London Symphonies - Entering the gates of hell through St Johns Wood!

 Not all symphonies are happy. Some are sad, some are terrifying, some leave you in bits...

And so to St Johns Wood. I don't think I've ever got the tube to St Johns Wood before. I've been on the 113 bus a few times, but by far the quickest way from Mill Hill is a Thameslink train to West Hampstead, then a hop down the Jubilee line. Citymapper said 37 minutes, I clocked it at around 30. 

The first thing you notice is that St Johns Wood station is like no other tube station I've been to. That is not entirely true actually. It is magnificent. It reminds me of the Moscow metro, which is architecturally fabulous. It has wooden escalators, that are immaculate. The lighting is wonderful. It is clean, there is no litter, no graffiti, in short, it is worth a visit just to see the architecture.

The station has the most appealing art deco feel and a shop selling Beatles memorabilia at the top. If you could re-invent the London Underground so the little suburban stations such as Burnt Oak were perfect, I think you'd use St Johns Wood as the model. 

On a balmy monday morning, you emerge to palm trees. I could not be more impressed with any station. It crossed my mind that we were in the realm of the wealthy. It is 10.30am on a Monday morning. I am forty five minutes early for a hospital consultation at St John and St Elizabeths hospital, which is a two minute walk from the station. 

It is a pleasant walk. I am so early and in such a good mood, that I sit the wall opposite, in the sunshine, composing a new song for The False Dots for ten minutes. Things could not be better. I am seeing a consultant about a minor issue that may or may not need correcting following my prostate surgery two years ago. It is not cancer related, so there is nothing to worry about. It just needs checking. 

I am so early that I have time for a mooch around the hospitalI entered the hospital and went to reception. My plan was to find out where I was going, then look around the grounds for five minutes. Reception directed me to the second floor, via a long corridor, past the pharmacy. As I walked down, I saw that the chapel was open. I had time, I thought I'd nip in and have a mosey. I think you'll agree, it is truly magnificent. As I went in, I thought it would be nice to say a little prayer for the repose of the soul of my Mum. It seemed apt, in the hospital where her life was saved in 1970.  I've not been to the hospital since then. The last time I came was after mum had just had surgery for cancer. I had a vague recollection of Mum lying in a bed, white as a sheet, unable to speak, drips in her arm.

My memory of the day was more coloured by the drive with my Dad from Mill Hill to the hospital. As he hurtled up the A41, I asked him whether it was true what someone told me at school. He asked "What was that son?". I replied "That mum is going to die and you are going to put me in the orphanage?". My question did not get the answer I expected. Dad nearly crashed, pulled into a side street, burst into tears and sobbed uncontrollably for five minutes. I'd never seen my Dad cry before. When he got himself together, he said "Sorry son, you caught me there. Mum is very ill, but if God wants her to live, she'll live. I have faith, do you". I said "Yes Dad, I have faith". He then said "Who told you that I'd put you in the orphanage?". I replied "Just someone at school". Dad replied "You are my son, I'll never put you in orphanage, whoever told you that is not your friend". It really shook me up at the time, those were my memories of that day. 

Here I was 55 years later, I didn't really give that a second thought as I entered the chapel. I just thought it would be nice to pay my respects.  I knelt down at a pew, made a sign of the cross, as us good Catholics do, looked up at the alter and ceiling and just stared. My plan to say a quick "Our father" disappeared from my mind. I started to feel a tad detatched from reality.

I realised I was no longer in the pew, I was looking down at a man and boy inthe pews, both with palms together, deep in prayer, both looking terrified. I felt completely displaced in time and space. The experience only lasted a second or two. As soon as I realised that I was looking at myself and my father, I returned to the 16th June 2025. I was shell shocked. Every detail of the day came flooding back. Dad parked his car up and suggested we go to the chapel before we see Mum. He suggested we say a prayer for her together, then light a candle. We went in and knelt down. I expected Dad to say something, but nothing came out. I looked at him and realised he was terrified, he genuinely didn't know what to say or do. Although Dad was deeply religious, making up reverent prayers on the spur of the moment was simply something he didn't do. He said the rosary most days, but the need to actually converse with God had stumped him. After what seemed like a million years, he simply said "Dear God, I know you're listening, make her better". He then turned to me and said "Come on Son, lets say a decade of the Rosary". We did that. As we left the chapel, I asked him if he thought God would listen. Dad said, in his thick Aussie accent "Yeah, course he will, don't worry". From there, we went up to the ward. The last time I'd seen mum was before she had her stomach removed, probably three or four weeks earlier. She'd looked fit, well and healthy when she went in. She now looked like a ghost. She was covered in tubes. She couldn't really speak. Dad hadn't really said anything about how she might look. I was shocked to my core. I wasn't even sure it was my mum. She looked like something out of Dr Who. After five minutes, we left. Dad turned to me and said "I told you God was listening, she looks so much better".

I'd taken that memory and locked it away in a box at the back of my mind and thrown the key away. But it was there before me. I was frozen in panic. My first thought was that "Hey, we didn't even light a candle for her". I was totally disorientated, I looked at my watch. I'd been in there for nearly ten minutes. I had to get myself up for my appointment. My head was spinning. I'd just opened the gates of hell and stared in. Something within me changed that day in 1970 and yesterday, 55  years later, I had been dragged back in. Did mum really live? Did she really survive that. Did she really pass away in 2008 of a stroke, unrelated to her cancer. More shocking for me though was seeing myself and my Dad, kneeling, praying. I have an image in my mind of my Dad, who passed away in 1987, as a strong man, who could face anything. In those two seconds, he was the opposite of everything I recall about him. Whatever hell I may have been going through, his was a million times worse. His world was collapsing and he had no clue what to do. The truly frightening thing was that I realised he'd actually taken me along to make sure he held it all together for my Mum. Unfortunately, my question to him in the car had made him lose it. I could see and feel his despair. 

They say buildings hold memories and that ghosts are those memories manifesting themselves. If that is true, surely the chapels of hospitals hold the worst nightmares? After my consultation, which was positive, I went back and took some pictures, as I'd originally planned. The wave of panic had subsided. What was even stranger to me than the experience when I first entered the chapel, was that when I went back in, I had no emotional reaction at all. I knelt and said the prayer for Mum and Dad that I'd intended to say before. It was like my first visit had been to a completely different, parallel place. Whereas the chapel is bright, clean and beautifully decorated, in my mind it was dark and threatening on my first visit. Our minds are strange things indeed. 

For the rest of yesterday, I felt completely emotionally drained. I had planned to write this when I got home, but simply had no energy at all. Although I was only in the hospital for around forty five minutes, I genuinely felt I'd walked to the gates of hell and back. Putting my rational head on, I realise that entering the chapel triggered a massive panic attack that manifested itself in a very strange manner. I went to a place that I really don't want to visit. Ever.  To the best of my knowledge, I am not prone to hallucinations or psychotic episodes, but whatever was going on in my mind was more disturbing than anything I can think of in my adult life. My original plan for the trip had been to take some pictures around the general St Johns Wood area and write a nice piece for he London Symphonies series on London's swankiest district. But they say the Devil has all the best tunes and he certainly did yesterday. 

After the appointment and taking the pictures, I went to work, then did an hour in the gym. I got home at 9pm and the house was empty, apart from the dogs. I made a cup of tea and reflected on the day. What else is locked in a box at the back of my mind, waiting to be triggered? I am really not sure I want to know.

Here is the full album of pictures. It really is rather nice around St Johns Wood, if you are not haunted by the demons of your childhood.

London Symphonies - A historic pub crawl around the old London docks

London Symphonies? What interests me is the way the ghosts of lost London continue to haunt us today, how the echoes of the past are all around us and most of the time we don't notice. Let me give an example,  you agree to meet friends in a random pub in town. You arrive early and find that it has a fascinating history, that you were totally unaware of. London is full of such pubs. Most of the patrons barely give this fascinating history a second glance, but when you do, you might just find it was well worth the while. That is the heart of what this series is about. 

Which brings us to yesterday, Sunday the 9th March 2025. Earlier in the week, I'd checked the weather forecast, and it was for a lovely sunny day. This meant that it was thumbs up for my latest excursion into London for a London Symphony. This is one that I've been planning for a very long time. It would commbine several of my favourite things. A trip into London, a chance to visit some wonderful pubs and drink some excellent beer, a nice walk and good lunch. Best of all though, it was a chance to write another chapter of my London Symphonies project. A little background. Between 1993 and 2010, I worked around the Leman St/St Katherines Dock area of London. I got very familiar with many of the pubs in the locality. Several firm favourites backed onto the River Thames. I've sat with friends in these pubs, always meaning to spend some time learning the stories behind them, but always far too busy chatting about beer, music and football to get around to it. I've always meant to, but never made the time. This Sunday was the opportunity to put this right. 

I did  bit of research and decided that we'd start at a pub I'd not visited, it was just a bit too far for a lunchtime evening pint, but I was well aware of it and have long intended to go. This is The Mayflower, a lovely pub near Rotherhithe station. When I informed Clare of the plan, to visit four pubs, have a nice walk along the Thames and end with Sunday lunch, she suggested we ask a few friends. This was a great idea, as having other people on such trips gives a different perspective and I see things I'd have missed. So we gathered at The Mayflower and started with a couple of pints. The pub is georgeous. The beer is good, the food looked excellent and it has a real 'lost London' feel. There is all manner of photographs, paintings and models. The pub was renamed "The Mayflower" in 1957, to celebrate links with the Mayflower that took the first settlers to the USA. The pub claims to be the oldest Riverside pub in London, dating back to 1550. Apparently some of the timbers are the same ones used in the Mayflower, which was moored nearby. The pub had previously been called The Spreadeagle. One of our party Gary, suggested that this may have been because it was a house of ill repute. As the docks were full of frustrated sailors, on shore with money and time on their hands, this wouldn't surprise me, but I couldn't really find any evidence to back this up. If you are interested in the journey of The Mayflower, it is a great place to visit. The Mayflower is most definitely a pub worth visiting. 

When all of our party had assembled and were full refreshed, we made our way along the river path towards Tower Bridge. On a nice day, this is fascinating. One of the nicest spots on the south bank river path is "Dr Salters Daydream". A small area, dedicated to Dr Salter, a well loved Labour politician, responsible for many local improvements. Dr Salter lost his daughter to Scarlet fever when she was a child. The park has figures of Dr Salter, his wife, daughter and cat, a blissful daydream of better times, placed in his honour. The park has a wonderful view of the river Thames. There are all manner of wonderful spots along the River Thames, each with there own unique story. I was unaware of the story of Dr Salter, but this certainly has to be one of my favourite spots by the river. 

I am a big fan of public art and this is one of the finest examples. It is heartwarming to find that there are politicians who inspire such fondness from local people.

We carried on down, crossing the Thames via Tower Bridge. The bridge is perhaps the most iconic bridge in the world. I always get a buzz when I cross the river, especially over Tower Bridge. I've always thought it a shame that modern architects do not seem interested in endowing things of beauty for generations to come. On the Thames path walk, there is one amazing view of Tower Bridge that is completely ruined by the monstrosity that is 'the cheesegrater'. I am not anti modern architecture, I love The Shard, which is elegant and I watche being built from my office in Park St.

It's just the cheesegrater is ugly and looks like it steals sky. This is one of the views where the monstrosity is masked by Tower Bridge, if you look in the full gallery below, you'll see one where this is not the case. I ask all London planners to be more considerate with their approvals and please, please don't ruin our river!

On the North bank of the The Thames, we made our way to The Town of Ramsgate. In the days when I worked in this part of town, this was our go to riverside pub. The garden is a real suntrap and we had many long, boozy lunches. I'd never actually wondered why it was called The Town of Ramsgate before. This association came about because Ramsgate fishermen chose to unload their catches here, rather than at Billingsgate to avoid taxes. Doubtless, they'd have a few beers as well before heading back. Allegedly, there has been a pub on the site since 1460. The river was the main trade route into London and there was always plenty of sailors, fisherman and travellers looking for refreshment. At the turn of the last century, there were 20 pubs on Wapping High Street. The Town of Ramsgate is the last of these to survive. It's not a massive pub, a bit of a gem that locals appreciate though. The pub is next to Olivers Wharf. Valerie, one of our party, who is a building surveyor by trade, asked if we knew what Wharf meant. I had no idea. It is an acronym Warehouse at River Front. Olivers were the company that operated it. These old riverfront warehouses have been converted into flats and offices. When I first worked near Wapping, the area was run down. I wish I'd bought some property as these flats no go for millions!

Next on our journey was the Captain Kidd pub. As I mentioned, the Warehouses had been repurposed. The Captain Kidd was transformed into a pub in the 1980's. It had previously been a coffee warehouse. It is a nice enough pub. Sadly, the weekend had been so nice, that nearly all the beer had been drunk, so I had to make do with a Sam Smiths lager. The name recalls William Kidd, a Thames Pirate, executed at Execution Dock in 1701. When we think of Pirates, we think of far flung, exotic places. It may seem strange to us to think the Thames was a lucrative hunting ground for such men. Although not a historic pub, it has a wonderful beer garden overlooking the Thames. One of the oddities of this pub is that the way the front has been dressed, I thought it had closed down until I was standing outside. I wonder if I am the only one to think this?

And on to our final destination and lunch. This was at The Prospect of Whitby pub.This

is by the spot where Captain Kidd was executed. There has been a pub on the site since around 1520. It was rebuilt following a fire in the early 19th century. As with all the aforementioned pubs, it has a grand view of the river. The pub name comes from a coal freighter that used to moor next to the pub to unload. Previously it had been known as The Devils Tavern, as it was a meeting place for smugglers and cutthroats. 

Nowadays all of these pubs are pleasant locations to take a drink, eat a meal and watch the world go by with the river Thames as your backdrop. The Thames is no longer the main transport artery into and out of London. Apart from the odd barge carrying rubbish, the vast majority of Thames River traffic is leisure and pleasure boats. A hundred years ago, this was the bustling heart of London. Now? It's a nice walk on a sunny Sunday afternoon. One thing I've learned about London is that it is constantly changing. I daresay if you'd told Captain Kidd that the Devils Tavern would end up being a place where Londoners nipped down for a nice lunch on a Sunny Sunday, he'd think you mad. Such is the glory of London

Google Map of the walk

The full photo gallery.

London Symphonies - "And on the eighth day God created pie and mash"

I had to laugh. I was in a rather swanky bar recently. I was waiting to meet someone and was a bit  bored. I started earwigging, listening to a rather posh chap chtting to a most attractive lady, of Eastern European ancestry (at a guess). As he had enjoyed a few glasses of wine, he was quite loud, so even though I'm deaf I couldn't help but hear. He suggested dinner, in reply, she said it would be nice to try some "real London food" whilst she was in town. He replied "Ha ha ha, there is no such thing! In London, we have the best food from everywhere else, France, Italy, China, India, everywhere, so we never bothered inventing our own dishes". I immediately thought "what is wrong with this dimwit, does he know nothing?". I felt a compelling urge to put this uneducated braggart in his place, but as I have a wife who I am most happy with, taking young ladies from Eastern Europe out for a meal is probably not a sensible idea. Now I am guessing that having read the title of the blog, you probably know what I am talking about. The food of London is Pie and Mash, served in a proper pie and mash shop. Most of these are only open for lunch and shut by 5pm. Proper pies are made of mincemeat, have a slightly burnt crust. The mash should be creamy, without lumps and it should be served in Liquor, a green parsley sauce. If you are doing it properly, you add chilli vinegar and pepper. You eat it with a spoon and fork. If you use a knife, you will be recognised as a novice or a fraud. The more sensible of us will have a two pie serving. This will keep you going all day. Pie and mash shops are not glamourous. They are for working people who want unfussy, tasty and filling food. It is the one cuisine that you really can't go wrong with. It does what it says on the tin and the established Pie and Mash shops in London know what they are doing and quality is always good.

Now it may surprise you to know that I was not raised on pie and mash. In fact I was in my late teens before I first tried it. It was a long journey, but I think my pie and mash story is worth recounting. I live in Mill Hill and this is not pie and mash country. My Dad was an Aussie from the outback, who loved his food and for him, a big steak, which was burned to a cinder was a good dinner. If he ate out, he wanted huge portions of meat or he wasn't really happy. Mum was a Northerner, from Lancashire, who aspired to be posh and she wasn't a fan of working mens cafe's. She had hoped, I think, that her youngest (me) would grow up to be a man of education, elegance, refinement and taste. Sadly, my elder sister Caroline tried to flush me down the bog at three months, having half strangled me on the way. My mother assumed she'd dropped me on my head on the way, so I grew up dyslexic, stupid and rather difficult to get along with. Dad quickly recognised that I was an idiot with no sense and no taste, for Mum the penny took longer to drop. 

As our family were Roman Catholics, Friday was fish and chip day. Dad would return after work, with large boxes of steaming fish and chips, which his six hungry kids greedily devoured. Then, at some point in the mid 1960's, the Pope abolished the fish on Friday rule. Dad informed us that we didn't have to have fish. He took me along "to help" and to choose. Now I loved fish and chips, but I fancied a change, so I ordered a steak and kidney pie. Dad warned me "not much meat in them son". He stuck with fish. When we got home, I hungrily devoured the pie and loved it. From that day forth, for me, Friday was pie and chips day. It became a family joke. I can recall being in Budgens in Mill Hill with my mum. I spotted a Frey Bentos steak and kidney pie in a tin and asked mum if we could have it for dinner. She didn't approve of such things. She wouldn't buy it. I saved up my pocket money and bought it myself. Mum told me I'd be disappointed when I ate it. I wasn't, I loved it. She was horrified. I think this was the moment that she joined my Dad in concluding I was an idiot. From then, a pie was my ultimate idea of a treat. Even for pudding, the only thing I really enjoy is an apple pie, with custard. I hate cheesecakes (plates of gunge), things with chocolate in (too sickly) and worst of all tapioca and semolina (I have the scars from school dinners). 

I also developed fixed ideas of what a pie is. It has to have pastry top and bottom. If it doesn't, then it isn't a pie, it is a stew with pastry on top. The top should be crispy and the bottom soggy and with a taste of suet. So I think you've established that I like a pie. As a teenager, I took to hanging around Camden Town, with a gang of punks. This was around 1977-9. There was one girl I was particularly fond of. I can't recall the exact date, but I ended up crashing at her place, which was a squat in Camden after a gig. We woke up in the late morning and I was starving hungry. I suggested breakfast. She said it was lunchtime. As I'd just done a decorating job, I was flush with money and offered to buy her lunch at the place of her choosing. She said "You ever been to the pie and mash shop?". I hadn't. So we walked around the corner to what I now know was Castles. The menu was simple. Pie and mash. No ifs, no buts. Most cafes youd get a choice, but here it was simple. You came here because you wanted pie and mash. Now I was a big fan of pie and I didn't mind mash. I was also starving hungry, so I ordered a triple pie and mash. She had a single. When it came, I was given a fork and spoon and it was covered in green gunk. She advised me to add some pepper and vinegar, which I did. The pies looked amazing but I wasn't sure about the green gunk. On the other hand, I was starving. I took a bit of pie and some of the gunk and Praise the Lord! It was  delicious. I scoffed down the three pies in the time it took her to have three spoonfuls. We washed it down with a nice cup of tea.

Now I have to be honest here. I was rather besotted with this young lady, so I didn't really take in any of the details, the location of the pie shop or anything else. But it was a magical day for me. To my disappointement, she was going off to Uni shortly and things fizzled out, but my brain was hard wired to love pie and mash from that second forth. London used to be awash with pie and mash shops, but sadly every year one or two close. Mill Hill is a pie and mash free zone, we are all to snobby around here. When I worked in town, I'd always locate a good one as a refuge for lunch. I could escape from my colleagues for an hour. It was always a joy, one I tried to keep to myself. Until 2017, before I stopped working in Central London to concentrate on my studio business. I got out of the habit of crafty visits down to Manze's on Tower Bridge Road, or whichever one was nearest. Since I stopped having easy access, as I now work in Mill Hill, I'd sort of forgotten this guilty pleasure. 

Fortunately my Guardian Angel took me to Oxford City FC with a coachload of Hadley FC supporters in the FA Trophy late last year. At the ground, I had the best steak pie with mash I'd had for years. I mentioned this to a chap called Alan, a fellow supporter and we got onto the subject of pie and mash. He told me that he was a member of a Pie and Mash Appreciation group on Facebook. I was fascinated. On returning home, I immediately joined. One of the first posts I saw was one asking about a pie and mash shop in Borehamwood called Chloe's. Sadly my research lead me to the sad news that it had gone. Unperturbed , I found that there was a cafe called the Brick Lane Bagel Co in the town, which served proper pie and mash. As we had some shopping to do, a stop there seemed like a very good idea. 

I took Clare, promising a tasty bagel (their selection of bagelks looked pretty good, she doesn't eat meat so pie and mash is a no no). Anyway, we went there. I feigned surprise at pie and mash, not that it fooled her. As we went in a chap in Halfords overalls asked if I was there for the pie and mash and recommended the double pie offer. To Clare's annoyance and amusement, he asked if I wanted two plates. I said  "No, just one, she's having a bagel". To her even greater annoyance, he cocked the order up and gave me three pies, having only charged for two. They were wonderful. I realised what I'd been missing. I realised that there was  a London Symophony in the key of pie! So a grand journey started. 

Castles Pie and Masg

The more I thought about it, the more I realised that I needed to make a pilgrimmage to Castle's in Camden Town, where I first fell in love with pie and mash. As I now have a freedom pass, I can do this on my day off. It is only twenty minutes away on the Thameslink and the bus. I found myself back where it all started, two pies and a mug of tea. I swapped a joke with an ambulance crew and for a few short minutes I was in heaven. I got soaked on the walk from the bus stop to the pie emporium, which simply made the pies taste better. God was with me! It got me thinking of the other pie and mash shops I've frequented over the years. 

When I was 20, I worked for a chain of stores called Derek Cousins Discount Stores. They had a large shop in Peckham Rye, which was located conveniently across from a pie shop called Simple Simons. The pie and mash was superb there. However the locals immediately clocked my North London accent and I always felt the eyes of the world were on me. No one was ever hostile, but unlike Camden, when you nodded and said Hi to the customers, they would draw on their roll ups and stare at their copy of The Sun. There was a lovely Carribean lady who worked in the shop. She explained that they assumed I was a Policeman checking out some of the villains that ate in there. She sensibly observed "No one comes from North London to eat pie and mash at Simple Simons". 

This was confirmed, when a rather colourful local character called Sid Turner rented some workshops from my Dad in Bunns Lane Works. Sid was originally from South East London and was what we used to call "a bit of a geezer". My Dad got on with well with Sid, who was always good for a laugh, even if there were suspecions not all of his wealth was legally acquired. Dad liked the fact that Sid was always prepared to try his hand starting new businesses. Sid started what is now The Bunns Lane Car wash, which is still running to this day, albiet with Kosovan ownership. 

I was chatting to Sid one day in the mid 1980's and he mentioned that his favourite restaurant was a pie shop in Peckham. I asked if it was called Simple Simons and he was amazed I knew it. I told him the story of how I got the cold shoulder there. He said "Yeah that was probably me, we were always on the lookout for coppers and grasses poking their noses in". I agreed with him that it was a great place. I joked to him that he should start a Simple Sid's in Burnt Oak. He looked at me and said "That's a brilliant idea", withing six months he'd set it up. He told me that as it was my idea, I could have a free pie and mash anytime I wanted if he was around. Sadly, it only lasted a few years, but it was much loved by the customers. Sid got into property renovations and one of the many crashes cleaned him out and ended the cafe and most of his other enterprises. Happily he bounced back, but never reopened the pie and mash shop. I recall watching Sid chin one of the locals, after they suggested that he was an old man and past it in the cafe. Sid came up to me and apologised for disturbing my dinner, but I replied normally I had to pay for such entertainment and we had a giggle. I was delighted to spot a tweet discussing it on Twitter back in 2017!

@RobertElms I've been trying to find the name of a former pie & mash shop in Burnt Oak which was run by Sid Turner. https://t.co/Q54zzMWQ0S

— Mike Goldwater (@OldSpeckledMike) June 10, 2017

Which brings us to the final stop on this tour. As I mentioned, in more recent times, my favourite pie and mash shop was Manze's on Tower Bridge Road. I've not been there since 2012, when I was working near Tower Bridge, so I thought I'd make a trip down.  A good mate of mine, Mick lives down that way, so I thought I'd meet him there. Being a Northerner, I was worried that he wouldn't get proper London food, but it was a good chance to catch up.

Manze's was just how I remember it. I suspect that almost nothing has changed in decades (apart from the prices). The sign displaying the prices is one of the peg board type signs, so not even a new sign is required when prices change. 

They have a Hall of Fame gallery above the prices, with a signed picture of Roy Orbison taking pride of place. Like all good pie and mash shops, the building is tiled with white and green tiles. 

Everything is functional and huge numbers of pies are dispensed during the course of a day. When I used to work near Tower Bridge, I'd sneak down once a week. I knew a few of the regulars. Once, I was sitting there tucking into my dinner and a fellow sat opposite me and tried to strike up a conversation. After a few pleasantries were exchanged, he said "Tell me, is Jesus in your life?". I don't really like talking to people about my beliefs, not least because generally when people start conversations like this, they don't want to hear my beliefs, they want to explain how their own are superior.

My response took him by surprise. I replied "Yes, Jesus walks every step of the way with me". He was a bit surprised and said "What do you mean?" I replied "He's sitting here with us now, as we speak. Did you know that if Jesus had been a cockney, he'd the last supper would've been pie, mash and a cup of tea?". The chap looked horrified and said "You shouldn't joke about such things, God takes a dim view of people who do not respect him". I replied "I have ultimate respect for God, he has blessed us with many gifts and to me the greatest of all is being able to eat pie and mash in peace and quiet". My new friend got the message. 

I do genuinely believe that when Jesus returns, you'll be far more likely to find him having a pie and mash with his mates, than in swanky restaurants. I don't know if his Dad, God, created pie and mash on the eighth day, once the world was done. What I do know is that it is an honest, simple pleasure should be cherished. As I get older, I've learned to appreciate things, especially things that I love that seem to be slipping away. I feel the need to write a song and make a video that will do justice to my love of our pie and mash shops, but every time I've tried it has turned out a bit too Chas and Dave for my liking. I will get there one day though!

.

London Symphonies - Ghosts of North London's music pubs

 Do you love a good Ghost story? I do, however every ghost story starts with a tragedy.  Ghosts? What are ghosts? Dead People? Trapped memories? Spirits that were not ready to move on? Spirits that took a wrong turn and didn't quite make it away? Vibrations stuck in the fabric of buildings? As the False Dots (my band) reach our 46th year, I was pondering the places we play. I was idly thinking of doing a pub crawl through London, visiting pubs we've played at. I got to thinking about the music pubs on the Thameslink route that we played and what a great pubcrawl that could be. Jump on a train from Mill Hill and simply get off at each station on the way. I scoured my scrapbook for the first time we played at each of the stops and at what venue.

Hendon - The Midland Hotel - 20th Dec 2014

Cricklewood - The Cricklewood Hotel - 30th November 1985

West Hampstead - The Moonlight Club - 7th March 1982

Kentish Town - The George IV  - 7th Jan 1984

I then, rather sadly realised that all of these gigs have gone. Any pub crawl would be simply to commune with the ghosts of these venues. If ghosts are vibrations, would any trace of those amplified blasts remain in the brickwork? What were these venues like

The Midland Hotel, Hendon

A pub with a long association with my family. My grandfather would collect glasses in the pub and be paid in beer during the second world war. Being next to the station, and the active goods yard, the pub was a convenient watering hole for rail workers and others using the station. When my Grandfather died in 1948, the whole pub turned up at the funeral. As my Grandmother didn't drink and hadn't been to the pub she announced that she'd never realised that he had any friends. Grandfather lived on the Watling Estate and would take the tram down to Hendon, then walk up the hill. Much has changed.

Live at 
The Midland Hotel
2019

Move on to 2014. The False Dots had morphed into a four piece and were looking for a local gig, Our drummer Graham Ramsey had been drinking in the pub with his other band and suggested we played an Xmas gig with them. I knew of the family link, but had not been in the pub, despite it's easy access on the Thameslink railway from Mill Hill. The pub was a big, spacious pub with several bars and an ideal space for bands. The then guvnor, John, liked music and we dragged a good crowd down. This started a long association and made me speak to family members about Grandad's links. By this time, only my Aunty Audrey was still alive. All she could really recall was my Grandmothers loathing of the pub, as my Irish Grandfather came home bladdered every night and died young as a result of this and being gassed in the trenches. 

The band played ten or so gigs there  the last one being on the Friday13 February 2019. This was the night after Boris Johnson was elected. I didn't realise that this would be the end of our associaton. The pandemic did for the pub and it is now up for sale. The pub was also closely associated with The Barnet Eye blog, as we used it as the venue for the Barnet Eye Awards. When I played at the Midland, I always felt that there were more eyes on me than there were punters in the pub. Developers were circling, we fought them off, gaining an asset of community value status in 2018, when we held a celebration party, playing to a packed house, I felt my Grandfather's eyes on me, nodding approvingly. I wrote a song with Allen in 1985, dedicated to my grandfather. It was called Blue Soldier. Allen added and changed a few lines, then added a brilliant middle poetic section, based on the poetry style of the great war poets, such as Wilfred Owen. Playing this to the ghost of my grandfather, in his local, was one of those moments when it felt like being in a band was more than just strumming my guitar. 

It seems to me that it was very appropriate that this was our final gig with Allen Ashley in the pub where my Grandfather worked. I am just sorry we didn't do Blue Soldier that night. Allen is a poet and he was rather keen on 1st world war poets. If I ever become wealthy enough to make a feature film, I will make one called Blue Soldier about my Grandfather. He passed away in 1948, so I never met him. Apparently he went to war a proud and compassionate man and came back a bitter alcoholic, who saw out his days working in the Midland Hotel. I have seriously thought of spray painting the outline of a WWI soldier on the side of the pub for Remembrance Sunday, with a poppy coming out of his rifle, in dark blue paint on several occasions. Maybe I will before they knock it down. 

The Cricklewood Hotel.

Around 1985, the Cricklewood Hotel was a vibrant centre for alternative bands. Cult bands such as Ozric Tentacles were playing for promotors such as  Dead Dog promotions. It was a big pub with a decent sized stage and a loyal following of punters. Such venues soon became targets for aspiring bands to play, you always felt that when you played at a "happening venue", there was a chance of greater things. 

The False Dots first 'big London gig' for over a year occurred on 30th November 1985, at the Cricklewood hotel. The band had fallen apart in late 1984, with the departure of Venessa Sagoe and the rest of the band. I'd spent a year writing new material, dealing with health and personal problems and had recruited Graham Ramsey on Drums and poet Allen Ashley on vocals. As a temporary measure, former Dots keyboard player Chris Potts stood in on bass. 

It was a big gig, with a good audience. Many of our friends came. Most remember the gig as the night that the stage collapsed beneath me and I ended up in a pile of beer crates on the floor. My guitar was broken in the process, but I had a spare. After the show, a member of one of the other bands sneered "Everyone will remember THAT for a long time". I shot back "Yeah, well no one will remember you after five minutes".  That was very much The Dots view. We wanted to be remembered.  The Cricklewood hotel was a fine building. It has been reincarnated as the Shisha Garden Grill, which in some ways mirrors the changing face of London. I wonder what happens to the ghosts in pubs, when they become Shisha grills? Do a whole new team of ghosts move in. 

The Moonlight Club, West Hampstead.

The Moonlight club was a proper music venue. It was at the Railway Pub in West Hampstead. Upstairs had been Klooks Kleek, a venue at the hearty of the 1960's blues explosion. I discovered it in 1977, seeing punk and new wave bands such as The Damned and The Monochrome Set there. As we were forming the False Dots, it was myself and Pete Conway's spiritual home. We'd bunk onto the train at Mill Hill and sneak out at West Hampstead, although in truth, there was rarely anyone there. 

There were many shenanigans. Our song Not all she seems had it's genesis when Pete chatted up someone that we'd now label as pre op trans. Pete didn't realise at the time. In those less enlightened times, we found it hilarious, he didn't. Oddly though, we turned it into a very sympathetic song about someone who has issues with gender identity and didn't fit in. I got to know the central character, and it is fair to say that she didn't live happily ever after. What happened was tragic.  The song had a life of its own, as we had no concept of such issues, but it does stand up. We still play it 45 years later. On a couple of occasions, I've felt her presence in the audience, at peace, happy, accepted, but still loving rock and roll. Music is a spiritual thing and often music reconnects me with people who have passed. Can ghosts come from the future to inform us? Dickens thought so, who am I to argue. 

When the Dots first played the Moonlight club back in March 1982, we were just back from a tour of Sweden. It seemed to us to be the moment we had made it. Being on a stage where I'd seen The Damned, to a packed house, seemed like vindication for everything we had done. We were in a state of flux, but it was a great gig and we got asked back several times. Perhaps the funniest time was when we played with a band from Dublin called Tokyo Olympics. The lead singer was an associate of Shane Macgowan and later in The Pope's with him. He had bad case of Rockstaritus. The band wouldn't let us share the dressing room and were horrible to us. They even detuned our instruments. Luckily, we knew how to tune them back. We'd brought the audience and they departed with us after the first song. We adjourned next door. Our bassplayer, Paul Hircombe, had exacted revenge. He had been through their possessions and nicked all their dope and all of their cash. He arrivrd in the pub announcing that Karma had struck. 

The Railway pub is still there, but the Moonlight has long gone. I miss it. When I visit, I feel those ghosts still. In some ways, I find pubs that have been refurbished and stripped of their soul even more depressing than closed, demolished pubs. When Pete Conway was in the band, he worked for Dewhurst Butchers on Broadhurst Avenue, opposite DECCA studios. I'd meet him for a pint and we'd spin tracks on the Jukebox. The pub had a music vibe. Now it is a football pub, I'd quite like it if it didn't burn a hole in my soul going in there

The George IV, Kentish Town

And on to Kentish Town.  The George IV. Some things haven't changed, then as now Camden Town was the heart of the London music scene. Bands love to play Camden Town. In early 1984, the False Dots were in what was perhaps their most accomplished phase. We had an amazing singer in Venessa Sagoe. We had put together a tight set and we could blow away an audience. We'd done a few gigs and wanted to get into the Camden circuit. Our then drummer, Adam Francis announced that he'd got us a gig in Camden. We were delighted. He told us that his uncle owned a pub and was looking for bands to put on. We were all quite excited. The band was rehearsing three times a week and felt that we were really getting things together. We made arrangements to play. At the time, our mate Dermot Fanning would borrow a van from another mate, Emil Bryden. We'd pile in with all the gear and make our way down. We'd put the word around. A few days before the gig, Adam mentioned that the pub was nearer Kentish Town than Camden. No worries. 

On the day in question, we all piled in. We got the address and I navigated. When we got near Kentish Town, I realised that the pub wasn't on the main road, where most of the places I knew were. I directed Derm to the pub, in Willes Road, in between Kentish Town and Kentish Town West station, in amongst the back streets. There was another band on. I don't recall much about them, other than they were rather unfriendly towards us and were quite sharp dressers. We were headlining, they laughed as we shambled in from our VW camper van. We set up, the sound man checked levels and we belted out a couple of songs. They stopped laughing. I was really fed up with the whole thing. The pub was very old fashioned and not at all Rock and Roll. The guvnor, Adam's uncle, was friendly, gave us beers and a few chips. These days, I'd love it. Back then, I wanted to play cool rock and roll venues. 

The Landlord had put a lot of work into promoting the gig. A decent crowd turned up and many enjoyed the set. In hindsight, it was a masterstroke. We played Dingwalls a month later and many of the patrons came down. I was a bit too much of a musical snob to enjoy a gig in an old fashioned boozer back then. It was a nicotine stained brown, the carpets brown, the windows brown. Back in 1984, the pub felt as if it was inhabited by ghosts, locals smoking roll ups and making wisecracks. The average age of the regulars seemed to be about 100 years old. There was a beaten up old piano in the corner. One of the regulars told me that they missed Bert, who used to come in and play it on a Saturday night. They were not too sure about our sort of music. At the time, we did a cover of  "When a man loves a woman" by Percy Sledge in the set. They all got up and danced. The guvnor told us that if we did more covers like that (it was the only one), he'd give us a regular gig.  

I haven't been back since. If I hadn't noted it in my scrapbook, I'd not have remembered the pub. I looked it up on Google a few months ago. I thought I might like to see how it's fared. It has been closed for a couple of years. 

It seems to me to be tragic that I can jump on Thameslink and do a pubcrawl of closed music pubs. Maybe, it's the perfect pub crawl for dry January!

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I should add that London still has some amazing grassroots venues. The False Dots are lucky enough to have a residency at The Dublin Castle in Camden Town. We made this little video to celebrate this wonderful venue

London Symphonies - From Handel to Hendrix

I am fascinated by coincidences, nearly as much as I am fascinated by the vibrations that seem to emanate from certain buildings and places. When the two collide, it becomes a very tempting and intoxicating mix. 

One such place is the Handel Hendrix museum at 23-25 Brook Street in London West One. Separated by two hundred years and a wall, these two musical genius's were next door neighbours in space, if not time. Their residence has been transfomed into one of London's more fascinating small museums. I went for a mosey around recently. I must confess Baroque music is not one I have ever really investigated. I think everyone who has any interest at all in music will know of Handels Messiah and many of us heard his composition Zadok the Priest at the Coronation of King Charles, but we only really hear it at such occasions, unless we are buffs for the genre. 

As for Hendrix, a more modern musical genius who completely redefined the sound of the electric guitar. For me, Hendrix is a bit of an outlier in my musical tastes. I am not really a fan of heavy rock. When I was a kid, my big sister Valerie absolutely loved Jimi Hendrix. She bought a copy of Electric Ladyland on the day it came out. You can imagine the impact that had on me, but in truth, it was the cover rather than the sounds that fascinated me. It was only when I was researching for this blog, I learned that Hendrix didn't like the cover and wanted something else completely!

As a kid, I didn't really get his music though. I preferred the Ska tunes of the 1969/70 period. Hendrix seemed weird, wonderful and very exotic. Ska seemed to be the music of North London. I knew he must be pretty good, if Val liked him, but it didn't do much for me as an eight year old. 

When Hendrix passed away, I interrupted my sister and her then boyfriend, trying to hold a seance to bring Jimi back from the dead. I thought it rather odd behaviour. She was convinced that such a powerful soul could not be confined to heaven and we needed him back. Sadly God had other ideas!

She made me swear not to tell Mum and Dad. She bought Rainbow Bridge, the postumously released album. There was one track on it that fascinated me, Room full of mirrors. There was a room at The Commonwealth Institute, that had mirrors facing each other, that fascinated me and I assumed that Hendrix felt the same. When Val finally moved out, I stopped listening to Hendrix. In 1977, when I got into punk music, Jimi fell even further off my radar. That changed one day when I was meeting fellow False Dot Pete Conway for a beer at The Railway pub in West Hampstead. I'd been listening to the Jukebox and when Pete turned up, I told him that there was a brilliant track on it that he had to listen to. I accidentally put the wrong track on. It was Crosstown Traffic by The Jimi Hendrix Experience. The pub was full of punk rockers, having a beer before going to the Moonlight Club. They were all gobsmacked by the sound. It is an amazing track, and Pete was rather inspired. We had a little spell of getting into Hendrix, who was very out of vogue with the hip crowd.  It didn't bother me. Val had left Rainbow Bridge with me, so I gave it a good few spins when I got home. 

For me, bands like the Ramones and the Buzzcocks inspired me to pick up a guitar and make music. Listening to Hendrix almost made me give up. The sounds he made were so unique. His style was so easy and you had to listen to a track a hundred times to fully appreciate all of the guitar nuances. 

He was a genius without peer. I realised I could never get within a million miles of his talent. When the False Dots went on our Scandinavian tour in 1982, we found ourselves in a Henrdrix guitar master class at Pub Bastun in Aland. The guitar teacher played various tracks and then explained the tricks Hendrix used to get those sounds.  One fact that stuck with me was that he said Hendrix didn't think he could sing until he heard the recording of Hey Joe.  Andreas Gaggett of the Gaggett band, who supported us on the tour and was a good mate was also a Hendrix nut. He could talk for hours about Hendrix. I wondered if Andreas was still a fan and whether he'd visited. In the Museum, I found myself in Jimi Hendrix bedroom, restored to how it was when Jimi lived there. The air was less smokey and there was nothing on the turntable. There was a large contact sheet on the wall showing Jimi holding court in the room.

Another room had his record collection on the wall. This was the room that really fascinated me. I could spend all day looking at vunyl records. Jimi had around 100 albums in his collection. Bob Dylan being his favourite artist. Dr John was also represented as were the Beatles. There was also a good slice of Blues and Jazz artists. For me this was probably the most interesting part of the tour. There is also some wonderful memorabilia, including the first guitar Jimi played on arriving in the UK and video displays of Jimi speaking as well as some of his fans. There is one room with a large sofa, where you can watch people such as John Etheridge discussing his playing. It did remind me of the guitar class. There is an endless fascination amongst guitarists as to how you can get new and exciting sounds from your instrument. Jimi really did take this to a new level. 

I think that in some ways, Jimi was so unique and such a one off that his legacy is impossible to quantify. Many rock guitarists nick aspects of his sound and recycle some of it, but I'm not really sure that this was the soul of Jimi. On Rainbow Bridge, there is a song called The Wind Cries Mary, that to me gives a far better insight into Jimi's nature. But we will never really know.

But Jimi is only half of the museum. Handel is the other half. I'd not have gone, had Hendrix not been his co-habitee, but it was equally fascinating. There were some rather strange resonances between the two men. Both ended up in London, having been born and raised elsewhere. One of the reasons why music in the UK is still light years ahead of the rest of the world is the way we assimilate  the ideas and styles of musicians who move here. London has always been a city of immigrants and this has hugely benefitted our musical culture. I like to think we are more receptive to new ideas, new genres and crossovers. 

Handel had been raised in Germany, moving to Italy then London, where he really made his name. Handel's father was a Barber-surgeon who worked for the Royal Court. He clearly understood what made Royals tick musically. For whatever reason, Handel clearly felt more comfortable in London than elsewhere. 

His house was full of musical instruments. Unlike Jimi, who had a keen eye for the ladies, little is known of his private life, but it is known that he enjoyed good food. He reached a good age, unlike Jimi who only made 27 years. 

One similarity between Hendrix and Handel, that I'd never had appreciated, was how they were innovaters in their use of instruments. Handel clearly would play around with them to form his ideas. In some ways, he was doing the Phil Spector wall of sound two centuries before Spector coined the phrase. 

Hendrix also came to London to find his feet musically. He'd been a session player, before Chas Chandler of the Animals became his manager, at the suggestion of Linda Keith (Keith Richards girlfriend).  Chandler brought him to London and steamed him up with bassist Noel Redding and drummer Mitch Mitchell to form the Jimi Hendrix Experience. He started hgoing out with Kathy Etchingham who he shared 23 Brooke Street with. Whenever I watch Jimi perform, the thing that really strikes me is how easy he makes doing impossibly complicated things on the guitar seem. Believe me, for most of us, it is so hard!

In Handels house there are some excellent exhibits as well as headphones which explain some of the innovations of his compositions. Although Baroque is not my thing, having some of the details of the innovative ideas in his compositions was fascinating. As a musician, it is always inspiring to get an insight into the mind of such such brilliant musicians. A thought occurred to me. He have photographs of Jimi in his room, but we can but guess as to what Handel's house was like, the wallcoverings, the tat of daily life etc. We live in a priveliged age. 

What will I remember of this video in twenty years time? I had a mildly transcendental moment as I gazed upon Jimi's bed and the guitar on it, I was transported back to Aland and that guitar class. The thought occurred to me that when I was in Aland at that time, I would never have dreamed that fourty two years later, I'd find myself in Jimi's bedroom.

London is full of small, niche museums. It reaffirmed that I do need to explore more of them. When I started the London Symphonies series, this was very much the sort of place that I envisaged being a big part of the series. London Symphonies is not about reviewing museums, it is about identifying the spirits of our city that blow in the ether. I certainly felt that my visit to the Handel Hendrix museum discovered a few of these spirits. 

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London Symphonies is a collection of vibes about London. Originally conceived as a music album by Roger Tichborne and Poet Allen Ashley, the concept has grown into a full multi media project of pictures, stories, videos and people. 

London Symphonies - Solace in Southwark Cathedral and bopping with the Bard!

 Sometimes, you just find yourself having a perfect moment of calm, when there is a storm raging all around you. It is impossible to explain, but I am sure we all have experienced this occasionally. I'd been planning an installment of this series featuring Southwark Cathedral since the inception of the whole idea for London Symphonies crystalised. I had planned a very different episode, taking in the surrounding area, Borough Market, London Bridge and the South bank. As it turned out, this episode is very different and I hope immeasurably better. The London Symphonies are not intended to be history pieces, although there are historical elements in many. They are an explanation as to why a part of our city is living and breathing. It is a celebration of the now, albiet with a nod to the history of this city.

Today was a strange day. I had to attend the London Bridge hospital at 10am, for a pre operative assessment. I'm having surgery on Wednesday and they needed to check me out and sign me off as fit for an operation. I was done by 11am. I'd made no plans and I was in a very strange frame of mind. I neither wanted to go home, nor stay where I was. I used to work around the corner on Park Street, so it's an area I know well and love. I've spent many wonderful times in the pubs and restaurants around London Bridge. I often ate at Borough Market and I occasionally took advantage of the quiet traquility of the Cathedral for a moments reflection when I was working there, without ever properly exploring it. Sometime, I just needed to get ten minutes on my own to regroup. This morning, when my appointment was done, I decided to slowly amble back from the hospital to Blackfriars, to catch the train to Mill Hill. Writing an episode of this feature was the last thing on my mind.

As I walked past the Mudlark Pub, I felt a desire for a pint. As I am having surgery on Wednesday and have been advised to not drink for two days, this was not the best idea, so I walked on. I've had many a pleasant beer with friends in the Mudlark. It is perhaps the cheapest pub in the area and one of the less busy ones. I reflected on these with a degree of nostalgia and sadness. I won't be having a beer with anyone for a few weeks.

The next item of note on my travels was the  Southwalk Cathedral. There is a pleasant coffee bar/bakery in the courtyard. As I don't really have a sweet tooth I'd not been in previously. Even though I'd had my porridge this morning,  I had a strong urge to have a double espresso and a plain croissant. I almost never drink coffee. It doesn't agree with me and makes me feel very weird, but in the circumstances, I felt that anything that changed my mood was probably better than the gloom I was mired in. So I ordered a double espresso and a plaing croissant and sat in the sunshine enjoying a moment of peace. 

As I sat enjoying the Sun,  I started to appreciate the fine architecture of the Cathedral. It is a place I knew nothing about until I worked around the corner. I've often felt that my schooling let me down, not educating me about our great city. This has been a motivation for this series, exploring places that give me great pleasure but that were deemed not worthy of a mention in our geography or history classes. 

When we were at school, they taught me that a City has to have a Cathedral and London was really two cities, Westminster and London. There was never any mention of Southwark, just over the river from London's St Pauls. Whether this was just a North London thing I don't know, but I was quite surprised when I first discovered that London had a third city and a third cathedral. 

I had not intended to stop, but, on a whim,  decided that it would be a very good thing to have a proper look around the Cathedral and take some pictures. As I entered the Cathedral, there was a morning prayer service taking place. A simple service, with prayers for NHS workers, peace in the world and everyone's private intention, followed by The Lords Prayer. I sat down, near the back and listened, taking in the beauty and magnificence of the building.

It took me a very long time to enjoy such buildings. As a child, I was forced to go to church and found such buildings musty and intimidating. Now, I find them peaceful and reassuring. This is not really a religious thing. I had a Roman Catholic education and we were brainwashed to be suspicious of other faiths, their buildings and their ways. As Londoners, we are lucky. We are exposed to other creeds and cultures on a daily basis. Any lingering secratrian distrust has long since gone. I can see beauty wherever it is and find fascination in all manner of places that my teachers would have been appalled by. London won that particular war with my blinkered teachers.

I had not previously noted the monument to William Shakespeare within the Cathedral. Whilst my schooling tried very hard to put me off C of E  Churches, they put a huge amount of effort trying to persuade me that William Shakespeare was the best thing since sliced bread. We were forced to read the Bard. As we yawned, we were endlessly lectured on his wit, his wisdom, his talent. We were shown videos of his works, featuring actors in silly costumes, speaking in stilted accents, on the old Philips video system that it seems were only ever bought by schools. We would have to write essays eulogising his works and praising his geniues, whilst all the time counting the seconds to the bell for playtime. 

I finally left school at eighteen years old. Five years later, I met my now wife. I was spellbound by her beauty and intelligence, but perplexed when she informed me she loved the work of William Shakespeare, suggesting I gave it another go. It took me a very long time to realise that she had a point. It was only when I realised that Shakespeare invented most of the insults in the English language, that I realised she may have a point.  

As a blogger, a song writer and a poet, I have come to appreciate the work of the Bard. I will never be his biggest fan, but I have realised that our teachers failed miserably to explain the true magnificence of his work. If I was given such a task, teaching miscievous eleven year old boys about his talent, the insults would be the first place I'd start. I think I'd also explain that his work was seen as mass entertainment in Elizabethan times, it was not highbrow or exclusive and the snobs of the time looked down on him. 

Shakespeare wrote for a living and earned money entertaining the working people of England. Much as we repeat the catchphrases of our famous comedians, such as "He's not the Messiah, he's a very naughty boy", they would leave exclaiming quotes such as  “Villain, I have done thy mother” (Titus Andronicus Act 4, Scene 2) tittering wildly. It is amusing to me that the same English teachers who would put down punk singers such as John Lydon and Rap/Hip Hop poets for such lyrics, would laud Shakespeare for his wit.

I made my way to the garden. I don't know if I've never noticed it before, but there is a bench where you can sit with the great bard and exchange pleasantries. Of course he doesn't say much, he doesn't have to. I got to thinking "What would William Shakespeare think of my work with The False Dots?" Now I am not comparing my work with his, but I suspect that we'd get on just fine. I suspect he may feel more at home at one of our gigs (once he got used to the noise) than he would at many modern productions of his plays. I sat down next to him on the bench, went to take a selfie and got a strong feeling that he was saying "Come on then son, give me your best!!!". I was quite taken aback for a second by this feeling. Now I am not saying I was communicating or channelling, but I felt, for a second, a warm glow that I was in the presence of a master and he wanted to help me (yes I know this was a delusion, but I'd rather have a pleasant delusion than a miserable reality).  So I gave him my best shot. I sat for a while, trying to think what poem was most Shakespearian. Then I thought, no, lets give him a blast of pure Roger Tichborne. I'm not and will never be a tribute act. I do my own material! I think he appreciated that. Can you imagine how bored he must be with people sitting there and saying "Foresooth, alas poor Yorrick I knew him well"?

I cannot pretend that making this video didn't give me a massive buzz and very unexpected buzz. Was it the mind bending effects of the coffee? It was completely off the cuff, but it just felt like the right thing to do. A bunch of tourists stood and watched and probably thought I was either a madman or part of the furniture, I am not quite sure. For a few seconds, I felt a kinship with Billy. If only we could adjourn for a flaggon of grog around the corner, the world would be perfect. 

As I walked back to the train, I wondered what he'd make of London in 2023. It is a very different City. I suspect that he'd do better than many other historical figures. He strikes me as a forward looking man, ahead of his time. His plays are timeless. His humour cuts to the heart of the human condition. He was not a puritan or a prude. His work was not the work of a little Englander. 

For me, this was a transformative experience. This may sound silly, but in London we are surrounded by the ghosts of our rich history. We cannot see them, we cannot feel them, but they are there and in places such as Southwark Cathedral, we can share a space with them. It would be one of the few places that the Bard would find vaguely recognisable today. This is what London does to you. You go out for a pre op check up, you stop for a coffee and you end up with a deeply spiritual experience. 

The sounds of London are there if you listen. That is what London symphonies is trying to capture. If you are interested, here is the full photo album from the visit to Southwark Cathedral. It is well worth a visit and the coffee and croissants are wonderful.

London Symphonies - A postcard from the edge (of London)

 I received an envelope through the letter box last week. It contained four postcards, issued by the London Borough of Barnet Libraries service. Each depicted a scene between 1900 and 1930, of well known landmarks in Mill Hill, London, NW7. The envelope had a note saying "I'm having a clear out, I thought you might have some use for these. Richard". It was from my old friend Richard Wilkinson.

It got me thinking about postcards. When was the last time I sent one? I am not sure but probably some time before 2008, to my mother. She used to love to recieve a postcard. I hated writing them, I never really saw the point. I'd try and find cheeky or funny ones and they'd have a short message saying "Having a great time, wish you were here". When mum passed away, we had hundreds, if not thousands of postcards that she'd kept, all in bags. All went in the bin. We didn't pause to look at them. However Richards present got me thinking. I'm sure that perhaps 99% of them were pictures from Torremolinos with bland messages, what about the odd gem that maybe went in the bin with them? I looked at Richards cards and they were fascinating.

I have no idea what year the Barnet Library service issued them. I'm assuming that they were sold in local libraries, so that visitors could share with all what a wonderful place the London Borough of Barnet was. My mum would berate me when I sent silly cards. She said she wanted to see what the place I was visiting looked like. I used to say "I'll show you the pictures when they are developed (no digital pictures or Instagram in 2008). She'd say "It's not the same, when I see a post card, it's like going on a journey"". She would always send us post cards. They'd have long messages saying about the bars, clubs and sights. She'd use every inch of space and write in small letters, whereas I'd write in the largest letters possible. 

I can recall my Dad telling me about when he arrived in Boston in 1942 with the Australian air force. He'd never seen snow befofe, having been born in the out back of Australia. He went to a gift shop and asked for some pictures to send back to his sisters. All of the postcards had idylic scenes, trees lined with cherry blossom, blue skies, etc. He asked if there were any pictures of Boston, not realising that it was only a frozen hellhole for a few months of the year, the rest of the time it is very nice.

When I was a kid, I used to visit London with my mum quite regularly. You'd see all manner of postcards and tat being sold. I used to wonder why anyone would ever want to send a postcard of London to anyone. It wasn't a sunny seaside scene like the pictures of Majorca that we'd get through the post. It didn't occur to me that for someone livinmg im Majorca, a visit to London might be rather interesting. 

As for postcards of Mill Hill. Such a concept would have seemed completely bonkers to me. I could just about understand someone sending a postcard to their brother in Utah of the Tower of London, but why would anyone want to send a picture of The Old Forge or The Adam and Eve?I mean if you'd come 4,000 miles to visit England, then  the last place you'd want to send a post card from was Mill Hill? Who on earth ends up in Mill Hill, who might want to share a postcard of such a place with anyone?

Of course, I'd made the classic mistake of having the blinkers on. Just because I was born and raised in Mill Hill and all of my siblings knew what Mill Hill looks like, what about my Dad? When the postcards were issued, probably in the 1970's or 80's, his sisters were alive and living in Townesville in Queensland, Australia. None had been to London. None knew what the town their brother had lived in for 40 years looked like. Like my mother, they loved getting cards and a picture is worth a thousand words. My Dad was not alone in living in Mill Hill, having arrived from all manner of places. Highly esteemed scientists from the four corners of the world would turn up to work at the National Institute for Medical Research. Many would drink at the Adam and Eve and the Rising Sun. They might have had tea at the Old Forge tea rooms and worshipped at The Sacred Heart. Theyhad mums, dads, brothers and sisters, who would be fascinated by such cards. 

I wondered what sort of message may be appended "Dear Florence, I have started work at the NIMR in Mill Hill. This card shows our local pub, The Adam and Eve, which we sometimes pop in for a pint on the way home, Mill Hill is a lovely little town on the outskirts of London and we are settling in well" might be the sort of message. Maybe, like my mothers cards, it sat there for forty years, until Florence passed away, when like my mothers cards, it was slung in the bin, without a second glance.

When I look at these vintage cards, I'm fascinated by them. I wonder what other London Boroughs produced and what are the most unlikely cards produced? Perhaps the strangest I've seen is a poscard depicting the 1905 Shenly Hill fire.

Clearly there was a market for such cards, as they were relatively expensive. I suppose that in 1905, it was rare to have such an exciting event locally preserved on film. The decline of the post card seems to have been brought about by the accessibility and cheapness of photography. With Facebook and Instagram, we don't need cards to show mum what Ibiza looks like. Now we spend our life snapping pictures, which we post on line and forget. My kids won't have bags of old postcards to discrd. I wonder when all of the talking dogs and bad meme's will be binned by Facebook etc?

How times change. When I was a teenager, I found the concept of a postcard from London almost absurd. Now I find them fascinating. Sadly my Mum is not around to post a card to, but that's no reason not to send her a card. So which one?

I've decided to choose the Adam and Eve card. Why? Mum loved a visit to the pub. The Adam and Eve has significantly changed since she passed in 2008. So here's my card 

Dear Mum, Hope all is good, wherever you are! Mill Hill has changed a bit. The Ridgeway and the Adam and Eve are almost unercognisable from when you last visited. The Medical Research has been demolished, the pub has been completely refurbished and is unrecognisable from when we last went. It's been cold recently, we are looking forward to summer, when the doggy walks will be more fun

Love Rog.