 'Banksy' pretenders would step from behind their mask to comment.

Le Peuple de L'herbe - Soya Green.

We like this.

The gargling Harpist.

            Harp and spittoon: Horngacher Empire Meisterharfe. Ikea Socker bucket.


She was an harpist of little promise until one day in rehearsals the composer heard her gargling in the wings.

He was mesmerised by the fact that she was gargling Mahler 5.

He sat down there and then to write his masterwork: 'Composition for harp and gargle'.

She became an overnight sensation along with the composer and the piece.

She suffered from stage-fright and in order to cope with the fame, started gargling with gin during her warm up.

Soon she was gargling with vodka during performances.

Sadly the Orchesra did not provide a spittoon… She swallowed.

Her playing suffered as a result and very soon she was replaced by a more reliable musician (there were suddenly many aspiring harp garblers up for it) and soon forgotten.

She now spends her days gargling for the residents of a run down hotel  and her nights drinking herself senseless whilst blaming everybody.

And her harp?     She sold that long ago to pay for her booze.

Mooning.

The Earth is a disco ball

The Earth is a glitter ball suspended within a spherical table 500 thousand miles in diameter

The Earth is a disco ball upon which the continents and oceans are projected
all life is part of that projection

Upon that table sits a glass of beer 240,000 miles away.

Or thereabouts

We all sit on our disco ball looking down upon a beer

Our disco ball rotates at a speed according to the nature of the engine
the table (along with it the beer) rotates at its own speed
the beer moves in and out of our line of sight

Wains and waxes

Reminding us that a glass is filled with optimism and hopelessly empty.

We all sit on our disco ball looking down on a beer.

Mooning.

We are too busy.

We are too busy
fighting other peoples wars
solving others problems
carrying their weight
curing their ills
salving their bruises
taking their pain
filling their voids

We are too busy to notice

each other

anymore.

The Golden Cross reappears on Portobello Road.

Like some primeval petrified forest exposed by an exceptionally low tide the Golden cross has re-emerged on Portobello Road.

Immortalised by Martin Amis in his novel 'London Fields' This will for the time being surely become a shrine for literary tourists.

It is good to see it again and be reminded of a very good book.

Is Keith Talent going to perform the opening dart throwing?

Olive Ants of Umbria. How olive oil is really made.

A guest blog by our foodie/travel writer Rusty McGlint. He ain't got a camera so there ain't no pictures.



Foodie vegetarians or Vegetarian foodies (if that is not an oxymoron) look away.

I have just spent three weeks high in the sun burnt Umbrian hills following the most noble of oils from its source on the branch to the drizzle on an artichokes heart.

My hosts, Pietro and Enid (her father was a Blyton fan) manage 15,000 olive trees on a hillside which runs down to hillside lower down the hill but not as steep and eventually to a level bit where Top Gear presenters race each other in flash cars and then it goes up again to another hill. Pietro's family has owned the land for generations and milked its trees for oil for longer still. 'Oil is in our blood'. He says. 'And our blood is in the oil'.

I spent my days on the hillside witnessing the virgin birth of oil and my evenings getting ratarsed on the Bulgarian 'Chianti' that the family buy in bulk and then re-label for the British market.

The food, provided by Pizza Hut, down in the village, was classical Umbrian fare.

But the oil. The oil.

As I mentioned before, Pietro has 15,000 olive trees. Each tree is the 'factory' for the ants nest which lies below.  The Umbrian olive tree is the life giving umbrella to the Olive ants of Italy and indeed gives its name to the region.

Olive ants (not to be confused with the Eleph ants of ancient Israel which have slightly larger bodies, thicker skins and trunks) build vast nests containing up to one million insects, each nest grows an olive tree from which oil, the life blood of the ants, can be harvested.  They say there are a Million olive trees in Umbria which means there are a million million olive ants. An old Umbrian saying has it that there are more olive ants in Umbria than there are stars in the heavens.

Anyway.

The ants build a nest and plant an olive tree. The ants then nurture the tree until it reaches fruition whereupon they, during the olive season, collect the oil from the fruit and take it down into their nest to provide succour for the embryonic olive ants through to maturity. They do say that over the millennia enough oil was spilled during this process to create reservoirs big enough to embarrass Saudi Arabia.

What Pietro, his forebears and his countrymen do is to catch the ants on their way down the tree- belly full of oil- throw them into a press whereby the oil is squeezed out of them. Using modern day techniques most of the ants die in this process which is causing disquiet among conservationists. Pietro insists that the ants reproduce at such a rate that this is not an issue.

In days past the ants were gently squeezed by pre-pubescent girls to extract the oil, allowing the ants to return to the trees. This oil was traditionally known as Virgin olive oil. The later, gentle but resented squeeze by a raddled old hag forced into going back to work in old age was known as the second pressing.

I'm geting bored with this. Can I just say you might not have ants in your pants but you certainly have ants in your pantry.

Bonkers Bankers Bunker in Ladbroke Grove.

This hole is being dug out on Ladbroke Grove on the corner with Elgin Crescent.

It is on a tiny site which once contained a small single storey building. The developer could not get planning permission to build up, so has gone down, and down and down. 3 floors down to be precise.

The refusal of planning permission for anything taller is laudable, the spaces between and adjacent to the large victorian houses of the area are necessary for a number of reasons and must remain.

But to burrow into the ground like this is ridiculous. whoever buys this place (no doubt for Millions of pounds) will become the owner of nothing more than a dungeon, lit naturally only through light-wells and no doubt requiring sumps and pumps to keep it dry. If the new owner is not already depressed by the price of this thing, he and his family will need psychotherapy shortly after moving in.

It is not in Notting Hill, Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts will not be strolling past hand in hand, snow will rarely shroud the road in pristine white and Junkies and drunks WILL most certainly piss through the letterbox.

Mad. Mad. Mad.

Saucepan Bark.

A guest blog form Rusty McGlint in Lizard Bend. Idaho.

I don't hold with this gender-steroetypical dressing of children so we are letting young Morgan go his own way.

I kinda like this cross dressing/Dolly Parton look he has chosen and a pink ukelele sure beats a gun.

He wrote his first song today. It goes like this:

Gonna get me a doggie
gonna walk him in the park
Gonna call my doggie Saucepan
just to hear that saucepan bark.

saucepan bark
walking in the park
a pissing on the trees
soaking all the bark

saucepan Bark
laying down his mark
and chasing off the muggers
that are hiding in the dark

Saucepan bark
Saucepan bark
gonna call my doggie Saucepan
just hear that saucepan bark.

Carnivorous Marrow found in Notting Hill.

A Serious Pest Control team was called in to a garden in West London today to deal with a rare carnivorous marrow.

The owner of the beast, Jan Nieupjur, told me:

"When the plant first started growing by the compost heap I thought it was a self seeded courgette but over the weeks the bugger just kept growing but never producing any fruit. A couple of weeks ago, having taken over the garden it suddenly produced something. In the space of 10 days it became rather larger than a courgette. I thought: OK it has aspirations of marrowhood, but it didn't stop there, it started to resemble a green pumpkin.

A few days ago the garden became empty of birds, even the wood pigeons disappeared, and then the neighbours started to lose their cats (no bad thing to my mind) and small dogs so I knew something was up.

I sat up last night with a torch and a bottle of schnapps to keep an eye on things and was amazed to see the vegetable pounce upon a nocturnal squirrel and eat it. Bugger me I thought: This thing could eat one of the kids so I called in the pest control people who confirmed (by inspecting its mouth parts) that it was in fact carnivorous".

                                Mouth of the carnivorous Marrow



A spokesperson informed me this evening that the Marrow has been taken to a secret location in Kensington where it will be propagated in order to grow more of the monsters in the local parks in order to eradicate the rough drinkers congregating therein.

Why Rimbaud gave up poetry.

From our Arts correspondent Jan Nieupjur.

A lot of people ask me why Arthur Rimbaud gave up poetry.

Actually thats a lie. No one has asked me, it is just a lazy, cheap bit of journalism.

But now I know. I recently came across a bundle of documents handed down over the years from a Kipper seller in Camden. Among the papers was a poem written by Rimbaud apparently in payment for some kippers he purchased. At the time he was living in Kentish Town with Verlaine and on the run from his mum and Verlaine liked a kipper.

Anyway, the document I have reads as follows:

At the price of just one florin je
suis désolée
down the market place to
see the value of an orange
The sun of fruits
at its apogee
yet cheaper than a door hinge.

(I feel I can do no more).   A.R.

Previously unseen Rothko found in West London.

Arts Correspondent Jan Nieupjur writes:

Walk through Notting Hills streets these days and the chances are you will stumble upon a Banksy screaming to be noticed and then scraped from its wall in order to be sold to save a youth club or some such worthy institution.  However if you open your mind to the unexpected far more worthy works of art are to be found.

The image above is one of a series of panels commissioned from Mark Rothko by the Four Seasons burger bar in the 60's. Prior to delivering the works Rothko visited the restaurant and was horrified by the quality of the images of plastic looking food on the walls and promptly withdrew from the contract, selling the panels to a firm of hoarding contractors in Shepherds Bush. The panels have remained hidden in their warehouse until recently when they were used at the Sarm West Studios site in Basing Street W11.

The works are important in that they show clearly how Rothko was moving away from Abstract depressionism towards the light of 'Nieupjurism' to which I had introduced him in the late 50's.

These paintings should be preserved for the nation but sadly one must assume that they will be overpainted by some Banksy wannabe in the near future.

The works in situ along with 'Bags of Rubbish' by Sala Murat and 'Postbox' by Tracey Emin.



Jan Nieupjur is Emeritus Professor of daubing at the University of Life. He is the founder of both the Abstract Depressionist movement and the Nieupjurist school of painting. His Autobiography, 'A figment of my imagination' is unlikely to ever see the light of day.

Harp in the Royal Albert Hall. no:2

Getting ready for Prom No: 72.

Gourmet baked beans… The planet is doomed.

We've gone mad, completely mad. fortnum and Mason are selling baked beans for nearly £5 a pot.

Half the world is starving whilst trying to live on less than that a week.

Anyone considering buying a pot of these fuckers should buy a tin of Heinz beans and give the balance to charity.

And listen up Mr and Mrs posh. The fuckers will make your farts no sweeter nor more melodious.

If Nero were around today he would be, without doubt, fiddling with a can opener and some of these as Rome burnt.

The twins.

When my parents were alive they lived outside a village in suffolk. Across the field in front of the house was an oak tree, it looked like a single tree from a distance but a closer inspection revealed that it was in fact two trees growing side by side. so close were they to each other that one had to surmise that they had grown from a squirrels buried stash of acorns.

Over the years these two trees individually grew apart as they grew up; each in search of its own light and space but such was the proximity of their origin neither of them had a say in which way it could grow, but grow apart they must.

One of the trees has light green foliage. The other dark. Other than that, as I have written, they could be one tree with a double trunk.

In the late 50's my twin sisters were born on Christmas day. It is one of my earliest memories; A christmas day (or perhaps a day later) spent in the hospital, unwrapping our presents and from what I can glean from said memory, the presents were more important that the arrival of sisters. I got a yellow bulldozer. I cannot tell you anything about the twins except that they were suddenly there.

The younger of the twins was sickly and fighting for life, she spent weeks in an oxygen tent and probably developing a completely different approach to life than her healthy sister.

From that day onwards the twins were simply 'The Twins', they were dressed alike, had the same haircuts and were referred to as a single entity even though they were not identical, came from separate eggs and had separate life support systems in the womb; two little acorns planted very close together.

From then onwards they started to grow apart, each craving her own light and space.

Thinking about it now, 55 years later I wonder if perhaps they had entered in to some unspoken pact that would allow each a degree of individuality in  their shared existence. 

One became more thoughtful and quiet while the other extrovert and capricious. Now it is as if one suffers life's hardships while the other revels in its possibilities; one tree watered from a glass half empty, the other from a glass half full. It is of course the sister who struggled for life in the beginning who makes the most of it later on. I could identify each of them simply from statements about their behaviour, If one was expelled from school, of course it was 'X', if one excelled in exams, of course it was 'Y'. One had dark emotional foliage the other light. Was this in some way considered (albeit subconsciously) and intentional or was it purely instinctive?

I used to, rather cruelly, think of them as two halves of the whole person but that of course is not the case. They are two individuals who have struggled to find their own light and air from very stifling beginnings.

I have come to the conclusion that treating twins as one entity, especially dressing them identically and never referring to them individually, considering them as accessories, is nothing short of child cruelty. 

Under Milk Wood. Promo video. Roeddwn wrth fy modd! Anhygoel!

Kevin Allen aided and abetted by Murray Lachlan Young, Rhys Ifans and others appears to have pulled off the impossible, making visual sense (or appropriate nonsense) of Dylan Thomas's audio play Under Milk Wood. The link to the promo video is: http://vimeo.com/105008724

Under Milk wood is one of those things, you know, everyone nods knowingly (even the Welsh) when it is mentioned but not many people have heard it and even fewer have read it. Most peoples contact with the poem will have been the execrable Burton/Taylor thing. This forthcoming film will, I think, change all of that.

I watched the promo with the muse (she is of course very Welsh). She was both ecstatic and gobsmacked. Roeddwn wrth fy modd! Anhygoel!

There is an oscar in the pipeline here.

Juzzie Smith. Good Vibrations.

This has to be a contender for the best busker award.

Alexia Coley. Drive me wild.

Alexia is a neighbour (I live in a cool neighbourhood) over the years I have seen her sing in various places locally and with the Rotten Hill Gang amongst others. Alexia has had her share of ups and downs, especially the past year, but she always has a smile, always has time, always makes you feel better than you did before.

This is her first single. It is far better than most of what I hear these days, I love it!

When my daughter wants to dance we put this on…. And we dance.

Requiem for a piano.

REQUIEM FOR A PIANO from frances shelley on Vimeo.

Grace and beauty on Portobello Road.

Now that carnival is over for another year peace returns.

There is something wonderfully organic about this image.

Carnival 2014. A child's view.

A guest blog by Morgana the Sultana of Boo (aged 15 months).

Buggeration (my first swear word ever) that was bonkers.

Two days of being prisoners in our own home watching very silly drunk people piss in the garden while calling daddy a racist and trying to punch him because he asked them not to piss in the garden.

A pisser.

Hmmmm don't think I want to play out there again.

There were lots of people selling beer and rum to make people want to piss everywhere but not one stall selling nappies…. Wise up grown-ups, wear a nappy, end those horrors of needing to find somewhere to piss. Mind you today was so rainy that no-one would notice that you had pissed in your pants. It is scrummily warm down there when you piss yourself too.

Mummy got cabin fever and climbed up the wall. If I could talk I would have suggested she cleaned off the cobwebs while she was up there.

The sound systems were just loud. I could do the same job with a biscuit tin and a wooden spoon if I were given a million Watts of amplification.

Daddy said that the rain was a godsend as he managed to score two cases of beer at cost price during the afternoon… He needs to drink a few of them before he is obliged to go out and clear the garden of the detritus (new word) of carnival before the street cleaners arrive.

Tomorrow I am going ice skating on the oil slick left behind by the jerk chicken stalls. Any excuse to wear my tutu.

As I write this I can hear the plaintive peep of a bladdered whistle blower as he or she crawls drunkenly through the shit that is left on our doorsteps. Shit that I personally think they should have kept to themselves.

Thousands die at Carnival.

A guest blog from A Chicken.

Tens of thousands of my people have been held in captivity in disgusting concentration camps only to be mercilessly killed and then thrown onto open fires alongside innocent sheep dressed as goats in order to meet the craving for salmonella poisoning of a million carnival goers who congregate annually to watch a few thousand of their own kind dressed up as exotic chickens getting pissed out of their minds before crawling home through the detritus of the massacre.

The air is thick with the smoke from the charnel fires, the area is bombarded with the boom boom boom of sound systems. Vegetarians passively ingest my people via the smoke and the vegans must be dying a million inner deaths.

And they call us the Jerk!

The great irony is that my people, when thrown onto the fires, come face to face with sweetcorn, rice n peas; all foods that they were denied during their cruel short lives in favour of food pellets made from animal by-products. Even the pigs grunt goes into chicken feed.

Mangrove steel band in All Saints Road.

Setting up the pans in preparation for the Mangrove steel band pre carnival rehearsal in all Saints Road W11 from 7.30 until midnight.

For those who find the carnival too much this is a great little street party.

Notting Hill carnival 2014. Boom boom boom an ting.

boom boom boom boom an ting.

the tits are not pecking at the feeder
the larks not ascending on the wing
the pigeons not cooing in the cedar
the jackdaws not stealing all the bling

the birds have left
the air's bereft
of everything avarian
in favour of
jerk chicken and
soul food rastafarian

the robins, once quite common
and the wrens once four a penny
and the sweet black bird all will not be heard
theres no room for the few 'mongst the many

the birds have left
the town's bereft
of everything on wing
to be replaced by
boom boom boom
boom boom boom boom
boom boom boom boom

an ting