Letter to Zero Degrees in Blackheath - re pizza droopage

This isn't the pizza in question

I was in your place on Saturday with my girlfriend and we both had pizzas. Mine was the Italian sausage one and hers was parma ham. They were both very tasty but the bases were simply too thin to function. This is, I feel, a fundamental problem with the pizzas. The middle bit - radius of about three inches - was just mush. Any attempt to pick up a full slice was sheer folly as this middle bit just collapsed, dragging the cargo of the whole slice with it. So I had to eat the middle bit with cutlery - my face burned with shame - before eating the outer half slice by hand. 

I mentioned this to a waitress as we were leaving and she said they're supposed to be eaten with a knife and fork. I batted this aside, insisting that pizza should be eaten by hand - at the very least it should be an option.
Thin bases are the only way to go but the problem with the ones we had - and it's happened every time I've been in - is the base is just too thin to pass the fold test. This is where you pick a slice up, fold it in at the edges and the rest of the slice stays erect. There may be a couple of centimetres droopage at the end but that's acceptable.
The pizza was among the tastiest I have ever had but, because of the base, it was rendered merely adequate - a 9/10 effort becomes a 6/10 disappointment.
That said, the pilsner is ace.

More pizza guff

And here

Thus far and no further

Seriously, just fuck off

Five pounds fucking 50 for a pint of lager! That was the astonishing deal I was bummed with on Saturday eve. I was meeting Mrs Biff for some grub in Shoreditch's trendy 'Shoreditch' and had 20 minutes to kill so nipped for a quick pint.
Found some gaff called the Redchurch Bar on Redchurch street. Looked okay inside, quite dark, lots of deep red furnishings. Gang of girls to the left as I went in, couple of blokes to the right, few people scattered around the back by the bar, to which I headed.
One pint of Sierra Nevada lager ordered and the fella drops the price bombshell on me, prompting the now customary 'how much?!'
He repeated the price and all I could stammer was 'why?'.
And it's a fair question - what possible business has anyone asking £5.50 for a pint? They've not even paused to admire the view from £4 a pint mountain - which is outrageous anyway - they've just hurtled on, busting straight through the previously-theoretical £5 a pint barrier and landed plum 'twixt a flim and six pounds UK.
I bought it like because I didn't want them thinking I was poor or a mingeo, both of which are true.

Fold

The thing with this gaff was, the crowd didn't look particularly well off or even very 'Shoreditch'. And there was at least one student in (I heard him talking about his course) so how can he afford to sup there?
This comes tepid on the heels of being charged £8-odd for a pint of Peroni and a small Baileys at the Hen & Chickens by Highbury Corner - a scandalous amount for two drinks but a bargain compared to the Redchurch deal.
These places are supposed to be - at least nominally - neighbourhood establishments but they're charging the sort of prices people who've visited Scandinavia come back weeping about.
Presumably it's an aggressive move to ensure people like me don't go in places like that. Well that's fine, but eventually more people will start thinking, is this really worth it?
I've lived in London 11 years and I'm braced for the price of most things but if we're seriously saying that a tenner might not be enough to secure two pints then the whole thing's gone to shit. This should be hover-packs-for-all in the future, not here and now.
Anyway the grub at the Hoxton Furnace was dead on - pizzas were v tasty and passed the fold test. Rubbish picture I know. The service was pretty hopeless though. Slow drinks, slow bill, not a huge deal but a bit wearing.

Funster in 'da house'

Then it was off home and a chance to marvel at this idiot's shoes - he was being loud and wacky, even by East London Line standards. I think he was foreign.

What the deuce?

Moments later the rule book was in shreds

Just having me dinner then (pictured) at the Trafalgar Cafe in Greenwich. Sat at one of those two-seater tables that is only suitable for one person reading the paper.
I was just tucking in to the first act of my mega-sarnie - chicken salad, toasted ciabatta, mayo on side - when this old woman marches up and sits down opposite me. And to make it clear she wasn't marking time she whips out her own paper, forcing me to move mine right to the side and rearrange my food and beverage. There were seats available at more ample tables.
Now I'm all shoved in the corner like an immigrant in a shipping container while she unfolds her Daily Express and takes delivery of a full roast dinner if you please. On a Thursday! The raised eyebrows of the woman on a neighbouring table were but a whisper of the full horror that was unfolding.
I had to eat part two of me sarnie trying not to catch the eye of my companion, lest her withering glance turn me to stone. She probably thought as she'd made it this far in life - at least 80 - there's no point wasting time with excuse mes or general niceties, and I salute her for that. Not a single word was exchanged between us during the 10 l-o-n-g minutes.

Wanker

After that I got to see a clamper in action. I then hung around to see him greet his 'fly' with ill-hidden glee. The wanker.

'Well you should call it a courgette pizza with some seafood then'

Red

These were my parting words as I left Deptford's Big Red pizza bus thing, next to the Bird's Nest pub (ace) just by Deptford Bridge DLR on Saturday eve.
I'd been there once before and had this mega ace pizza with sausage (I think) and black pudding - I know! - so had returned with hopes way north of high.
Like a fool, I let my fiery Latin nature interfere with the ordering process and, instead of sticking with the clear winner of the previous visit, my eye was taken by the seafood pizza. 
The menu boasted 'fresh squid', prawns and courgettes, and that was good enough for me. 
A Meantime Pale Ale later the grub arrived and I prepared to tuck into my feast with extreme prejudice. Imagine my horror when I saw the plate before me - I was so enraged I forgot to take a picture.
Three prawns, two bits of squid (which were rather tough but then that is the nature of the beast), and courgettes all over the show - scattered around with gay abandon. A sea of green disks mocking my heartache.
The pizza was alright but, unlike the previous visit, this one didn't pass the fold test - namely you should be able to cut a slice and, just folding it slightly upon itself, it should remain straight to the tip. 
This enables smooth mouth eatage - anyone eating pizza with a knife and fork wants locking up in sandpaper-and-nail prison, something I've just thought of where everything is made of sandpaper and nails, including the toilet paper. Which also has tabasco sauce in the fibres. And knives. 
On lesser topped pizzas - your mushroom, for example - you really should be able to just pick a slice up. Yes there will be droopage towards the end but you get the point. This one was flacid. The base, tragically, was too thin to maintain the toppings. My previous visit the base was good. The service on both visits was fine and the place itself is nice.
But I was gutted.
On leaving I said to the fella: 'You know, the seafood pizza is a little light on the seafood.'
'How do you mean?' he replied.
'Well, three prawns?'
'But they're real prawns.' (I didn't quite get this bit)
'Lot of courgettes though, maybe you should rename it'. And you know the rest. I shall return once more before registering my definitive view of Big Red Pizza, which is at 30 Deptford Church Street, SE8 4RZ. 

Limehouse Basin to Islington - a trudge

Gas thing

Went for a mooch on Sunday in the pissing rain because that's how I roll. Mrs Biff's insistence that i detach myself from the nerd box was the catalyst, and the promise of pizza for tea, changed at the last minute to curry, sealed the deal.
Got the DLR from sexy Lewisham to Limehouse then walked the path along the Regent's Canal. It's about 4.5 miles to Angel but we bailed at the Rosemary Branch pub because I used to live near there and hadn't been in for a while.
The pub's the same as ever - good selection of beers, normal-ish punters. There was a fella playing the piano, who appreciated Mrs Biff's slight inclination of the head and single clap as he rounded off his set.
Everyone in there seemed to be having some kind of laptop-off with each other, greedily snaffling the free wifi. Best of all though was the lad behind the bar brought out a tray of leftover roasties and Yorkshire puds (they do roast dinners in there, which look ace) and a pan of gravy for dipping. It was manna from meff-food heaven.
As for the walk itself, it's better doing this sort of thing in London than, say, the Lake District because there's none of that awful hello-ing or even worse the half-nod-with-a-smile-rising-to-a-sort-of-peer-out-of-an-imaginary-hole as you pass someone.
You just power on knowing that if anyone so much as looks your way you can lash them in the canal and be done with it. Cyclists especially. Bunch of wankers - slow the fuck down, this isn't Amsterdam. A ring of the bell doesn't make people vanish.
It's quite a nice walk but it got a bit chokka where the Shoreditch festival was on - it looked terrible, incidentally.
Best bit was a barge full of lesbians going up in the lock. I assume they were lesbians as there were three of them all together on one boat. Incredible scenes.

Dunno

A path for walking on

This is not art

Someone tied a load of meff Tesco bread bags to a rail

Evil Edna

Tennis - it's not just for girls!

Bosh!

Bobbed along to Wimbledon yesterday, joining the riff raff in the queue. Got there at 4.50pm and was in for 6.15pm, which meant I'd easily get in my two hours of top level tennis (any more than that and I get bored).
I think most people just assume there is no chance at all of getting in so they don't bother, but there were loads in the queue when I got there and loads behind me by the time I got in.
Ground passes are only £14 after 5pm (£20 for the day ones) so you can't go wrong, unless it's bad weather. The plebs entrance is gate three and as soon as you get in you see the massive Centre and Number 1 courts, around which the outside courts are scattered. It's an odd sort of place and feels like a very posh housing estate with a load of tennis matches going on.
After a bit of mooching and a beer I watched some Yank playing a Croat (the Yank, pictured right, was a whiner so I took against him) before moving on to see what else was afoot.
I watched a chick game for a bit - like most people I was hoping it would dissolve into a colossal lez-fest. Disappointingly it didn't.

Woman's very lifelike hat

What's most impressive about Wimbledon is the slickness of the operation - I wouldn't be surprised if there are Yanks actually running it. The queue is well organised, with plenty of stewards on hand to help, and there are plenty of places to get food and drink or go the bog while you're waiting (they give you a queue card so you don't lose your place if you nip off).
Once inside there are food and drink sellers every 20 yards or so, and lots of toilets. My only comparison here is football matches and there is no comparison at all - these things are gleaming. I didn't get any grub but it looked half decent, and the beer wasn't bad - usual plazzy cup festival type affair (£4.40 a pint of Grolsch).
Obviously it's very white and very middle class but not particularly snooty. Worth a dig if you're curious, although the first week is best if you're going late (more matches, duh).

Ticket information and other stuff here

Hit that ball!

The Cartoon Museum, dodgy dealings, and more!

If

The Guardian might be a load of old shite these days with its simpering bullshit columns - oh, the schools in Lar-de-dar Lane in Hampstead are just awful and my poor little kids (who are all called fucking Jack, Henry, or Jacasta) can't get soya milk on their porridge - and its ridiculously earnest football reporters and page after page of Zoe fucking Williams and Marina Hyde, but Steve Bell remains brilliant.
I went the Cartoon Museum on Saturday to see the Bell Epoque, which is on until 24 July.
It's nice to see work like that up close, and big. There's classic Ifs (right), those big ones he does, and some old stuff (including an appalling one based on himself - I think - when he was a teacher) with explanations and notes.
There's a sign up saying for copyright reasons you can't take pictures of individual exhibits but you can of the place in general. I don't think legally they can stop you taking the pictures, displaying them seems to be the problem. Well stuff 'em. If they want to over-react then I'll listen.
Also on display is the rejection note The Guardian sent Bell in 1978 and some sketch pads and that. Chuck in some Viz, Beano and Dandy stuff upstairs and you're laughing for £5.50

Woof!

After going there I stepped inside to shelter from the rain and take nourishment, and noticed these two blighters up to no good (possibly). The chap on the left is sheltered in a doorway, the fellow talking to him sports what appears to be a waterproof coat, but what of the poor pooch? He's drenched!
I then returned home where, the very next day, I saw one of those Boris Bikes outside Lewisham Library - stitch that, The Man. And later that night I took a 7(seven)-0 cuffing as nerd Everton versus nerd Manchester United. I pulled the plug in the last second. You know, for spite.
The Cartoon Museum is at 35 Little Russell Street, London WC1A 2HH
http://www.cartoonmuseum.org/

Up yours, Boris

Where d'you get your shirt?

New togs

Clothes don't maketh the man - but good 'uns don't do any harm.
There are some excellent clobber blogs on the internet that go into detail about garments and brands and 'philosophies' and all that guff so I won't bother.
Basically you want something that looks half-decent, fits well, and will last. Following fashion just looks exhausting. As Homer Simpson once said: "What's the point in going out? We're just going to wind up back here anyway."
I like clobber but it's not as important to me as it probably is to you because I am extremely good looking. And being a beautiful man, nice clothes are merely the icing on a jaw-droppingly hunky cake. Possibly one made out of beef.
If I was a woman all other women would hate me, and I'd be a real slut - you'd all get a go within reason. If I needed me bum scratching I'd be down the bus stop to pick someone out to do it for me.
Anyway recently I picked up a couple of garments so utterly belting I feel compelled to mention them here, on the internet's most talked-about website.
First up is me Heritage Research Longline Parka in burnt orange. This thing is the fucking business - sorry but occasionally profanity is needed to stress the magnitude of the sentiment. Plus swearing rules, never let the squares tell you otherwise.
I got this in the sale from a gaff on Commercial Street, Shoreditch, called Present. It's a cracking shop - really helpful staff who know their stuff. They only had one left when I phoned on the Tuesday and the lad said he'd hold it for me until Friday, which he did.
I've got a few coats but this is the best fit of anything I've ever owned. Two big pockets that come right round the side - high neck, strong RiRi zipper, big ace buttons - it rules.
I also got a shirt by Universal Works. It's called the Croyde and is from this year's spring/summer collection. It's a short sleeved bugger and it's dead thin - a bugger to iron though. Really nice, got it from Oi Polloi's website. Had to send the first one back as they apparently can't work a tape measure.
That's it, although regular readers of my Twitter bulletins may be aware I have switched from boxers to trunks, undie-wise, for the summer. Consider this an official endorsement of the snugger, cuppier, pant.
(I whipped the pic off what seems to be an abandoned blog)

Mega-sarnie at Polpo

Oink oink, my good man!

If you're anything like me - you lucky swine - you'll be constantly on the lookout for ace sandwiches. I had one last Saturday which could only improve by being the size of a small cow, or half a normal size cow. Or a standard-size toilet lid.
The venue was Polpo on Beak Street in London's fashionable London. I was in there early - as one must to get a table easily as you can't book - before heading off to Bradley's Spanish bar to watch Barcelona hand Manchester United their collective arse.
Mrs Biff was in full effect, thrilled at the prospect of an evening watching football in a sweaty pub. We got a few dishes, but eating at 6pm really should be left to the over 70 crowd. It's better to go later, have a drink at the bar and wait for a table to come up. 
Because we were scoffing so early not much really hit home, except the 'cured pork shoulder & peperonata panino' (I think that's foreign for panini, which is in turn foreign for 'expensive bread for idiots'). 
Not cheap at £5.50 but this thing was sensational, stuffed with meat, moist, juicy peppers and some kind of mayonnaise and oil or something. There may have been cheese in there - I was in such a frenzy I can't remember. 
The bread was toasted just right too and there was no spillage at all when eating. The sandwich artisan behind this beast is truly a master of the craft.
I could see the woman next to us eyeing it up - coveting, possibly plotting a theft. I'd have smacked her in the eye if she even hovered too close. And I'd do the same to any of you. The only downside was I had to let Mrs Biff have half. I was gutted about that and resented her for the next hour because of it. 
Polpo is at 41 Beak Street, London W1F 9SB. 

Saturday at the Kernel brewery, Bermondsey

Well, it is a toilet (I decided to hang on)

All hail the Kernel Brewery in Bermondsey! I'd heard this place was good - and their grog is being stocked in the sort of place I never go to because I'm common - but I'm always wary of praise. I can report though, after a successful Saturday mooch, that it is spot on.
With the sun out and people slurping beers sitting on old gym benches in the shadows of the railway line it's an odd but enjoyable environment. It feels like a secret drinking club set in a post apocalypse future. It's probably less fun if it's pissing it down.

You can have a look at their website to see what's currently on offer - when I went it was dark beers mainly. Not my scene man, but I had a bash anyway. And I'm glad I did. 

There were a couple of pale ales on draft so the lad gave us a taste before we got stuck in. It was very nice so we had a couple there and got some bottles to take home. The homesters were IPA Citra (7.2%) and a pale ale called Herkules Centennial (5.3%) - coincidentally that is the exact lettering of the tattoo I have on my back, illustrating a 1:3 ratio picture of the wrestler Kendo Nagasaki's 'game face'. 

The kiddy

I'm no beer expert so really I treat it like wine - I'm after a nice taste, cold and with a good booze content. And as the plan for the day was to put beer where there had been no beer before - both my tum and my fridge - it was a resounding success.
Of the two types of beer taken home, the citra one's the kiddy. Really nice, strong but smooth. Perfect for sipping on a warm day.

It's quite a nice layout up there on Saturdays, when it's open to oiks, with the brewery sharing an arch with someone selling ham and cheese - served up on a plank of wood. And there's a few other gaffs selling stuff too. 

After that it was a plod round Bermondsey Street before catching the arse end of Borough Market to watch people pay ludicrous amounts for cheese while trying to out-buggy each other, kidwise.
The Kernel Brewery is open to people like you on Saturdays. Visitor entrance is at 1 Ropewalk (just off Millstream Road). The official address is 98 Druid Street, SE1 2HQ. Five minute walk from London Bridge station. http://www.thekernelbrewery.com/

Don't tell me what to do - maybe I want the sediment?

That gas bottle has the evil eye!

Leathermarket Gardens in full bloom

Some weird splodge stuff on the posts holding up the roof on Borough Market 

The London Particular, New Cross - sarnie special!

This picture does this sandwich no justice at all

Is there a better trousers-on feeling than enjoying the first couple of mouthfuls of a mega-sandwich, knowing you've got loads left?
There's stuff about the thinking behind The London Particular elsewhere on the new internet you've read about so I won't bother with it here. Suffice to say the place, which was recommended by the Deptford Dame on the popular website Twitter is soopoib.
I had the warm sarnie of the day, in this case fancy-pants sausages, caramelised onions, rocket and some other stuff (possibly some kind of mustard) on nice, lightly toasted bread, possibly rye I'm not sure - hey, this isn't Which?
Either way, this sandwich instantly marched in to my top six ALL TIME sandwiches. And I'm a fussy bugger.
Sausages were sliced in twain, arranged in size order to fit the bread, and rested diagonally. Then the other stuff was ladled on with the second piece of bread resting atop, as is traditional.
Impressively for work of this spec, sandwich integrity was maintained almost throughout. Only one bit of sausage fell out and that was when I was trying to change the page of my book.
It also came with a sort of salad, which had pulses of some kind in there and spuds and - I think - noodles. Often the salad is an afterthought on these things but this was excellent.
Naturally I paired the brute up with a cup of coffee, and this, in football terms, was a bit special. Very potent but tasty - I asked for white and it came with barely a splash of milk as if to say, 'go on you Jessy, ask for more milk'. No chance mate.
There was a slight awkward moment with me and the lad working there when I asked the wifi code - that unique embarrassment when two people with hugely different accents baffle each other - but that's hardly his fault (or mine) and the service, like the whole visit, was good. For such a small space they fit a lot of people in comfortably and my grub was up within about five minutes.
Now this place isn't cheap - it came in at £9.30 (the sarnie was an eye-watering £7.50) but it was worth it. I was still full six hours later, not bleurgh full, just not hungry. And it was, as has been established, very tasty. Next time I'm having the baked tommies, fancy ham, and hoity-toit cheddar on toast.

A monkey?

Then I mooched off down Deptford Market where I saw this intriguing poster - what can have been in the case to illicit such a plea, and reward?
The London Particular is at 399 New Cross Road, SE14 6LA. Out of New Cross station turn right, over the bridge, past the Walpole pub, past the chippy where Paul McCartney and his mrs got chips and a pickled egg (according to the signed docket on the wall), and it's there on the right. If you live in the area you should go, otherwise you're wasting your tastebuds.

Mooching about - picture special!

Philip Marlowe's plaque at St Nicholas' church, Deptford 

Had a mooch round Deptford the other day, starting off with a disappointing sarnie.
Took some pics including a bit of poetry and a nice commentary on whether Chelsea is a gem or a 'sket' - what the hell is a sket? Those pics are up a sort of tunnel on the side of a building site on the Thames Path.
The other pics are of some street between Bermondsey Street and Waterloo.
To surmise, Deptford is an ace place that I don't really make the most of, and the Waterloo area is ace for cycling round when it's a bank holiday and the nobhead quotient is reduced by about 8zillion%.

Racey!

Chelsea - the case for...

...and against

Fucking ledge!

Darth Vader's coming!

A big door - halfway up a building!

A dead bad sandwich in Deptford

Marks out of 8billion

Sarnies rule. They are one of the greatest things ever - so why is it so hard to get a good one?
I went to the reasonably-vaunted Deptford Project for a bank holiday treat of a cup of coffee and a bit of dinner (lunch if you're posh). The coffee - cappuccino with semi-skimmed milk - was fantastic, but the sandwich was an abomination.
First off they didn't have any chicken - the sandwich choice was basic at best: egg, bacon, ham - so I went for ham salad on thick white bread. The ham and salad wasn't awful but the bread was almost stale. If I dished this up at home it'd get lashed in my face, and rightly so. Normally I'd send it back but they were short staffed and it had took about 30 minutes to arrive and I couldn't be arsed waiting for another.
I ate it like. I was starving, and to be fair I was offered reparation when I pointed out after that the bread was rubbish, but it's what this represents that's the problem. The Deptford Project sells quiche apparently, but I don't want quiche - I want a sarnie. A big one. On event bread.
So why couldn't I have one? Because there is a fundamental, cultural problem in this country. The sandwich should be cherished, revered. It should be every bit as important as a good cup of tea.
As it is, sarnies are the runt of the commercial grub world, chucked out with contempt on shit bread with piddly fillings.
New York has it right, and it starts with the bread. If you're selling food and your sarnies are on basic sliced bread - brown or white - then you're a disgrace. Yes, YOU Peter de Wits cafe in Greenwich with your 'best ingredients' piffle - FIVE POUNDS for a chicken salad sarnie? For shame!
You are out of your mind - if I pay a flim for sandwich then it better be one of the wonders of the world. I want people gathering round it in awe, talking in hushed tones. And let me tell you, food-fans, the chicken salad one I had at de Wit's was moderate at best.
That was a year ago, and I'm still livid about it. The Deptford Project said they'll sort me out next time I go, which is nice, but the problems run deeper than that. Sort your act out, food sellers of Great Britain.

piss take

Red light

This is the bit of road where a couple of years ago I got a fine for parking in the red zone while I nipped in the shop to buy some ice cream (Hagen Daz fancy pants stuff). Sixty bastard quid it cost me.
Not only have these coppers in their unmarked car done the same thing (except the ice cream bit) but they were rubbing it right in by having their blue and red lights flashing - you can sort of make it out on the pictures - while they were in the Chinese on Lee High Road.

Blue light

Double rubbing-in points for the parking - look at it! Right in the middle of the bay, thus negating it as a space for whoever the crap it is gets to park in red zones. I don't know if the police are allowed to park there or not but having the lights on when it did not look like they were 'attending' (below) seems a bit rum.

I've seen coppers, presumably from nearby Lewisham nick, come out of Nando's with a bag of grub, get in the van parked outside and whack the sirens on before roaring through the lights. Presumably they want to get their food back to the rest of the chaps nice and handy, and that's fair enough, but this is just taking the whatever.

"And some prawn crackers, love"

#Meateasy

Yummo!

"What's the grub like," I demanded of the woman kindly offering her chair. She looked at me, then at her fella, then back to me, and said: "You know when you have a dream and..." before tailing off in apparent delirium. The bar was set high.
And justifiably so. What was a few weeks ago London's hippest gaff (my visit means it's clearly passé), nestling on top of the former Goldsmiths Tavern in New Cross, is fantastic (if you want the back-story about the van and that, google it, lazy arse).
From the moment you walk in you can tell it's a bit good, the service is spot on and the waiting staff excellent. You get a number, get a drink, (eventually) get a table then put your order in when your number's called. It's a nifty trick to make something which, on the face of it looks fairly shambolic, run so smoothly.
But this is a slick operation - and it starts with the bar. Bottled Meantime lager, and fair play that amber stuff is nice, or cocktails. You tell them the sort of stuff you like and they knock something up. Mine, some sort of whisky sour thing with an egg in it, was ace.

I dined with a guest, it's not all mine

And so to the food. Pictured right is a bacon cheeseburger, onion rings, and a cheeseburger (chilli chips are out of shot). Taking them in order, the burgers are amazing - big and not remotely greasy, despite how they look in the pics. Really well packed so there's no collapsing like you get in some big burgers. And the taste - man alive, they're superb.
The onion rings are great too, really light and tasty. If you go, you have to have them. The chips are last - a real afterthought. I'd seen a few plates of these skinny wretches being dished up so went for the chilli-cheese option, which was - again - delicious. The chips become something for the chilli to stick to. Probably the chilli was the thing that pushed me over the edge. We ate at 8pm and I was still stuffed at 1am.

It had an egg in it! It wasn't this bright though

An interesting crowd in there, and pretty much as I'd expected. Seemed Goldsmiths-ish but the prices are not really student friendly (£7 for a burger, similar for a cocktail, £3.50 I think for a bottle of beer).
On my visit, the punters were almost exclusively white. There were a lot of thick-rimmed specs on display and, I suspect, a lot of people drifting down on the East London Line.
One lad said to his chum, whose haircut was the equal of any CBeebies presenter: "At last! New Cross is connected to the rest of London!" Ignoring the high frequency train services which take five minutes to get to London Bridge, by "the rest of London" he meant "Highbury & Islington".
Apparently they're finishing for good on 16 April, with rumours of a switch up the road to Greenwich (but that's not even on the tube! How will Dalston Ted get there?), but Lewisham council should be moving heaven and earth to keep this thing in the borough. To let something as good as this slip away would be insane (you can follow them on Twitter, @themeatwagonuk, to get the latest). Recommended.

Why is Meantime draft lager so bad?

Schonramer - as it arrived

Meantime is a Greenwich-based brewery that has two pubs in the area. I've been to both a few times, and I really want to like them, but I just don't.
Actually it's not the places themselves - the Greenwich Union on Royal Hill, and the Old Brewery at the Old Naval College - because they're both smart. Really nicely done out and the Union, which for me used to have a bit of a pong about it, is a really nice pub.
It's the draft beer I don't like. Maybe I'm doomed to suffer because I don't like ale and stout and all those drinks that beer bores slurp down. I like lager.
I went to Bruges recently and one of the things that sticks out is how much better the beer is there - all kinds of beer.
They take it seriously, and the people at Meantime clearly take it seriously too, but their lagers - and variants thereof that I've tasted - are hopeless. At best, not bad-ish and at worse, really, really awful. And expensive.
When I was in one of their gaffs the other day I started with a pint of Schonramer (£4.35, I know) and it was alright. Mrs Biff had a Meantime Helles, which in her words tasted 'like water'. I had a sip to confirm. So far so ho hum.

Five fucking quid

Next up we went for broke with a trappist beer cos we're mad like that. Westmalle to be precise and it was ace - 9.5% and a cool five pounds a bottle (I assumed the glass was a prezzie). It seemed to work at an accelerated rate as I had a monster headache two hours later. 
The grub is ace at the Union by the way, although it's not cheap at £11.30 for a burger and chips. But back to the beer, lastly I had a London Lager, a Meantime-brewed beer. I'd had this before and didn't think much but I gave it another bash.
This was the worst of the lot. It tasted like a bad Kronenbourg - no life at all. That seems to be a trend with the Meantime lagers, they're dead flat and have that sort of bad-Stella taste to them.
These places are charging top dollar for what is, in my opinion, mediocre at best lager. You can get a good drink there, and the Westmalle was spot on, but why should we have to pay a fiver (!) to get a nice beer? It's insane. I don't want much and I don't claim to be a beer expert, I just want want the Belgians get. And that's not a phrase you hear often.

London lager

For the prices they're charging (Meantime, not Belgium) - and getting, these places are busy - I can go elsewhere and get a crap lager for cheaper.
And I don't want to do that. I want to support places like this, and I don't mind paying for good stuff, but I always feel like I've been mugged after a visit to either of Meantime's gaffs.
These pretzels are making me thirsty.

Jamming with the oldies

Let's roll

I spent a month working at an old folks' day centre in south London in about 2004. I drove the ambulance and did the meals-on-wheels round. 

I was doing some freelance writing and sent this story on spec to the sadly defunct but great Jack magazine. They didn't fancy it at the time - I think I punted it out to a few places to no avail.

On re-reading it I think the last bit comes across as a little bit nasty but presumably I meant it at the time. Anyway here it is: 

What do old people do all day? What can possibly fill the chasm between breakfast and Fifteen to One? They can’t all sit indoors waiting for next door’s kids to boot the ball into their yard. Well, a lot of them go to day centres.  

So grab a sarsaparilla and set a spell as our skilled operative says “Ello love!” to a world
of boiled bacon, seniors’ singles nights and psychotic pooches to bring you five days with Britain’s golden oldies.

Monday
“Yeah, I had a very relaxing weekend, as it goes. I cleaned my dogs. I’ve got about 300 now – porcelain ones they are – models, like.” Bert, one of the centre’s volunteers, is chatting away as the scenery slides by. He’s escorting today – basically helping the old dears (women really do outlive their men – especially round here) in to the ambulance.

Even by the centre's alternate universe standards, Bert’s a bit odd. With his shaving brush goatee, facial piercings, beads and leathery skin he looks like Mr Potato Head’s demented half-brother.

“There’s a three-legged greyhound lives there,” he points towards Rockstone old people’s home as we drive past. “A little cracker he is, a trier – and you have to admire that.” We drive to the next pick up. Bert is now in full flow: “I was out this morning – walking my dog – three o’clock it was…”

“Three…” I interrupt, despite myself, “…am?”

“Yeah. Got to. He’s nuts. And when I say my dog’s nuts – I mean nuts. It’s a pit bull/mastiff cross – he’ll attack anything. Even with the muzzle on he goes for other dogs.” Bert reflects on this for a moment: “And black people.”

“Sorry?”

“Yeah, black people. He hates ‘em. Can smell ‘em – smells their arrogance, I think. Now, Asians he’s fine with. Had one stay with us once – no bother. I can’t explain it. I got a £200 fine once when he attacked a six-foot African. Had to get him muzzled, neutered,the lot.”

We drive back in silence.

Overheard in the ambulance: “She had her breast off on Thursday. Marvellous woman.”

Tuesday
My first go at Meals on Wheels. I’m carrying the food while Pam drives and shows me the round. A couple of drops in and things are going fine. We stop at the next one. I get out to get the food. Pam seems troubled. Something’s on her mind but she can’t quite work out what. I get the food and walk towards the front door. 

Then she twigs: “He’s incontinent!”

Too late – I press the bell. The door opens. At first, nothing. Then it hits me - the stench is incredible – my eyeballs start to peel. He’s covered in it – it’s in his clothes, his hair, everywhere. 

Breathing through my ears I place the food on his tray – disaster – he has to pay. He fishes in his pocket and brings out a sodden five-pound note. This is a logistical nightmare. I hold the change-bag at him and nod into the bag. He’s talking but I can’t hear – I nod at the bag again. He doesn’t understand and puts the fiver in my not-offered hand. 

Time stands still.

I’ve held my breath so long my brain is changing shape, I’m rummaging for change and all the while the sodden fiver is nuzzling against my hand – spreading its vileness on to me – I will never be clean again. Therapy is founded on less.

I give him his change and walk slowly back to the car. I have a nagging fear that this is just the kind of
thing that’ll rear up and haunt me mid-coitus or, worse still, mid-masturbation.

We drive off with me muttering “that’s just not right,” while dangling my hand out the window.

Back at the centre, Frances - one of the helpers - sits down. She’s friendly, in her sixties and not shy.
There was a singles night at the club last night (all old people go to “the club”).  She leans over and, in
a conspiratorial whisper, says: “I had a right result. I’m not after anything serious though. You should come down,” she looks straight at me. “We get a right mix down there.”

“Erm.”

“Well, think about it – we’re going on Thursday.”

Wednesday
Bert’s been missing most of the day, but turns up as we start taking people home. He’s very quiet and, to nick a line from Only Fools and Horses, I don’t know what’s wrong with him but he stinks of booze. He’s staring at Frances.

She walks past. “I wanna stick my tongue…” Bert slurs – he’s unsure, but committed to making a tit of himself. He leans forward – his eyes loll unattractively: “Nah, I’m not gonna get involved,” he breathes in. “Come here… You’re just so…eatable.” 

There’s a flurry of activity and he’s led away by one of the carers. “This is serious ruin, serious ruin,”
is the last we hear of him for the day. 

Back on the ambulance, Mary is last to be dropped. She has a zimmer frame and has to use the tail-lift to get out. The tail-lift moves slowly. She’s booked in to get her hip sorted soon: “I’m waiting to have it replaced. It takes a while,” she says. She may have said more but it’s hard to concentrate when someone’s nappy is showing.

Overheard on the ambulance: 

“Are there any men going on this trip (to Anglesey)?”

-Long pause, with the sound of boiled sweets being opened –

 
“Well, there’s them two 90-year-olds.”

Thursday
I’m out with John today. He’s driving and I’m chucking them on the bus. We head down to Sydenham High Street, a car wriggles past us: “That’s a left turn lane!” John shouts. “I tell you – 90 per cent of them that do that are black. They just can’t wait can they?”

I study my sleeve.

Another car pulls the same trick, we pull alongside. “Here we go. Let’s see what colour it is. There you
are!” he shouts triumphantly.” The rest of the trip is spent with John seething at everything the other side of the windscreen and me wondering if he’s the sort of bloke who’d happily die as long as he could take total strangers with him. I buckle my seatbelt.

Back at base Frances makes a cup of tea. Her glasses peek out from a maelstrom of hair – she was out last night. There’s a problem.

“I can’t have this,” she points at the milk. “Where’s the soya stuff? I’m not supposed to eat dairy. You
know - eggs, butter, milk, ice cream – all that.” 

She looks at me: “It’s ‘cos of my clitoral.”

“What?”

“My clitoral – sorry, clist’rel. It was eight-point-summink. It’s down to four point four now.”

The singles night goes, mercifully, unmentioned.

She drinks the tea anyway. 

Friday
I’m let out on my own for meals on wheels. Not being a local, the route is a bit of a puzzler so Allan, a lad who goes to the nearby drop-in centre, is navigating. Allan has slight learning disabilities. The first drop is just round the corner. We buzz the man’s flat and he lets us in.

“Up here, mate.” We plod up the stairs and prod the door open. There, in the kitchen, is Mr Johnson. In his skids. 

There’s a gasp from somewhere.

“Sorry mate,” he explains. “It’s more comfortable in the heat.” Nonetheless it’s an image that just won’t
quit. The rest of the round goes badly. The sudden heat wave – accompanied, as ever, by fat women appropriating the dress of their thinner pals - has left the area buckling under the strain of mid-90s temperatures.

The food – in a ‘hot box’ in the back of the van – is actually getting hotter. It also becomes clear that,
while Allan’s knowledge of the area is indeed vast, he can’t tell the difference between left and right – or rather, he can’t express the difference. Either way, it’s bad.

The other problem is he can’t count very well. So each drop repeats a pattern: I remain in the van, from where I watch Allan drop the food off, come back to get the change purse (which he’s forgotten), walk back to the punter, stand in the doorway looking puzzled, look over at me sitting in the van, grin at me, grin at the punter, then run back to the van saying: “He’s got to pay £3.20 and he’s given me a tenner,” – huge, vast pause at this point, moon shots are done quicker – “so he wants…” 

When we get back to the centre I tell Pam, who’s in charge of meals-on-wheels, that Allan, while being a nice lad, is in fact useless. He has no use. At least not when there’s money to be collected.

Pam says: “We have to use people with learning difficulties – that’s how it is.” But my patience reserves are empty: “Yes, but where does learning difficulties stop and stupid begin?’ I ask.

Where indeed? Not a good day.