With a spare hour or so out on the Eastern fringes of the Olympic Park to spare, I had a second shifty through the Bowie Archives at the V&A Storehouse. I was a little underwhelmed when the Archives first opened last year. I was in search of Bowie, but instead found a very sterile, soulless experience - something that could rarely be said about Bowie himself.

With the hype for the Storehouse having died down, pre-booking tickets are no longer required. Tuesday lunchtime was pretty quiet at the Storehouse. It led to a more relaxed atmosphere, and not the desire or need to read EVERY Bowie artefact on show, clambering to make sure that I hadn’t missed something.

It remains a revolving display of items on show. The bulk of the Archive is still behind closed doors, waiting to come out once the current run of themes and rarities have run their course. There’s no linear or chronological curation. The Archive is all the better for this.

I really enjoyed my return visit, floating between the various cabinets, and taking a pick ‘n’ mix approach to the detail I wanted to zoom in on. One of my favourite items remains the letter penned by Bowie’s old man back in the mid 60’s, giving him a character reference and asking a music mogul to give him a break.

The costumes on show remain the obvious big hitters. I was struck once again at the petite waistline throughout his career - all the way from Ziggy through to the Earthling late 90’s Union Flag branded jacket. I took a few moments to lose myself in the big screen action. Fashion hit the spot for me on Tuesday.

To the Copper Box! …on Tuesday morning for Day 1 of the World Table Tennis Championships. To say that I have been CREAMING myself over this over the past few months is something of an understatement. It may only be the qualifiers for the World Champs, but WOH. These guys play a slightly different variation of the game that we arse around with at the Table of Dreams.

First things first: time to smuggle some food into the Copper Box. The usual crappy Ticketmaster FAQ’s had strict instructions about no food, no drink, bag search bollocks, etc. Arse. It will come as no surprise to read that I’m not the type of fella that is going to pay £15 for a crappy dirty burger within the Arena.

I was loaded up with THREE bars of Lidl’s finest milk chocolate - one of which was a freebie via the app - all tucked away and concealed in places where you really shouldn’t be hiding away chocolate. I hope they don’t melt. The Milky Bars are on me, etc.. I needn’t have worried. The bag search was minimal; there was no body patting down.

We took up our seats in the Copper Box. Seating was unreserved. Shortly after 11am we had the choice of seats for pretty much anywhere in the arena. The event was a little, ahem, undersold. The real action for the World Champs starts over at Wembley Arena in a week’s time. But that’s a right arse on the other side of town for us to get to.

In front of us was twelve courts stretching out around the Copper Box. The first decision was to choose which game to focus on. It soon became clear that multi-screen viewing habits had trained my eyes well. I could follow two - possibly three - games simultaneously. As long as the players weren’t serving at the same time, then my brain wasn’t overloaded.

This was a completely different style of play to what I am use to. Even the warm ups were a little manic. The players were so young as well. It’s frightening to think that they must spend around half their day twatting a wiff waff ball back and forth to achieve their levels of skills. I get a little bored after twenty minutes.

There was some weird observations going off. Some of the players were using hexagonal bats. Blimey. A bit of online snooping later in the day explained how this is now a thing within the sport. There was also the very odd - and almost universal - tactic of the players placing their palm on the table by the net ahead of every shot. I think I’m at home with OCD wiff waff.

We were booked in for the full day of play. This involved two separate sessions. The evening session was scheduled to end at 11pm. I was pretty much done by 7pm, and made my excuses. It was a decent day out, and great to see the skill and variations in play that I don’t normally get to witness.

Kevin Holland’s Pig in Shit book. This was a weird one. I heard a snippet of a news story this week about a Copper called Kevin Holland. Blimey, surely not the Hobby Bobby of SE17 from around two decades ago? I thought he had retired and moved on? It turns out that the name Kevin Holland isn’t unique amongst the Met.

But anyway, it got me thinking about Hobby Bobby. He was a well known - and hugely popular - face around Champion Hill a quarter of a Century ago. We’re talking the days when you could have a conversation with a member of the Rabble whilst you were sitting up in the stand on the other side of the ground.

PC Kev use to stage various events around the Hamlet involving young school kids. It was the very early days of club and community engagement, before it even became a thing.

A Pig in Shit is his memoir of policing the Aylesbury. It was around this exact same time that I was first introduced to the Aylesbury and its many characters through work. In the twenty or so years that I spent working around Walworth, I always felt safer there than I did in the West End.

I’ve had a brief flick through the book. It looks like a real page turner with some interesting local stories. I’m not sure about the dodgy geezer on the front cover though who came to SE17 for one his first photoshoots.

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.