What a Fete!

Its been a while since I've been on here and its because everything is coming to a head. My working class equivalent of the grand tour - a three year search for self improvement and a real career though specialised education - sorta finishes this year. Finance and time are running out and so I've been vary aware of not wasting either. Not that being on here is a waste of time (?) but if I've time to knock out a quick blog I should be writing my dissertation or trying to promote the two 'Introduction To...' classes I am running later this month -
Creative Producing and Screenwriting.

But all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. Or maybe a nutter. And talking of nutters, I decided this weekend to take some time out. I read about the Big Swim from Chiswick Pier. Since I've been in London full time I've been constantly working against some sort of deadline and since lectures finished I've not even had the exercise of walking to the tube, so I thought Saturday afternoon about three o'clock I should head out and suss the area a bit. So here in pictures is Nick's Guide to a Bit of West London And Jolly Nice It Is Too.


This road above is not leafy Sussex or Warwickshire. Nope, its a road not far from our Chiswick flat, 20 mins from the bustling metropolis of The City on a Saturday afternoon. How can you not love this?


As a recent convert to Moseley Rugby Club on Billesley Common I was having withdrawal symptoms till I discovered the Chiswick equivalent on Saturday. But although they have a brick built clubhouse instead of Moseley's portacabins, the whole operation is much smaller, provincial (in London!) and lower-leagued. But it means the (smaller) clubhouse is completely bursting with kit bags, players, trophies and beer. I intend to find out more when time and finance allows. And in the fleshpots of the metropolis it also looks as if people can leave bikes unlocked!




Like I said, nutters. They have their own society, don't y' know. This dip pool by Chiswick pier.

Top Nutter wins silver thing, presented by the Mayor of Hounslow, for...




...winning this 1k swim to Chiswick Eyot and back. The winner did it in 12 mins! The last guy took 45 mins against the tide. A huge effort. I stayed to the very end and found the massive cheer, applause and encouragement for the last guy strangely moving. I might be turning into a girl. Or a nutter. And again, being in fleshpots of the metropolis, the whole event, Mayor and all, had the feel of a small village fete. Like Kings Heath Carnival without the tents.

I look again at the river and I start to think this big swim would be something to work towards...

Mmm. Back to work then.

Sunday, 25 February 2007

Two amazing things happened yesterday. For the first time since about 1994, I didn’t switch the computer on all day! Not even to check e-mails. Although there are lots of benefits to working from home, leaving work is very difficult. Especially as I’m trying to get Maverick going again and rapidly running out of dosh! The temptation is always to go back to the computer and do a bit more. But today I didn’t. Instead I went with John, my spiritual father in law, and saw Moseley rugby club get beaten by Leeds Tykes. Now, I’m not much of a rugger bugger, but Moseley are now on the common by my old council estate and I love the idea of a traditional ‘old wealthy’ game being played in a council estate.

Then, another unique experience. I went and saw Ken Dodd at Dudley. A mate of mine, Brian, kindly booked a bunch of tickets so I thought I’d give it a go. A living legend is Doddy and some of his surrealism feels very contemporary for an old chap. But nobody warned us – although I’d heard the rumours – about the ‘longevity’ not just of his reputation, but of the show itself. Curtain up was 7.30pm. The interval finally came, much to the relief of a hot, thirsty and numb bummed audience nearly three hours later at 10.20pm!

As we fled to the door for some fresh air the doorman remarked,

“Keep your tickets if you want to come back. Although a lot of people didn’t last night.’

I wasn’t altogether surprised. The chairs were not that comfortable and I’d actually thought about not returning myself.

“What time did he finish last night?” I enquired.

The doorman shuffled a bit and looked vaguely embarrassed.

“Well…about… well… it was about one o’clock”

1AM! I was pleased to have seen the living legend and he truly is a great man and a fine comic, but it was time for the pub.

We alighted at the nearest hostelry which was ancient and attractive on the outside, but young, loud and louche on the inside.

As we dodged the occasional flying snooker cue and struggled to be heard above the bass beats and more frequent foul mouthed, mainly female obscenities, Steve, a writer mate of mine, summed up the whole Ken Dodd Laughter Show -or at least the first half - which included a musical interlude by a portly attractive young musician backed by Kens band, a keyboardist and rather bored drummer who bore an uncanny resemblance to John Prescott.

“It was like waking up at Butlins”, said Steve, “in 1955.”