I Get Around *

Taking advantage of some time off work by doing...absolutely nothing. Well, nothing productive (i.e. housework, etc etc etc) anyway. Did go for a spin round the neighbourhood on my bike this morning. And it wasn't an insignificant little jaunt, but, in going up Telegraph Hill twice, did involve a great deal of effort, stamina and muscle power. And I failed on all three counts as I couldn't quite manage to get to the top first time round, but did achieve getting all the way to the summit on my next attempt. Okay, Telegraph Hill is no Alp d'Huez (one of the toughest in the Tour de France) but it must be one of the highest points in south east London. It was also the scene of a very unfortunate accident around 18 months ago when a drunken idiot went out on his son's scooter. This drunken idiot first of all thought that it wouldn't be a good idea to come down hill on the scooter. But this drunken idiot, being a drunken idiot, thought: "Fuck it!" So the drunken idiot went fleeing down the hill on scooter, hit something on the path and then had to be taken to hospital with facial cuts, lacerations all over arms and legs (it was summer, the drunken idiot was wearing shorts and t-shirt) and a huge bruised ego. Yes, that drunken idiot was me!

I digress. Where was I? Oh, yes, Telegraph Hill. Used to live on the hill, but got chucked out by landlord around eight years ago. Best thing that ever happened to us as we then fell on our feet with much nicer house and smaller rent. I cycled past the old house on my jaunt and felt no emotions about the place whatsoever.

Also cycled past an old friend's house - her daughter and the boy were great buddies - a house we went to for Sunday lunch one time and, as we sat round the table saw Ronnie Corbett come out of next door neighbour's house and all of us just roared with laughter. No idea why this would make us all convulse with the giggles at exactly the same moment as each other, but the fact is that it did. It reminded me of a few weeks ago when I was walking through town and, as I passed The Ivy restaurant, noticed that the bloke from Super Size Me (Morgan Spurlock??) was being photographed outside with apple stuck in his mouth. Thought nothing of it other than: "Well, these things happen in London."

My journey took me past one of my local pubs, the excellent Marquis of Granby, which was the subject of this article in the Guardian recently, being, as it is, situated on what is regarded as the noisiest road in Britain. This junction is where the A2 going out of London meets the A20 coming into London. It's a wonderful pub, with its clientele being a mixture of working class first and second generation Irish, locals, a small band of Jocks (myself included) and a large smattering of students from Goldsmiths College across the road. One character who frequents the Marquis is that defrocked Jesuit priest who has disrupted sporting events such as the British Grand Prix a couple of years back and the marathon at the Athens Olympics. He's nuts, obviously! Comes into the pub and plonks himself down in front of the television, doesn't buy a drink and doesn't talk to anyone.

Cycled past the amazingly interesting Nunhead Cemetery - used to go for nice walks around here with 'er indoors years ago. Among the stones in this cemetery is one dedicated to The Scottish Martyrs - Maurice Magarot, Thomas Muir, Thomas Fyshe Palmer, William Skirving and Joseph Gerrald - whose case inspired Robert Burns to write Scots Wha Hae. These men (only three of whom were Scottish, by the way) were deported to Australia towards the end of the 18th century after being found guilty of sedition - i.e. patriots campaigning for an independent Scotland. The cemetery also houses a huge crumbling gothic church. It must be said that you could do a lot worse than pay a visit to this place.

And then it was home. But, before I go, let me describe an episode from earlier in the week when I had gone to Greenwich Park for a kickabout with the boy and his mate. I must say at the outset that I didn't realise that one's sexuality is measured in terms of how irritating one gets when a dog slobbers all over your football, but I was wrong. Well, this is according to the woman who told me to "stop acting like a poof" as I told her to keep her dog under control as it had its big stupid mouth all over our football. Oh, and I was also a "wuss," according to this woman.

Sympathy for me, being the innocent party here, from the boys? No way. Much hilarity ensued as they derided me, calling me "a poof" at every given opportunity and generally took the piss out of me. It was hilarious, even with them having fun at my expense.

* The Beach Boys