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A useful bonus feature of handwritten-publish is that if I use the built-in
transcription and send the text with or instead of the handwriting image, that's
what gets published.
Effectively, I'm posting to micro-blog directly from my writing notepad.
How cool is that?!
Danger! Keep Out!
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Transcript
In all the twenty years I have lived in Southall, I have never once visited the Manor House Grounds park! Why not? To be honest, it never looked all that inviting from the outside. It looks like (and is) a closed-off space with no way out except the way you go in. My impression of it, rightly or wrongly, was that it was always a place occupied by street drinkers and drug dealers. In other words, I didn't think it was a safe or pleasant area to go to. I've been reading and seeing a lot on my social media and WhatsApp feeds that it's even worse now, as is Southall more generally. I took my life in my own hands and ventured inside.
What I found before 10 a.m. on a Monday in the school holidays in late August is a hidden treasure! The park was deserted except for a couple of people using the outdoor gym, someone lounging in the children's playground, someone else relaxing on a bench, and a few squirrels and pigeons. The busy road on The Green is right outside, but it felt quiet and peaceful inside. A welcome respite!
While I was in the area, I took a closer look at the Manor House itself, and in particular the ruin at the back which was refurbished many years ago as a catering training college. As far as I'm aware, it's never been used in all this time.
I walked up to the roundabout that takes you over the bridge to the station or to Merrick Road. Old Southall is steadily being demolished and new buildings are granted planning permission in its place. I've often wondered if this pattern is related to settler colonialism. Displacing the indigenous population in the name of regeneration and "civilisation". There are some things that some people would prefer if some other people don't think about!
I ended up back in the "new" library at the Dominion Centre and wrote this up by hand in the study room, where it was perfectly quiet as I was the only student. This will be a more regular haunt.
You know, we might just win the World Cup
VAR instigated a retake of my old retake of Billy Bragg’s “A New England”.
I wasn’t even born when we won the World Cup I’m fifty-nine soon and all hope I’d given up My wife asks me now ‘Why don’t you be a better fan?’ But all the players I loved at school already failed for Ing-erland
I loved you then, and I love you still I bet you’d beat Ghana, it ended nil-nil I don’t feel bad about letting you know I just feel bad about letting you go,,.
You know we might just win the World Cup If we play like a new Ing-erland And win in normal time
You know we might just win the World Cup If we play like a new Ing-erland And win in normal time
I loved the games in Italia ‘90 But that was thirty-six years ago! I can’t believe what I’ve seen since then Every time we go down to ten men…
I saw two shots on goal last night I looked at them, they were the only highlights Is it wrong to wish on the BBC? I wish, I wish, don’t go to penalties
You know we might just win the World Cup If we play like a new Ing-erland And win in normal time
You know we might just win the World Cup If we play like a new Ing-erland And win in normal time
I think it’s fair to say that Starmer led an authoritarian Labour Party and government that was morally bankrupt and utterly corrupt.
Little kid saw a sign advertising the purchase of National Lottery tickets outside the corner shop by his school this morning which read:
PLAY HERE
I tried to explain to him that it wasn’t a kids' play space, but an invitation for grown-ups to play on online game (but nothing fun or challenging like Geometry Dash or Roblox), but where, instead, all you have to do is pick six numbers, and if you are lucky — if you are insanely lucky — you could win millions of pounds, if you pick the “right” numbers. Or you might win ten pounds. Or more likely nothing at all.
Eighteen months in and I finally figured out how to make perfect fried eggs.
Just tried Kombucha lemonade for the first time. It’s really very nice.
Up half a degree inside, one whole degree outside. Pleased to discover that the boiling frogs analogy is false. But we have nowhere to jump. And it’s only getting hotter.
More bloody bonfires, ffs!
Tbf, we our front windows closed and blinds down, but still getting cooling breeze at the back.
Stable at 27°C in the living room, 25.5°C in the bedroom.
Drinking tea.
The Last Screw
Another DIY victory to add to my ever growing list.
Mum had her friendly neighbourhood gardener attach the two blocks of wood to the bench feet to raise it up so she could get on and off.
She then decided she didn’t want the bench after all, but it was too high to sit on comfortably for anyone else.
The blocks were attached with numerous long screws. Some came out. Some didn’t.
Having learnt from my earlier tortuous experience fitting a new toilet seat (full story still to come), I knew the best way to remove the remaining screws was to saw them off.
And (now I knew where it was) my trusty saw did the business right down until the last screw (it’s always the last screw).
I just couldn’t cut the last screw!
Of course! My trusty saw was a wood saw, not a hacksaw, and by now it could barely cut through butter (although it would certainly have melted butter, the blade was so hot). It was as blunt as the blocks I was trying to remove.
New hacksaw (and a few days to rest up) later, a couple of strokes of the fresh blade did the trick.
Now the bench is frankly a little low, but at least my bare feet can touch grass.
My neighbour: “It’s the hottest day of the year, a beautiful Friday evening after work, and the start of the Bank Holiday weekend and the school half-term. Everyone is ready to unwind and cool down a little.”
Also my neighbour: “TIME TO LIGHT A BONFIRE!”
Rather a confusing “economic migrants in small boats—good / extremists trying to stop them—bad” story, in the current scheme of things.
The deadly plane attack at the centre of Castro's indictment: bbc.com
Live at the Counter Eurovision '79
“without the knowledge of your history you cannot determine your destiny”
Forty-seven years ago, Misty In Roots played at the Counter Eurovision rock festival in Brussels, in response to the Eurovision song contest being held that year in Jerusalem, and in solidarity with the Palestinian people.
Less than a month later, Blair Peach was murdered by the British police on the streets of Southall while defending the town from the National Front.
Ealing Council allowed the march of the fascists to go ahead despite a 10,000-strong petition from local people opposing it.
Clarence Baker, Misty In Roots' manager, was violently assaulted by police that day and left in a coma for five months.
Organist Vernon Hunt was jailed for six months on trumped up charges. He was so broken by this experience of state oppression that he never rejoined the band.
Today the British government allowed another fascist march in London on the anniversary of the Palestinian Nakba.
Today I dragged my 11 year old down to the Dominion Centre and Library in Southall to meet Misty In Roots in the entrance foyer and learn a little history.
The Dominion Centre is the site of the former Dominion Theatre where Blair Peach’s lifeless body lay “in state” for six weeks while thousands visited to pay their last respects.
This iconic photo of Misty In Roots outside the entrance now hangs in the National Portrait Gallery.
We came home with a signed limited edition red vinyl copy of arguably the best live album ever recorded. We spoke to some very nice people. And we bumped into my friend Happy.
And we met Poko, Kazi and Tunga from the band.
“if you’re not conscious of the present you’re like a cabbage in this society”
A proud dad moment yesterday.
Little kid’s year group had their annual “Dancing with Don” day — learning and rehearsing all morning, and culminating in a performance for parents in the school hall at the end of the school afternoon.
Halfway way through the show, my lad took centre stage.
To everyone’s surprise and delight, and especially mine and his mum’s, he performed a Michael Jackson moonwalk!
My @SouthallStories piece has been picked up by @thecanaryuk.
Cactuses Never Die
: southallstories.uk
