Public Service Announcement: I was for several years a trader at Camden, Spitalfields and Greenwich markets, to add context to the following post. There is an old 300,000 word blog dealing with that, but I have mislaid it for the time being.
Unless you are trying to see how far you can slide in your socks – which in my part of the NHS we do quite often – you never run along a hospital corridor. The trick to getting around efficiently is to walk fast-slow, so as not to disconcert patients, while maintaining your hospital voice. Sid’s interpretation of me doing this involves charging around the front room shouting ‘CALM DOWN MY NAME IS PAUL WHEN DID YOU LAST EAT?’, and this is a reasonable approximation. On rare occasions, however, there is a need to ‘walk, but run’. Basically, this means jogging, but it’s over-dramatic, even if I sense there are some staff whose entire reason for joining the medical profession in the first place is, one day, to run along a corridor doing this exact thing. Dicks.
That said, there are times when no amount of jogging, calming down, dietary enquiry or explaining what my name is will change an outcome, as was the case recently with a Stoke City fan. He was an entirely likeable man, cheerfully and calmly accepting his deteriorating situation. In fact, so admirable was his stoic manliness that, as a result of speaking with him, I no longer want to kill former Stoke midfielder Chris Kamara, proof that your opinions about people can change. In case you are unfamiliar, Kamara broke West Ham striker Frank McAvennie’s leg some years ago, and the refrain Kill Kamara! echoed around Upton Park for the rest of the season. It echoes still, in faded spray paint, along the less frequented alleys and burger vans of E13 – a haunting reminder of a happier time. It also lingers in north Norfolk, where I once delighted my current girlfriend and startled our dozing son by yelling it when I discovered him reading the CBeebies bedtime story, but perhaps it is time to move on. As I explained to the Stoke City fan, if Frank McAvennie is allowed to break Chris Kamara’s leg in return, I am finally prepared to draw a line under the episode.
(Incidentally, at around the same time, former Liverpool and England stalwart Emlyn Hughes publicly criticised West Ham in the tabloids. Disaffection among fans was transmitted in a blunt refrain set to the tune of When The Saints Go Marching In and utilising the ‘call and response’ method most closely associated with the gospel music of the Deep South, replacing the line ‘I want to be in that number’ with ‘He’s gonna die, die and die’. Emlyn Hughes did actually die, twenty-four years later, of a brain tumour, so the song proved to be chillingly accurate.)
My opinions on Nat Baker haven’t changed much since he stole my Minstrels, but I occasionally wonder what might have come to pass if I’d just stabbed him in the fucking face when we were children and had done with it. Perhaps he might have avoided a subsequent life of crime, culminating in an arrest in a Honda Passat containing half a million pounds’ worth of Ecstasy, for which he received eight years in Belmarsh and, presumably, lost his driving licence. When in Belmarsh – ‘a local nick, for local people’ – with my old Camden co-trader Plastic Dave he discovered a flair for kitchen work. Had he not done this, he may not have acquired Abra Kebabra in Turnpike Lane upon his release, buying salad wholesale from Greenwich Market trader Fruity Eddie, whose sister he subsequently married. His kebab shop was great, and did the magic combo of kebabs and chip shop chips, so perhaps not stabbing him was a positive move, after all. As I have explained to him since, I could slash away like a combine harvester these days and never hit an artery, such is his tremendous fatness. Ah well. Perhaps this, perhaps that.
Not that we had any contact before Fruity Eddie recommended me as a source of kitchenware for the six outlets he and Mrs Baker went on to own across north and west London, as Eddie and I were both trading at Greenwich Market at the time. Had this not happened, I would never subsequently have been re-acquainted with Nat in the now-demolished Duke of Wellington public house, Toynbee Street, London E1, and a deal between us would never have been struck, with my insistence upon a catering sized bag of Minstrels and a vinyl copy of Don’t Mess With My Toot Toot by Denise LaSalle thrown in for a larf. Subsequently, I would not have had care labels with ‘Enormous Thieving Wanker’ attached to the inside neck hem of sixty bleach-resistant poly-cotton bib aprons with adjustable halter and anti-tangle ties. Above all, though, I would never have been in happy receipt of cash payment for the same and, while pondering what to do with it, received a call from Mrs Baker about swear words in her aprons. I assured her that there was no need to worry because, although foul language around food was unprofessional, it was perfectly hygienic, and embraced the warm and calming sensation of justice finally done.
Picters:
Main: Abra Kebabra in, I think, Croydon. This is an actual chain in Ireland, so I am not sure how it all works with copyright and whatnot. In any case, the last I heard, Nat had sold the business, so who knows.
Top: Chris Kamara, still alive and everything.
Lower: Writing important things on my arms in Main Theatres, as always.
In his 2004 Patience album, George Michael lyrically posed the question ‘If Jesus Christ is alive and well, how come John and Elvis are dead?’. I should imagine that a lot of it is down to genetics. Presley’s father was a manual labourer with a congenital heart condition, whereas Jesus’ father, famously, is God. There are also lifestyle choices to consider: Elvis and John Lennon had significant issues with drugs, and for many years ate badly, drank heavily, and generally made poor lifestyle choices. Jesus, by contrast, enjoyed a seasonal and organic diet, drank in moderation and despite holding down two jobs – carpenter and son of God – was able to do so while fitting in exercise and plenty of fresh air.
jitterbug refrain coincided with the exact moment a group of Arsenal fans invaded the Chicken Run, an area of Upton Park which had, to say the least of it, little to do with the animated film of the same name. Arsenal, who could put out good numbers back then, were giving a decent account of themselves, and I watched on with interest. As the song continued, I found the reference to the sun shining brighter than Doris Day an interesting contrast to the unfolding melee, which consisted of people in golfing jumpers, as was the terrace fashion of the time, beating the absolute shit out of each other. The line come on baby, let’s not fight also tickled me because, by this point, everyone was fighting. The stewards and programme vendors had waded in, and even the disabled did their bit by hurling coins into the fray from the wheelchair section opposite. It was the most exciting thing I had ever seen, a view shared by the many kids from my school who were there, and was pretty much all everyone talked about for days, especially as Everton were visiting the following week, and they were blade merchants. I’m sure eight year olds in all those down-to-earth, honest-to-goodness, working class Labour boroughs have exactly the same sensibilities now.
branch of Snappy Snaps while confused; I once rode my bike into the back of an Audi while wondering what Russ Abbot was up to these days, and I feel these are experiences we could have swapped with little surprise to our respective peer groups. There was an easy kinship to be had with the chubby bloke from Finchley Road that the Spider From Mars was too busy banging on about Berlin and outer space to adequately provide.
In Norfolk, home of Britain’s flabbiest arms, January has finally ended. For those of us involved with the Runton Hall project, it was an unhappy contrast to the carefree Januaries of our market trading past. Back then, January was January: a month on the sofa listening to the footie and eating biscuits in the commercial afterglow of a Christmas trading run. There were left over advent calendars from Liberty of London too, as large numbers of these would find their way to from Regent Street to Camden Lock courtesy of the Theft Fairy and, as December went on, formed the cornerstone of every traders’ diet. I never found out exactly who was bringing them in, but Plastic Dave, who once mugged a postman for his shoes, would be substituting them for fruit by the middle of the month, and eating five a day. What a treat for the public we must have been. Sadly, January 2018 was less certain and less delicious. There was no snoozing and no planning of summer festival trading over snakebite and fried egg sandwiches at the Duke of Wellington public house, Toynbee Street, London E1. The world has turned and, for those of us struggling to turn with it, Runton is as dead as a doornail. No one is even there except Graham, who leaves his caravan twice daily to shoot things, and the trustees who live in the Hall itself, the Big House into which only Joe is ever invited. At the end of the second decade of the twenty first century, January is a very different kettle of coconuts, and I am not entirely keen on it.
It’s not all gloom, though. We have, after all, had a few weeks off. ‘Anton’ who, as you may recall now resides in a part of Leeds he describes as ‘well Basra’, spent part of the break being chased along his own street when Millwall played at Elland Road which, in case you are unfamiliar, is the home of Leeds United. In the interest of context, Millwall fans such as ‘Anton’ are composed of poor genetic stock, historically bound by law to stay the fuck in south London and, put simply, are terrible, terrible people. To illustrate the point, I once made the mistake of cycling through Bermondsey, a place overlooked by God and infested with generations of Millwall, in a West Ham shirt and was subjected to ribaldry, with which I will not trouble you, at almost every set of lights from Deptford Creek to Borough High Street. It wouldn’t happen now obviously, because the place is as full of depressed media consultants and Ocado vans as every other part of London, but still. The thing is, in Millwall areas, social cleansing has been especially disastrous, because when the colonists moved into Bermondsey and Deptford with their gluten intolerances and pulled pork, Millwall fans were driven from their natural environment and started turning up as far away as Acton. Yes, Acton is west London and who knows what goes on out there, but can we really claim that spreading Millwall across the capital represents progress? I, for one, do not think we can.
with stairs, walls, doors, flushable sanitation and sundry other things that you just don’t get in a yurt. I presumed they’d put a tent up in the back garden and use the house for livestock, but during my recent visit they were quite the urbanites, and Joe especially was a far cry from the person who, on three separate occasions, has had people trying to kill him. As we drank wine and discussed the benefits of permanent rooved structures it struck me that for the first time in a decade I was able to talk with the pair of them without the shrillness and running around that make children so fucking annoying – the only competing sound was George Michael’s Symphonica wafting from a discrete wall mounted speaker. The whole thing was rather civilised and, I realised, the first time since 2008 that I have heard Becka finish a sentence without having to shout at, feed, rescue or otherwise manage her numerous children halfway through. They move back to Runton next week. I am sure their many children will re-adjust easily, but predict epic tantrums from Joe and Becka.
As for my time off, I spent some of it studying old floorplans of Sheffield city hall because one of my Christmas presents was a ticket for the Beatles’ 1963 show there, and I wanted to see what sort of view the person would’ve had. Quite a nice one, as it goes. I also saw West Ham at Stoke and, unlike ‘Anton’, managed to do so without getting on public transport with anyone I had been cajoling with references to ‘gobby northern wankers’ and ‘Bell End Road’. Things could’ve been different though, as I found myself on a train carriage with forty Stoke fans after the game, but they were a right old larf, especially considering we beat them 3-0. It was mainly mums and dads going back to the small towns between Stoke and Derby, and we passed the time discussing the fattest team to win a major honour – Nottingham Forest under Brian Clough, as far as I’m concerned. There was some mention of Liverpool when Neil Ruddock was at Anfield, but I refused to be swayed and in evidence suggested that the only reason Clough played John Robertson on the wing at Forest was because it was nearer to the chip van in the car park, and by the time we all parted company, I felt my argument had carried the day.
It is summer in Britain, and everything smells of unhappiness and Lynx. Well, nearly everything: by a broken fence next to a violent East Anglian petting zoo, the Goat Bag Man smells faintly of paraffin. Three weeks in the country air have all but purged the aroma of a leather waterproofing industry based around a Highgate bath that makes him so easily identifiable to the visually impaired, and his time as my body double in the wake of the Tennyson Road Incident is almost at an end. In fact, unbeknown to him, it already has ended. Had he not suggested, following my discharge from hospital with working legs but non-working arms, that I earn a living among the cast of River Dance, I would not be feigning continuing muscular trauma, he would not have to mend fences with Graham on my behalf, and there would be one more ice cream sale on Primrose Hill on weekday afternoons – but I can’t help that.
bitten by a deer last time we spoke got its head stuck in fencing nine times that week, requiring several fence posts to be hacked through in order to retrieve the silly bastard. Usually, when tedious physical labour is required around the Estate, Becka organises Forest School ‘fun groups’ to do it – appropriate in this case, as petting zoo goats regularly ruin their games of Manhunt. This is essentially hide and seek, with nine year olds scouring the wooded area on the south of the Estate for one of their number who lies on the ground, covers themselves with leaves, and pretends to be dead. While macabre, there is little chance of an actual fatality. Goats indicate the vicinity of the ‘grave’ by battering at nearby fencing, giving the game away somewhat, and in any case Forest School kids are as fat as they are endearing, and therefore unlikely to summon the physical energy required to bury themselves properly. They are also inept woodworkers (as Becka discovered while trying to get them to make bird boxes amid spirited enquiries about what a bird needs a box for and how will it carry it about) and can take over an hour to saw through a five inch fence post. This simply isn’t good enough. Once the entrapped livestock is once again free to caper about all over the place like a fucking idiot, repairs are undertaken by Graham, hammering at one end of a fence post with the uninsured Goat Bag Man and ‘Anton’ holding it steady and swearing at him, from the other.
Trustees to falsify a tenancy agreement thereby proving where he lives which, surprisingly, they did. I fondly recall trading at the Thames Festival in 2010 with velvet-toned posho Supertone, and realising that we had no public liability insurance certificate as the organisers did their rounds. It was an impressive thing, all calligraphy and swirls, and failure to produce one meant being thrown off site and barred from trading there in future. Usually, groups of traders deal with this by passing one certificate surreptitiously between them for repeated inspection, but we were trading away from anyone we knew and were unable to join in with this elementary bluff. Calligraphy and swirls look nice, and made the certificate a gift for the skilled counterfeiter, so Supertone drew one, flashed it tetchily at the organisers while pretending to be busy with something else, and we went on to have a blinding weekend of it. The last time I saw him, we passed a quiet trading afternoon at Leadenhall Market trying to translate correspondence by nineteenth century French romantic poet and novelist Victor Hugo (who wrote The Hunchback of Notre Dame), mysteriously acquired by Jigsaw John. As I recall, most of it was tetchy letters to his sister complaining about how difficult it was to get shirts laundered around the Paris Commune. I sometimes miss the incongruous sophistication that trading among such people often produced, because the countryside is awful. Still, the bite wound inflicted upon Archie by rampaging petting zoo animals the other week has healed nicely and without complication, leaving nothing more than two small puncture wounds. I might jazzle him by popping a sequin in each, and take him along to Norwich Pride.
What happened next was that the cabbie, who had a name badge informing me that his name was Andrew, asked if I was alright, and in return I asked if he was ‘fucking blind’, both reasonable questions under the circumstances. My right leg was the only limb in working order, and using this to lever myself to the side of the road, I made further enquiries as to ‘What kind of fucking ISIS bullshit was that?’ and ‘Where’s your fucking van, you fucking terrorist?’, because I had discovered that adrenaline and indignation make you quite gobby. His passengers were also remonstrating with him, and as they called sundry emergency services my guardian Rastafarian appeared. A long time ago in a London borough far far away en route to Greenwich Market, I slid off my bike on Peckham High Road, and was helped up, dusted off and jollied along by two passing Rastas. Rural Norfolk, however, is an unlikely place to chant down Babylon, and my baffled state was further enhanced when, at this latest moment of peril, a bona fide follower of Haile Selassi appeared from a passing car, asking me which football team I supported by way of determining possible head injuries.
West Ham fan and an Arsenal fan in the same place, it’s usually the Arsenal fan that’s lying on the floor, severely injured. By now, Andrew the cabbie was being arrested and I was being placed in a neck and spine brace by an ambulance driver who looked like Jeremy Corbyn, adding to the overall surreal nature of the evening. This caused me to think that perhaps a middle-class ambulance had picked me up by mistake, and I prepared myself for quite a long discussion about, probably, Brexit. These fears increased when, on the way to the Norwich and Norfolk University Hospital, the first question asked by the ambulance lady was if I had any food allergies. My experience with glampers at Runton tells me that there are a lot of things middle class people can’t eat – nuts, gluten, meat, dairy, fish, stuff from Israel etc – as they are an evolutionary dead end, which is also why they don’t breed. Upon reflection, I think this was the moment I realised I was going to be in hospital for some time, so I just said that while I have no allergies as such, I don’t like tapas as it is annoying because there is never enough of anything. Attempting to wrestle the conversation back to that evening’s headline news, I asked if I was badly hurt. The ambulance lady said that if I was a cat, I’d certainly have lost one of my nine lives. I pointed out that if I was a cat I wouldn’t have been riding a bike in the first place, and she admitted I had a point.
The Runton Diaries 