9 April - Bikers & Dogs
Social experiments can be conducted very easily. Take the Londoners our of London and they panic a little bit. I convince Toph to go to Southend on bank holiday Monday because it’s the closest coast line to London and especially easy to reach from north east London. He really doesn’t want to go but I’m in no mood to compromise seeing as my other suggestion (to go cycling down the river to Greenwich or to Richmond) cannot be implemented as his bike needs a front brake that he hasn’t fixed yet. I have energy, I have zest and I am not staying in London for the 4th day in a row despite the fact it’s been great to catch up with a variety of friends and some European visitors. Funnily enough a Greenwich/Blackheath friend was doing a tour of places in London she doesn’t know: Upton Park, Portobello Rd, Golders Green – not all on same day.
“It will take just over an hour” I promise, and we set off at 10.00. On the way we notice lots of bikers and then a few signs pointing to the ‘Southend shakedown’. Hurrah, we shall have some entertainment laid out for us. I’m driving so Toph is free to read the Independent and regale me with more fisking opinions which he shares on the whole 90% with said writer, and with observations about the bikers who overtake us or I overtake. So sweet, all these bum cracks to look at … fat ones usually and the classic g/friend and b/riend - same costume combos, you know same helmet, same colour and pattern and brand jacket and so on. Oh and the funny ones who’ve gone and glued Mohicans or bunny rabbit ears to their helmet. Hours of fun! Toph doesn’t do bikes or football so this is a new breed we’re observing. One that we assume would not look out of place on the terraces. Sure, there must be chic people at matches (in fact we know a few) or at bikers shakedowns but the evidence here points to the contrary. Thankfully at least there’s no Posh look-alike on a Chanel bike or something…Toph seems to mainly notice the out of the ordinary bikes with some 4 times the width tyre or customised body or peculiar paint colour. He’s such a kid! Why do these ordinary Brits (by the look of them, I don’t see any continentals or Americans) buy so much into the skull and bone thingy? Ok maybe the Brits were the original pirates but all the Hells’ Angels stuff is … just alien. Thank god not too many have adopted the ZZ Tops facial hair, but the overabundance of tatts is worrisome.
Until… we get there and see that the locals are far, far scarier. I was sort of expecting WAGs but it's total chav. And I thought they'd be exaggerating on TV.
As we park the car in a back street we see the following combo, skinny feral bloke with Burberry chav baseball cap, young fat girl with Vicky pollard hair and pram, other teenage girlie with white trackie bottoms and pink vest and dog of the regulation bulldog breed. I am not making this up for the sake of the story. Oh no. this is what we saw when we parked. Suddenly our Indian fabric bag was a unique fashion statement (and believe me I do know that no self respecting real Indian would go around with such bag, it’s a ‘I’ve been to India and I didn’t have enough containers for what I brought bag and so I bought this and I never really use it as it’s naff but it’s a good size to carry a towel and a few newspapers and books to the beach’.
The back streets are empty. The main drag is absolutely awash with bikes revving up slowly. More bikes are parked on the pavements and owners having a drink with friends or alone… waiting for someone to admire their machines. The scene is a sublimation of owners’ ugliness into bikes’ beauty. They are gleaming, you can eat off the engine I’ ashamed of the state of my cycle at home. Always muddy, always dirty. ‘But there’s the beach’ I thrill gaily. The beach is ‘awful’ says Toph. I don’t think so, I think it’s nice long stretch. He won’t have it. I think coffee is in order but where? Eventually a little oasis appears, a caff shunned by the bikers and with a sign promising cappuccinos. But there is no coffee in it. Or maybe Nescafe. Toph points to the coffee grains to be ground on top of the machine. I refrain from asking if they’re there just on show. Repeat there is no coffee in it. The fish and chips is good, the tea is bad, the rampant obesity surrounding us makes us feel frail and stick like. If this mob surges, we’re dead.
But thankfully we have a mission: to walk the longest pier in Europe, a full mile of it. It’s am ugly pier so it doesn’t make sense to me till I get to the platform at the end and turning around you can see miles of coastline. On the left of the pier rests the nice part of town with a few of the original Georgian terraces and a new shopping centre, am sure that one has a Costa coffee. Not that I like chains but one is allowed by Ms Taylor’s town and country planners. It has to be said that Thames estuary way the view is not all that much: a power station of some kind is blotting the landscape and some commercial vessels. Not a pretty boat in sight.
Toph is on the phone to his mother. “It’s hideous!” he tells her. Well, he did escape from Salford so this is close to home, spiritually. I have more exotic beginnings surrounded by medieval palaces and castles so this is not scary to me as in ‘it could capture me back, I could end up my days where I began and had escaped from aaarrrgghhhhhh!. So I agree that we can leave.
Driving home, there are hardly any bikers on the road to distract us from the ugliness of the housing flanking the A12. Yes, only Eastern Europe looks worse than this. I have to acknowledge it. Once we pass Walthamstow, even Holloway rd looks ok, the people we previously thought badly of, seem paragons of stylishness and composure thought the dogs are out in force here to. Compared to what we’ve witnessed, even Queen’s Park is fine. “The Salusbury is over there’ points Toph with a degree of ‘Am safe, there’s a good gastro pub there’ in his voice. Never mind he never goes to the Salusbury ‘cause I think it’s an impostor. .
We reach M’s house exhausted by what we’ve seen (bear in mind I subjected Toph to the Gilbert & George at the Tate the day before and he’s seen enough to damage is retina, he hates them). The garden is full of kiddies at the tail end of her barbecue. They have lovely faces and no hint they’ll grow up obese. They have some of those new wave wooden bicycles with no pedals so you have to walk everywhere with them, pushing yourself off and away. But who’s to know. They may rebel to the edamame beans one day. But London it is. H. tells me a story about her niece wanting a goodie bag before she went home from H’s son’s b’day. H. hastily concocted one by taking a few odd things out of drawers and putting them in a carrier bag and sent her on her merry way. Am sure in Southend they get plasma screens in their goodie bags.
“It will take just over an hour” I promise, and we set off at 10.00. On the way we notice lots of bikers and then a few signs pointing to the ‘Southend shakedown’. Hurrah, we shall have some entertainment laid out for us. I’m driving so Toph is free to read the Independent and regale me with more fisking opinions which he shares on the whole 90% with said writer, and with observations about the bikers who overtake us or I overtake. So sweet, all these bum cracks to look at … fat ones usually and the classic g/friend and b/riend - same costume combos, you know same helmet, same colour and pattern and brand jacket and so on. Oh and the funny ones who’ve gone and glued Mohicans or bunny rabbit ears to their helmet. Hours of fun! Toph doesn’t do bikes or football so this is a new breed we’re observing. One that we assume would not look out of place on the terraces. Sure, there must be chic people at matches (in fact we know a few) or at bikers shakedowns but the evidence here points to the contrary. Thankfully at least there’s no Posh look-alike on a Chanel bike or something…Toph seems to mainly notice the out of the ordinary bikes with some 4 times the width tyre or customised body or peculiar paint colour. He’s such a kid! Why do these ordinary Brits (by the look of them, I don’t see any continentals or Americans) buy so much into the skull and bone thingy? Ok maybe the Brits were the original pirates but all the Hells’ Angels stuff is … just alien. Thank god not too many have adopted the ZZ Tops facial hair, but the overabundance of tatts is worrisome.
Until… we get there and see that the locals are far, far scarier. I was sort of expecting WAGs but it's total chav. And I thought they'd be exaggerating on TV.
As we park the car in a back street we see the following combo, skinny feral bloke with Burberry chav baseball cap, young fat girl with Vicky pollard hair and pram, other teenage girlie with white trackie bottoms and pink vest and dog of the regulation bulldog breed. I am not making this up for the sake of the story. Oh no. this is what we saw when we parked. Suddenly our Indian fabric bag was a unique fashion statement (and believe me I do know that no self respecting real Indian would go around with such bag, it’s a ‘I’ve been to India and I didn’t have enough containers for what I brought bag and so I bought this and I never really use it as it’s naff but it’s a good size to carry a towel and a few newspapers and books to the beach’.
The back streets are empty. The main drag is absolutely awash with bikes revving up slowly. More bikes are parked on the pavements and owners having a drink with friends or alone… waiting for someone to admire their machines. The scene is a sublimation of owners’ ugliness into bikes’ beauty. They are gleaming, you can eat off the engine I’ ashamed of the state of my cycle at home. Always muddy, always dirty. ‘But there’s the beach’ I thrill gaily. The beach is ‘awful’ says Toph. I don’t think so, I think it’s nice long stretch. He won’t have it. I think coffee is in order but where? Eventually a little oasis appears, a caff shunned by the bikers and with a sign promising cappuccinos. But there is no coffee in it. Or maybe Nescafe. Toph points to the coffee grains to be ground on top of the machine. I refrain from asking if they’re there just on show. Repeat there is no coffee in it. The fish and chips is good, the tea is bad, the rampant obesity surrounding us makes us feel frail and stick like. If this mob surges, we’re dead.
But thankfully we have a mission: to walk the longest pier in Europe, a full mile of it. It’s am ugly pier so it doesn’t make sense to me till I get to the platform at the end and turning around you can see miles of coastline. On the left of the pier rests the nice part of town with a few of the original Georgian terraces and a new shopping centre, am sure that one has a Costa coffee. Not that I like chains but one is allowed by Ms Taylor’s town and country planners. It has to be said that Thames estuary way the view is not all that much: a power station of some kind is blotting the landscape and some commercial vessels. Not a pretty boat in sight.
Toph is on the phone to his mother. “It’s hideous!” he tells her. Well, he did escape from Salford so this is close to home, spiritually. I have more exotic beginnings surrounded by medieval palaces and castles so this is not scary to me as in ‘it could capture me back, I could end up my days where I began and had escaped from aaarrrgghhhhhh!. So I agree that we can leave.
Driving home, there are hardly any bikers on the road to distract us from the ugliness of the housing flanking the A12. Yes, only Eastern Europe looks worse than this. I have to acknowledge it. Once we pass Walthamstow, even Holloway rd looks ok, the people we previously thought badly of, seem paragons of stylishness and composure thought the dogs are out in force here to. Compared to what we’ve witnessed, even Queen’s Park is fine. “The Salusbury is over there’ points Toph with a degree of ‘Am safe, there’s a good gastro pub there’ in his voice. Never mind he never goes to the Salusbury ‘cause I think it’s an impostor. .
We reach M’s house exhausted by what we’ve seen (bear in mind I subjected Toph to the Gilbert & George at the Tate the day before and he’s seen enough to damage is retina, he hates them). The garden is full of kiddies at the tail end of her barbecue. They have lovely faces and no hint they’ll grow up obese. They have some of those new wave wooden bicycles with no pedals so you have to walk everywhere with them, pushing yourself off and away. But who’s to know. They may rebel to the edamame beans one day. But London it is. H. tells me a story about her niece wanting a goodie bag before she went home from H’s son’s b’day. H. hastily concocted one by taking a few odd things out of drawers and putting them in a carrier bag and sent her on her merry way. Am sure in Southend they get plasma screens in their goodie bags.
posted by Lisa Taylor @ 8:27 AM
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