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.