The best jazz is always live jazz. This is no exception. She’s got a remarkable vocal delivery. You have to be in the right mood for this. Some of the freestyle scatting did grate at times. I prefered some of the sections where there were no vocals. Apologies, Betty, but still a welcome listen as I continue my slide towards midlife jazz vibes.
⭐ ⭐ ⭐
The weather was too good to resist on Thursday afternoon for another bicycle ride. There were bright blue skies up above and lingering in the back of my mind was the fear of the beastliness that I knew was to come in less than 24 hours' time.
I rolled out on the Raleigh Electric. Within the first ten minutes I had experienced two close pass incidents.
I reached Ainger’s Green. The crappy St George’s flags are still flying from the lamp posts, albeit now having slipped down to half mast.
Close passes and crappy flags. I sometimes wonder, why do I bother with bicycle rides when there’s plenty to annoy me?
Then I reach the lanes. Oh woh. These were bone dry and completely empty of all traffic. I almost picked up something of a late October suntan with the glorious conditions.
Not a lot changes around these parts. The wind turbines continue to turn. I had headwind, then tailwind, and then a little crosswind to contend with. I spent a lot of the ride in tour mode.
I passed a particularly stunning house that I’ve always had my eye on. It’s now got a for sale sign. It’s been beautifully refurbished but it’s in a crap location. Oh well.
Around 30 km in I started to get some cycling hippy shit in my mind. I figured out that the cadence, as I turn the pedals, also turns the clogs in my mind. I can be very creative when I’m cycling.
There you go again. Stop being a fucking peddling hippy.
Some new infrastructure was in place on the main Clacton Road that is usually quite hellish to ride upon. My loop route involves around ten minutes or so along this road before you head for the safety of the lanes once again.
The new infrastructure meant there was a one way system with a couple of sets of traffic lights. This led to a slightly better journey.
I then reached my favourite spot on the entire ride. The road is incredibly smooth as you enter into a valley that curves around, showing some amazing vistas up ahead. One of these included a pumpkin patch. They look like tiny satsumas in a field from a distance.
I managed to fit in a Lidl run on the way back. That’s always a bonus.
That’s one more ride ticked off before the next storm approaches.
I returned to running on Thursday morning. Blimey it’s been a while.
I make it seven weeks at least. I put aside six weeks after the latest PING incident on the treadmill with my calf, and then an extra week ate into that as I’m in tattoo recovery mode.
The PING thing is unfortunate. My left calf went PING way back in November of last year. No worries, I thought. I’ll soon run this off, ever so gently, and I’ll be back for full on ParkRun PBs come Christmas Day.
Nope.
Like a fool I played pickleball the following Monday after the PING and did some serious damage.
Christmas Day ParkRun came and went. So did New Year’s Day ParkRun.
Oh dear.
In fact my left calf didn’t really heal at all. I turned instead towards power walking.
You bloody idiot.
Around June time, when it was clear it wasn’t healing, I went to see the good Doc, who told me I was a bloody idiot for doing power walking with a damaged calf.
Six weeks was spent with no activity and then I gently, gently managed to return to running.
And then the treadmill came along. This time it was the right calf. I’ve not had much luck with my calf injuries in the past twelve months or so. Gosh I bloody missed running.
Which kind of takes us round to where we are now. I took six weeks more off after the treadmill incident and then, as mentioned, inking got in the way.
I decided to take it steady, with a really spectacularly dull and boring route on Thursday morning. It was basically up to the University and back, at the convenient turnaround point. If something went wrong I could just gently walk back and I wouldn’t be stuck out in the middle of nowhere.
I felt great as I started the first plods. I was going at a slower pace.
There were bright blue Estuary Wilds skies up above. This was indeed the calm before the storm. Something wicked this way comes over the next few days. Rowing has already been cancelled until next week.
Speaking of which it was good to see F from the rowing club going about his daily walk as I approached University. We’re both in a similar lifestyle position now, meaning a little more time, a little less money.
But you’ve got to get out and do things, yeah?
I reached the University and turned around. I thought, hey! This feels rather funky. Let’s lift the pace ever so slightly." I wasn’t on for any PBs but I did manage to increase my speed.
I had to, as some fella I almost overtook on the left hand side as he was walking, turned around and pulled a big greenie right in the middle of the road.
You dirty dog.
I arrived back at base pretty much shipshape. At least I managed to get around.
It feels good to be back but this is only temporary. Some extremely intensive INK action is booked in during the Christmas run in.
I very much doubt I’ll make Christmas Day or New Year’s Day ParkRun this year but this will all be self inflicted for vanity reasons rather than anything involving PINGS.
Hopefully.
To St Dunstan in the East!
I’m not quite sure where the recommendation came from but the lure of an abandoned church right in the heart of the City seemed too good to ignore.
We got lost, you don’t say. We got very lost. We almost went to the wrong church.
I told my walking partner to look out for the church that hasn’t got a roof. She took me to a church that’s got a bloody roof.
After a few false starts we finally found the abandoned church. It was well worth a visit even with the evening gloom starting to settle in.
Then just as we walked up, there was an amazing ray of sunlight that poked through one of the magnificent stone structure window frames.
It was all very atmospheric. It was also very full of Italian tourists but don’t let that put you off.
There’s a random palm tree growing right in the middle of the church. I thought it best not to ask any questions.
I couldn’t be arsed to look up the history. It seems like quite a good meeting point right in the middle of the City if you want some tranquillity.
I still marvel at old churches that have no roof. St Peter’s back in Alresford is a fine example. Maybe all churches should have no roof. That might get me back in them.
We lingered around for a little longer, taking in all the various sight-lines and observing how the light changed as the sun started to descend.
BUT OF COURSEe we gatecrashed a photo shoot with some ME ME ME people with a full on lighting rig.
Pray to God that all this Insta shite somehow gets swallowed up and we can go back to just living our lives through our own eyes and not through a lens.
“Christ we look like fucking tourists.”
That’s what she said to me rather than me to her.
We were waiting in the queue for The Garden at 120 Fenchurch Street. We had an hour to kill and I was being my usual penny pinching arse tight self.
The Garden at 120 Fenchurch Street is fantastic if you like your freebie London experiences. We weren’t alone as we joined the queue just as the skies started to darken.
I’ve been here before on my own. It was midsummer and there was a break in play back at The Oval as rain threatened. I legged it up to Fenchurch Street and had a quick shifty around a completely deserted garden just as the sun was breaking through. I could see that play was likely to start back again down in SE11 in the next half hour or so.
Even with gloomy skies and the setting sun on Wednesday, The Garden at 120 Fenchurch Street was well worth a look. You get a full 360 view of the city, stretching out to Crystal Palace in the south, through to, Gawd knows where, with my crap North London geography.
We focussed mainly on Not So Sunny Stockwell and surrounds. After around fifteen minutes or so I got the hee bee gee bee heights. I don’t know how I managed to live on the 12th floor of a tower block for over a year.
As the name suggests, there is a garden in the centre of the viewing space. I calmed down my vertigo with some OCD pleasing hedge trimming viewing. I then realised they were probably plastic.
The impressive wisteria could have done with something of a snip though. That’s something I’m not going to miss next summer with all the constant trimming of the green wisps. RIP Estuary Wilds wisteria. You won’t be missed.
I regained my spatial awareness once again and allowed myself five more minutes of looking around at the office blocks down below. The Lloyd’s building, right in front of you now, appears anonymous. This was the future less than thirty years ago, with its inside out architecture.
We took a mental shot of roughly where St Paul’s was. We had a Too Good To Go bag to pick up half an hour later.
TUCK IN.
To the Bank of England Museum!
Blimey.
I never knew this even existed.
Thanks to a helpful tip-off from the always informative Ian Visits, we decided to drop in on the After the Fire exhibition. Actually it was just any old excuse to gain entry into the hallowed Walls of Dosh.
As expected there was a serious security check just to get into the museum. This included flashing my belt. There was something of an uncomfortable moment when I went to loosen the belt to take it off.
“No! NO! NO!!!! Sir”
Phew, I think I just about got away with that one.
The exhibition itself was very compact but also informative. It’s a story that’s not normally told: how London was rebuilt after the Great Fire, and then subsequently how this led to the rise of the insurance business and coffee houses.
It’s a pretty fundamental concept, but one that I’d never really considered - namely how, after a FUCK OFF great big fire, insurance then became a thing. People were worried about the Great Fire of London, part two.
The exhibition takes the form of a visual display as you look at four large picture boards, each detailing the chronology and developments around insurance and coffee houses.
You find out how the Royal Exchange was built as a consequence immediately after the Great Fire.
Oh the irony that it was then burnt down. I hope the owners had insurance.
I also learned that the first fire engines were known as giant squids. That’s a random fact that will be filed away and probably never used again.
On a more serious note it was good to see that the exhibition didn’t shy away from the slave trade and the involvement of Lloyds of London.
After having finished the Great Fire exhibition I wasn’t expecting to hang around at the Bank of England. I wasn’t expecting there to be a dedicated museum all about banking in England.
But there it was, laid out in superb detail, with a dedicated section all about the history of the building, its predecessors, plus how the bank came into existence.
Time was a little tight. We managed to take in most of the rooms. One of the highlights was lifting up a gold bullion that was so heavily encased so you couldn’t slip it down your shreddies, even with a loosened belt.
We didn’t quite get to see every exhibit. My attention was mainly taken by the amazing architecture right in the depths of the Bank of England.
A decent find.
A bit of a period piece. You can certainly hear some of the sounds around at the time: Revolver, Dylan’s electric, even The Byrds.
This sounds like a Kinks album from any time between ‘65 and the end of the ’70s. I like the way that The Kinks were never… dedicated followers of fashion.
Arf.
I didn’t get the concept at all. I’m not sure if there actually is a concept in there, despite what Wikipedia says.
Too Much on My Mind was an absolute delight. I’ve not heard this before.
Good, crafted songs, not outstanding, but a worthy listen. I might try and buy this if I can get a cheapo cheapo copy.
⭐ ⭐ ⭐
To V&A East! …on Wednesday lunchtime for The Music is Black exhibition.
Make no mistake this is a major statement from the recently opened gallery space. The style and substance suits Stratford and surrounds perfectly. This is a big hitter on every level.
We first had to overcome the complete culture shock of the Bright Young Things at the London College of Fashion next door. It’s been a while since I’ve seen ponchos and cowboy boots being worn with no sense of irony around town.
We made our way upstairs to the third floor ticketed gallery space. Headphones were handed over.
This was an immersive exhibition without being too poncey. The soundscape in your ears changes as you move between exhibits. I rather like the idea of not having to make conversation with anyone.
For a Wednesday lunchtime the gallery space was pretty empty. This gave us time to explore each display without feeling that there was someone looking over our shoulder.
It’s impossible to go through the whole contents of The Music is Black without missing some of the highlights. This is a vast and equally ambitious exhibition. The curators do more than just get away with helping to explain how black culture has made a major contribution to British society.
It starts with the slave trade origins. This was incredibly uncomfortable, but at least it showed that the unforgivable past is not being written out of history.
What I liked - if that doesn’t sound too grim - is that the gallery space lighting was incredibly dark to match the sinister theme. As you then move your way around the different galleries, the lighting becomes more prominent as the optimism and positivity of black British culture shines through.
The first uplifting sounds came from gospel. We then entered jazz territory, with one particular fave being a Charlie Parker original acetate, as once owned by Charlie Watts.
The beat livened up with calypso and a major section on the Windrush generation. A whole room was given over to Carnival, such is the importance of the annual event at Notting Hill.
And then we come to reggae. Woh. Where to start? What the exhibition manages to capture perfectly is to reframe the reggae conversation. It’s explained as a reintroduction to break down the tired and old tropes.
This is a very British story despite its Caribbean origins. It’s backed up brilliantly by the Dennis Morris photography, who was on the ground to capture those crucial early years in the ’70s.
I absolutely loved the Lovers Rock displays. You get to see the dress worn by Janet Kay on TOTP. The V&A headphones just about managed to handle the high notes being screeched out.
Time mid-80s. Although the title of the exhibition is The Music Is Black, it’s more a celebration of the contribution that black culture has made as part of that melting pot of unique British street culture.
Actually let’s be honest, we’re talking London street culture.
There’s a keyboard as played by Paul Hardcastle on 19. SHOUT OUT as well to some of the immaculately smart and petite dresses worn by the Cool Notes. It really is time for that Britfunk revival.
Speaking of which there’s a Mark King bass on show. I was expecting it to be battered around the pickup, giving his unique slap technique, but nope, it looks pristine.
Grime and its various deviations take up most of the final part of the exhibition. There’s a fantastic photo of So Solid standing by the old Battersea water tower. I miss seeing that from the flat window as Concorde used to roar overhead around 4 pm every day.
The attention to detail across the whole exhibition is superb. Even dear old Smiley Culture gets a look in.
My one criticism is the omission of Soul II Soul. You can’t underestimate the influence Jazzy B and the collective had on developing black music in the late 80s. All I could see was one photo of Soul II Soul, unless I missed something?
We were thinking of staying at The Music Is Black for an hour or so. Three hours later I think we were just about done.
What’s amazing is that it tells you things you didn’t know without relying on rolling out the old narrative. Just tell me something new, etc.
You can sit down and watch all those tried and tested Friday night BBC Four docs but you won’t get the same level of detail, insight, or even the chance to physically experience some of the artefacts associated with these wonderful sounds.
No exaggeration but this is the best exhibition I’ve been to in many, many years.
To Moving Image! …on a damp and miserable Tuesday evening.
The other option was to watch the serial CHEATERS Manchester City on the telly. Wisely we opted for a documentary film exploring different ideas about farming and wildlife.
Country life, innit.
Being screened in the village cinema was Derek Vs Derek. I didn’t realise this was a documentary until I pulled up the trailer earlier in the day.
The basic premise is a couple of farmers living not so neighbourly side by side down in Cornwall. One of them is the more traditional intensive farmer type, whilst the other wants to explore ideas and concepts related to rewilding the land.
Never the twain shall meet, etc.
This was a beautifully shot film. Right from the opening scenes some of the drone footage was stunning, showing the harvest coming in for the more traditional type of farming.
It didn’t take long for the two ideologies to start to clash. As the title of the film suggests, both farmers were called Derek.
This was just a setup to explain what was to come. Derek, the idealist, had his land bordering three other local farmers who were also opposed to the ground zero approach he was taking to the land.
This wasn’t so much a film all about ideologies. It also explored the intricacies of human nature and conflict resolution.
Derek the rewilder explained in detail how his love for this type of approach could be traced back to a childhood memories of reading the Ladybird Book of Wildlife. It was almost his bible as he then put into practise what was to come in his later life.
“He tells me I need to broaden my mind but I don’t want to fucking broaden my mind!”
…was the response for the meat and two veg, Derek.
An interesting subplot that was then played out was the more sympathetic approach from the wife of Derek, the traditionalist. She was very playful and lived up to any stereotypes of a farmer’s wife.
However she was open to new ideas and had a gloriously cheeky glint in her eye when she gently prodded her husband to try and understand what rewilding and a return to nature might achieve.
Derek the rewilder then raved on endlessly about beavers and how they are the workhorse for any project. It was fascinating to see how reintroducing them to the land had major consequential and positive environmental effects on the whole area.
Perhaps my favourite quote from the film came from Derek the traditionalist:
“That man’s a fucking psychopath when it comes to his hedges.”
The same could be said of me when I’m let loose with my chainsaw.
I was broadly sympathetic towards director rewilder. In fact the film was pretty much set up to try and convert you over, as Derek the traditionalist was also being framed as the one who needed to change his ways.
A tipping point in the film, and also for the local community, was the conference that Derek the rewilder held about reintroducing wolves into England.
This seemed like a step too far and offered up plenty of metaphors of a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
It was a fantastic film although it was often reduced to an A-level type essay argument of hHere are the pros, here are the cons, and I don’t really have a conclusion but let’s just see what happens.
It was better than staying in and watching the serial CHEATERS Manchester City.
The ending was really quite sweet. There are no spoilers to give away here apart from noting that a begrudging respect was the conclusion for both Dereks, as they could see the pros and cons of their opposite approaches.
It’s all about the common ground in it.
Christ there you go. I’ve become a bloody centrist.
To the Sailing Club! …on Monday evening. You know the routine by now. Monday night is wiff waff social night down at the Sailing Club.
The short walk down there was a little brisk. This was the first time this season I needed a winter coat. These small details matter.
Downstairs at the Sailing Club there was a GC meeting taking place. It looked like serious business. I gave the old boys a brief wave and then headed upstairs for the more social table tennis session.
We had four players, which meant we were playing to 21 rather than the preferred 11. I can get lucky when you play to 11. All it takes is for me to get three shots ahead and then the game’s pretty much mine.
Twenty one, however, requires concentration. My mind isn’t wired for any sustained level of concentration, not even beyond a five minute stretch.
This was an evening for smashing. I bloody love smashing a ball. I actually volunteered to give smash lessons to the other three players. There were no takers.
In response I got some advice about a different type of shot altogether:
“Flick your wrist, grip less hard.”
That’s what she said, etc.
In the end it was the smash that won it. My record for the evening was played 3, won 3 in the singles and then played 2, won 2 in the doubles.
GEDDIN.
A final question came my way on the short walk home as I was still buttoning up my winter coat:
“When you’re receiving and you’re playing doubles, do you stand so you take it on your forehand?”
Yeah, that’s what she said innit.
