Category Archives: Notting Hill

September 2, 2011 · 8:28 pm

Carnivaliant Efforts

On Sunday, I enjoyed a day that was a testament to the wondrous power of impulsively saying “yes” to things. God, what an appalling intro. I’ll try again.

Basically, last weekend I was feeling a little run down. Having come back from the Edinburgh Festival, getting back into the swing of everyday life was hard. I tend to feel a bit low after the end of a show, no doubt a psychiatrist could tell us more, and Edinburgh was such a surreal and crazy experience that it was doubly hard to accept the prospect of free evenings. Therefore, I’d been partying as hard as possible. Pimpstick Jr. had a boozy gathering at the Princess Louise in Holborn at which I got roundly hammered (and discovered that it is literally quicker to walk from Holborn to Waterloo than to get the Tube, but that’s another story). Tiny Emma came around on Saturday for a night of wine and Dark City (Emma is into films that “mess with reality,” and Dark City is a shining example of the genre). And then I got a text from Izzi inviting me along to Notting Hill Carnival the following day. I’d never been to the Carnival before, and I had nothing else to do, and Izzi’s company is never less than scintillating, and so I said yes. Tiny Emma, who does not frequent the Internet, thought this was incredibly short-term planning.

Sadly, when the day dawned, I was not in perhaps the best shape for the event. Bloated, hungover and poor, Sunday morning was not my friend. Izzi and I met up, and she – who lives in the Western Zone of the city – explained how it goes. She also took the photos for this entry, by the way.

The Carnival has been running since 1959, and since then has grown to be one of London’s greatest excuses to let its collective hair down. Initially started in response to racial tensions in the area, it is now a celebration of Caribbean culture in the city and, indeed, of the city’s multi-culturalism in general. I did not steal any of that from a press release. This year, it enjoyed over a million attendants, of whom Izzi and Yr. Humble Chronicler were two.

Initially, I have to admit I was cynical (read: grumpy and hungover) - on the way from Notting Hill Gate, I was struck by the number of boarded-up shops and houses, and the number of makeshift stalls charging exorbitant amounts for food and beer (beer especially). But we got further in, and helped by a rum-filled coconut and the appearance of sunshine, I started to mellow out.

By the time we got to the parade route, I was definitely in the mood to party most hearty. Now I see what Polly Thomas meant in her essay, ‘Growing Up With Carnival’ (published in Miranda Davies and Sarah Anderson’s Inside Notting Hill):

“I’ve never been able to understand those joyless souls who don’t love Carnival, who refuse to get impossibly excited about the prospect of sharing their streets with some two million revellers intent on sticking two fingers up to the norm for a couple of days and letting it all hang out in public.”

Indeed so.

We strode along the route for some way towards Ladbroke Grove, enjoying the wind-baiting costumes and awesome Caribbean music, although that ‘Trini and Tobago’ song got a bit tedious the eighteenth time. An awful lot of people, us included, wound up smeared in chocolate (yes, it was definitely chocolate). Even the odd shower of rain could not dampen the mood, although I have to say the presence of baton-carrying police was slightly sinister. Izzi and I opined that the event would be improved if they started breakdancing.

Lunch consisted of curry goat, plantain and rice and beans, because why the hell not? Izzi was most pleased to bump into Mr Levi Roots, a saucy fellow indeed, hey nonny. Food was followed by booze and, of course, more dancing. In fact, so merry were we that we decided to continue partying in Bayswater after the parade had ended. At this point my memory grows hazy and fragmented, but for some reason my pupils have gone white and Bibles combust at my touch.

My last memory of the night was an amateurish attempt to sell me cocaine in Stockwell.

All in all, as Portobello Road degenerates into a row of chain stores, it’s good to be reminded that Notting Hill still retains some individuality. I think I’ll have to go again next year.

4 Comments

Filed under 20th Century, Booze, Current events, London, Music, Notable Londoners, Notting Hill, tourism

Tagged as ladbroke grove, Notting Hill Carnival 2011, notting hill gate

July 3, 2011 · 6:36 pm

Would you Adam and Eve it?

There’s a quote by P. G. Wodehouse that I think sums up my situation today. It goes thus:

I was left in no doubt as to the severity of the hangover when a cat stamped into the room.

Despite a substantial breakfast at the excellent Mike’s Café in Notting Hill (in my not inconsiderable experience, the severity of the hangover increases with the amount of time it’ll take you to get home), despite a long nap, despite having as many painkillers as is considered sensible for a person to have, it’s still with me. I choose to blame everyone except me. Particularly those damn bar staff, forcing me to buy Jägerbombs by having them there, all for sale and that.

Hold, let’s rewind and examine how I got into this situation in the first place. Along the way we will learn about some interesting bars in the West End.

You see, a friend is over from Germany, and therefore Becky B suggested a trip to the Adam and Eve in Fitzrovia. I was a little suspicious of the place (it describes itself as being based in “Noho” rather than Fitzrovia, a forced neologism that sets my teeth on edge) but was willing to bow to Becky’s recommendation. When I got there, the others were late. Curious, I asked the barman where the reserved table was. He said there was no such reservation. This was strange to me. I got a call a little later from Seb saying that they had arrived and had an entire area reserved. Now, okay, possibly the barman wasn’t aware.

However, the bar staff continued to fail to impress for the rest of the evening. One of them seemed very angry at my chums for showing up late – well, granted, it’s not great if we’re late for a reservation, but this fellow was complaining that they had turned people away because they were expecting us on time. Now, this was, I’m sorry to say, utter bollocks. The place was half empty, which for a bar off Oxford Street is amazing. If they were turning people away, that was stupid of them. And if it was really such a problem to keep the place reserved and empty, they could have un-reserved it. In either case, it’s not considered the done thing to berate your customers in such a fashion.

Another member of staff also complained to some of our chums having a smoke outside that the other staff had got the ashtrays messed up, which again is not the done thing in a customer service environment – it reflects badly on the venue as much as on any individual.

The place stopped serving at 10.30. This is strikingly early for a pub, particularly in the West End, but it’s their venue I suppose. Except that one of our party went up to get a round of drinks at 10.20 and was told that he couldn’t. When we went to investigate this strange state of affairs, for we had received no indication of last orders, the barman (the same one who told me they didn’t have our reservation) said, and I quote, “What’s in it for us if we do serve another round?” The correct answer to such an insolent question from a bartender is, “By god, you whelp of a diseased whore, I don’t know whether I’m more inclined to whip you for your impertinence or your master for his negligence, you will fetch me my drink or feel the toe of my boot up your backside!” but I restrained myself.

We did, with no end of complaints from the staff, get our drinks in the end. If it was really such an issue, they should simply have not served us. To serve us and complain and give us lip is quite beyond the pale. In conclusion, the Adam and Eve is shit.

Fortunately, Becky had an ace up her sleeve, and we went on to a basement cocktail bar on Rathbone Place rejoicing in the unusual name of Bourne and Hollingsworth. This was much more up my street. It’s a small venue, the preferred term I think is “intimate,” and the decor is very eclectic. More than one reviewer (and a member of our party) described it as being “like your grandmother’s house.” How they know what my grandmother’s house looks like is a mystery to me. The cocktail menu was superb, I am told by my cocktail-drinking friends. I stuck to beer myself. It did suffer from that cocktail bar disease of charging the price of a pint for a bottle, but the selection of lagers was suitably offbeat without being controversial. Oh, and kudos to the DJ for his taste in retro music.

When this place closed, Becky once more led the way – this time to an utterly charming place on Charing Cross Road, a members-only theatre bar known as the Phoenix Artist’s Club. I fell in love with the place instantly, it’s a proper boho old-school West End boozer. I’d love to say something meaningful about it, but by the end of the night I was utterly trashed and dancing like a twat. I should apologise to everyone who was forced to listen to me singing along to ‘Stars,’ as I recall my justification at the time was that “Les Miserables is fucking awesome.”

When the bar closed, the survivors staggered through the ruins of the Gay Pride event to get a cab back to Becky’s place in Notting Hill. I forget exactly how things ended, although I did wake on the floor, staring at a bra (I don’t think it was mine). Hungover as all hell, we grabbed breakfast at Mike’s Café on Blenheim Crescent. Mike’s is an extremely old-skool place that offers a very hearty breakfast at a very reasonable price – I accessorised mine with one of their gorgeous milkshakes. With Notting Hill increasingly falling prey to chains, it’s good to know you can still get something really special.

Now I’m off back to bed. Goodnight.

4 Comments

Filed under Arts, Booze, Clubbing, Current events, Fitzrovia, Food, Geography, London, Notting Hill, Soho, Theatre, West End

Tagged as adam and eve wells street, becky b, bourne and hollingsworth, breakfast, charing cross road, debauchery, Fitzrovia, hangovers, mike's cafe, notting hill, phoenix artist's club, Soho, st giles

January 5, 2011 · 11:16 pm

Withnail and Me

In my last post I briefly alluded to my all-time favourite movie, Withnail & I, and its central role in my standard cure for a hangover. And I thought it was high time I devoted a full entry to it. After all, it’s a pretty London-y movie, even bearing in mind that much of it is set in Penrith.

Withnail (right) and I (left)It centres around two out-of-work actors living in bohemian squalor in Camden at the tail end of the 1960s. Marwood (the "I" of the title, played by Paul McGann) is our narrator, seguing into philosophical monologues and paranoid flights of fancy. Meanwhile, the flamboyant and self-destructive Withnail (Richard E. Grant in what is possibly still his most famous role) dreams of greater things while drinking literally anything he can lay his hands on. In an effort to drag themselves out of a rut, they charm Withnail's Uncle Monty (Richard Griffiths) into lending them his cottage in the Lake District. Upon arriving, they discover that the weather is terrible, the cottage is a wreck and the locals hate them. And things kinda go downhill from there."This is a far superior drink to meths. The wankers don't drink it because they can't afford it."Oh, and it's a comedy. Now, if you've not seen the film, it doesn't exactly sound like the most life-affirming of movies. Actually, it sounds like a recipe for a bleak Swedish arthouse movie down at the Curzon. There's very little plot. Such plot as there is mainly serves to hang the dialogue off.But what dialogue. It must be the most quotable film of all time. Almost every line is a quote. Get two fans of Withnail & I together and expect upwards of a quarter of an hour of "We've come on holiday by mistake!" and "Hair are your aerials. They transmit the signals from the cosmos. This is the reason why bald men are so uptight."Ralph Brown as Danny the Dealer. He played basically this exact same character again in Wayne's World 2.Much of it hinges on the performances. Grant and McGann have never been better - Richard E. Grant seems to have been practically born into the role (although, ironically, he is and was a teetotaller, making research for the role a very uncomfortable process). Ralph Brown also deserves praise for his performance as the merchandise-addled dealer Danny, a role he's unofficially reprised at least twice (in Wayne's World 2 and Coronation Street - there may be other instances).The direction is also highly effective. It's fair to say that the recreation of 1960s Camden, filmed in 1980s Notting Hill, is perhaps not the most convincing illusion - for one thing, the urban grotesquerie that we call the Westway is very visible in a number of shots. However, the atmosphere of grime and decrepitude is magnificently captured. This is helped in no small part by the evocative choice of period soundtrack. Procul Harem's 'A Whiter Shade of Pale,' Jimmy Hendrix' cover of 'All Along the Watchtower' and the Beatles' 'While My Guitar Gently Weeps' all contribute to an air of melancholy small-scale apocalypse around the characters. The latter song is particularly noteworthy - Beatles songs are not often used in film soundtracks, other than cover versions, but George Harrison's Handmade Films put up funding for this baby.Interestingly, and perhaps somewhat disturbingly, the film was inspired by real life. Writer and director Bruce Robinson based Withnail on an actor with whom he lived for a time, Vivian MacKerrell. Several incidents, including the notorious lighter fluid-drinking scene pictured above, were based on real life exploits. Robinson has said that while he never directly quoted MacKerrell, the dialogue is very MacKerrell-esque. MacKerrell, sadly, died of throat cancer. This wasn't helped by his insistence on keeping up the Withnail lifestyle even after starting treatment. One of his quotes from that period was, "There's as much iron in a pint of Guinness as in a portion of spinach. I'd be a fool not to take advantage of that fact.""I want something's flesh!"

An early draft of the screenplay, incidentally, ended on a similarly bleak note, with Withnail committing suicide by shotgun.

The film is, perhaps, the perfect cult movie. Not hugely known, particularly outside the UK, but with an absolutely devoted following. As I mentioned above, fans can be instantly identified by their ability to re-enact entire scenes. Most frighteningly, there’s a Withnail & I drinking game, which consists of matching the characters drink for drink. Yr. Humble Chronicler does not advocate this particular brand of hedonism, given that it’ll pretty much kill you within the first half hour.

I think what makes a cult film, really, is that you should feel that in some way, the film is speaking to you personally. As if you get this film in a way that most people don’t. For me, Withnail & I is such a great film because it almost feels as if the film gets me, rather than vice versa. And there’s no better situation to appreciate that feeling than when in the grip of a murderous hangover at 11.00 on a Sunday morning. Try it yourself.

Saints or Sinners?

I’ve bitched about the recent developments in Portobello Road before, and today I took a bit of a stroll around the area – I had the day off, as I was returning from a wedding in Sussex, and so I decided to make the most of it. Above you can see the most notorious recent development in Portobello Road, namely the All Saints store.

You know what really bugs me about this store, apart from its location, its size, the fact that it’s a chain store and the fact that its construction has been allowed? It’s the fact that not only have they had the gall to replace the old market stalls, but they’ve tried to make it whimsical and olde-worlde. The three shop fronts you see in that picture – the black one, the maroon one and the green one – are all the same store. And they’ve filled the windows with antique sewing machines (BECAUSE IT IS A CLOTHES SHOP YOU SEE).

I hate these chains that try to look like the independent shops they drive out of business. Starbucks with its cafe society decor, Burger King with its American diner theme. It sort of feels like rich folks slumming it for fun.

Having said that, if All Saints had built a garish and out-of-place regular shopfront, I’d be complaining about how they haven’t even tried to be in keeping with the area.

Screw All Saints, is what I’m trying to say here.

Okay, what?

Read this my droogs:

http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/standard/article-23853696-portobello-traders-lose-arcade-fight-as-council-gives-green-light-to-five-storey-retail-complex.do

If you couldn’t be bothered to read it, the big news is that the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea have given their approval for a massive redevelopment on the site of the Good Fairy market in Portobello Road. A five-storey retail and residential complex is, according to Kensington and Chelsea’s council, totally cool man. Nearly 34,000 members of the Save the Portobello Road Market group on Facebook would apparently disagree.

And rightly so. Lipka’s and Van’s, two other arcades, have been sold off already. The former is now a controversial branch of All Saints and the latter is going a similar route. The council are whining that technically this is perfectly legal and there’s nothing they can do – the sites were sold as retail, and they’re being used for retail by the new developers. The phrase “grow a pair” springs unbidden to my lips as the street tumbles towards genericism.

I mean, the problem with this must surely be obvious. Portobello Road is a tourist attraction. Have you never seen Bedknobs and Broomsticks, man? Have you never seen Notting Hill? Have you never read the Paddington Bear books? Shall I spell this out for you? If-Portobello-Road-loses-the-thing-that-makes-it-a-tourist-attraction-then-it-will-no-longer-be-a-tourist-attraction. Sure, people will visit – for all people complain about chain stores, someone’s obviously using them, otherwise they wouldn’t be chain stores in the first place. But what would be the point of specifically visiting Notting Hill? Why not go to Kensington High Street, or Oxford Street, or Westfield London, or Kingston? You could get the same thing there, and more of it. Meanwhile, a place that’s genuinely unique and interesting, with a character found nowhere else in London, will disappear. Not to mention the unemployment resulting from the closure of hundreds of antique stalls.

Frankly, though, I feel those who are against redevelopment are pissing in the wind. Because the Council simply don’t care. Why should they? Money talks. Redevelopers bring in money, character doesn’t. That’s why there’s no longer a market at Shepherd Market. That’s why Camden Passage is so crap these days. Portobello Road Market will disappear, replaced with rows of shiny plastic chain stores, perhaps with twee little plaques on the wall explaining that they were built on the site of historic Portobello Road Market.

Gah. This may be a little incomprehensible. I’m tired and cross. In short, a message to the Council: piss on your dreams.

Achey breaky feet

Yesterday was a bit of a mistake. See, as part of my weight loss programme, I’m trying to exercise more. Therefore, yesterday I decided to go on a nice long walk. No particular aim other than to burn some calories.

I find most forms of exercise a bit of a pain in the old behind. Not because they’re tiring, but because they’re so dull. Lifting weights? Well, why did you put them on the floor in the first place, idiot? Football? Well, if you’d just stop running around and took it in turns to kick, you could score a lot more goals. Walking, on the other hand, is great. I get to know the city better and I can find lots of interesting things on the way.

There’s a funny little alleyway near where I live. In nearly four years of being in Colliers Wood, I have never been down there. So that’s what I did. I discovered that it brought me out alongside the river Wandle. It’s not a bad walk, if you don’t mind hideously ugly industry and relative isolation. Which most people do. So, er.

After walking for simply aaaages, I came back to the main road, and found myself in Earlsfield. “Well,” I thought, “this isn’t far from home at all. I shall keep walking… TO THE END OF THE WANDLE!” Lightning flashed at that point for reasons I am at a loss to explain.

So I followed the back streets and came to King George Park, where the path rejoins the river. This brought me out in Wandsworth, where the river ends. I had a bit of a stroll around, a bit of an explore. And then I saw a sign pointing me to Fulham. Now, I’ve passed through Fulham several times, but not on foot.

So, out of curiosity, I crossed Wandsworth Bridge. I found… well, mostly what I found was suburbia. I did find a wicked-awesome derelict factory, though, and took several photos. I won’t subject you to all of them, fear not, but you can have some of them.

And I just sort of ended up walking on and on. Through Fulham, on to Hammersmith and ultimately on to Shepherd’s Bush. I have a couple of chums here who have appeared in these pages before, and gave them a bell to suggest meeting up. I suspect I did not present the best picture, being completely sweaty and ‘orrible, not to mention babbling insanely due to endorphines (incidentally, excellent way to get high if you’re into that sort of thing).

We had dinner at a place called Fire and Stone in the Westfield Centre. If you’re not familiar with Fire and Stone, it’s a really rather far-out pizza place where more-or-less anything edible can end up on your pizza. For instance, I went with the ‘New York’, which included crispy smoked bacon, roast potatoes, caramelised onions and sour cream. Another that caught my eye was the ‘London’, featuring bacon, egg, sausage and black pudding. Yes, basically breakfast on a pizza.

I resisted dessert and took the last Central Line tube from White City, the idea being to change at Notting Hill Gate on to the District Line to Wimbledon and bus it from there. Except that Notting Hill Gate was closed for refurbishment. It’s all very well telling people to consult the TfL website when planning their journey, but I rarely know where I’m going to end up. So I got out at Holland Park and walked up to Paddington. From there, a couple of night buses home. Ooh, me aching feet.

Anyway, here are some random psychogeographical-type photos documenting the journey from Shepherd’s Bush on.

Market Values

Is it just me, or are London’s major markets going to pot? I mean, I know there’s a tendency to assume that everything was better when you were younger (hence all these Facebook groups entitled “When I was your age, [something was different in some way] that don’t have a single member over 25), but I reckon I can back this one up. At least, in three cases.

Portobello Road

Ah, good old Portobello Road. If you don’t know it from having visited, the chances are you’ll remember it from Bedknobs and Broomsticks, one of Disney’s better films in Yr Humble Chronicler’s opinion. I liked the bit where Bruce Forsyth threatens the dad from Mary Poppins with a knife. He should do that sort of thing more often.

Unfortunately, so say locals, the market is at risk of suffocation. Last month saw the opening of a too-large branch of All Saints, knocking out several independent traders and raising a great deal of criticism. Royal Kensington Borough Council have been singularly useless about the whole thing, muttering about how a clothes shop and an antique shop are basically the same thing in planning terms. In 2006, a film called Portobello: Attack of the Clones showcased the threat, but for all the critical acclaim it received, the threat remains. Back in 2007, the Commission of Retail Conservation warned of dire consequences of Portobello Road turning into Just Another Street, yet the urban gangrene that is the chain store continues to advance through Northern Kensington.

Okay, Kensington, here’s the thing. Portobello Road is a major tourist attraction because of the market. If you lose the market, you will lose the tourist attraction and the money that comes with it. This is me stating the obvious.

Also, Paddington Bear loves that street. He’ll probably give you a Hard Stare, and you won’t like that.

Camden

I’ve railed against the changes taking place in Camden before now. I think I’ve said enough about the rebuilt Canal Market, which I believe I described in terms of “Union Jack-slathered shit.” I’m also not a huge fan of what they’ve done to the Stables. I do recall that there was a group on Facebook frantically warning that they were going to demolish the whole thing and turn it into another high street. That, happily, is not the case. Indeed, the size of retail units has specifically been set to favour the independent trader.

What I don’t like is the irritating pseudo-historical refit. Lots of naff ironwork and horse statues. I appreciate that they want to be historic, but it’s like they picked up a load of random sentimental Victorian fakes from a souvenir shop and plonked them down wherever they could. It’s like visiting an elderly relative.

This isn’t so much “under threat” as “annoying to me personally,” so let’s move on.

Borough Market

This is somewhat less touristy than the other two, catering as it does largely to foodies. As a result, it has a certain idiosyncratic charm, having no need to play up to the expectations of visitors. However, it’s one of the oldest – if certain sources are to be believed, it’s almost as old as the City itself. The present market dates back to the mid-19th century.

The market is under threat from – oh God damn, another railway. Yes, friends, not only is Crossrail smashing its way through London like a laughing fat man in a steamroller, but it seems Thameslink has decided it doesn’t want to be left out. To improve capacity on the lines into Cannon Street and Charing Cross, a new viaduct is being built that will take out many of the Grade II-listed historic premises in the area. Not only the market, but much of Borough High Street in what might be the worst thing to happen to the area since Boudicca.

This was the only picture I could find of a laughing fat man in a steamroller. However, he is a railway official.

Incidentally, Harry Potter fans, one of the buildings that has been taken out is one used to represent The Leaky Cauldron from Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. The hand of Voldemort is suspected in the planning office.

Alas, this one’s a done deal. In fact, it’s already started. There is nothing anyone can do about it. And another one bites the dust. Still, at least we’ll look good for the Olympics with our shiny new railway and a few less shabby old shops crapping up the place.

Christ, this is all rather depressing. I think I might have to stop here before I upset myself further. Support your local shops, take advantage of the markets while they last, and meanwhile I’m off to have a cry.

See Also

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=1860581838291486332# – Portobello: Attack of the Clones, Part 1. The rest is linked to on the page.

http://www.ipetitions.com/petition/portobello/ - Online petition for Portobello Market. Whether this speaks more loudly than another Starbucks is another matter.

An Unfashionable Opinion

I must apologise in advance if this entry is a little below the usual standard. I’m afraid I was out celebrating my birthday last night, and most enjoyable it was too. Kudos to all in attendance. Those not in attendance will be evaluated on a case-by-case basis. Anyway, the end result has been a hangover that feels as if someone is trying to pull my brain out of its skull cavity, and no attempts at a cure have so far worked. I’ve tried greasy food, caffeine, sugar, a long walk, going back to sleep and eating painkillers by the handful, and nothing has made more than a dent. The best cure, in my experience, is coconut milk, but I can’t find that for love nor money around here. I tried offering money first, then love, but it turns out my pallid and necrotic countenance is not as sensual as I had first thought.

So I’m going to go over a book I’ve been reading recently. It’s a little difficult to define a “London novel.” There must be thousands of books set at least in part in London. James Bond’s HQ is in London, but you’d hardly call his books “London books.” The Time Machine is set in London’s suburbia (and the ruins thereof), but again, you couldn’t say it’s a London novel.

I suppose my definition would be: could you set it anywhere else? In the case of, say, Oliver Twist, the setting is absolutely integral. You need the slums of Jacob’s Island, the respectable streets of Islington, the crossover-point that is the City, the roads and junctions. Their proximity and interrelationships are essential to the story. Oliver Twist is, therefore, a London novel.

The novel in question is London Fields by Martin Amis. Now, I know this is a very popular London novel, so when I say how much I didn’t like it, I’ll no doubt be accused of fashionably Amis-bashing, which seems to be the standard accusation levelled against those who dislike his work. But, well, I didn’t like it.

The story is told from four points of view. We have Keith Talent, a cheat (Amis’ term for a conman, italicised throughout the book), wannabe professional darts player and generally horrible individual. His reality is defined by the media – television programmes, tabloid newspapers and pornography – and so he can’t quite relate to society other than on those terms. Then you have Guy Clinch, a successful banker in a boring marriage with an out-of-control toddler. Then there’s Samson Young, a crap writer with an inferiority complex. Linking them all is the femme fatale, Nicola Six, who has decided that she wants to die. She manipulates the other three central characters with the aim of bringing about her own murder. Meanwhile, the city is in the grip of unspecified upcoming apocalypse, which is a Metaphor. Or the murder is the Metaphor for the upcoming apocalypse.

Now, I’ll admit that Amis isn’t all bad. There was, for instance, a joke I laughed at. But the characters are so broadly caricatured, and so obviously designed to serve a purpose, that I just couldn’t give a toss about them. And yes, I know the characters aren’t supposed to be likeable, but even an unlikeable character should have enough depth to allow you to identify. The most irritating of all, I think, is Clinch’s toddler, Marmaduke, whose havoc starts out as entertaining, then surprising, then finally tiresome and predictable.

The get-out-of-jail-free card is that Amis is writing about writing. Samson Young is a writer adapting Six’ life into a novel in an effort to prop up his career. He’s in a rivalry with the more successful Mark Asprey, whose supposedly real-life exploits are as real as his fiction, and by the same token we can never be sure which version of events is the one actually taking place.

I’m not a fan of writing about writing. I mean, yes, the unreliable narrator device is an interesting one, but too often writers-who-write-about-writers disappear up their own literary arses. Your book was remaindered? Baaaaaawww!

Then there’s the device of the self-insertion. If I was a publisher, the moment an author inserted themselves into a story I’d reject the manuscript. Amis is more blatant in Money, in which a version of the actual Martin Amis plays a significant role. In London Fields, you may have noticed some similarities between the names Martin Amis and Mark Asprey, the latter of whom signs his name as “MA.” What I hate about self-insertion is that ultimately, it carries the message, “Why, look at old Amis making fun of himself! What a jolly good chap he is!” Self-deprecation is all very well, but ultimately it’s still on your terms.

So, back to my earlier question. Is this a London novel? Well, it’s set in London. It’s not, as the title would suggest, an East London book, the title simply referring to Young’s unattainable desire to revisit childhood memories. The book, in fact, is set largely in and around Ladbroke Grove and Kensington, in a version of London that doesn’t really exist. The London of this book is a purely symbolic presence, having little to do with the real city (Amis’ version of Great Ormond Street Hospital, for instance, differs significantly from the one in our universe). The setting doesn’t reflect London so much as it does human society as a whole. Therefore, I don’t think it can justifiably be called a London novel – the grimy streets and upmarket residential districts are called London seemingly for convenience.

On that bad-tempered note, I’m back off to bed. In conclusion, Amis is annoying.

A few random snapshots

Former railway water tower in Kennington, centrepiece of a planned housing estate.

: St Peter’s, the floating church. They do a good service generally, but I hear the burials aren’t great.

: The boat with the red funnel in this terrible photo is the steam tug Portwey. It used to be moored at the West India Dock, but due to Crossrail work and related navigational difficulties it’s now at South Quay. I found it by chance.