Some thoughts on the Lady Mayor’s Show, 2025.

Yep, that’s right. It was the LADY Mayor’s Show. And quite right. This is 2025, ffs.

I’m not big on all the official stats and records. But I’m led to believe that this is only the third time there has been a Lady Mayor, but the first time that the Lord name has been ditched.

We’re getting there, Comrades.

Having said all that, I missed the Lady Mayor, natch. I crossed the Old Father at Waterloo, and then took up the nearest vantage point at Aldwych.

Road closures made it tricky to find a useful point to snap away without venturing further into the route. I couldn’t be arsed, tbh.

This was a very odd procession. It seems that half the world had turned up - no bad thing.

In was also heavy on military symbolism. Marching through the streets of London with guns is not something I want to see. Just not my shit.

SHOUT OUT to the dude who was marching with… a metal detector. Also the military man who drew the short straw to drag along an army snow sledge.

My fave livery was the cat apron. I’m not sure which Royal Guild these dudes were representing.

Respect to the kids wearing building site hard helmets with Palestine flags on the front.

Like I said - we’re getting there, Comrades.

The Pearly Kings and Queens were ACE. Proper old school London.

Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit etc.

I found myself waving away in a most infectious way to all the paraders. But not those carrying guns, obvs.

The farmers were vaguely political with their messaging on what should have been an apolitical event.

Naughty.

But not as naughty as the overt racism from a silly cow standing next to me.

I knew this was going to end badly as soon as she rocked up. She was arguing VERY LOUDLY with her partner right from the start. I suspect she was coked off her tits.

But that’s still no excuse for telling young kids enjoying the parade to:

“FUCK OFF BACK TO THE COUNTRY YOU CAME FROM.”

Quite unbelievable.

I really should have intervened. I wimped out, I’m afraid.

It brought an abrupt end to my Lady Mayor’s Show, 2025.

Hey hoe.

That’s one more ticked off.

Not once, but twice!

Overcast heading out, beautiful blue skies on the way back in.

Terry meets Julie, etc.

What the chuff am I doing in the epicentre of the Mayfair high art world, knocking on a majestic front door, asking to enter a gallery?

Erm…

And so I made my way over to Woodbury House on a recommendation to see the Lee Quiñones exhibition.

You might know Lee from his work and starring role in the Wild Style film back in 1982.

I can recall watching in at the old Odeon back in Nottingham, hanging on to every last detail of the emerging hip hop scene, and seeing how I could transfer this to my own teenage stylings.

I still have no regrets about wearing the ski goggles for a Wear Your Own Clothes day at school.

And that really should have been it for Lee and I. Hip hop burnt out for me when I stopped breakin'. I confess that I haven’t followed his career since.

KNOCK KNOCK.

“Can I help you?”

Erm, I’ve come to view the gallery.

“Are you a collector?”

I hesitated in saying YES! I specialise in cheapo Ebay CD’s and knock off Forest kits.

I somehow managed to blag myself into Woodbury House. Actually, it wasn’t that difficult.

The host was an absolute charmer. She knew her art, and genuinely seemed interested in to what had led me over to Mayfair.

There was little misunderstanding as I tried to explain that it was a Big Issue article sent over to me by Wifey.

The host mentioned that Wifey had been in the gallery only last week. I explained that this most definitely wasn’t the case, unless the gallery was hosting a chepo golf clothes sale.

I was given a brief introduction to the work of Lee, starting with Wild Style. This was, until now, my start and end point.

I was given the freedom of the gallery to explore, with no other viewers - or collectors - around.

This is something of a back to front exhibition. You enter the gallery with Lee’s more contemporary work, and then make your way over to Wild Style at the back of the space.

You can see how his work has progressed over the years, taking in various cultural reference points for each period, and then adding his own interpretation.

The overall message of the exhibition title - Outside is America - runs throughout. The work documents an outsider view of the States, and in particular, one viewed through the prism of race.

Sadly it’s a theme that has given him plenty of scope over the decades.

The only thing missing from the exhibition is some form of soundtrack. But then that might have been a little annoying with the same tracks played over again on loop.

Woodbury House is a most welcoming space. The work of Lee Quiñones was worth making the trip over to Mayfair to view.

I might even start collecting, if I can find the spare £25k or so floating around down the back of the settee.

Over at Vauxhall, where the tranquility of the Thames was disturbed by an annoyingly LOUD tannoy man on a tourist boat. Don’t believe a word they say. You’d get more accuracy out of ChatGPT.

A little business in town, and then back down again, crossing at Lambeth. For shit ‘n’ giggles, etc.

Lambeth Bridge has been a bloody pain for a few months now. The resurfacing and new layout works still seem a long way off. Nice cycle path, mind.

An early evening walk out to Vauxhall and back. Having spent three hours on a stupid train, I was in need of a leg stretch.

I headed up South Lambeth Road, through Little Porto and past Vauxhall Park.

I did think of stopping off briefly at South Lambeth Library. But I’d only end up flicking through the local history section.

Why read about local history when you MAKE IT?

Forward ever, backwards never, etc Comrades.

The Transpontine skies were dark, only punctured by the GAWD awful fireworks. I’d forgotten how shitty 5th November can be around these parts.

You don’t look towards the sky, but keep an eye out in front of you instead. Fireworks were meant to be launched, not thrown, fella.

I reached Vauxhall Bus Station. It’s an apocalyptic setting that seems to change each month. I’ve long since lost count of the new towers that appear on the horizon around Nine Elms.

They’re not to everyone’s architectural tastes, but I rather like them. You can’t stop progress. London is never finished. It would be pretty stale and shitty if that was the case.

I’d add in the usual disclaimer about foreign investment, empty luxury apartments, a soulless enclave etc.

But Nine Elms was a wasteland fifteen years ago. At least we’ve got a skyline that has a little character. Please stop now though. No more obscuring of those proud four chimneys of Battersea.

I bloody LOVE Vauxhall Bus Station. Which makes me sound a little further on the spectrum than I suspect I already am.

I would say that the S Ldn ski slope is not long for this world. But it’s been that way for over a decade now.

I lose touch with the various developer plans and deals. I do recall reading recently though that TfL has finally done a deal that will involve some form of land swap with a developer.

This is all such a shame. Vauxhall remains futuristic. The ski slope hasn’t aged one bit.

The only downer for the area is the public male toilets. They would make even a Frenchman blush, such is the lack of modesty afforded when you board a bus and have sight of a gentleman syphoning his python.

They REEK of piss as you walk past as well, natch.

Time was a little tight for me. I had plans to cross the Old Father at Vauxhall, and then back once again over Lambeth Bridge.

I kept it Transpontine and did something of a detour around the backstreets of Kennington and then through Lambeth Wall.

OI! etc.

I can’t remember where I first got the hat tip for the excellent Brown Collection over in Marylebone. Maybe it was from Londonist?

And so I found myself on a miserable, wet Soho afternoon, kicking about with an hour or so to spare.

The record shop circuit (and budget) had been exhausted. I couldn’t be arsed to hit the BOOZE.

Hey! How about that freebie gallery that I have a vague recollection of a recommendation?

It’s a ten minute cut through from the West End and around the back streets of Marylebone. Look out for the Mews, and then WOH! Won’t you look at that.

What a BEAUT.

The building itself is a work of art. Beautifully restored as a town house period piece of architecture, yet still effortlessly blending in with burgeoning wine and dine scene around these parts.

I was wet, wearing a pair of stomping red cherry DM’s and looking a little distressed tbh. I wasn’t your typical Art Gallery Circuit Wanker.

I was welcomed in my the most polite of young fellas. I visibly made an effort of stamping my size 8’s on the matting, not wanting to drag half of the wet Soho shit into the space.

Erm, what next?

My host knew exactly what the score was.

“Have you visited before?”

Nope.

“Do you know anything about Glenn Brown?”

I made my apologies.

“How much time do you have?”

I think my answer of half an hour or so wasn’t too cheeky, or too imposing either.

“PERFECT!”

…said my host.

It was explained how Glenn Brown founded the gallery with his husband Edgar Laguinia. The aim is to showcase Brown’s work (and why not?) alongside other artists of a similar style and perspective.

I then heard a little more about how Brown’s own work concentrates on the finer details and brush strokes, often to reveal secondary images within the overall canvas.

This technique has a specific name in the art world. I’ve forgotten it, as I was a little concerned that my wet DM’s were now leaving a slight puddle on the immaculate wooden flooring.

Apologies, Mr B.

Magnifying glasses are available across all four floors of the gallery. Visitors are encourage to focus in on the finer detail - a nice touch.

I was then let loose to do my thing. Immediately I was drawn, so to speak, to the Austin Osman Spare artworks. He has a specific place in contemporary Transpontine architecture.

Elsewhere and the work was as stunning as the surrounds. I think I might have just found my Nu Fave Art Gallery.

The lush, bright colours of Brown contrasted well with the under-stated decors of each gallery. Each floor had sufficient space to maintain my interest without getting bored.

The current Hoi Polloi exhibition displays work of the “great unwashed masses.” It was nowhere near as insulting as the title might suggest.

The cellar containing sculptures was a particular fave. The space itself is remarkable. You can hear and feel the vibrations of the Victoria Line running underneath.

Next time it rains in Soho, I’ll know exactly where to wander.

The new V&A Storehouse East - aka the World’s Largest Jumble Sale.

Harsh.

Sure, it’s not tat. It’s high end value items - apart from the West Ham 1980’s kids kit.

The Moulton F-Frame was to be admired, as was some of the social history from the Robin Hood Gardens estate.

But there was little context or explanation, unless you wanted to have your face stuck in your phone via the QR code.

I get the idea that it’s a lofty space. Build high, etc. It’s tricky to display items without stacking them up.

Voyeurism is quite a fetish, Comrades.

To The Design Museum! For The Blitz exhibition!

I explained my weekend plans to a colleague. They questioned why there was an exhibition about the Blitz at The Design Museum, and not the Imperial War Museum.

Destroy Borders, Build Stages, as we use to say in the day.

First things first: £18 is a tad pricey for an exhibition that will occupy you for a good hour.

Yeah yeah - I’m kinda out of touch, and still expect to pay a grubby fiver for a boozer toilet gig.

I rarely pay for exhibitions, such is the availability of fantastic freebie shows across London.

£18 felt about right an hour or so after I left The Blitz. There was so many artefacts and historical cultural items to justify the price.

The journey over to West Ldn itself was interesting. With the Sunday morning rain struggling to lift, I abandoned the bicycle ride idea, and opted for a tube and bus combo.

Sitting opposite me on the Victoria Line was a young female who looked like she had just exited The Blitz back in 1979.

DECENT look, Madam.

It was al there: Curtains for trousers that swirled all the way down to her ankles, and then came to an abrupt halt as they tapered around her army boots.

This must be a sign that the £18 for The Blitz was going to be money well spent.

I missed out on The Blitz experience by a few years.

To cut a long story short, etc, the characters that emerged out of Covent Garden and into the charts, reached me a year or so later in the local village youth club.

The original energy had long since moved on and become part of mainstream culture by the time I was trying to perfect my Studio Line crafted fringe.

Any FOMO back in 1982 was resolved this morning at The Design Museum. The attention to detail is incredible.

The exhibition documents the social history that led to The Blitz being set up by a bunch of outsider misfits. The context is an important part of the story.

Too glam to conform, too fleeting to stay.

Or something.

I was obsessive as I made my way around the gallery spaces, insisting on reading every last detail of text. I surprised myself by being more drawn towards the designers and costumes, rather than the music. I reckon I could still carry that look, if not the hair.

For such a short-lived scene, it’s surprising how much photographic evidence exists. It’s not as if the characters were shy about coming forward…

One corner of The Design Museum has been mocked up to resemble the club itself. An early live performance by Spandau appears on the stage. It’s the acceptable version of the bloody Abba avatars. I allowed myself a little bop whilst alone in the club.

This is a wonderful time capsule of an exhibition that explains a lot about how mid and late 1980’s music and culture developed.

For such a small, tight crowd, it’s astonishing how the Blitz Kids were able to spread their wings far and wide.

Christ, they were bloody young.

I’ll miss the Veteran Car Run chugging along South Lambeth Road, if future personal plans ever come to something. Every November, for a quarter of a Century (!) I’ve been woken by the sound of the classic cars slowly making their way towards Brixton.

It’s Destination Brighton for the relics as part of the annual coastal run. It must be a challenge for some of them to make it even as far as St Reatham up the road.

You can hear them coming at the Stockwell end of South Lambeth Road all the way from the Little Porto end. Those old engines aren’t exactly cutting edge EV technology. It’s the one exception I can make without going ape shit over petrol polluters.

Sunday morning was very similar to the previous twenty four years of observing the grand old spectacle. It always seems to rain on this one weekend of the year. The dampness combined with the petrol led to a very intoxicating smell.

The drivers and passengers looked dapper. I was more in awe with some of the wardrobe decisions than the old bangers themselves.

This may - or may not - be my final year of observing this tradition. I like to think that the Veteran Car Run will still be taking place in twenty five years time.

A return to Brockwell ParkRun on Saturday morning. It’s been a while.

Much in the same way that Brixton Rec is my spiritual home of swimming, Brockwell is my zen place for ParkRun.

It’s where it all first started, and it’s probably where it will all finish, given those BASTARD hills.

But what a way to bow out, popping your clogs whilst running Brockwell ParkRun.

It’s been a cheery Saturday, Comrades…

It was lovely to see some familiar faces and old friends ahead of the 9am start for the race that’s not a race.

I was on time for once as well.

My forward planning involved a brief shifty at the Brockwell ParkRun FB page.

Ah, and so the start has been shifted up towards Brockwell Hall. There’s a new route as well.

I’m pleased that I took the time to take this on board. It takes ten minutes to walk up from the bicycle parking at the lovely Lido towards the big old Brockwell Hall.

A few brief ParkRun instructions, and then blimey - WE’RE OFF!

I know the park inside out, but the route itself I wasn’t sure of. No worries, Jase. There’s zero chance you’re going to actually be setting the pace throughout the 5km.

I was boxed in at the start, but then soon found my rhythm. There was no shame in a 50+ bloke being overtaken by a blushing Bride in her wedding white, probably half my age.

Good effort, Madam. Now get to that bloody Church on time.

The finish was uphill.

Oh ARSE. That took it out of me.

It was worth it though on a splendid Transpontine morning. I was rewarded with the view stretching out over to the City.

I was buzzing off me tits, natch.

The ParkRun email dropped an hour or so later. Fourth in my age cat. I’ll take that.

I’ll also try and not leave it as long next time.