Third Prize: Apologetically rubbish, feckless rabbit.

Second Prize: Pirate without a killer instinct. Is presumably not trusted by the Piratical authorities to Captain his own Piratical Vessel - has to make do with captaining a pirate-themed adventure playground instead. Special mention for crown-wearing parrot.

First Prize: Lion with learning difficulties.

On a hot, sultry, and fairly pointless New Malden afternoon, I've been biffing around the more alcoholic corners of the internet. While perusing beerintheevening.com, I found this wonderful review of the incomparable Woodies public house, and I'm sure the author of it won't mind my putting it up here on this, the prefab psuedo-temporary New Malden blog.

It made me shed tears of agreement.


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Marketing psychologists will tell you that a certain amount of difficulty in achieving something helps to increase the ultimate sense of reward. Hence, for example, one-armed bandits are easy to put money into, but to pick up any winnings (as if) you have to stoop down and feel around in an implausibly long trough, eventually coming up with your 20p coin with a feeling of real triumph. So, the trek to Woodies may be long and arduous, but boy is it worth it.

For such a pub to exist anywhere without the safe and healthy people closing it down or the breweries homogenising it is pretty remarkable by itself. That it should thrive and prosper in New Malden - base camp for Daily Mail readers - is a miracle.

The thing is, I'm not particularly interested in the big screen and the sports events. I'd be more attracted by a pub with a huge sign outside proclaiming 'Here! Live conversation!'. I've never stuck around for the quiz night and seem to have missed the live bands completely. I can't even comment on the food, preferring to drink in pubs and eat in restaurants.

But for all that, Woodies still offers something magical. I suppose it's what we used to call atmosphere and what today is known as ambience. True, the great range of beers helps, as does the enormous collection of (mainly sporting) ephemera that adorns every square millimetre of wall and ceiling space. And the customers - shouty football fans notwithstanding - who represent more of a cross-section of the neighbourhood than any of the other pubs in New Malden, thus lending the pub the social balance that, in my opinion, every good local should have.

In the end, it probably comes down to the management. It is they who determine the 'feel' of a pub, and in Woodies case they are quite happy for it to remain quirky, interesting, welcoming, rewarding and, for the area, utterly unique.

Give it a try.

"Thirdly, the letter of complaint. Verdict? Very eloquent, very convincing, very English. Somewhere between a rant and a self-effacing apology. We shall awaken the Arab in you one day and you will learn how to rage with impunity. I think you should blog the letter, it makes for a great read."

I got caught in one of those horrible loose-end evenings yesterday. I got home too late to do anything and too early to go to bed, and I didn't have any books I fancied reading. And the swimming pool was closed. And I'd been online all day at work so couldn't face being in front of a computer. And I don't really like watching telly. And I can't watch films on my own.

So I wrote a friend a very long email; an email I hope she doesn't feel that she has to reply to in a similar fashion.

And part of it featured my trip to Cornwall, earlier this month. Everything about the trip was wonderful and lovely, but the trip down was slightly trying due to a lack of sleep and... well, you'll see. 

I will now leave you in the hands of my increasingly feverishly scrawled notes from that very evening / very long morning.


1.30am

I’m on the night train to Penzance. I sit in a silent but fluorescent train carriage. Contrary to what I have been told, the seats cannot be reclined. Furthermore, the arm rest between my two ‘airline’ seats is helpfully moulded and cannot be raised, so if I lean towards the window it digs painfully into the small of my back. These seats are designed for sleep the way Brian Blessed was designed for subtlety. Yet I am surrounded by my fellow passengers who are defying the impossible and catching their forty winks having contorted themselves into a variety of hugely uncomfortable-looking positions. One person in particular looks like he’s auditioning to be in the next karma sutra, only with clothes and on a train. And without a lover. Yes, the amazing new karma sutra. It’s bound to be a best seller.

The woman a few seats behind me is moaning and mumbling in her sleep (I actually wrote ‘seat’ but I assume I must have meant sleep); she sounds not dissimilar to a person slowly regaining consciousness with the dawning realisation that they are being sexually assaulted.

The man directly behind me has a snore like a stoat drowning apologetically. Meanwhile, a middle aged man just in front of me and to my left has a very well preserved face, much akin to a rock face defiantly resisting the sea, but that could crumble at any moment. He is dealing with his current train-bound fate with silent dignity and stoicism – he’s drinking ale and waiting to lose consciousness. I reckon his head will just fall forward onto the table with a gentle ‘thunk’, and his last can of beer will remain, half empty, in his hand until morning.

Alastair is sleeping – or at least is pretending to sleep - peacefully in front of me, while Geoff has left Alastair’s side, to find a seat he ‘can stretch out in’; I have a sneaking suspicion that he’s headed up the train to find a sleeping cabin and kick the door down using his mighty indie strength.

Oh! The injustice of their being beds on the train to which we are denied access.

Oh! How I yearn for sleep.

Oh! How the world is cruel and unforgiving.

Oh! How we should perhaps have paid the extra twenty pounds supplement that would have provided us with a bed for the night.

And oh, how having a lover to hug and lean on right now would be like sweet wine from Allah’s own cellar.


Through all this, the train rushes on through the darkness, ever westwards, ho. I have an exciting feeling of impending doom, as though the train is going to reach land’s end then head over the cliff and crash spectacularly into the sea.



2.50am update

At about 2.15am I went mad with back pain and went for a wander up and down the corridor. At the end of the carriage, I noticed there was a space for a wheel-chair, with a fold-uppable seat.

I headed back to my seat, grabbed my pillow, hat, coat and eat plugs, and headed over to this sacred space. I lay down and, ignoring the obscenely awake man sat opposite scrutinising my every move with his dull, defeated eyes, plugged in my ears, put my hat over my eyes, and tried to get to sleep.

At first, it was hopeless. By lying on the carriage floor, I could hear – and feel – every thud and rumble as the train powered its way along the tracks. This was most disconcerting, not only for the sheer volume, but because of how it reminded one of how weak and puny human bodies are: how easily it would be sliced and smashed if it were to somehow fall through the floor

These thoughts faded, and my mind relaxed, and soon it was racing with inanity and profundity: memories, thoughts, resolutions, brilliant ideas, stupid daydreams, feverish flickering ideas and images – that maddeningly intangible state between awakeness and sleep.

I realised I was dozing over – realised with incredulous glee, indeed. My mind basically went fucking hell wow, I’m actually falling asleep here, despite the conditions, this is fucking amazing, woo, which woke me up a bit again. But I managed to stave off the elation and, then, I was asleep. I was sleeping. Success!

The next thing I am aware of is the train shuddering to a halt. I wake with a jolt. People are leaving the train. Bags are being moved, doors are being slammed.

Then, that horrible announcement jingle, hitting me like a cold haddock to the face: ‘doo-doo-doo’. ‘We’ve arrived at Taunton, and will be remaining here for about an hour, until 3.30am, in case anyone would like to get off the train and stretch their legs’.

My duh-buh-gah brain does some very slow mental arithmetic. So… 3.30am. Minus one hour, ish. Equals… eighty seven? Four and a half? No, 2.30am. I’d only got, at most, ten minutes of sleep.

I am, by this point, wide awake under my hat. I can feel the doomed stare of the man opposite and, sure enough, I remove my hat to find him gaping at me, still.

It’s impossible to sleep with a man staring at you – that is, unless you’ve paid him to do it – so I gave up and got up.

I trudge back to my original seat. I bump into Geoff – unsuccessful in his cabin-robbing, it seems- who has returned to get a jumper to put over his head, in order to ward off the increasingly terrifying guantanamo-esque fluorescent light.

We both pause, wordlessly, to acknowledge and to curse Alastair’s INFURIATING ABILITY TO SLEEP THROUGH ANYTHING, even war and pestilence, and then return to our respective seats, because some battles must be fought alone.


And that’s the end of my increasingly scrawled train notes. Rest assured, though, I didn’t die, or indeed sleep, that night. At around 4am or so, the first lily-livered speckles of dawn appeared, and so I went out into the bit between the compartments, and watched the approaching light. At which point, something breathtaking happened – we reached the sea just as the morning broke. The train thundered past a harbour, and then – gloriously and breaktakingly - was hurtling along right next to the open sea, with waves crashing against the rocks, barely but surreally lit by the encroaching dawn. And I had a moment of epiphany, much like Tom Cruise does in Top Gun when he throws his dead friend’s dog tags into the sea, only less gay. And I felt absolutely amazing.

I didn’t get any more sleep, though I was able to doze for twenty minutes at Plymouth. At about 6am myself and Geoff finally gave up, and bought tea. We weren’t going to get any sleep that night.

We arrived at Penzance perfectly on time, at about 8am. We weren’t able to go to the cottage until 11am, so we did what anyone would do given the circumstances: we sat about by the sea, waiting for the local Wimpy to open.

From high up in my adamantium tower, I saw the new Blue Peter presenter unveiled yesterday.

To my knowledge, there hasn't been a change of presenter for ages. That Konnie Huq, for instance, has been hanging on for dear life - you can still see her teeth marks in the Blue Peter garden from when they last abortively attempted to force her to move on to pastures new.

The new guy has been promoted from the ranks. He was a lowly runner for the show, and the chaps in charge liked what the saw - they saw the hard, angry glint in his eye that said 'yes, I too have the dark, broiling anger in my soul that one needs to be a Blue Peter presenter'.

Nah, not really. He's lovely and fluffy and cheery and is suffused with a 'can-do' attitute. He's another man-child, and he will face up to the many challenges that being a Blue Peter Presenter involves with a smile and a wink.

And this makes me cross. It's time for a change. I'm fed up with happy, well-adjusted Blue Peter presenters. I want a presenter who hates animals and children: someone who openly sneers at the inherent rubbishness of the competition entries, and who couldn't care less for the BP campaign to save old marmite jars to prevent cancer. Someone who says 'you've got to be fucking joking, sunshine' when he/she is expected to abseil down the side of Big Ben, or jump out of a plane, or work in a pet's hospital, or something.

In short, someone like me.

p.s. There will be no London Loves this weekend. This is due to a staff shortage in the Tottenham Court Road area. But the hyper already builds for our August Britpop spectacular.

p.p.s. The photos from the last London Loves are up on the site now, and indeed have been for some time now. Woo!

I have never learnt to drive a vehicle
I reckon how hard can it be?
And I've never took the time
It takes to learn to fly
I'll work it out if there's ever a need

Flemish is a language I can't chat in
I'll learn it if I'm ever off to Bruges
And similarly I cannot speak Latin
I have had much better things to do

Like walking in the park with you
And talking in the dark with you
These have been much better things to do
Better things to do

Well I've no idea how to route a network
I've got no way to know which routers what
And I've not been on a course
To learn to program C++
I frankly could not give a toss for DOS

And I'll drink whatever wine's put on the table
With vineyards I find I've not got a clue
And I'll rarely even read what's on the label
I have got much better things to do

Like watching DVDs with you
And drinking cups of tea with you
These have been much better things to do
Better things to do

La la la la la
I could not be arsed
To write some words to put into this part
So la la la la la
Better things to do

Day dreaming in another dreary meeting
I caught a glimpse of 2109
Where a grateful nation's wired up for hearing
The final thoughts of their President For Life

Someone said Lord Hibbett, do you have regrets, sir?
I said yes I guess I must have had a few
I'd've liked to ride more trams
But otherwise Je Ne Regrette Riens
I must have had much better things to do

Like waking up at last with you
And making time fly fast with you
These have been much better things to do
Better things to do