Thursday, 6 September 2018

Sandy Heath Transmissions

We made our way along a road/track that initially appeared to be a long driveway linking a series of detached houses, before it turned and snaked up into some woods. There was a car park adjacent to the Heath so we parked up. As we did so a couple of other cars appeared, the sinister black sort that always have their lights on in the daytime. For a split second I thought we had turned up at the rendezvous point for some sort of pre-arranged dodgy deal or violent interaction between shady characters. Or only marginally less worrying, a dogging hotspot.

Although the cars turned out to contain nothing more dangerous than middle aged dog walkers, the uneasy feeling I had developed stayed with me as we walked out of the trees and onto the heath. I'd imagined the place would be deserted and have a calm surreal atmosphere. It did although the calm was an ominous one, that produced a feeling of being slightly on edge. An anti-calm.

Almost immediately we found ourselves underneath one of the immense wires that hold the transmitter in place like giant guy ropes. From the main road the transmitter didn't look particularly big, but in close proximity it was gargantuan in height, if not girth, such that it brought on a sort of inverse vertigo. I felt slightly dizzy with  a sort of unpleasant tingling feeling spreading from my stomach up to my face and down my arms each time I looked up at it. This added to the already sinister atmosphere, as dark grey clouds welled up behind the mast , as if summoned by it . I was at the same time repelled but facinated by it. My partner expressed similar feelings of revulsion.

We edged slightly closer to the transmitter and it's base as we began our circumnavigation, and within a certain radius could feel/hear a low level and persistent hum. We made our way around through the vegetation on the heath. The brambles in particular had a sort of ominous quality, the leaves holey and withered, as if they had somehow been affected by the strange energy that the transmitter seemed to impose on the Heath.

The base contained an additional collection of random looking ariels and dishes, around the single storey flat roofed building. It resembled the sort of low budget British TV setting that might hold the final chance for humanity, as a Quatermass type figure fiddles with the controls, in a desperate bid to fend off whatever malevolent force threatens to wipe out humanity. Or the base of a sinister enemy, lying low before unleashing devastating force from the mast.

It was easy to forget that this is the epicentre of television and radio broadcasting in East Anglia. Or more accurately the Western half of East Anglia, which I'm told frequently by the presenters of Look East and Anglia News is 'your part of the Region'. The trades test transmissions I remembered seeing as a child, usually with an image of the transmitter accompanied by light music, had not prepared me for the the reality, as bizarre and sinister as they had been. While there, I didn't have flashbacks to Sale of the Century, About Anglia or Programmes for Schools and Colleges, which are things I'd usually associated with it. Instead there was a sort of nothing, as if the broadcasts were beamed beyond its immediate vicinity leaving a sterile void around it on the Heath.

I'd seen a clip on YouTube of the day before the analogue signal was turned off, and West Anglia went fully digital. The presenter was allowed into the building under the transmitter where the equipment did indeed have a British TV science fiction quality about it. He got to pretend to operate the switch that would turn off analogue at midnight while talking to the excitable engineer who would actually be doing it, and evidently spent considerable amounts of time in the compound. The engineer had the slightly unsettling and derranged air of someone who was about to launch an untested and dangerous manned space flight, rather than boost the digital signal so more people could receive multiple shopping channels on Freeview TV, in addition to the 5 channels already adequately provided by the disappearing analogue signal.

We turned our back on the transmitter, and headed away from it slightly to the edge of the Heath. We reached the fence around the sandstone quarry. The atmosphere here was similar. The floor of the quarry looked like a version of Mars with a grey sky. The warning sign was accompanied by a malevolent looking black bag, as if indicating extra danger lurked nearby.

As we neared the end of of our semi-circular navigation, we could see in the distance the single wind turbine at the RSPB reserve, beyond the Heath separated by the main road. This structure lined up with the transmitter and was parallel to a row of pylons that crossed the reserve. I always thought people who objected to wind turbines cited the danger to birds as one of the reasons not to build them. That the RSPB should have one on their own reserve shows that either I've got this wrong or that the nimbies are hopelessly off the mark. They also cite the ugliness of the structures, but I think they have a sort of liminal beauty. I'd be more sympathetic if they were objecting to having the Sandy Heath Transmitter built behind their backyards. Who knows what the long term effect of the low level hum and the absorbtion of concentrated regional and local TV broadcasts might be on their children?

We left the Heath, through a path in the woods littered with used energy drink cans, fag packets, dogshit bags and a couple of used sanitary towells. Even a few hours later I still felt drained and off kilter. Possibly due to a dodgy bar of stale chocolate I'd had at the bird reserve, but I put it down to the energy draining properties of the transmitter. More powerful up close than when absorbed in diluted form via the beam of the television during Look East.

Sunday, 26 August 2018

Coldhams Common: Liminal Greenspace

I went for a wander in the direction of Coldhams Lane Bridge, considering drifting into the small industrial estate next to the railway line, behind what used to be the Greyhound Pub. On route along Cromwell Road, outside the small parade of shops, I noticed Yin/Yang symbol in the pavement. On closer inspection it was a fish curving around the sea. The fish had a brown leaf covering it's eye, though Autumn was not due for a few weeks yet. At this point I changed my mind and decided to go to Coldham's Common. Maybe I'd be able to access the Industrial Estate from the other end, through a secluded path through the woods.

I arrived at the Coldhams Lane entrance to the Common, not far from the bottom of the bridge and Industrial Estate. Cattle were grazing each side of the footpath I took across the expanse of rough grass, as they often are, in close proximity to light industry and MOT garages that were hidden from view the other side of some trees.

I read that The Common avoided enclosure in 1594 when someobody called Jake The Style led locals in revolt against an attempted land grab, and so we can thank him that the space is still there for the use of the common people. The linked website is the only reference to Jake The Style that I can find. Whether he really exited or was made up for educational purposes I'm not sure. 

Just beyond the grazing cattle, I went under the railway line, through the low black underpass. Often a magnet for both graffiti and cowshit, less so today. The legend 'MOAD' sprayed over the entrance. An unlikely location for either the Museum of African Diasphora or the Mother of All Databases. Maybe here the acronym had a different meaning, marking the lair of something or someone malignant.  Unknown to the Greater Anglia passengers passing over the bridge in their ingorance of the underneath, as they move along  the track that bifurcates the common and stretches off in the direction of Ipswich.

It was around here I think, that in my pre school years, I was sped across the green on a bike by my mum, while we were chased by a horse. She was petrified of the beast and glad to get the other side of the bridge. I can't remember a thing about it but my imagined version of the scene came into my head. I don't think they put horses here these days. Probably for the best.

Through the other side and into another area of The Common. The border of trees to the left continued to bar the way into the industrial estate with the assistance of a pointy grey metal fence. I gave up on the idea that a backway might exist and was soon distracted by a series of two raised concrete yellow painted manhole covers with accompanying posts. Almost fluorescent against the grey sky, presumably marking the drifting of liquid, sludge or sewage under the surface of The Common.

I crossed the bridge over Coldham's Brook. Beyond this is another area of The Common, which leads up to Newmarket Road. On the right another grey pointy fence, this time marking the boundary of The Abbey Stadium, where Cambridge United play football.  On match days the away supporters are herded into the area reserved for them. Habbin South sounds like one of the Glasgow street gangs shown on the map in James Patrick's book 'A Glasgow Gang Observered'. But the stand is named after Harry Habbin, who was an enthusiastic supporter of the U's and not as far as I know had no Scottish street gang connections.

Unlike Harry, I've never been much of a football enthusiast. When my Dad took me along when I was small, normally to a midweek evening match, I went grudgingly. Time seemed to expand within the realms of the football ground. An hour and a half seemed like an eternity. It was usually dark, often raining. Half time offered the highlight for me, some chips or a pie. I had a brief spell of liking football when I was about nine years old, and for some reason became a supporter of Ipswich Town. I sometimes went to see them with a friend and his dad, on the train passing through the Common unaware of the lair of MOAB as the passengers are today.

Ipswich were a division above Cambridge. So when the two teams clashed in the prestigious Willhire Cup, an East Anglian football tournament sponsored by a local van hire company, I went with my Dad to the Abbey to watch the U's get mercilessly thrashed. My pleasure was short lived as Tom Finney scored the only goal in the match, winning it for Cambridge. This marked the end of my short lived support for Ipswich and football in general.

My Dad continued to go 'up the football',  often on Saturday afternoons when he used to bunk off work. He would meet up with fellow local Co-op managers who had slipped out for a couple of hours. One bloke was clocked on the TV at a match by his boss. A bright red jumper and big cigar not helping him to blend into the crowd.

It must have been around this time that football hooliganism was rife. Cambridge was not immune to this. The leader of the local 'firm', The Cambridge Casuals', was known as the General and infamously orchestrated the violent ambush of some Chelsea fans on the way to a match. This resulted in tabloid panic and prison sentences for the General and his cronies. Not so long ago I read that they, along with other 'veteren' football hooligans, were back at it, in their 60s. Like aging rock stars trying to re-live their heydey. Maybe they are hoping to get put back inside to avoid the financial worries of retirement.

These thoughts drifted through my head while I stood gazing at the the pylon-like structures of the floodlights, sinister against the grey clouds. It being a Tuesday morning the football ground was devoid of any sign of human life and eerily silent. It resembled an industrial estate, electricity sub-station or prison camp more that a place of frenetic sporting activity.

The liminal atmosphere here was not just down to the lack of people, grey skies and industrial like structures of the football ground. The semi-edgeland location of The Common is another factor. Physically, it's not right out on the edge of the city. But it's far enough out of the centre to feel beyond the grip of the University and to make it outside the scope for most tourists. Being surrounded  by light industry, retail parks, a postwar (ex) council estate, a couple of main roads and the airport, it is buffered to an extent from casual penetration.

The University Golf Club did appropriate part the Common as a golf course in the late 1800s. This was fairly short lived, and it was described as the world's worst golf course. The rough ground, stinking ditches and presence of hooligans made it less than ideal. As did the proximity of a rifle range at the far side of The Common. These days there is football (including the American and Gaelic varieties) and the inevitable park run. There is no apparent University presence, sporting or otherwise.

I wandered back across the brook and turned left to follow it down the narrow path hugging it's course. For a short while I could have been anywhere in the middle of nowhere. Brambles, no people, not a lot of sound. The illusion was lifted as I arrived at a footbridge leading to a children's playground and the entrance to the swimming pool. The bridge was decorated by the ubiquitous Cambridge Heron.

Another bridge a bit further along featured more artwork. This time more official and featuring opposite footballers. The one with the green background looked like a thin Hulk or maybe a Green Lantern. The white one a Silver Surfer.

More superhero-esque characters appeared at the outdoor gym. One raising both blank face and fist at the men dangling from the climbing frame and awarding a one star rating.  The other wandering off in the opposite direction, less than impressed.

A short wander from here I came to the entrance to the BMX park, signified by a defaced council notice. I wandered into it and followed the course for a bit.

Like the gym, it was deserted. It felt like it had been for years, abandoned with bits of board left to shore up the impossibly steep slopes, as if to preserve them from weathering in an off season lull which had extended from the 80s, when BMXing was something that had it's own programme on Channel 4. I knew though that the track dated from a more recent time, a later BMX revival.

 In the 80s, an earlier track known as 'Sandy Banks' existed in another part of town, across the river. It had, according to local legend at the time, been built unofficially by the kids who used it. This explained the entrance being fenced off suddenly one day, barring access to the site.  The closure seemed to follow somebody throwing something at a rower from the track resulting in an argument. The fence was swiftly bashed down to regain access. But blocked again and later the area was developed.

I don't know where the name Sandy Banks came from. It was on the river bank but not very sandy. The Coldhams Common track looked like soil of some indeterminate type had been deposited to create it but despite the protective boards, has drifted away in places,  the chalk underneath exposed like teeth with the enamel scraped off.

The track resembled a minature disused quarry, or alien planet from a low budget British sci-fi TV programme. A pile of detritus appeared to have been flytipped in front of what looked like a sealed metal horizontal door.  An entrance to tunnels or caves under the ramps perhaps. Home of a 'stig of the dump' type character or several of them. Or a Moonbase Alpha. The door offering protection from gangs of ruffians and whatever dwelt in the lair of MOAB.

I left the minature world of the apparently abandoned BMX track and wandered across the field which contained a couple of sports pitches. The American football and rugby posts resembled dead anntena, no longer broadcasting or receiving. No low level hum to be heard. I still saw nobody, as I crossed the field. The lack of people not ominous, on the contrary having such a large open area to myself felt almost cheeky. The peaceful physical space seemed to create a parallel space in my head, one with plenty of room, decluttered from the everyday.

The other side of the field I reached the bridge crossing the railway. The mark of 'M'  freshly daubed each side of the stairway. I've seen this moniker before but much less often than the 'Nigel' tag, which was conspicuous by its absence in The Common. 'M'  a more discerning graffiti artist maybe.

The bridge had been freshly painted blue. Normally a spot for graffiti artists, it is a sort of focal point. In my mind's eye it was always painted black and was a mysterious object, something that at one stage I wasn't sure actually existed apart from in a dream I'd had. This is no doubt due to the lack of frequency of visits to The Common over the years mixed with vague childhood memories dredged up from my subconscious. When I approached the bridge, it still had the air of something distant in my memory or imagining, just out of reach of my grasp. A physical manifestation of a time and place I can't be sure really happened.

From the top of the bridge I looked through one of the metal diamond shaped spaces of the railing in the direction of Ipswich. Attached to the bridge was a leftover notice from 'Cambridge'Live' about the imminent use of The Common as an overspill campsite for the Cambridge Folk Festival, which takes place at Cherry Hinton Hall a mile or so away. This was now a few weeks ago and the notice hung upside down. The Folk Festival has been running since the 60s and  at least these days is what you might call a respectable mainstream festival. Until recently it was sponsored by Radio 2 and has glamping as well as the widespread use of fold-up chairs by the audience.

In 1969 and 1970, there was apparently a different festival actually on The Common. The Cambridge Free Festival, according to the UK rock festivals website, was a real thing. The line up looks too good to be true. King Crimson, Terry Reid, David Bowie, Edgar Broughton, Incredible String Band and a plethora of other bands regarded as legendary these days as well as ones faded into obscurity.  Henry Cow were based at the University so more believable. The organisers appear to have been involved with people from the Cambridge Arts Lab, which may explain the presence of David Bowie. It also seems the same people were involved in starting the still going Strawberry Fair on Midsummer Common ( a place more central and compact than Coldhams), and that the Coldhams Common festivals were a sort of precursor to the Fair. That said, elsewhere the internet is silent on the events, and some of the accounts on the UK Rock Festival site may be less than reliable. No doubt memories of the time are somewhat hazy.

On the railway another reminder of the past. I haven't seen a milk crate for years. The Unigate and Coop dairies used to compete for business along with a couple of also-rans. They came in the morning, in parallel to the Ice Cream vans which arrived the other end if if the day. Mr Whippy and Mr Rosso in similar competition, heated arguments in Italian with lots of hand gestures if they showed up at the same time.  The red milk crate I associated with Unigate, who had better shaped bottles. Another ghost from the recent-ish past.

Back into the field I'd started at, the emergency cattle feed had been put out early due to the hot spell. The sight briefly made the area seem remotely rural when looking away from the road ahead.

The meeting of urban and rural was concisely symbolised by a discarded Ofo Bike mudguard next to a cowpat, just before the exit into Coldhams Lane.

I exited The Common leaving behind a world of vague memories and liminal imaginings. I wondered why  I had visited so infrequently what is probably Cambridge's best green space within the City boundaries.

Immediately on exit I was almost diverted into the industrial estate and into another  recent past by the brown sign pointing to the Computer Museum. I had no idea it was there. I decided to save a visit for another day, and wandered off with a vision of old Sinclair and BBC computers in exhibition cases displaying Horace Goes Skiing and Football Manager on loop, while at the same time the noise of a tape recorder loading games across the room provided a sound equivelent of a low level but persistent migraine.

Saturday, 11 August 2018

Doomsday on Trinity Street

The seemingly endless hot spell still dominating, I wandered along Trinity Street on route to the Market. Opposite St John's College was the seemingly permenant  crowd of Chinese tourists taking pictures of the building, their families or themselves.  The railings of All Saints Garden were, as usual, festooned with a profusion of laminated posters advertising various cultural events, mostly connected to the University.

One for a play called 'Doomsday'
caught my eye. 'Love like the world's ending' the strapline. Underneath another lamenated notice talked of a 'paradigm shift in biology'. Meanwhile, in the news much  talk of food shortages and stockpiling along with plastic pollution killing marine wildlife and leading to environmental disaster.

A little further along a box attached to the railings dispensed the end if the world sounding 'The Epoch Times'. A mother with a scared looking child on the front page, next to a picture of a hand holding what looked like some sort of dice. The Epoch Times is the newspaper of the Chinese Falun Gong religion. Branded a dangerous cult by the Chinese Authorities, it's adherents are described as victims of human rights abuses by the Chinese Government in the West.

The other end of the street, in the window of the University bookshop a mocking skull stared out. Part of a Shakespeare display, but equally part of the apocalyptic cavalcade I had been presented with along the street. A narrative powered by the unrelenting and abnormal weather brought by the heatwave.

On the way back I took a detour around All Saints Garden. Along one side yet another laminted notice offered a series of talks on 'Wellbeing'. A current buzzword, which appears to have emerged with difficult times. In order to achieve 'wellbeing', if only temporarily, various strategies and mental tools are employed. Yoga, meditation or mindfulness are often promoted. I favour going for a walk, it normally helps. But on this one real and imagined horrors had been brought to the fore.

I appeared to have been drawn into a world of the end of the world. The searing desert-like heat. The recent encounter with the low budget Mad Max like figure of the Viker Biker and subsequent viewing of 'No Blades of Grass'. Watching the return to pre-industrial Britain dystopia in the 70s children's TV series 'The Changes'. All these things had preceded this walk.

The poster reminded me that, if the end of the world was nigh,  it was largely beyond my control. No point worrying about it. Try to enjoy and appreciate the now.  Writing this a couple of weeks after the event, the heat has subsided and with it sort of equilibrium had been restored, for the moment at least. I didn't need to go to the wellbeing talks. If instead, it had said 'walks' I might have been tempted.

Friday, 27 July 2018

Clapham to Bloomsbury: Not taking the direct route

I arrived at the venue at Clapham Junction to discover the training course I was due to attend had been cancelled. Others were annoyed about this. Admittedly it was all a bit inconvenient, plans had gone awry and if people were to travel back to work it would hardly be worth it. A day wasted! So I kept to myself the recognition of a golden opportunity for a slow drift back across London to eventually catch the train home, sometime after lunch. It seemed the obvious thing to do to me. But I knew others would consider it unusual, maybe baffling and possibly even reckless and irresponsible to embark on such acivity rather that try to get back home or even work as quickly and directly as possible.

The poster I saw later somewhere near Hyde Park appeared as sign of solidarity.  As if put there by a support group offering self help memes for psychogeographers and flaneurs. Support for an activity some might consider a bit immoral: an act of idling, inefficiency or time wasting. Of not taking the direct route.

Prior to this revelation (the relentless sun, the need to pee and for a drink of water possibly intensified the importance of the notice), my wander had commenced at  Falcon Road and through a bit of Battersea. Here I got earworm of the song 'Up The Junction', from the 60s film which was set in these parts, which intensified each time I approached a traffic junction. The frequency of traffic junctions seemed higher than normal.  The song faded as I came across a way to the Thames Path, around the side of Falcon Wharf, a large Ballardian appartment building.

Heading into the Thames Path involved skirting the base of the building, which appeared to house a high end hotel and appartments with amenities including a 'wellbeing spa' and a 'baketique' according to the signage. Haven't spas always been promoted as having associations with wellbeing? As for 'baketique', I had to look that up and discovered it is a term for an establishment selling American cupcakes. The internet says this one is permenently closed. The recent cupcake craze is evidently at an end. I've never been sure of the difference between cupcakes, muffins or 'buns' as my nanna called the ones she made. My nannas only came in chocolate or 'plain' flavour. Cupcakes meanwhile seemed to be available in an infinate variety. Too much choice possibly confusing even the most 'sophisticated' consumer was probably their downfall as much as price and sugar content.

Round the corner, a posh woman was rebuking a young man who had been cleaning the railings and then proceeded to empty the contents of his bucket into the river. She'd approached him and told him what he had just done was illegal. Maybe it was. But I'd have thought his 'crimes' would pale into insignificance when compared to the history of people polluting the Thames and I doubt he will be responsible for the next cholera epidemic or doubling in size of London's Fatbergs.

Not hanging about to witness the outcome of the womans overzelous intervention, I carried on along the river path past several new developments I imagined were designed for the 'exclusive' end of the market . A notice politely asked 'please keep off the grass'. The grass in question was a narrow strip so small it seemed barely worth maintaining and the sun had done it's best to bring about its demise.

Across the river, I had noticed a cluster of tower blocks. Rather than the usual grey concrete, or modern steel/glass they appeared to be made out of brown brick. A high rise version of Wentworth Prison perhaps. Or maybe more exclusive flats, from an earlier period. A Sloan Ranger Thamesmead.

The effectiveness of 'business watch' looked in doubt, the eye on the fading notice deteriorating as if afflicted by a cateract.

I carried on without observing much else of interest until I got to Chelsea Bridge. I'm sure there were things to notice but I'd gone into a sort not-noticing state, a combination of the rythm of walking gently and the brutal heat as time moved beyond midday.

After a random bus ride across Chelsea Bridge to somewhere near Victoria I soon found myself at Hyde Park Corner, where a Lion and Unicorn were engaged in what looked like a combination of mortal combat and ballroom dancing. The Lion's mane appeared to have faded from red to yellow in tandem with the faded grass in the park. The Lion is meant to represent England. The fading of its mane possibly symbolic of the English inability to cope well in hot weather. The Unicorn is supposed to represent Scotland. The Scottish get even less sun than we do, but the Unicorn appeared unaffected...

From this point my walk took in numerous other figures and statues. The Colossus above seemed to be standing in defiance of the towerblock opposite. This isn't shown that well in the picture, but I couldnt get an optimum angle due to some excitable Italian kids playing frisbee around the base of the statue. The shield from this angle resembles a large friabee, or discuss, which may explained their presence.

Out of Hyde Park and onto the concrete square of Marbel Arch, I came across a behemothic green something. A giant headless semi-amorphous beast from an imagined collaboration between Ray Harryhausen and Salvador Dali appeared to be heading towards me. The square was like a 60s concrete version of a classical square, the Marble Arch looming over it. The sort of place Sinbad or the Argonauts would fight beasts or animated skeletons if they were living in a semi-brutalist age. Voices sought my attention. Not skeletons with swords, or allies in the fight against the giant beast, but tourists wanting me to take their picture in front of the Arch. I obliged, hoping I'd pressed the right button on the camera before wishing them a good day and leaving the square.

Along Oxford Street I fell into line with the tide of shoppers drifting in the direction of Oxford Circus. Looking up, the splendid art deco statue of the winged figure above Selfridges looked like another Harryhausan creation. I half expected it the creek into life and fly across the sea of shoppers and tourists who were probably too focussed on the ground floor to have noticed it.

Soon after crossing Oxford Circus I headed left into Fitzrovia/NOHO and soon located The Champion where I stopped for a swift half and a bag of crisps. I was glad to see it looked barely any different following its recent refurb, and still offered haven of welcoming dark brown and shade. Particularly welcome given the intense heat and bright sun outside.

I resisted the temptation to visit the Blue Posts or the Fitzroy Tavern and wound my way towards Tottenham Court Road. I followed a narrow passage which emerged into a courtyard. On a platform outside a first floor window was an unusual display. A strange boy like figure breaching towards a manequin, with a cast of supporting but no less odd figures dotted about, inside a white frame. What this meant I had no idea. I continued down the passage and out eventually of Fitzrovia.

Not long after this I found myself in the vicinity of the University of London and the streets around Mallet Street where the ULU building still seems to put gigs on.  The buildings are large, flat roofed and brown  sporting crittle windows. This brought to mind images of boffins in white coats huddled over testbtubes or bearded, rollnecked open university types standing in front of writing beamed from an overhead projector onto a wonky screen.

Along this stretch somewhere I saw the message below on a telecoms/electricity box. What is to be opposed is a far right organisation. I'd not heard of them so googled the term, only to find I was being diverted somewhere within 5 seconds. I twigged it was dodgy and further Google searches confirmed the worst. Before this I had assumed it was the work of people not wanting to be labelled 'millenials', ' gen x' or babyboomers etc, given current attempts to divide people by generation as well race, sexuality, gender, class and suchlike.

Emerging from the University area into Tavistock Square I passed The Tavistock Hotel. I was familiar with it, having stayed there a few times many moons ago. It was one of the few London hotels within our price range. It was a bit like going back in time to it's 1930s(?) art Deco era. The waiters and waitresses in the large breakfast room.were dressed in black and white, and appeared to have been there for an eternity. There was a satisfying ever so slightly damp smell in the rooms which had not, thankfully, been modernised. My last memory of the vicinity was going the the Bloomsbury Bowling Lanes located in the basement on one corner of the hotel, to see The London Dirthole Company. There were people playing bowls while the band played i think. Sadly I didn't stay in the hotel on that occasion.

A final pertinent message from Virginia Woolf, echoing the sentiments of the Hyde Park Poster, was quoted via the hotel bar windows: 'The Streets of London have their maps, but our passions are unchartered. What are you going to meet if you turn this corner?' The ghosts Bloomsbury were on my side,  advocating not taking the direct route.

Thursday, 19 July 2018

Observatory bunkers.

I wandered away from the river past the Key Theatre, where a group of office workers were hanging around outside, evidently undertaking some sort of team building activity or training. Flipchart paper was stuck on the windows where they congregated. Otherwise the building looked deserted. The cafe/restaurant/bar which was partly what attracted me over in the first place, was closed. Maybe the office workers were planning a strategy. If they were, it looked like they were unsure of what it might be and were in no rush to reach a decision.

Just past the gathering I noticed a white box like brick construction half emersed in the ground like a bunker. There was a sort of grill through which some sort of electronic device was kept. Maybe meters for utilities, but it seemed an odd place to keep them. It looked like an oversized microwave oven made of brick, or the back of a refrigerator that was buried three quarters into the ground. It was facing directly at the theatre and the office workers, as if observing them.

Just before I encountered the office workers, I had seen another 'box'. This one had been smashed up, the lid and grill had gone and the electronic device was exposed. I hadn't taken much notice until I came across the second one, still in tact. What these bizarre structures were, or what the devices inside them did, I had no idea. Who had smashed up the first? The office workers? Had they been overcome by some terrible malaise causing them to destroy technology that frightened them, similar to the situation described in the peculiarly sinister children's TV series 'The Changes'? Perhaps they knew something the rest of us didn't and were planning on fleeing the city to find a safe haven in the country, or at the coast, or in France. Somewhere away from the constant stare of the observatory bunkers.

Tuesday, 17 July 2018

The Exterminator of the Year 3000

On the way home from work, near the station waiting to cross the road I witnessed a bizarre figure go by on a motorbike. It wore a vest made out of what looked like armour over a leather jacket, metal gloves and boots and a horned helmet. The latter made the head resemble a junior version of the 'Scafolk Beast'. A devil-biker. Psychomania. Music was emanating from  the motorbike which was decorated with horns and other pariphenalia.

A being sent through a gap in the fabric of space and time, from an age of early 80s Italian Mad Max rip-off films. An Exterminator of the Year 3000 from a place where water is so scare people kill for it, while fuel, guns and ammo are plentiful. Today the first hospipe ban in Britain was announced. We haven't had rain for about 2 months. Could the appearance of this post-apocalypic figure really be a coincidence?

I later discovered this was in fact the 'Viker Biker', a local 'character' who assumes a part Viking/part knight persona and is probably the nearest thing Peterborough has to a superhero. He says if he happens to be near someone in trouble he trys to help, and he seems to want to cheer people up. If I'd have been watching About Anglia closely enough in 2005 I would have already knew all this.

More certain that apocalypse by drought was unlikely having seen some clouds and the About Anglia clip, or that gangs dressed in spikey leather driving spikey cars were not about to start maurading in the remains of a desolate East Anglia, my mind was diverted to 'characters' that inhabit every town and city. Cambridge has had its fair share over the years, Disco Kenny, The Man-With-The-Loaf of bread on his head, IRA Shouty Man and many others. The nearest Cambridge has to the Viker Biker is Heavy Metal Biker Man, a bloke on a racing bike with a ghetto blaster in a plastic bag that blasts out tinny heavy rock. These people are essential parts of the city they inhabit. Like human pieces of 'folk art' they are creations of themselves alone, often by accident. They are the antithesis of the 'clone town'. Long may they continue.

Friday, 13 July 2018

Millfield Meander

The recent prolonged hot spell finally over. I'd been lethargic, mush brained and irritable. Not inspired to walk, blog or do anything very much else. But today I felt newly energised, lighter, in need of a wander.

Lunchtime I headed out, no destination in mind. I passed an avant garde road works sign, depicting what looked like a black sun and a torch, which by a trick of light had it's beam provided by the real sun. A sign that pointed the way, encouraged me to take my time, do a longer walk than usual if I felt like it (I did).

I turned onto Lincoln Road, deciding to head in the rough direction of the Hand and Heart pub, my only point of reference for the area. This part of Lincoln Road is a somewhat ramshackle and dilapidated affair. The buildings are a crumbly. The street brought to mind how I imagined somewhere like Hackney to have looked in the 70s or 80s, or maybe Bradford as dipicted in the film East is East. The latter maybe due to the obvious multi-cultural character of the area. There is a large Muslim population as well as a Portuguese and Eastern European presence. A mural on the back of a large food shop celebrated the community of the area, known as Millfield. The feeling was different to that of Mill Road in Cambridge where a mural on the bridge has similar sentiments.  Or the hipster streetart of Hackney and Shoreditch. This felt more of an honest attempt at creating cohesion and part of an effort to heal tensions that had existed in the past, created by the people involved rather than the remote concerned. There were no signs of the middle class 'do gooder' to be seen.

Not far from here on a back street is the Hand on Heart. The 1930s flat roofed Square building is both utilitarian and spectacular. It's renowned for keeping the best beer in Peterborough. The sort of back street pub that is rare as hen's teeth these days, but once would have been a ubiquitous feature of most towns and cities.  The pub sign, a surreal giant hand either giving a friendly wave or possibly a command to stop, take some time out, slack off and have a pint. I hadn't intended to stop for a drink on this occasion, which was just as well. The curtains were still drawn. They don't open till 3 on weekdays. To my shame I've only visited the establishment once before and I resolved to return at the earliest opportunity.

I wandered through the backstreets in the general direction of back-to- work. Further along I passed an unassuming end of terrace building, housing on the ground  floor PG Reeves Pneumatic and Compressed Air Specialists,  possibly a relic from from the 50s.  Above this was the 'Kurdish Association In Britain Kurdish Centre'. A combination that appeared to represent a genuine and most likely wholly accidental mix of cultures. I suppose it might have been the Kurds dispensing the compressed air but in my imagination the shop was run by a man who resembled Roy Cropper from Coronation Street.

The coming together of cultures was further represented by artwork on an electricity/telecoms box I encountered soon after. Hands shaking amist a swirl of either ribbons or tentacles of a colourful beast. This was part of a series of three 'arted up' boxes in a row, the doing of someone or something called 'Ink Spot'.  One of the others depicting trees. The third an old beared man patting donkey and featuring the RSPCA logo.

I headed back to work strangely optimistic and refreshed. This despite England getting knocked out of the world cup the night before, the imminent arrival of Donald Trump to these shores and news of the closure of The Golden Curry on Mill Road and it's replacement by a wine bar. It wasn't all gloom.

Wednesday, 20 June 2018

The Watchers of the Cathedral

I had my lunch in the Cathedral cloisters..when uninhabited an unusually serene place given it's proximity to the main shopping drag. Once nourished, I had a short wander, circling the Cathedral.

The building felt imposing and monolithic, parts of the walls black with grime. I looked for gargoyles but there were none. A smattering of graves along one edge, a sparse cemetery.

Coming back along the other side I looked up. No gargoyles here either but some stranger apparitions, at least to my eyes. Four figures adorned the building. Their faces appeared weathered away, one to the point of having the front half of the head missing. From where I was standing they looked small but radiated an aura beyond their size, sort of God like, alien. They reminded me of the statue-like figures in a vaguely recalled series of episodes of Dr Who (Sylvester McCoy and Ace vintage) titled 'Ragnarok', which had something to do with Norse Gods and sinister clowns. The cathedral figures seemed as much akin to Norse figures as Christian ones, but appeared to be neither. Despite their facelessness, they looked like ominous  watchers from another time.

I could only get three of them into the picture, and even then from a distance. It was only later when I looked at it and zoomed in that I noticed two of them had heads that appeared to be covered by nets, or possibly hoods. No doubt an illusion of weathering but still adding to the sinister strangeness of the figures. What were they waiting for?

Around the other side of the building I spotted a small engraving or what appeared to be a reverse sunrise. With the solstice approaching, this furthered my  feelings of unease.