2DO Before I Die

Second Leg Of The Rather Daft Pub Crawl Thing

Life normally becomes much easier once you’ve decided not to go to Heathrow. For me on my epic and rather nonsensical pub(lic transport) crawl it’s a bloody Godsend. Just imagine going through Osterley and Boston Manor twice in the same hour! So - we rejoin the action as I celebrate my whopping great shortcut by grabbing a Tesco Metro triplepack of sandwiches (prawns, ham & cheese, BLT) and jumping on the District “speeding bullet” Line…

5.15pm No point trying to be clever with the route at this point. Changing at Turnham Green, I’m soon dashing through the ticket hall of the Very First Tube Station I Visited In My Life, Ealing Broadway – aged four I probably was, visiting my Grannie, with all the pale blue cardigans, Polish sweets, arthritis and refusal to get a telephone that entailed. I stroll across Haven Green (I conkered here with my sister while my Dad lost at squash) and burst into The Haven, where I get laughed at by some football oiks as I order my pint of Fosters. Don’t know why. Maybe I look a bit of a state. Better stick exclusively to halves from now on, I still have a bloomin’ long way to go…

5.43pm Station. Purchase Double Decker. Get back on District Line train.

5.50pm Waiting for District Line train to leave.

5.51pm Thank God I didn’t go to Heathrow! I’d be just passing Hatton Cross by now.

5.52pm Moving at last.

5.53pm Oh, shit! Just remembered, I haven’t done any of the “other things” I was going to do on the journey! Like making my own Christmas presents and hassling strangers with a card for Mrs. Thornton. Quick look around the carriage for any likely candidates; they’re all far too nice and West London-ish to hassle. We’ll see what happens after a few more halves.

6.30pm Stuck on Piccadilly Line train between Ickenham and Hillingdon. Train is making that spooky whirring noise, like it’s about to conk out. Starting to feel a bit nauseous.

6.40pm Uxbridge. City of dreams. The Croydon of the west. It’s Saturday night. What the Michael Winner am I doing here? The Crown and Sceptre. Picked for its proximity to the station. By far the nicest thing beerintheevening has to say about it is “I think the landlord is a knobhead”. I enter. It’s hell. Most of the punters look about 15 and like they’d flickknife you in seconds. Skull'n'crossbones on the wall, sans irony. Alcopop Central. Do they actually sell beer? Who knows. I’m out of there within a minute.

6.46pm We now enter what’s known in recording studios as “the weirding hour”. Where everything you do, see or listen to – simply seems wrong. Mysterious men give me mysterious glances. The wind howls through the pedestrianised zone, shaking the Christmas “decorations”. Intense doubt sets in. There’s something very ill-advised, even twisted, about the next leg of the journey. Who would attempt it? In the dark? On the last Saturday night before Christmas? Me. I blame Dr. Bass, Michael Ogden and (just for a laugh) British Transport Secretary Douglas Alexander. Meanwhile – I’m waiting for a bus to West Ruislip.

6.56pm You’re not going to believe this: I’m already in West Ruislip! The bus was quick! I’m in a pub! It’s all right! Next to a large barracks, but you can’t have it all. In fact it’s called The Soldiers Return. It’s warm and the people seem friendly. I’m relatively impressed. I have half a John Smiths to celebrate. Best pub since Richmond. Not that the competition was particularly stiff.

7pm Get involved in a small fracas involving a pissed disabled person trying to get though the toilet door. I hold the door while the landlord explains how his boozer’s being renovated in the new year to become disabled-friendly. This doesn’t seem to placate the disabled person. I think about saying something – then think better of it (I’m actually quite drunk).

7.05pm Why is the journey from West Ruislip to Amersham so ludicrously complicated? It’s not even that far, as the crow flies. I’m waiting for the same bus I just got off. I speak to Mrs. Thornton on the phone. She asks me where I am and where I’m going. I answer “I don’t know” to both questions.

7.17pm Ruislip station, where – I mean, I ask you – I have to get a train back towards Central London, only to change at Harrow to go back out again. I am extraordinarily tempted to stay on the damn thing all the way back to civilisation. I remain seated when the doors open at Harrow. Decide I’m being wet and dash through them at the last minute.

8.05pm Oh, the irony! I fell asleep! And woke up – in Amersham!! It’s like method acting. I woozily walk up the platform and ask the station geezer where the nearest pub is (I slur the word "nearest"). He says I could go the Boot & Slipper, but adds that "The Chequers might be more your scene." What can he mean? Surely that The Chequers is a more sophisticated joint for a distinguished traveller such as I. Off I set, but then see the Boot & Slipper on the way and risk it. Confusingly, it is really quite pleasant and full of people eating nice looking food. I sip a Carling (I’m beginning to get that horrid "I’ve had too much beer" taste in my mouth – must get some chewing gum) and worry more about the time.
(It’s only when the mist has cleared the next day that I look The Chequers up on beerintheevening, and it says, “Unfortunately, since the Iron Horse closed down, the place has become full of nut-cases… it’s changed from a welcoming pub, to one whereby (sic) I’ve been threatened with physical violence”!!! And the station guard said it’d be “more my scene”!!!! I’m considering legal action.)

8.35pm Back at Amersham Station. Oh my Gawd. It’s almost nine o’clock and I’ve got SIX STOPS LEFT. Decide to miss out Chesham – at the very least. It’s not my fault the Metropolitan Line divides into three branches.

8.54pm Really quite pissed now. I am waiting on the platform at Moor Park. A place I have never been to before, nor ever knew existed, nor will (probably) ever go to, or think about, ever again.
One must attempt to extract some profundity from this otherwise breathtakingly use-free moment.

9.10pm Watford. Was expecting some rough townie shithole. Instead I’m in a relatively posh residential area, with a park, and not a pub in sight. Um.

9.12pm Ask station bloke where the nearest pub is. He doesn’t know.

9.14pm Ask passing dog-walker where the nearest pub is. He says there’s one called The Jolly Arse (or something) and gives me terribly complicated directions which I forget instantly.

9.17pm I’m wandering in the vague region of where he described. No pub is materialising.

9.22pm Ask a passing pair of teenagers where The Jolly Arse pub is. “Are you sure you’ve got that right?” one of them asks. “Jolly something, then. Arms maybe.” They look at me strangely, shake their heads and mooch off.

9.30pm I must have decided to abandon my search for I am now back at Watford tube station. Contemplate phoning Mike Ogden to bark abuse at him. Decide not to – but only ‘cos there’s no reception on my mobile.

9.31pm Ye Gods! What the hell should I do? Next on the list is Harrow & Wealdstone. I can’t even remember what line it’s at the end of. But at least all this farting about keeps me from drinking more.

9.32pm Slumping on a waiting tube train. All right; I can do Harrow, Stanmore and Edgware before closing time. Mill Hill I don’t have to worry about, I know the place. Sod High Barnet and Cockfosters, I’ll just make it up. NO! CURSES! I’M GIVING AWAY TRADE SECRETS!

9.33pm The thing to have done, of course, would be to enlist the help of one of my Non-Drinking But Driving Friends, to chauffeur me around. Silly me. Chewing gum anyone?

9.50pm I am at North Harrow. I’m going on the principle that they’ve both got “Harrow” in the title.

9.54pm I see a nice looking pub! The Three Wishes. I’m thirsty as hell. Haven’t had a drink since quarter past eight. Feel practically sober again. Sort of. I have an entire pint. Of shandy.

9.56pm Hang on! I’m not meant to be in a pub! I was just changing buses here. Oh… who cares?

10.05pm Standing hopelessly looking at the bus stop. What I wouldn’t give now for a Marks & Spencer’s Simply Food.

10.10pm Once again, I have given up. I’m in a minicab. I explain to the driver what I’ve been doing. “How much are they paying you?” he asks. Ha ha. Hahahahahahaha.

10.32pm Ooh look, there’s The Malthouse in Stanmore. Very nice. Drive on, Mr. Cab Driver.

10.45pm Ooh look, there’s The Edge Of Town in Edgware. Very nice. Keep going James, I have a wife to look after. Keep the change.

10.56pm Run into The Mill at Holders Hill Circus, Mill Hill East, for the finale of this evening. Ah, The Mill. Scene of many a drunken youthful evening before we could get served anywhere better. I am now a shadow of my former teen self, but at least I’m not vomming in the skip outside. I order a nice civilised pint of Carlsberg and retire to a corner, where I sip and rest my feet. I feel relatively okay. All right, so I didn’t make it. But I tried. On reflection, it was a rather daft idea. It’s not a pub crawl I would recommend, and I somehow don’t think it’ll catch on. With the possible exception of the The Soldiers Return in West Ruislip and The Racing Page in Richmond, I haven’t visited any pubs I would remotely go to again. But hey! Let’s look on the bright side.

11.14pm How I do get back to Stoke Newington from here?

Find A Pub At The End Of Each Of The London Tube Lines: First Leg (Walthamstow to Heathrow)

"It can’t be done," pronounced my good mate Richard the Sceptic, three days previously. He of dwarf-like faith. Only I knew how meticulously I’d worked out the route and – in fact – how little it involved using the London Trundleground. So, on that thankfully dry-ish Saturday, I forewent all thoughts of Christmas shopping and embarked on the soon-to-be-legendary Edge Of London Pub Crawl…

10.20am Leave my cosy flat in Stoke Newington with a 13-zone Travelcard and £30 (will that be enough?) – bus to Finsbury Park, Victoria Line to Walthamstow.

11am I am first through the door at The Goose (and Granite, although they seem to have abandoned this bit). Some friendly skinheads, a sign that says “you are now leaving a no-smoking area” (pubs have far too many signs these days, don’t you think?) and my first half of Carling leads me to an exciting realisation – having slagged them off for the better part of my adult life, halves are quite cool! They’re quick, cheap, cold and crisp and almost make up for Jamiroquai on the stereo singing “… canned heat in my heels tonight, Big Ben” (as I have always thought he says). Ten minutes later, I’m out. One down, 22 to go…

11.10am Christmas shoppers are already assembling in the bus station. Good luck to ‘em. Not me though. No! I’m on the 275 to Woodford…

11.17am … with a load of screaming “kids”.

11.28am Woodford. Y’see, this little trip also doubles as me looking for future boroughs for Mrs. Thornton and I to live in. Woodford is not one of them. Jump on the Central Line to:

11.45am Epping. Had high hopes for this little town. Looks all right. Not a bad place to wake up after a heavy night, a la Dr Bass’s original specification. Managed to do my homework for this stop, so a few twists and residential turns finds me at The Half Moon, where I eye the range of beers and select a… Carling. I’m sorry. I just haven’t enough time to think about picking anything imaginative. Plus real ale will weigh me down at this time of day (that’s probably bollocks but never mind) and it always seems to get you into interesting conversations with the amiable looking landlords, which is no good for me as ten minutes later I’m…

12pm … waiting for the 500 bus to Romford!

12.10pm Still waiting for the 500 bus to Romford.

12.15pm On the 500 bus to Romford. This is more like it! We’re actually in the countryside! Past local beauty spots such as the River Roding and the M25 Motorway. Much better than simply belting back on the tube.

12.45pm But not necessarily quicker.

12.50pm Romford. No time to reflect, my bladder ain’t what it used to be. Doesn’t look madly exciting though. Quick step across to the other bus stop, where I get the…

12.57pm … 247 bus to Upminster. Now we’re really on "you only ever hear of it on the tube announcements" territory. Time for me to plug a great site: beerintheevening There are lots of other good pub sites, not least embryonic-but-going-to-be-excellent fancyapint (thanks Darren) but the best thing about beerintheevening is that it’s written entirely by users, so consequently, as in the case of the Essex Yeoman which I now gingerly approach, you get reviews which consist of nothing more than “Barrie is vermin and good riddance to the cunt who thinks nutting people is reasonable behaviour.” Brilliant! Sadly I see no such action here today and I spy no-one who genuinely deserves the description "vermin", but I hardly think I’ll be taking my mother here on her birthday. Also – call me a fool, but after my treacherous bus journey and a euphoric wee I decide to have a whole pint of Red Stripe and a packet of crisps. Rock’n’roll.

1.39pm Amazingly, I am on schedule. For what, or who, I don’t quite know – but with a grand total of 2 pints inside me I sit back on the luxurious “c2c” (who knows) overground train, read a bit of my scintillating book (Maximum City by Suketu Mehta – about him doing a similar pub crawl in Bombay) and prepare myself for the inner-city leg (thank the Lord).

2.30pm After leaping from the train at West Ham and hurling myself onto a passing Jubilee Line to Canada Water, where I spring, gazelle-like, onto the East London Line, I find myself at the good old Amersham Arms in New Cross. The last bastion of early 90s meat’n’potatoes indie rock. Saw Carter USM here about 900 times. Sod all going on here during the day though. Half a Carling Extra Cold and a quick glance at an out-of-date BFI Festival flyer and I’m outtahere.

2.45pm New Cross Gate – Hobgoblin. See what I did there? I walked. To this unofficial Goldsmiths’ student union bar. Students! Don’t you love ‘em? With their relentlessly wacky clothing and drinking games and 10% off all drinks. 10%??? Isn’t that a bit stingey? In my day… etc. This is not a very interesting pub. Which wouldn’t be a problem – only it’s clearly trying very hard to be. Sorry. Carling again.

2.57pm Back on a bus – the 36, taking in the delights of Peckham. I rather like Peckham. It’s got a bad reputation, but there’s an excellent Spanish restaurant here which I once did a runner from.

3.15pm Change at Camberwell. I rather like Camberwell. The Stoke Newington Of The South, donchaknow. There’s a good bar here (the Funky Munky), but unfortunately Camberwell’s not on the end of – or anywhere near a – tube line, so I have to catch me a “fast” 345 bus to…

3.30pm … Brixton. I could have gone to the far more interesting Duke of Edinburgh or far more trendy SW9, but frankly I was in the mood for drunken old bastards and drug dealers so I’m here at my second Goose of the day. Only marginally more exciting than its Walthamstow equivalent. My feet are starting to hurt, so I have a Stella. There’s logic there somewhere.

3.45pm Back on the Victoria Line. Am starting to feel a little tipsy now. Need lunch soon.

4pm Northern Line, southbound. Where is everyone? Christmas shopping perhaps.

4.20pm Morden. Oh my lord. It’s hell. Can’t see a pub at all, so I settle for Tanley’s Irish “Bar”. Was going to eat in Morden, but I value my digestive system too much. It’s like being in another country. Unfortunately I don’t mean Ireland. Have a whole pint to “take the edge off”, as an old bass player of mine used to say.

4.40pm Northbound 93 bus. Having a panic attack that I’m not going to finish. Really don’t want to be in Cockfosters at 11pm. May have to cut a corner somewhere…

4.09pm Such negative thoughts pushed aside, I stride through the doors of Wimbledon’s Prince of Wales to the sound of The Human League’s “Don’t You Want Me” and someone literally screaming the lyrics out. They must be accustomed to bad behaviour here though, as apparently Ollie Reed was a regular. Hardly a discerning soul. They have mulled wine on tap – so I have some.

4.21pm Okay, don’t hate me. There were several ways I could have got to Richmond: two buses, train into Clapham Junction, then back out again – but frankly I am now in a taxi. Partly because I need a rest, but mainly because I want to go through Richmond Park. A short argument with the cab driver ensues as to whether a) the park will be open and b) it is, in fact, a short cut at all. I win. We see some deer. I love this place. I used to come here while at Roehampton “University”. What memories.

4.50pm I really try to dislike Richmond but it’s by far the nicest suburb Mick Jagger owns property in. Determined not to settle for one of the chain dumps near the station, I get the “cabbie” to drop me outside The Racing Page, where I neck my first half of real ale (Fullers’ Discovery) and have another panic attack about time running out. See, next on the list is Heathrow and I just think it’s a bit silly – surely Dr. Bass’s challenge is more about discovering pubs than doing stupid journeys in record time? Moreover, I spent a good four hours at the O’Neills in Terminal 3 a few months back while waiting for an Air India flight. It was okay. Highlight was seeing this formidable Welsh lady with the most fantastic T-shirt. Will that do?

So – that’s the corner I shall cut. Next stop will be Ealing Broadway which is bound to be bursting with nostalgia, for my father was born and raised there. If you can contain your anticipation, this is where we shall finish this entry – the second riveting part will appear next week where all your wildest questions will be answered… will I do it? How drunk do I get? Do I make it back from Watford without being murdered? Is there a New Cross Arms in Amersham? All this, and more, next time….

Find A Pub At The End Of Each Of The London Tube Lines

Dr Bass – whoever you are, I hate you.

You have no concern for my liver, bank account or precious free time. You come flouncing along with a suggestion you know very well I’ll love, dangle it in front of my nose and force me to agree to it well before I’ve fully considered how woefully challenging and time-consuming it’s going to prove. And why are you called Dr Bass? Quid’s in you’re not even a real doctor, or bass player. All thoughts that occur to me as I confront the enormity of the trial ahead.

Have any of you done the Circle Line pub-crawl? I have. It’s frightful. In some of the world’s cities it would involve jaunting along happily for an hour or so, imbibing a few crisp beers and probably being home in time for the end of Grandstand. In London, at some 27 stations, it takes about twelve hours and by the time you’ve finished you’re having so little fun you may as well be in the Falkland Islands.

This thing I’m about to undertake is worse. There are 23 stations, but with a ruddy long tube line in between, i.e. enough time to sober up –  but hell, the Central Line is so long I may even begin my hangover. And some of them aren’t even in London (whose bright idea was it to extend the Metropolitan Line to Watford?!). Clearly there are some shortcuts and little tricks I can pull so I’ve decided, in the interests of me living to see Christmas, to flag up my own conditions:

1. I am only going to stay for a drink in pubs that look remotely interesting.
2. I do not have to travel between two points by tube if there’s a quicker route, e.g. New Cross Gate can be reached from New Cross by bus in about two minutes.
3. I am not counting stations at the end of the Silverlink and Docklands Light Railway; although they appear on the official tube map they are not governed by London Underground so there.
4. I am also not counting points where tube lines finish in the middle of others, e.g. the eastern tip of the Jubilee Line, which comes trundling to a halt halfway up the Central Line (also meaning I am spared the delights of Stratford). Begone, pedants.

In return, however, you get a full report of all the ker-rayzee establishments I visit and strange, suburban characters I encounter/avoid/report to the police. And I’ll try to do all the other barmy things my commenteers have been telling me to do along the way, i.e. Denise’s homespun Xmas presents, Walter’s large Xmas card and Maria’s Xmas story starring my fellow passengers (well, what else am I going to do between Osterley and Arnos Grove?)

Okay – anyone know any good boozers in Cockfosters?

This is brilliant!!

Remember that funny walking thing I did, back when I was a carefree bachelor?

Well. If I may return your thoughts to that department ever so briefly, my beautiful new wife (Mrs Thornton, as she shall hereafter be known) discovered this wicked new site for anyone interested in walking around London, and it's called WALK IT. (That's the link, by the way. Just in case my Dad's reading this.)

At the moment it's only embryonic, or nascent, or in development, or - to use the technical term - Beta (what they used to call the other type of videotape, eh?), and only covers Central London, but it's going to be brilliant if it catches on, even telling you calorie burning info and other stuff for girls. Have a look. Here's the link again (I'm getting good at this).

Now, to the small matter of my next challenge. The lovely Denise was in the lead until about 3 hours ago, with this:

With Christmas coming up, and the madness of all the gift-buying that it brings, how about trying something I tell myself every year I'm going to do (but never seem to get around to....): instead of running up the old credit card bill, how about hand-making all your gifts!....

Sweet, innit? Imaginative, productive, harking back to simpler days of yore in that little ol' farm on the prairie... (Mike Ogden's welling up as he reads this, guaranteed)... but then some mad fruit calling himself Dr Bass attempted to snatch Denise's defeat from the jaws of victory with this little belter:

I'm always falling asleep on the tube and end up at, you know, Stanmore or Cockfosters and stagger home or get a cab. I never go to those places, but I'm sure there are some hidden gems. Of course, I'd need to have a refreshing pint at some point. Could you go to all the ends of tube lines and do a round up of the best pubs? In a day?

What a masochist! In a day??! But I like his style. So... in the spirit of the upcoming yuledom (advent calendars from tomorrow, children), I'm going to keep everyone happy (especially me) and do BOTH. In fact, they're somewhat compatible - I can make gifts while I'm on the tube! Neat, huh?

Right, kids - I want suggestions for what to make, please - and make them simple, I'm not very clever and totally hamfisted. Comments button BELOW!!!!

Marry Into A Large, Scary Italian-American Family In New York City

I've done it! I'm a married man! I have swept a fair maiden off her feet, whisked her (via a six-hour delayed Air India flight) to the United States of America where I said my vows, plonked a ring on her finger, popped champagne corks, charmed the new relatives, was told a whopping 34 times to "take care of her, huh?" in an accent you wouldn't dare to disobey, carried my bride over the threshold of our upgraded Sheraton wedding suite (tip: the view from the 23rd floor is actually better than the 46th) and - well, that's all the info you're getting frankly. And here we are:

Sorry my hat couldn't make it. It hates flying.

Now, I know what you're thinking. Oh, he's married now, so all the challenges are going to be really crap and domestic, e.g. "Redecorate The Sitting Room", "Insulate The Loft", "Have A Dinner Party" or, at best, "Refuse To Take Out The Binbags Three Days Running" etc. Well, you're wrong. The Trials will now get scarier, crazier, controversial-er. And as usual - YOU, the reader - are the star of the show.

For I have the imagination of a Politburo typing clerk in 1935* when it comes to this sort of thing. Your challenge suggestions have always been far more wacky and thought-provoking. Via the cheeky little comments button below, you can suggest stuff, advise me on certain issues, even berate me for copping out if you are so angled. So give it a go! Your lunch-hour's fun value will simply rocket up.

And just when you assumed life couldn't get any more entertaining, our hosts Mike and Chris have decided to install one of those hilarious security devices on the comments page, so you have to type the wobbly characters you see in the box - apparently to "prevent automated robots from posting comments"!!! Laugh? I nearly spilled herbal tea all over my electric letter-opener. What sort of robots do they have in mind? Perhaps we should take things further if they're really that worried. Spread the word. If you see anyone resembling the chap on the left entering an internet cafe, call the police immediately.

Right, that's it from me. Over to you, punters!

*sorry about this one, have just finished a book about Stalin

Walking Is The New Cycling

I have something truly extraordinary to report. Well, I think it is anyway. This morning - for the first time in a week - I went back to normal and took the bus to work. And you know what?

It took me 50 minutes!!!

Why on earth did it take me 50 minutes??! This is the sort of thing you want to quiz Stephen Hawking or someone brainy about. I didn't stop for a newspaper, bagel, or to put money on my Oystercard*. I didn't wait particularly long for a bus to appear. There weren't any major traffic jams, aside from the usual scrum on Shoreditch High Street. My watch isn't broken. It said 8.35 when I stepped out my front door, and 9.25 when I burst into my office.

The answer is simple: it just does. You spend time walking to the bus stop. Time waiting for the bus. The bus goes - and then stops. And goes. And stops. Roughly 20 times in a 3 mile journey. Then there's another 5 or 10 minutes spent walking from the bus stop to wherever it is you're going. It takes bloody ages.

Now, don't get me wrong - I'm not saying buses are useless. In fact, compared to the mind-bogglingly overpriced trundling nightmare that is the London Underground, they're a miracle. All I'm saying is that walking is brilliant.

Honestly, I've had a dream of a week. I've seen interesting things. I've found nice little routes and shortcuts. I haven't had to stop for anyone or anything. I've arrived for work a little sweaty, but completely de-stressed and - always - on time. I've spent less money. I've had loads of exercise. And I haven't just walked to work. I've also walked from work, to meet friends, go shopping, whatever.

Of course, the converted to whom I'm preaching will include a large amount of cyclists, who hurtle across the world's cities every day, risking life and limb, wasting no money, keeping fit and leaving the environment entirely unscathed. Good on 'em. But I would argue that if, like me, the thought of playing chicken with huge cars and white van men across the Old Street roundabout fills you with unparalleled dread, or if puncture repair kits and bike helmets seem like so much unwanted farting about, then maybe walking is for you.

I'm not saying do it all the time. Nor am I making a case for setting off on foot from Ealing to Canary Wharf, or similar. But - you work in the West End and you're meeting someone for a drink in Camden? Walk it! Going to the cinema in Notting Hill and you live in Hammersmith? Get those feet moving. You'll be there far, far sooner than you think...

Right, enough of this claptrap. That's another challenge in the bag. What shall I do next? Hmmm... how about Marry Into A Large, Scary Italian-American Family In New York City? Ooh, sounds interesting, I might just do that...

*The Oystercard is a pay-as-you-go public transport card used in London. Which brings me to an apology - I realise this post is extremely Londonist. But I'm sure some of the sentiments expressed could apply to many other cities - Glasgow, Edinburgh, Manchester, Liverpool, Paris, Copenhagen, Lisbon, New York.
Los Angeles would perhaps be stretching it, however...

One More Day Of (compulsory) Walking To Go

Yes, it's true. My week of stomping down the A10 has almost finished. I will do one last post after this, in which I intend to throw out the cynicism and "get evangelical on your ass", telling you how bloomin' wonderful this walking thing really is. But before I do... have a look at this:

What images does it conjure up?

Part of me thought, ahh, how nice, a caring spirit, there are still some "look out for thy brother's property" vibes in darkest East London.

Until I saw the "we ate your ham" - and then the fact that they've even got an email address dedicated to "bus stuff".

I now have an overwhelming image of a subculture of League-Of-Gentlemen style strange people, sitting in a dingy basement surrounded by heaps of lost grocery bags and disparate garments, their diet solely consisting of found produce - "what have you got this time, Mabel?" - "ooh, some nice haddock, that'll go well with those green beans you found by the cash machine yesterday" etc.

Just for a laugh, why don't we all send them an email asking if they've found something of ours? e.g. "Dear Bus Stuff, I left an economy-sized jar of gherkins on the 349 near Ponders End last Tuesday, has it turned up at all? Don't mind if you've eaten the contents, but I'd like the jar back for my homemade beetroot."

Only if you're bored though, huh?

Time: 46 minutes (can't improve on this, I'm afraid)

Route: lots of wiggling through western Stoke Newington, Dalston and De Beauvoir, which looks nice but is actually really horrid

Dalston Builders in "We Like Boney M" Shocker!

Funny old business, this walking to work lark.

You notice heaps of ker-rayzee things you'd never spot when on the bus, head happily buried in the Metro newspaper (or my rag of choice, Nerdy Drum Paraphernalia Quarterly).

Take today, for example. Imagine my surprise (which I'll concede you're having to do quite a lot at the moment) when I hurtled past one of the many "luxury housing" developments and saw that some over-nostalgic constructionist had done this:

... on one of the temporary site walls!

Well, really. As any self-respecting pop fan will know, it depicts the sleeve of the classic album cover by seventies disco ensemble Boney M, thus:

... although they do seem to have converted one of the ladies into an alien, and made the scary dude who leapt about on Top Of The Pops wearing a fake beard (a routine which actually caused my father to describe Boney M as "that group with the prancing octaroon") look even scarier.

Innit great, though. "Dalston regeneration reignites pop of yesteryear with added aliens", as some Labour councillor is doubtless inserting into a speech right now.

As for my route, because I had to get to work double-quick for an "important" meeting, I zoomed down the Kingsland Road (the venerable London-Kings Lynn motorway installed by the Romans in about 400 A.D. so they could get to Ikea quickly) - but imagine my surprise when it took me 46 minutes without a bagel break! Either my legs are getting shorter or those Romans really were a bit crap after all.

Top Artists In Double-Barrelled Shotgun Shocker

Imagine my surprise when I rounded the corner into a quiet Shoreditch backstreet this morning, and who should I see but Gilbert, of notorious suit-wearing avant garde art "duo" Gilbert and George, calmly wandering along with a double-barrelled shotgun.

Hotly pursued by his bespectacled buddy, they continued up the road, pausing to peer into an empty yard, where I snapped my sneaky pic.

Immediately I wondered who to tell. The police? The BBC? The Tate Modern? Damien Hurst? Tracey Emin? Their tailor?

The amusing thing is, my girlfriend was slightly worried about me wandering through these Hackney backwaters at 8 in the morning in case I encountered drug-dealers, knife-wielding youths, traffic wardens and other plug-uglies... when in fact, as Hitler or Pol Pot or Stalin may once have spouted, "all we have to fear are the artists".

Otherwise my walk passed without incident. It didn't rain. My toenails need cutting. I broke a sweat. I stopped for a bagel. Next week - and can you contain your excitement - I will walk on the westside of Kingsland Road. Allegedly posher - but you never know.

Today's route: Garnham Passage, Brooke Road, Rectory Road, Shacklewell Lane, Cecilia Road, Queensbridge Road, various wigglings through Shoreditch, Brick Lane.

Today's time: 47 minutes (including bagel break)

(p.s. comments are welcome! or I'll only have Chris and Mike for company)

Walk To Work For A Week

Everyone thought this idea was rubbish but I've decided to do it anyway for the following reasons:

1. I'm getting married in three weeks' time and frankly I need the exercise
2. There's a load of roadworks at the bottom of my bus route that are pissing me off
3. We are in the midst of an Indian summer* that is too good to waste
4. I walked home from work today accidentally (I was looking for a letter box that never materialised) and thought why not
5. It's my blog so there.

Okay, I know what you're thinking. It will be dull reading after two days. It probably isn't very far anyway. I'll wake up on a rainy morning (or with a hangover) and think bugger it. All of which could happen. So, to reassure you, here are some facts and rules:

1. The distance from my front door to work is 3.6 miles.

2. Whichever way I walk, I have to walk through Dalston - winner of the Evening Standard Dodgiest London Suburb Award 2004 & 2005 (it was beaten this year by Canning Town).

3. There are lots of different backstreets, parks and by-roads to march down, so I hereby promise to vary my route each day.

4. I will also report how long it took me (it can be anything from 35 minutes to 4 hours, depending on who you are and what shape you're in)

5. There will be a Funniest Thing I Walked Past photo for you to chuckle at on each post. Oh, and believe me, there are some funny things to see...

6. Irrespective of illness, weather or otherwise, I have to do it every day. If I wake up and can't face it, that's just my tough luck.

So, starting tomorrow then! It wil be interesting. It will be amusing. It may even, in the spirit of 2DO, be life changing (but let's not get carried away). And it has already been useful! I walked past a nice clothing repairs shop this evening that I never even knew existed, where I shall get my trousers done tomorrow for a tenner. Hooray!

Speak to you tomorrow.

*an expression that countless English people use every year, although no-one knows what it actually means