Car Boot Sales

Stephanie asks:

"Do you or any of your readers know of any half-decent boot sales around the area? I'm looking to sell off some bits and bobs but am slightly wary of naively turning up in a semi-decent car and seen as rich-pickings. Any hints or tips would be gratefully received."

The Phantom has only ever tried car-booting twice - both were spectacular disasters. The first was in the multi-storey car park in Lewisham about ten years ago. It was a big commercial one and I seemed to be the only person not selling knocked-off designer handbags, miracle-wonder-gadgets or dodgy tea towels. It was horrid. I don't even know if it still exists, but if it does, avoid it.

The second time was even worse - in a scrap metal yard just off Brick Lane. It was unspeakably bad - I was a lamb to the slaughter.

My friends tell me the best ones to look out for are the much more genteel table-top sales that churches and schools often hold - far more 'genuine' sellers and less hassle all round. Also the money you pay for the pitch goes to charity. Look out for them in the local paper.

Other people may have more positive impressions, but I for one will never car-boot again. Ebay is ok, though you'll pay for absolutely everything. You can list stuff on Gumtree for nothing, and it's gaining popularity over Ebay which is rapidly becoming a dealers' domain - more like an online mall - great if you're looking for stuff, but not as quirky as it used to be.

And if you need to get rid of things but not actually sell them, charity shops are always happy to have good stuff (Bexley Cottage Hospice will collect furniture, though they can't take electric stuff, I don't think) and Freecycle, though occasionally frustrating when flaky people mis-use it, is a fantastic way of keeping stuff out of landfill.

Money Talks

Bob tells me:

"I work by the Dome on the new TFL headquarters. Today we've been treated to the Red Bull air race practice session. It was a stroke of genius having the turning point located so close to the waste transfer station. Only two seagulls were seen to be struck; one by a plane, the other by a helicopter...

I was looking on your site to see how it is that a footpath can be closed and the space sold to spectators. Are you aware of how the council is able to permit this? (I do hope the borough is paid handsomely).

What did see half an hour ago was the "relocation" of a tree. - No doubt others will be 'moved.' A lorry mounted with a large ground-penetrating hydraulic claw was in the process of moving a tree from the front of one of the newly erected grandstands. I suspect they will be returned but I don't think it will do the trees any good."

The Phantom replies:

I wondered about the whole closure of the Thames Path for profit thing last year when I had fantasies about some poor sod who had managed to walk the entirety of the Thames from the Cotswolds, only to find that it was invalid as he couldn't walk the bit in the middle of the Peninsula...

I have no idea whether the council is harvesting any cash from this - I would like to think so. This is a commercial sporting event and people are making a lot of money out of it. We should be compensated for the loss of our liberty.

As for the trees - well - they may not be 300 years old and planted by Charles II, but they still won't be much chuffed about being yanked out of the ground in this weather. Is this just to make space for spectators? They had better be paying BIG money for that - and supplying giant vases for the poor trees while they're out of the ground, preferably cut-glass or with pretty flowers on them.

Will you let me know if they're put back, and keep me updated on their health, Bob?

Oh - and people who are going - will you do me a favour? I thoroughly enjoyed the world's worst commentator last year who came up with some absolutely hilarious guff. If he's doing it again this year and he comes up with any gems, do pass them on...

Dancing Sailors

I found the most extraordinary volume in a second hand bookshop yesterday. I thought it was fairly odd at the time, but it was only getting it home that I realised just how peculiarly encased in 1930s aspic it is.

Twice Round the London Clock, published in 1933, was written by one Stephen Graham, about whom I can find virtually nothing, but from his writing appears to have been a newspaper columnist, writing for The Sunday Chronicle. In the book, Graham goes to various bohemian parties in Belgravia, slums-it round the East End, and eats at old City establishments, making witty comment as he goes. The illustrations are by the Chronicle's resident artist, Rick Elmes. The pair of them - oh, how they get into scrapes, largely surrounding Graham's portly figure, and the gaping yokels they come across.

There's nothing about Greenwich in there, chiz, but I was highly intrigued by the chapter entitled Dancing Sailors where Graham and Elmes visit a North Woolwich dance hall. I obviously haven't a clue what Graham was really like; I imagine a tubby posh bloke with a cut-glass BBC accent condescending to talk to the hoi-poloy in an excruciatingly patronising tone...

"The interior of California in North Woolwich is something like part of a ship...perhaps that is why an otherwise ordinary public house has become one of the gay spots in Dockland," he informs us. "The sailor ashore looks for something like a boat, and they are almost all sailors who dance there."

Interestingly, despite it being 1933, Graham really does mean 'gay' in the modern sense. But more about that in a minute.

The California's clientele is from around the world - Graham spends time describing the colourful array of costumes, skins and languages of the various Jolly Jack Tars whose ships have brought them to the port of London. He describes their conversation - their finding out about each other's worlds, their customs, what they want in life - and there are definitely those who are there for the local girls.

"The barmaids are buxom, well-cared for and independent. Sailors treat them respectfully. But the dancing girls, in their smart stockings and shabby everything else would really be kept out of the public houses except that they bring more custom. "

They're dancing to a "the shabbiest piano, with its top partly removed to let out more noise, and then to a one-man jazz band of the kind that used to be the wonder of children in the streets."

Eventually, Graham works out that "the men did not get off with the girls at all;" but "danced together in the funniest burlesque style."

Graham is not at all sure about This Kind Of Thing. He blames that very fast music Jazz, which has "infected ships by way of radio and, as, except on passenger ships, there are no women the "nancy boys" dance together."

He gradually gets used to it all though, noting that "when there is shore leave one may see hundreds of couples of sailors dancing together," especially at The California. Apparently, according to Graham, "the Navy dances much better than the mercantile marine." He's even worked out why - " the Navy has more time for it and the discipline helps."

Graham sits with a couple - a sailor and his new on-shore friend. When the friend discovers that the sailor is a butcher, he's all for going back with a car and loading up with provisions from the ship. The sailor doesn't seem particularly happy about this and Graham changes the subject - "he evidently hoped we'd forget - which we did for his sake."

Graham and Elmes later pick up a couple of girls, just in case the reader was getting any ideas about him.

"The dancing ladies are by no means averse from sitting down to a plate of ham if they can find a man who is willing to pay for that form of entertainment."

Watching women eat ham, eh. Whoooarrr. Of course, they have websites for that kind of thing these days...

So there you go - a curious little snippet, locked in the pages of a truly bizarre book hidden beneath a pile of dusty tomes in the musty basement of a bookshop on Charing Cross Road. I'm not really sure what it's saying - merely,perhaps, that there is a whole underbelly of History still to be discovered. In that one chapter, Graham touches on class, poverty, gender, sexuality and race-relations - fascinating to us seventy five years later. There is still much to be learned. Much to be discovered and discussed.

I thought you should see the pictures. The top one is of the California itself - check out the burly couple in the middle. But the one below gives me the creeps in its very smugness - a couple of East End girls overwhelmed by Lord Snooty and his motor carriage...

Here's What You Could Have Won...

Q:What do Greenwich Hill, Trafalgar Square and The Phantom Loft have in common?

A: They all once had space over which many arguments raged as to what to fill it with. In the case of the latter two, the arguments rage on...

When there's a useful space, we just have to fill it. And there was Greenwich Hill, a lovely promontory looking out over the Isle of Dogs, without a statue to call its very own. Not that there haven't been some kooky ideas over the years before settling upon the very splendid Greenwich Phantom General Wolfe design in the 1930s. And here's the kookiest...

The year is 1799. Britain has just won the Battle of the Nile and everyone's gone Nelson-mad, Mr Blackadder. The then Duke of Clarence (who will eventually become William IV) decides it will be a great idea to have some kind of triumphal sculpture to celebrate all things British and announces a competition for Something Nice to go at the top of Greenwich Hill.

There are a couple of half-hearted attempts - Old Father Thames and a bog-standard column being two of them. But nothing's really cutting it.

Then sculptor/draughtsman/decorator of Wedgewood pottery John Flaxman, the Anthony Gormley of his day, decides to large-it with his literal Big Idea.

It is to be a sort-of Angel-of-the-South-East. Intended to do pretty much the same job as the Angel of the North, a gigantic, 230-foot colossus (is that correct terminology if it's female?) of Britannia, the guardian angel of Great Britain, is to stand on the main road from the coast to London, framed by the two towers of the Naval College, to tell foreign visitors that they have arrived where the Art is.

Flaxman isn't convinced that the little maquette he's mocked-up will quite do the trick though - I mean how can he convince the powers-that-be of its grandeur when it's only a yard or so high? So he writes a pamphlet, explaining all about why he's decided to make her neo-classical (to be honest, not a hard sell, surely - can you imagine Britannia in any style other than neo-classical?) and gets his pupil William Blake to do a drawing for it.

It's the usual stuff - big bird in flowing outfit and helmet, brandishing shield and trident, complete with rather-cute lion. Years later, in 1958, one Malcolm Campbell, writing in the Princetown University journal, is to be quite sniffy about the whole thing, accusing it of being 'derivative' - but Flaxman has second-guessed him and harps on instead about the sculpture's symbolic value:

"It is to be remembered that the port of the Metropolis is the great port of the whole kingdom; that the Kent road is the ingress to London from Europe, Asia and Africa; and that, as Greenwich Hill is the place from whence the longitude is taken, the Monument would, like the first mile-stone in the city of Rome, be the point from which the world would be measured."

Stirring stuff, eh? And the man's not short on chutzpah. He reckons his work of art will last "as long as the Trajan Column, the Amphitheatre or the Pyramids of Egypt." He points out, too, that "it will ensure the praise and admiration of succeeding ages."

But here's a thing. Flaxman wasn't keen to have his colossal figure at any cost. He actually withdrew his suggestion in favour of an art gallery after a couple of years, when the Napoleonic wars started to hot-up again, and he was keen that if anything were to be built - his own or someone else's design - it should actually be worthwhile.

"It would certainly be far better not to raise any National Monument whatever on the present occasion, than one upon which considerable labour and expense should be laid out, to be the scoff of foreigners, and the disgrace of the country as long as it should exist."

I hate to bang on about the Olympics and Greenwich Park again - but wise words, don't you think...

Blake's picture of Britannia is in the Bodleian Library, but I read that the little maquette of the statue is in Sir John Soane's Museum, and felt it needed visiting.

I received a serious ticking-off for the following picture - the security guard went absolutely berserk at me - but since I've already taken the pain, and to be frank it's in the basement and, I'm not kidding, so very, very dimly lit that you actually can't see it properly, I present it here for your delight and delectation. Sadly no lion - a second shot was out of the question - I'd have been hanged for it...

But imagine this, 230 feet high, astride Greenwich Hill and wonder what might have been. Would the images on those split-picture tourist postcards of London have included The Houses of Parliament, St Paul's, Buckingham Palace, Tower Bridge - and the Greenwich Britannia? It's a thought, isn't it...

Moonlighting Chris?

Is our beloved Chris Roberts feeling the credit-crunch pinch? Is he having to supplement his Council-Leader income with a spot of extra cash-in-hand? This review, in London Lite yesterday (glad to see he's writing for a classy publication...) seems to suggest just that. I hope he's not using the Council Royal Box without announcing his interests...

Incidentally, "The Leader," the name by which, I am informed by - well, an informer, actually, Our Chris is known among his senior staff, translates into German as Der Fuehrer.

Just thought you'd like to know...

Helicopters Again

I'm feeling a bit lazy recently - I seem to have been allowing everyone else to write my content for me - but sometimes things are just so interesting I need to pop them in. Today, for example, I'm handing a mystery over to "K" who experienced strange happenings in Greenwich Park on Sunday night...

He writes:

"Last night (July 27th) I went to bed just before midnight and after initially falling asleep was awakened at about 1:30 am (this morning 28th) by the noise of a low flying helicopter over Greenwich Park, with a searchlight on, which is where it stayed until sometime after 4am.

I rang the park and they knew nothing about it. They referred me to the Met Police.

I rang the Metropolitan Police and they knew nothing about it. They referred me to Greenwich Police.

I rang Greenwich Police who were initially hugely reluctant to give any information at all, but who did ring back to say that a helicopter had been up from 03:19- 03:27.

This does not match with my observation.

1)Was anyone else kept awake by this invasive noise for an excessive amount of time?

I know the emergency services have a job to do and frankly I don’t mind paying the price of the odd broken night for the good it does in the general scheme of things. But I do think almost 3 hours of hovering about is excessive and unnecessary in the extreme at this hour of the night.

Trying to determine just who it was up there was not easy.

Did you know there is no one place, agency or body that regulates or accounts for all helicopter flights over London? (Two different police forces and the Greenwich Park office ALL told me that when I asked)

And unlike airplanes, apparently they don’t each have to file a flight plan either. (Again I enquired of this of all three of the above agencies) Or if they do, none of the three agencies that I contacted knew anything about it or how to find out.

Can anyone out there in Phantom Land lend any more credible information????"

The Phantom is curious. I'm mildly surprised that they don't have to file flight plans - I have a pal who's a helicopter pilot and he had to leave our place early on Saturday evening so he could compile a flight plan for Sunday morning - though of course he's civilian. It was also necessary as helicopters fly at the same height as the airship just now and we don't want any accidental pops.

If it was the MOD (and we get a lot of them) I doubt they'd cough up a plan even if it were required and the police - well, aren't they the ones who'd have to compile such reports?

I certainly didn't hear any such helicopter activity - but I'm too far away from the park to have really noticed it. Did anyone else hear anything?

What I AM hearing at the moment is the practicing for the Red Bull Air Race. Might see if I can get over there at some point to watch, since I missed out on the free ticket bunfight...

Tapas Time

Hannah wants to know:

Is there a decent tapas restaurant in Greenwich?

I still need to do some work here, as although I've tried San Miguel (and I love the extremely kitsch decor) it was on my own, sad Phantom that I am. Tapas is not to be consumed alone so I had the paella. I wasn't wildly impressed but I was told that the regular chef was away. I keep meaning to get a posse together to try it properly.

One place I frankly don't have much time for is the Organic Tapas Bar at the Picturehouse. I've eaten there a few times and they've either been very slow indeed, missed out dishes or brought completely different ones (or a mixture of the above.) I also worry about the amount of cream slathered over everything. I find myself wondering what's underneath that they have to coat it all so thickly.

One place you might like to try, albeit in next-door Charlton is Cattlelya in Charlton Church Street. It's a tiny little place and although I'm not convinced that their idea of registering Thai-Med food as a trademark wasn't just a tad OTT (it's less a fusion between two cuisines than two different sections of a menu - half Thai, half classic tapas) it's all very tasty, served pleasantly and ridiculously cheap. Go there on alternate Sundays for acoustic blues music. The trick is working out which alternate Sunday. Check here.

Laundry

Katja asks:

"Can you or anyone else recommend laundry/dry cleaning services in Greenwich, which do duvets as well?"

The Phantom replies:

I can never quite remember what it's called (I think it's something original like "Greenwich Dry Cleaners") but the one along Woolwich Road, opposite the old hospital site is the one I always go to. The guy can often be seen sitting in the window, doing repairs on his ancient sewing machine, a large rack of colourful reels of thread behind him. He has never done anything other than a very good job on my dry cleaning and duvets, though, bless him, I always say hello and he never remembers who the hell I am, despite my being a regular. No matter. He's friendly and his prices are good. Never tried his repairs, but he seems to be popular. He must get terribly hot in there - it's South-facing and those places are warm at the best of times.

I had a miserable time the day I decided to get some pillows done on a service wash at The Launderette in Trafalgar Road. I don't recommend it. A shame, since it looks like something out of Eastenders and I was hoping to have found a gem.

Anyone else got a pet dry cleaners?

What A Difference Eight Years Make...

Adam thought we'd be interested to see how a single view has changed in just eight short years. Click on this image to make it larger, then wonder...

A Decent Chinese?

Neil is a worried man. He says:

I was pretty dismayed to see Blackheath's Laughing Buddha has shut up shop after 25 years of trading. A while back we also had the much-missed Treasure of China in the centre of Greenwich, but now we just have the tourist fodder of Noodle Time and similar even-faster-food establishments. Is there anywhere in the area offering quality Chinese food these days? I know only of Mr Chung's, which is impossible to park outside even if you're just picking up a takeaway.

The Phantom agrees.

It was a sad day when I walked past that golden belly and saw that Laughing Buddha was no more. And we have bloomin' little other choice. Frankly I wouldn't even put Noodle Time as being good enough to be counted "tourist fodder" - I'd say that was far too kind. Now the execrable Pizza Luna and the unaccountably-awful Alamo have gone, IMHO it's slid into second position for "worst restaurant in Greenwich," just behind Tai Won Mein which defies description (from me, at least.)

But onto the good stuff. Yes, Mr Chung is very good indeed. Parking isn't great, granted, but there's always Christchurch Way opposite - not ideal, but do-able. The other place that always was good was the Peninsula restaurant at Holiday Inn - an unlikely setting, I'll grant you. They get very, very packed out for the weekend lunchtime dim sum. I have heard rumours that it is no longer what it once was, but I haven't been for a while. I would welcome opinions from anyone who's been recently.

To be honest I haven't done nearly as thorough job of testing Chinese restaurants and takeaways as I have with Indian (I just love curry...) so please pitch-in here and give Neil some ideas...

Rear Window (9)

Methers asks if this is 'suitable' for the Rear Window series, since it's from his front window. I reckon any angle's fair game - and if you've got a view like this you need to show it off. Very 'showbiz.' Taken from Dinsdale Road, I believe...

Keep 'em coming, guys - and don't worry if they're not as glamorous as this one. I want to get a picture of what Greenwich looks like wherever you are.

Oh - and please don't be too cross if I haven't dealt with your particular missive yet - I'm getting quite an embarrassing backlog just now, but I do LOVE to hear from you.

Greenwich Wildlife (3)

Third in the Wildlife series, today I bring you Olly's picture of a heron who's been hanging around the river Ravensbourne, just beyond Brookmill Park. As Olly points out, "it's nice to see something completely unexpected sandwiched between built up, busy residential areas." Watch out pond owners, though. Goldfish are a favourite delicacy...

Benedict, on the other hand, has a mystery for us. He tells me "I can't identify these birds with my Tony Soper Book of British Birds . They are about 9 inches tip to tail and hop around on both legs while grubbing for bug stuff on the ground.I sometimes see them on the lawns by the Queens House."

Now, I am no birder, Phantom or otherwise, but I'm guessing that this chirpy little fellow is a mistle thrush, which proves that some things you learn when you're a kid do stick. I had a picture book with about ten birds in them which I loved so much I learned them off by heart. I could be wrong. But hey - who cares? He's a cutie..

One last question - can anyone help me? I've been sent Picasa web album pics by various people which I'm having trouble downloading. Does anyone have any suggestions?

Duff Beer and Dodgy Dealings

A couple of weeks ago, when we were talking about the views from the Greenwich Wheel, I suddenly noticed a strange wonky building, just behind the curvy colonnade by the Pepys Building. It seemed all wrong in a world of straight lines and classical proportions and I mused about what it could be.

Well, Rod has done a little sleuthing (once again someone's burning shoeleather on my behalf, for which I am humbly grateful...) and - get this - it was, most appropriately, for a building on the squiff, part of the original brewery. Presumably the navvies were testing the goods even as they were constructing the building.

They must have been desperate. My New Best Friend, The Reverend L'Estrange, has been telling me about the crappo food and ever crappier beer that the pensioners would have 'enjoyed.' It might have flowed freely (two quarts each a day,) but that probably had more to do with the fact that nobody would have wanted to drink it.

But I'm jumping ahead here. We need go back to the mid 18th Century and two characters. The dastardly Clerk of the Works of Greenwich Hospital, Mr Ibbetson (boo, hiss) and the saintly Lieutenant General, Mr Baillie, who blew the whistle on the evil misdoings of the wig-twirling Ibbetson.

Actually, there's also a third character, Lord Sandwich, Lord High Admiral, the only person who bowled up to the Court of the Commissioners, an admirable thing until you realise it was so he could lay his hands on both the property and as much political power as possible. According to my NBF, he treated the hospital "as though it were his private property."

One of the first misuses of power was over who was admitted to the hospital. Gradually, landsmen were allowed in whilst genuine veterans with certificates of service were allowed to die in poverty. The governor didn't care - instead of attending his job once a week, he often didn't make it once per year.

The grumbles began. A series of unsuitable stewards brought in regimens that gradually eroded what few rights and comforts the pensioners had. All manner of abuses from successive bigwigs - from purloining cash to giving out jobs for the boys, thrashing pensioners with canes to bringing in of Admirals' fancy-women to take jobs that had been intended for naval widows (not only that, these ladies also enjoyed somewhat better conditions than the naval widows would have done - luxury apartments, medical attendance and drugs - even to courses of donkey-milk and luxury spa waters, all on the hospital.)

But Mr Ibbetson took things to a whole new level. Ibbetson called himself a veteran because he had had the job of purser to a line-of-battle ship. He neglected to mention that he had performed his duties by proxy and had never actually been to sea in his life.

At 5.00am one morning in April 1778, the pensioners in the George and Victory wards (the posh ones - the 'model' cabins shown to visiting gentry and given to pensioners of particularly long service) were turfed out of their beds, while a bunch of workmen pulled down the cabins to make rooms for Mr Ibbetson's footmen. The only reason that they didn't use the Royal Sovereign Ward was because it had already been turned into luxury apartments for the secretary's family.

The pensioners complained loudly enough to get this stopped, so Ibbetson commandeered a public passage, turning it into a magnificent private gallery. The only way the pensioners (often peg-legged octogenarians) could now get to their rooms was up a rickety back stairway, down which they often fell, sometimes being killed.

Things got worse. The pensioners' dead mates were dug up and their bones "irreverently thrown about" as the graveyard was ploughed up to make avenues and walkways. Ibbetson made sure that he also took part of the grounds to keep his personal nursery and cows.

Then it all started to go pear-shaped. The 18th Century-equivalent of an investigative reporter, Captain Baillie started poking around. He didn't have to look too far to find abuse.

The boys' ward stank so badly that "its odour acted like an emetic upon those strangers whose curiosity led them to visit it." The pensioners' shirts were becoming narrower and shorter. Their stockings had holes in them the moment they were put on. The soles of their shoes were made of brown paper. Their plates were beaten flat so that they couldn't put much broth on them. The bread was inferior - when asked, the baker always said that it must be a bad batch. The meat was usually light, and often went missing entirely.

But oh, the beer.

Like most things at the hospital, things had started out well. The beer was tasty. It wasn't so hard to make from hops and malt, and the brewer was paid ten pounds a year. But as the Reverend L'Estrange darkly says,to make it without those two basic ingredients - presumably too expensive for the likes of the pensioners - "required special knowledge - it became a mysterious, if not a diabolic art."

Baillie, the Roger Cook of our day, noticed that the salary of the master brewer had quietly gone from ten to sixty pounds a year, as the hideous mix of chemicals, dodgy ingredients and god-knows-what became a feat of alchemy.

The mess now being piped underground was thick, sour and odorous and gave the men "convulsive gripes." Rod tells me that that would mean the (wooden) fermenting vessels (and/or barrels) were infected to create such a vile concoction, though to be honest just diluting it with the rancid liquid that passed for water in those days would have been enough to kill some of the older tars. The "sour, crabbed and watery" drink sometimes actually was just water.

L'Estrange tells of a time when the pipes had been running water longer than usual and the butler went to ask why.

"Don't you know it?" demanded the brewer.

"No, I do not" said the butler.

"Then," replied the other, with a sneer, "you never will know."

Gulp.

Rod and I have been discussing the new brewery on the ORNC, though we are both more convinced that it will be a different brewery area on the site - a later (and nicer, one hopes) version (I'd appreciate being set right on that) which is in or next to the Pepys building. Rod, who describes himself as "a humble brewer" says of the eagerly-anticipated Meantime brew "I would like to think that we can brew some better beer there than that..."

Yup. In this particular case, I won't be at all upset if Meantime choose to be really rather inauthentic. Bring on those nice shiny metal vats and squeaky-clean pans...

Incidentally, when Baillie brought his findings before the Court of Commissioners, presided over by Lord Sandwich, "a most discreditable scene ensued." He was treated "with ignominy," labelled "a liar" and dismissed. Plus ca change...

Rubbish Maggots

Angie has a problem that may be familiar to many of us regarding the two-weekly collection of 'black-bin' rubbish:

"Although there is only a small amount of general rubbish we are having a horrible time with maggots as the rubbish is sitting in the sun for two weeks. Does anyone have any ideas?"

The Phantom doesn't, really. Other than trying to keep it in the shade (presumably a no-no or you'd have already done it) yours is probably a common problem.

I tend to keep my organic rubbish in the fridge until the last minute to prevent extra 'cooking' (though of course that was always a problem before the new bin regimen - the downside being that I sometimes forget to put the fridged stuff out...) but you can't do that with general rubbish. No. Sorry. No clue.

Maybe someone should write a book "Zen and the Art of Garbage Control." First lesson. Be grateful you're not in Naples...

The London Forager

I've been a Richard Mabey fan for years. Not long ago I gave away my copy of Food For Free then missed it so much I had to re-buy it. It was out of print at the time and was so bloomin' expensive I needed to make an awful lot of Damson Jam and Elderflower Fritters to justify it, but I guess that's what comes of having charity-shop purges on one's book collection...

It's back in print now, but before you rush to buy it, take a peek at the site Michael sent me, about the ancient tradition of foraging in London. I had no idea that I was doing anything other than gathering a few nuts and berries, but these guys have made it into an art form. They're based in Blackheath, so although it's supposed to cover the whole of London, Greenwich and Blackheath feature heavily on their as-yet smallish London Forager site.

Not to be confused with the characters who hang around supermarket bins (they're big in the States and have given themselves a fancy name which I can't remember) this lot follow the time-honoured country occupation of gathering free food from the hedgerows. They've updated themselves - less grass potage and mud pies, more Nettle Pesto, Lime Leaf Salad and Elderflower Champagne (which we used to make as kids - it tastes of Summer.)

On the Continent - France, Italy and the Balkans in particular, they've a long tradition of foraging, and they take it VERY seriously. I'll never forget the Italian guy who I asked to take me to find the best fungi on Hampstead Heath. He agreed, but only on condition I was blindfolded. He wasn't joking. And as we become more cosmopolitan, we're gradually seeing those skills being brought back over here, where we have all but forgotten how to do it.

There are sundry codes to follow - no nicking from people's gardens, for example, but mostly it's just common sense. Learning what toadstools you can eat before you set out will also save a trip to Casualty.

Last Autumn, I gathered damsons, elderberries, blackberries, rowan berries, wild apples, rose hips and sloes - all from the same lane. Sadly it was in Herefordshire. With a bit of luck, this site might help me do things a little closer to home. And any time they want to make Dandelion Bhajis out of the weeds in my 'lawn' they're welcome...

Oh - and if you want to check out Richard Mabey, I'm still having fun with my widgets:

Easy Like Sunday Morning

Ruth asks:

"Know any good places for a spot of brekkie on a Sunday?"

The Phantom replies:

If you're sticking to Greenwich, then either Royal Teas or Peter de Wits will be excellent choices. As regular readers will know only too well, the selection at Royal Teas is limited, but what it is allowed to serve is very tasty indeed. I like the tiny courtyard at Peter de Wits on a Sunday, where I can dissect a broadsheet in peace - often, despite the throngs of tourists just a few yards away, alone. Up the road from Royal Teas, Buenos Aires is great for coffee and a pastry, but I'm not convinced they do proper breakfast.

I have eaten brunch at the Bar du Musee - it's ok - nothing to write home about, but good if you're in a large group.

If you're over at Blackheath, either for a visit to the Farmers Market or to listen to a Sunday morning concert at the Blackheath Halls, there are two brilliant places, though neither is palatial and you have to take your chances as to whether you'll get a seat.

Hand Made Foods has a fabulous selection of breakfasty-type stuff available - choose either their breakfast menu, or take your pick from the glorious sweet and savoury pastries in the window. It's frustrating and enchanting in equal quantities in that the amount of space in which to eat is tiny - exclusive, but often just not to be had. Things have got a bit better since they opened upstairs but you still need to check there will actually be somewhere to scoff your food before you order (unless you do it as a takeaway and eat it on the heath if it's sunny.)

Boulangerie Jade, a couple of doors up, is a very good alternative - possibly even better if you've a sweet tooth, though personally I always try Hand Made Foods first.

All the above do good coffee, but the new kid on the block if you're looking for superb coffee (and nothing else- they don't do food) is the fabulous New Zealand-style Beehive inside what was Flying Duck. I still have high hopes that he'll step into the shoes of glorious 1960s-o-rama, the much-lamented Coffee Cellar, managing in two strokes, to resuscitate retro icon and provide just a little seating...

I'm sure readers have other good suggestions for Sunday brunches...

The London Nobody Knows

Slightly off-topic here, guys, but only slightly. The London Nobody Knows, as some of you will be aware, was a series of books and articles by Geoffrey Fletcher in the mid 1960s.

Fletcher was the Sinclair of his day. Writing not about Sixties Swinging London, but its dodgy, edgy underbelly. The seedy, seamy side. The poor side. Most of it talks about north of the river, although he does mention Greenwich as "not yet sufficiently explored architecturally," though he reserves praise for the junk shop in Spread Eagle Yard (now part of the restaurant) and Goddards (now the burger bar.)

Fletcher's prose is elegant and flowing, punctuated with line drawings almost as evocative as the writing. He's most at home in decaying music halls, decaying markets or with decaying, tragic people. The homeless, the chronic poor, the meths drinkers.

The books have been out of print for years, though they're not particularly hard to find second hand. But just released on DVD is the frankly surreal documentary written by Geoffrey Fletcher and narrated by James Mason in 1967.

Mason, in flat cap and tweeds, carrying a furled umbrella, wanders around 60s London, looking at the bits that Austin Powers missed. He visits bombsites, abandoned music halls, decaying Spitalfields houses, slums and miserable factories. It's in colour, but that colour is so washed out that the feeling of melancholy is almost palpable. Mason walks around markets, taking in the local characters, the goods for sale, the patter. He visits waterside factories (including a bizarre 'humorous sequence' about an egg-breaking factory, making fun of it, but never actually explaining what the hell it was (anyone who knows, do tell.)

By far the most distressing part is when he meets the people Fletcher's writing about. The people who still live in the slums. The has-been street performers. The down-and-outs at the Salvation Army shelter. The squabbling alcoholics, fighting over a bottle of meths (The PG rating is qualified by a warning "contains scene of a man drinking methylated spirits.")

This is a highly affecting film. I was really quite down by the time I finished watching its 45 minutes. Interestingly, despite his fascination with London's history and architectiure, Fletcher is in favour of those hideous tower blocks that by the 60s were springing up all over the place instead of ancient Georgian mansions, and warns us not to get too sentimental about the wrecking ball we see in full flow in the film (no warning about that in the PG rating...) but somehow, watching those kids playing in the streets of a war-devastated London, the 60s attitude, however depressing, is at least understandable.

Greenwich is mentioned only as a place where pirates used to be hanged - and even that not in name, but I think this is such an important slice of recent London history that I make no apology for including it here.

Bundled with it is the even more surreal Bicyclettes de Belsize - a sort of cross between Blow Up and Les Parapluies de Cherbourg. The thankfully-short 'cult film' is, as far as I can tell, about the hazards of bad cycling. Hip Anthony May cycles irresponsibly around the streets of Hamsptead, having two crashes in about ten minutes - once with a small girl on a trike who gets a crush on him. The second time, he goes headlong into a poster of a fashion model and gets a crush on her.

After a chase, a spurious fashion-shoot in Belsize Park (no David Hemmings - but there might as well have been) and a groovy party scene, it all ends happily ever after. I should also point out that there are only about two words spoken in the entire film. Everything else is sung. There are some extremely cheesy musical numbers, none of which are classics but annoyingly hang around the mind for hours afterwards, and some very dodgy miming on the part of the stars. Shut your eyes for the embarrassing comedy queue. Quite cringe-making.

What makes the film watchable is the location and the camera work. Hampstead seems to have largely missed out on the wholesale destruction the rest of London suffered and there's a lot of recognisable stuff. But for me, the aerial shots and the lingering long shots are the best bit. Even if you can't stomach the rest, do watch the opening credits - one long tracking shot which turns out to be the view from Anthony May's roof.

I'm not sure I'd agree with the jewel-box, which describes Bicyclettes de Belsize as "an absolute gem," but if you like tooth-edgingly sweet slices of lost 60s kitsch, this is your movie.

I've just found a groovy widget that allows me to recommend stuff if it's on Amazon. It will come in useful for a new section I'm in the middle of creating on Greenwich books and resources (though of course most Greenwich books and resources are out of print and therefore not Amazonable.) So I'm testing it out here:

Rear Window, Greenwich Style (6)

Today's groovy view is from Greg, who, being a photographer has sent some very funky shots of his back view (ooh-err, missus...)

"It feels like a cheat when I can get home from work and see sunsets like this from my bedroom window. I dont have to camp out waiting for the perfect moment. I can just come home every day and when it looks nice I'll run outside in my trackie bottoms and hoodie, set my tripod up and snap away."

Doesn't take much working out that Greg lives up on Blackheath - though sadly not for much longer. He can't afford to buy here and is going down to Rochester. I visited Rochester a couple of weeks ago and there are some pretty good places to get nice sunsets, Greg, though obviously it's not as cool as Greenwich...

Wedding Transport

Blimey - a wedding question I haven't been asked yet!

Christina asks:

"Can you think of any weird or funky or both, transport options,other than a fleet of mini cabs, to take a wedding party at 11pm on September 13th from the Queen's House, up to Coleraine Road.

Could be up to 80 people so relay trips might be ther order of the day?"

The Phantom replies:

You can get 80 people in your house? Wow! I once managed 20 goths I'd never met before after the fireworks on Blackheath but that was a squeeze - and a whole other story...

Hmm. Interesting/weird/funky, eh... How about a fleet of white cabs? There are several companies who provide the service - and it would certainly look quite stunning.

In fact a fleet of practically any kind of car looks quite good - the impact is in the numbers. Some friends of mine used a fleet of Reliant Robins. I'm not sure whether that counts as funky or just plain weird.

Would a double-decker bus get up Coleraine Road? There's a lot of parked cars but it might just do it.

It's an odd journey in that it's a bit hilly and, although not that far, a little awkward. Car relays for 80 guests might take a long while.

The Queen's House to Coleraine Road isn't that far - you could take a marvellous walk through the park, led by the Bride & Groom, natch, - even, perhaps, ask about 'chartering' the tiny train to take revellers up the steep bit. Perhaps you could arrange for some "happenings" along the way through the park - a group playing instruments, or reading poems or something.

I wonder whether you might just arrange some lovely transport - a horse and carriage or something similarly glorious for the people that couldn't manage the walk, so that they feel special too, and get everyone else to take Shanks's Pony. You could arrange a job lot of white umbrellas with your wedding names and dates on them as keepsakes just in case!

Greenwich Wildlife (2)

Dave's back garden is clearly Greenwich's equivalent of Longleat. Maybe not as exotic - but certainly as varied. And it's got me thinking.

You know, I've been pondering a lot recently about the idea of middle and recent history. We don't record what is happening now, because it's 'normal' - everyday. Which is why trying to find (especially) middle-term history is so hard. No one bothered to save it at the time.

The context I was originally thinking in was in respect to architecture - there are NO old pictures of my street of which I am aware, for example, (though some snaps may exist in individuals' photo albums, I guess) and we have virtually no records of stuff that happened in, say, the early 20th Century - save the big events, like the 1933 Pageant. It was all - well - workaday, so no one thought to preserve it.

I've started taking pictures, saving memorabilia (only in a small way - don't worry - I'm not going to end up like one of those strange hermit-y people you see on Life of Grime...) and I urge you to do the same. Hopefully at some point we'll have a Heritage Centre that could actually take all our stuff for historians of the future.


Now. You may think I've gone off on another one of my tangents - but stay with me.

Dave's garden may LOOK like it only has common animals in it, but think about it. At one point in Greenwich, wild boar and wolves must have been 'common animals.' Dave tells me that the 'sparrowhawk' (he's not sure whether it's actually one or not) was seen quite often for a short time in 2006 and then disappeared.

We are gaining and losing wildlife all the time. The urban fox, which many consider an absolute bane while others love to spot, is one such. Dave tells me that even in the year or so since the Lovell's Wharf development began, the fox, which was a regular sight in his garden a street or so away, has disappeared. This picture was taken a couple of years ago. He doesn't see them now.

So what I'm saying is, I guess, that we mustn't take our heritage - whether it's wildlife, buildings or everyday customs - as a fixed given.

When I'm going through old material it's the memorabilia - the snaps - the lecture notes - the emphemeral leaflets - that give me the real insights into Greenwich's world. I have dozens of books about Henry VIII and the Old Royal Naval College. I have virtually nothing about "real Greenwich" - especially in the 20th Century. The shy foxy gentleman below may be 'common' now - don't suppose he always will be...

Last Night's Meeting...

...of the FoGP.

Ok - so who was there? Hands up - I wasn't. But Noel was and he notes:

"A good couple of hundred people in a hot lecture theatre in Greenwich Uni.. One comment from a local Labour Councillor left me in no doubt that there will be no support from the Council whatsoever (call that representation? how do these jokers ever get elected?).

The decision really seemed to be about whether you trusted the Authorities not to do something stupid, or not. Unsurprisingly most seemed not to trust them. LOCOG have allowed 'myths' to circulate due to their lack of communication so it will be interesting to see whether these stirrings will make any difference to that.

Actually as someone pointed out, it was classic white English middle-class stuff. Everyone being keen to point out how well meaning, if slightly misguided, everyone else was. All jolly polite, and it would have been entirely unsurprising if we had suddenly broken for an interval of cups of tea and cucumber sandwiches. Needed a bit more of the Swampy element to really rattle the authorities I think."

What do YOU think? Are the promises we've had so far from LOCOG enough to let us relax - or do we need to actually see physical plans?

Don't forget that there will be an extraordinary general meeting of the Westcombe Society on Saturday morning. It's members-only - so get joining now if you want to attend.

A number of you have been asking where to find different bits of the debate we've been having here - so here are the most interesting threads on the Phantom:

General

My Letter to Boris

Promises, Promises

Early Days

What's at Stake

House of Lords Debate

Lunch Date

Lizzy asks:

"Five work colleagues and I are visiting Greenwich next week. Do you have any suggestions about where we can find a delicious lunch? We're not well paid work colleagues so value for money is a must."

The Phantom replies:

I have to say it's much tougher than it once was to find really great good-value luncheries in the centre of town. My fave place for cheap snacks, The Meeting House is now a nasty tourist trap, and sadly tourist-traps are what Greenwich excels in.

Royal Teas serve simple, tasty snacks, and if the weather's nice you can sit outside. Ditto Peter de Witts in Greenwich Church Street- a tiny place which has an even tinier garden at the back. If you like Thai food, I am a big fan of Kum Luang. It's uncomplicated, reasonable and friendly.

Avoid both Tai Won Mein and Noodle Time like the plague - they may be cheap but they are most definitely not delicious. I don't have much time for any of the many Tex-Mex places either.

Pub lunches are probably your best bet. I love The Plume of Feathers and always enjoy The Yacht though if you're looking for a view, you may choose the slightly pricier Trafalgar Tavern.

I seem to be having a bit of brain ache just now - I'm blanking badly - but I know that everyone will chip-in with the ones I've forgotten...

Mark Smeaton

1512 - 1536

What is it about rock stars and excess? It all starts out so promising - a few good tunes, a smattering of fans, the odd knockout gig and next thing you know you're all over the ballad sheets, welcomed at all the trendiest joints and dating supermodels. You get yourself a set of fancy togs and get booked by royalty. But you never reckoned on having a shelf-life. Before you know it, the media's bored with you and you're being evicted from some celebrity knockout show.

Mark Smeaton had it all. He was great looking, he could play multiple instruments like a Tudor rock-god, and he had a voice like an angel. Greenwich girls hung around street corners hoping he'd sing a ballad just for them. Spotty Greenwich youths played air-lute in their bedrooms, wishing they too could be like Mark Smeaton.

He had the cash. He had the fame. He had the girls. He had the clobber. And he had a mighty chip on his shoulder.

He also had the eye of the Queen. Queen Anne Boleyn, that is. She'd noticed him sometime earlier and now asked him to play the virginals for her...

Trouble was, he was really just a peasant. A peasant who'd charmed Cardinal Wolsey as a boy chorister, but fallen out of favour when his voice broke. The outdated child-star got a second chance playing at the Greenwich court, but even as now, he was never allowed to forget that he was the hired help. The king just called him "Mark" and was so disgusted by his filthy clothes that he bought him a new set (Blimey - filthy clothes in Tudor times - they must have been really rank...)

No matter. Suddenly he was a star again. The Mark Smeaton Comeback-Gig was near-complete.

It all went a bit to his head. He started getting very arrogant, strutting around in his new kit and showing off to the locals. He 'dysdayned' his old mum and dad - a carpenter and seamstress - and started chucking his money around - which wagging tongues pointed out was a bit odd, since he only made £100 a year. Just where was he getting the cash from? Gossips in that hothouse that was the Tudor Court started to snigger at the way he was gallivanting around town with minor celebs instead of making music. And those minor celebs were just that - Z-list, not the real toffs. Smeaton began to get that chip on his heavily-padded satin shoulder. His ratings were sinking.

At this point the Queen got him to come and play virginals for him (though my New Best Friend the Rev. L'Estrange, writing in 1886, reckons that he was a dodgy character and merely 'loitering' at her bow-window in a seedy fashion). Anne noticed he was a bit down in the dumps and asked him what was up. The grumpy Gallagher-alike just muttered "It is no matter." The Queen, whose new found status had, frankly, gone to her head told him

"You may not look to have me speak to you as I should do to a nobleman, because you are an inferior person."

I guess there wasn't much of a riposte to that, especially for a peacock like Smeaton. All he could manage was

"No, no, Madam. A look sufficeth," which under the circumstances was more tactful than I'd have been. The Rev L'Estrange reckons this was said with 'some craftiness,' though I don't buy it myself. He even implies that Smeaton was 'suborned to entrap the Queen,'

If he was, it backfired badly.

All in all, it was pretty innocent stuff, really. But it's amazing how the press can twist what you say (in this case 'press' being of the torture-instrument variety.)

One of the Queen's (by that point many) enemies took a note of it and passed it onto The Spin-Meister General, Thomas Cromwell. Cromwell was looking for reasons to get rid of Anne and Smeaton seemed as good as any. The poor sod was arrested and hauled off to the Tower.

His 'confession' was almost certainly obtained through torture - most people agree that the alleged torrid affair in Greenwich couldn't have happened since Anne was in Richmond at the time. No one really believed it, though plenty of people enjoyed acting shocked at the idea of the Queen with a mere musician (let's not even consider any modern parallels with Lib-Dem MPs and girly singers...)

It's likely that he was offered his life in return for names of more plausible lovers, but if he was, the promise was reneged upon. The names spilled, but so did Smeaton's head. He was beheaded (he at least escaped hanging, drawing and quartering) on 17th May 1536, a pathetic creature, who even managed to stumble up the scaffold in his fear. I suspect I'd have been similarly terrified.

Was he set-up from the start? Who can tell. He was certainly susceptible to flattery and had ideas above his station in the class-conscious Tudor age. And until he realised that he might lose his head for it, he probably rather liked the idea that his name was being linked with the Queen's.

I feel sorry for Mark Smeaton - his is the classic story of the fallen hero - the star who can't handle their fame and gets thrown to the publicist lions. No paparazzi in those days - but plenty of balladeers ready to twist the knife:

Ah! Mark, what moan should I for thee make more,
Since that thy death thou hast deserved best,
Save only that mine eye is forced sore
With piteous plaint to moan thee with the rest?

A time thou hadst above thy poor degree
The fall whereof thy friends may well bemoan
A rotten twig upon so high a tree
Hath slipped thy hold, and thou art dead and gone

Red Bull Lucky Dip

The Phantom Vicar has an announcement:

Ladies and Gentlemen, I do hope you're all holding your tickets for the tombola, as Mrs Bracegirdle will be drawing the winning numbers this Sunday.

As you know, the prizes consist of tickets for local residents and up to five of their friends to visit the entertaining popular event "The Red Bull Air Race," which I am sure you will remember was most enjoyable last year.

If you haven't got your raffle tickets yet, Young Simon tells me there's still time to register 'on line.' Visit http://redbullairrace.com/london_localres.php on your interwebs. It's open to anyone who lives in Greenwich, Newham or Tower Hamlets.

Look! It's the Goodyear Blimp!

Most excellent sight, Dude.

Of course it wasn't the Goodyear blimp and of course I missed it. But thanks to Dazza and Nat I can enjoy them vicariously. Nat saw said dirigible over Charlton House and very UFO-like it looks too. Quite sinister in fact.

But it took Dazza to spot it up close and reveal exactly what it's advertising:

Look underneath and you'll see the little cabin. Nat tells me it gives rides to people at £185+ a pop. Hurry, hurry - get your tickets here...

Another Moving Question

Jane says:

I'm thinking of applying for a job transfer to London, but before I do so I wanted to get an idea of how much things cost, what area would be good to live, and so on. I'm a single 28 year old female and I want to live somewhere safe... from what I've read it seems that Greenwich is a nice area and that for south London it's fairly nice. I know it's difficult to generalize and say that all of Greenwich is entirely safe, but I guess I just wanted to ask about your thoughts on this.

Also I was looking for single bedroom around 700-800 and I wasn't sure if that was realistic. I don't particularly need anything fancy, I'm more concerned with safety. I don't expect to be out late, but when the sun starts to go down early in the winter I want to be comfortable walking home in the dark at 8 or 9pm.

I visited London several years ago during the Elizabeth exhibition and I liked Greenwich area... the area by the Cutty Sark seemed to have a nice small town feel, and I liked that.

The Phantom noticed this on an old post and thought it could do with bumping-up.

I just had a quick peek at prices, on the Evening Standard website and it's not impossible to find properties in your chosen area at your prices, especially if you're only looking for a single room, though it's frankly pretty difficult to talk about rental prices just now as they seem to be changing so much. Who can tell what will happen to rents in the coming months, but don't just go for the Standard - see if you can get hold of the local papers nearer the time - both the News Shopper and the Mercury carry rental ads.

But your question was mainly one of safety, and you know, I still reckon that for London, Greenwich is still pretty damn good for single women on their own. Of course there are pockets of scariness, of course you have to be sensible (don't drink at the Wetherspoons in Creek Road or walk round the industrial part of the Thames Path at night) - but I'd say that generally this area's absolutely fine.

As for areas, you might find the Millennium Village is a bit cheaper than central Greenwich and although whenever I walk through, at whatever time of day or night, it always feels deserted, the very fact that I most happily DO walk through there should give you some courage. It's near to Sainsburys and North Greenwich Tube Station - and in between two cinemas (though the best one, The Picturehouse, is in central Greenwich. God - just think - THREE cinemas within walking distance - amazing...) it's clean and well-served for public transport.

I'm a big fan of the somewhat grubbier-and-yet-more-visceral East Greenwich - and there will be cheaper places there too. On the other side, Millennium Quay, at the Deptford end of things, is also more reasonable and, as far as I know, perfectly safe. I know single women there who are happy to walk there by themselves.

I'd say Greenwich is a great place to move to - but then I would, wouldn't I. There's a lot going on and people are generally friendly - there are some good places where you can go al