It actually is the Goodyear blimp. And it’s headed for the Beckers in Hackney.
Shit phew, just missed.
A better version here on Google Streetview
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In the throbbing heart of London’s West End, Rapunzel sits in a lonely tower above an opticians. The young suitors approach the castle but are too short-sighted to see her. And when they leave, they take one look at her and all they see is the logistical nightmare of going out with a girl who has to push her hair around in a wheelbarrow.
Oh yeah, and here’s a pub in Hackney.
I found this note the other day, tucked away in an old box with some souvenirs. The corners of the page were greatly yellowed and it looked like someone had burnt the edges so I knew it must be really old.
” The journal of Mark’s exploration of the Inca Amazon jungle with his trusty companion and pack-lugger Dan…
June 1st 1867
The heat is oppresive (sic) and indecent sweat coats my private parts, however the trip proceeds well with Dan’s pungent stench reminding me of the barbarous working class I plan to annihilate on my return to England…”
Click on the picture to read the full journal entry.
Read more of Mark’s obsession with his private parts and the barbarism of the working class soon!
What the hell is going on at this wedding? Why are they all so angry? I went into this wedding shop in Dalston and the assistant told me it’s a diorama of the best-man’s speech. Three chairs scrape harshly, three men have risen to their feet in shock as the drunk best man threatens to reveal the whereabouts of the shallow grave they just dug.
Bit dull-looking this one, but according to information on this flickr page, The Boundary Street Estate in Bethnal Green was the world’s first council estate, built 1897.
Its eyes are like those of a herbivorous dinosaur startled from sleep.
Usually when I see a sheet of paper tacked to a wall I expect to see the heading “Polite Notice” and for the note to actually be a fully-justified (in the printing sense) passive-aggressive diktat. But this note, on the wall near my girlfriend’s house in London, is the very opposite – cheerful, admiring, heartwarming. I miss the horse too. It was life-sized and gentle, with an expression that told of some horsey inner wisdom. Another one appeared very briefly, up the road a-ways… this one had gold wings. I think it’s gone now.
I just realised I used the word “diktat” in that paragraph purely because I saw it on the back cover of my copy of “Porpoises Rescue Dick Van Dyke”, which arrived fresh from Lulu’s printers today.
I highly recommend it! You can buy it here.
Furthermore, having seen the video of lovely old Dick Van Dyke telling the story of his rescue to Craig Ferguson, I now can’t help but picture Jon and George from numbers 41 + 13 as porpoises!
I just walked up to the village Co-op to get some beer and a packet of crisps. Not the healthiest diet for a man of my age, but I figured I’ve done a good day’s work and intend to be working for a while longer and I deserve a goddamn beer (Co-op own-brand Czech lager) and some goddamn crisps (Smiths squares, grab bag, but still only about 40g). I have a thing about queues in shops – especially Holland and Barrett – long queues seem to form right after I’ve entered a shop and I suddenly find several people materialise there before me in a previously empty place. There’s obviously a far-reaching covert organisation ordering its minions to mildly inconvenience me.
I brought my own bag to hold the stuff but have always found it difficult to judge the orchestration of the transaction and bagging operation. I usually end up trying to do them simultaneously and find myself unsuccessfully juggling shopping and wallet, worse if combinations of notes and coins is involved, and even worse if the weather is cold and I’m wearing gloves, coat and hat. I’d given the man a tenner and fished in my pocket for a twenty p to make the change easier for him to handle, but I was holding a glove and the bottles were difficult to manoeuvre into the bag and clashed together, threatening to topple over. The man at the till, perhaps wisely, didn’t help me – I think the combination of own-bag, lager and crisps sparked off some nexus of shopkeeperly prudence, some muscle-memory pounded into him over and over again by his steely but wise mentor.
On the way back I passed the bus stop, where I saw a woman who looked like the sloughed-off husk of a pupating Brian Dennehy.
The “Piece of Cheese Cottage”, Hastings, East Sussex. I would have got a bit closer so i could frame the shot like all the others I’ve done, with clear views down either side, but there were some workmen on the roof of the cottage behind me having cups of tea, and I lost my bottle.