To travel into London these days is to enter a nightmare of stress and provocation. We had decided to position the car from Heathrow to Soho as we would need in the evening to depart promptly from Ronnie Scott’s. Our first, albeit not unexpected, encounter was with the inexplicably protracted repairs to Hammersmith flyover. Implausible signs on the approaches claim that TfL is ‘working 24/7 to repair your road’. I have illustrated one on Flickr and FB. Such palpable nonsense serves only to inflame when one is navigating the area at <5mph only to proceed to the next set of delays. On this occasion they were in Piccadilly and caused, it seemed (in spite of warnings of road works) by nothing more than the practiced ineptitude of TfL in any kind of planning or traffic management. In my mind, I formulated an e-mail request for the refund of my £10 congestion charge. With this charge in place, I expect to avoid congestion not to have it inflicted upon me. The next provocation was at the NCP Brewer Street car park. NCP is a company well used to extracting the maximum money for the minimum service although they have moved on a little from bomb sites. I noted that my parking charge would be £47. I can only apologise to anyone who requires hospitalisation upon reading this. When I arrived, I required a toilet as I often do at my age. A very nice attendant emerged to help me but it soon turned out that she had been taught to talk corporate rubbish. I informed her that for £47 I expected the provision of a toilet. She informed me that they do have one although it turned out to be as well protected as Belmarsh and not marked for public use. As she guided me to it, she tried to defend the £47 charge by saying that it is for 24hrs. I replied with cold and relevant logic that it is in fact for any stay over 6hrs as that is when the higher charge kicks in. She countered with the assertion that it was good value for central London. I managed to articulate a snort of derision into a refutal. You really should come out with me some time, I think you’d enjoy it. Greg lives for it.
Strangely, Greg was farther away on the concourse of Charing Cross station when I engaged the station manager in verbal combat during a rare appearance in public. I must admit I am rarely seen at Charing Cross myself although, when in London, I do usually Oyster around. In the time since I last caught a train from there to anywhere other than Waterloo or London Bridge, things have changed a bit. I discovered that there are no longer direct off-peak trains to Greenwich as they now depart from Cannon Street. So you can travel directly to the less obvious tourist destinations of Mottingham or Barnehurst from Charing Cross but, to see the Cutty Sark, you have to change at London Bridge or travel from Cannon Street which, I would assert, is rather outside the ambit of the typical visitor to London. The thing is, nowhere at Charing Cross, does it give this information unless you delve into the timetable posters. Unusually, I did not need the toilet at this location but Greg did. Network Rail have long charged (currently 30p, payable only in 10p and/or 20p pieces) for access to their lightly cleaned facilities. They do not, however, find themselves able to guarantee the availability of change or indeed that everything will be working in their semi-secure premises if you get past the change problem. To be fair, South Eastern have increased the frequency of many services but I still contend that the obvious tourist destination should be served from Charing Cross.
At Greenwich, I felt sheepish. I knew that some defence assets had been redeployed but it had not occurred to me that HMS Ocean, which I had travelled to see, would have moved. I thought it was to remain in place for the Olympics after last week’s exercises. Consolation needed to be sought in a burger. Byron serves good burgers. The problem is they are very expensive. With the burger price around £9 and fries extra I expect very good. On Greg’s burger the avocado was not ripe; on mine the fact that I had ordered Jack cheese was irrelevant as the minute amount could have been anything. For £9 I expect two slices melted. We walked through the Greenwich Foot Tunnel which is fascinating. Thus to the Island Gardens station of DLR. DLR, I think, is ready for July. London at large, in my opinion, is not. A city barely able to cope with the everyday will not cope well with the Olympics. We went to Stratford but I observed the Olympic stadia coolly seeing in my mind only an extrapolation of a busy May Monday into Games chaos. The ‘get ahead of the Games’ posts are the tell. We should expect to allow 2-3 hrs longer for our journeys; really? Is that an incentive?
Back in central London I saw two Borismasters on route 38. I would like to see the type re-designated NRM for new Routemaster so that the association with London’s mysteriously re-elected buffoon mayor can be eradicated. He knows a lot about blue paint but nothing about transport planning. From the oasis of Bourbon Coffee we sauntered to be first in the queue at Ronnie Scott’s. I don’t think there can be anything more pleasant than the combination of dinner and jazz but that might be because I can’t remember sex. In the Blue Note in New York or Ronnie’s I am happy. But, hey, this is me so the meal could not pass without comment. I may find time for an entry at www.johnorameats.wordpress.com but I would like to highlight two things which would bother me on any menu. Restaurants often use the plural especially for accompaniments. When offered parmesan crackers for example, I expect more that one. ‘Crackers’ is a plural. One on the plate is singular. Greg, arguably, had the greater complaint. His pork cheeks were to be served with purple flowering broccoli. Whilst this might be local terminology for ‘fine green beans’, it seems more likely that the kitchen made an unannounced substitution.
The Manhattan Transfer were excellent. The main band members are celebrating 40 years together but still produce a fresh, dynamic show. Cheryl Bentyne has been unwell but stand-in Margaret Dorn was a petite package of artistic excellence. Her solo ‘You Win’ was wonderful. There was to be a second performance the same night but brilliant musical director and keyboardist Yaron Gershovsky, whom we know to chat to, made time to talk to us with evident warmth. We had to share the driving home but it had all been worth it.
On The Road Again
To all the people in a surprising variety of vehicles in Stubbington, Titchfield and Sarisbury who still seem to think that speed limits are suspended during the hours of darkness and twilight, I do hope you have £85 to spare because I am pretty confident that you’ll end up on a speed awareness course. I would like to see you on any kind of awareness course actually; any which increases your social awareness and decreases your arrogant selfishness.
There is never any excuse for drinking and driving. You can not drink and drive by accident. To commit the offence requires deliberate drinking followed by deliberate driving with, again, a good measure of arrogant selfishness. What is probably more common now but equally abhorrent is the amount of texting or phoning at the wheel in spite of efforts by our disappearing police forces. It is clear that, in many cases, these offences are committed by people who have only just moved off from a stationary position or even recently left a building of some kind. Obviously then the call could have been made or the text sent only minutes or seconds earlier and legally. This calls for much larger fines and confiscation of the phone.
And, finally, to the oik whose current and probably temporary female partner sped away from a local junction this afternoon who, after I stepped deliberately in front of the vehicle, yelled at me from the passenger window and through a mist of tattoos and stale vest, ‘what do you think you’re doing, dick?’, my retort should have been ‘less than 30mph, which is what you should be doing’. I can still kill with a single lash of the tongue but I worry that my cold stare might be losing its effectiveness.