simonwebb

I'm off to Wembley this weekend to see Coldplay.

It's over two years since I last visited, I went twice a short time after it opened first for Muse, then Metallica.

Before my visit this weekend I thought I'd post a, slightly adapted version, of an article I wrote after the Muse gig, with my thoughts on the rebuilt stadium. If my thoughts are altered in anyway come Sunday I may well post again.

Wembley was closed in the year 2000, although it wasn’t until 2003 when the demolition began. The new stadium should have been finished for the 2006 FA Cup final, with Bon Jovi, Rolling Stones, Take That and Robbie Williams concerts also scheduled in for that summer. As we all know the building project was dominated by ballooning costs, with the final figure of £757 million a far cry from when Brian Barwick of the FA insisted that Wembley National Stadium Limited (the company set up by the FA to run the stadium) had a fixed price agreement with Australian company Multiplex to finish the job for £575 million. For this reason alone there were those who still regarded the rebuild of England's national stadium as a laughing stock, an opinion which has been diluted with time but will forever be in the back of the minds of many. Over a year late, the venue opened for business once again and, following the 2007 FA Cup final and the England friendly with Brazil, there was much talk about whether Wembley Stadium lived up to expectation. Although primarily the new venue has been built for major sporting occasions like football matches and the rugby league Challenge Cup Final, many of the most iconic nights in its history have been for music events: I need only say Live Aid and go no further, and, since cup finals and England home matches alone won’t pay for the building costs, how the place rates for the music fan experience was something of equal importance.

My first and only visit to the old Wembley was for U2's 'Popmarkt' tour in 1997, I couldn't make the '99 Challenge Cup Final where London Broncos lost to Leeds Rhinos so have never experienced it on a sporting day, but comments from those who have (before and after the rebuild) say the wait for it to be finished was worth it. Part of the attraction when it was announced that Muse were to play there in June 2007 was to see it for myself.

Coming from Central London, it was the same journey for my many trips to the arena that now stands dwarfed by its new big brother - tube to Wembley Park. The delays on the Jubilee line caused by some idiot trespassing on the line at Swiss Cottage threatened to make this a frustrating start to the evening, however I subsequently found out from another who was there that Dirty Pretty Things weren't exactly pulling up any trees and we made it just in time to see The Streets.

You don't need me to tell you what an impressive site the new home of English football is. Even if you haven't had the privilege of seeing it close up, any TV or press pictures tell you this is one mighty structure, with its arch that towers 133 metres high. If you have a seat stuck up in the gods the sight inside, looking down on a pitch packed with fans is equally striking, one of the major selling points of this new stadium is that there are no places with an obstructed view, whereas in the old days up to 16,000 people would have had to put up with far from perfect seats.

There is something of a shopping centre air about the inside of the stands as you make your way from turnstile to seat, the escalators and constant wafting smell of fast food is also reminiscent of a very large motorway service station. Once you've found your spot, bought some expensive food (one journalist colleague of mine paid eight quid for fish and chips), visited one of the hundreds of bars and then relieved yourself of anything you might have drunk by choosing from what is claimed to be Europe's largest number of toilets (2,618), the real reason you're here has arrived.

It's an occupational hazard of enormous stadiums that sound of any form is a tricky thing to get right. How often have you heard football fans grumble about atmospheres in shiny new grounds? I don't envy those in charge of the sound at these shows as I can imagine this is one big job, but for those up high who may have wanted to fully enjoy the many support acts on offer over the two days, the standard was simply not good enough. Some who were at pitch level or in the lower part of the stand told me it was much better down there, and maybe in future the organizers of these concerts should consider introducing a range of prices to match the value for money that fans are getting. If you go to a sporting event the prices relate to the standard of view, why for this event did they not take into consideration the quality of what you could hear? The noise created by the fans as they joined in with the multitude of crowd pleasing anthems on show in Muse's set was kept in well, suggesting that the atmosphere on a vibrant match day should be pretty special, but you couldn’t help but wonder how many people attending shows such as Live Earth might have found it a frustrating experience, missing out on the most important aspect of the day which is what is said between the acts.

As for Muse, they’re not considered by many to be one of the best live acts in the world for nothing, and they fully justified their status as the UK's new stadium heroes. With a visual experience the likes of U2 and Iron Maiden would be proud of, over two consecutive nights they made a mockery of the decision to have one half of Wham play the first concert at the new Wembley one week earlier. Sure George Michael has a collection of very successful and popular yet bland songs, but stadiums are for rock bands that shake them to their very foundations, putting on shows to match the size of the surroundings.

Having highlighted the questionable sound quality for the support acts, it's worth saying that for Muse things were significantly better, although still not as good as I've heard at massive open air gigs elsewhere. With the stadium having been built with the aim of giving everyone inside the best possible view of action on the pitch, the stunning theatrics of the Muse space age shows could be enjoyed even if you were nearer the moon than the stage.

As 'Black Holes and Revelations' opener 'Take A Bow' brought the two hour sets to their close both nights, those there to witness the biggest gigs of the Devon trio's career could reflect on an historic night for British music, when stadium rock, like football, found itself a new home. A more pressing issue was how difficult it might be getting out again.

Squeezing tens of thousands of people into Wembley Park isn't a lot of fun. Although on the Saturday night it was raining this didn't dampen any spirits but had it been totally lashing it down this may have been different. I certainly didn’t envy those leaving Wembley after England’s pathetic failure to qualify for Euro 2008 on the night the press dubbed Steve McLaran “the wolly with the brolly”. The stewarding and security for these events were efficient, not so the tube service on Sunday night with the Met line suspended and the Jubilee only running a "special" service; and they wonder why people still want to drive to such events? The leaflet that accompanied the tickets stated that there was no parking at the venue, meaning that those coming from outside London would have to park at an Underground station (easier said than done) and squash themselves on to a train that may, or may not, be running a reliable service. The addition of a well-advertised, efficient park and ride service would surely be worth considering.

My instant reflection after the Muse show was that, for a first time or infrequent gig-goer a visit to Wembley will undoubtedly be a special experience, the seasoned campaigner is more likely to spot the downsides. Depending on the event the fact it is impossible to hear what people say between songs if your seat is up high and that getting in and out still falls into the "pain in the arse" category are likely to annoy at some stage, but despite these issues, those attending any music event should find Wembley to be enjoyable but not perfect. First and foremost this is a sporting arena, that's where the money came from, but given that music fans will fill this thing throughout the summer, keeping the cash coming back, it's surely not unreasonable to expect one of the world's most ambitious music venues to tick all the boxes.

A short time after I saw Metallica play the stadium and, being in the standing area this time, the experience was far better, with the sound quality spot on, even for support acts.

Obviously doing the sound for Metallica and Machine Head is very different from Coldplay and Jay-Z, but it will be interesting to see how the experience compares to previous ones.

Everyone should play the ‘I Have Never’ game on a semi regular basis.

As games go it’s pretty self explanatory. Just as football is, when you break it down, a ball being controlled by the foot, the ‘I Have Never’ game involves, doing something that you’ve never done before. Like with football the game can be made more complicated, there was once a time when the offside rule was a simple piece of logic which could be easily explained on a pub table with the use of pint glasses, not so anymore. The ‘I Have Never’ game can have points scored for the size of the thing the participant is having their debut experience of, 1 point for walking to work, ten for running a marathon for example. A group of people can come up with a list of things they’ve all never done, with the winner being the person who completes the set in the quickest time. Or, it can be as straight forward as, challenging yourself to, once in a while, attempt something new. Those of us who live in London have plenty of chances to give this game a try.

I have never, seen opera performed live. In fact, I have never even liked opera, ‘Nessun Dorma’ aside of course. The BBC’s use of the Pavarotti recording of the operatic piece as the title music for their coverage of the Italian World Cup in 1990, transformed what was nothing more than the climax to an opera into something that could make drunken men in football shirts cry in public. It also lead to ‘Nessun Dorma’ reaching number 2 in the UK singles chart, the highest position for a classical music piece.

The emotive impact of the song is partly due to its spine tingling power, and partly because England got furthest in a World Cup since winning the thing in 1966, losing in the semi final to a heartbreaking penalty shoot out against West Germany. As a result, Bobby Robson’s elevation to godlike status was well and truly on the move, a tearful Gazza became one of the sport’s most famous images, Chris Woddle landed a second career advertising pizza and we all loved opera, even if only for the length of time it took for the credits to role. With Sir Bobby passing away in July 2009, the memory of that so near but yet so far night in Turin was back in the minds of the football world, just as it was when Pavarotti died in September 2007. ‘Nessun Dorma’ is still often used in situations far removed from the sophisticated surroundings of the Royal Opera House in Central London, building up the atmosphere in sports stadiums or at the end of the night at rock concerts or nightclubs: and bloody brilliant it sounds too. So perhaps, when I say I’ve never liked opera, it would be better to say, I’ve never got opera.

To move from liking the odd song, to the point where you’re a fully paid up member of the opera appreciation society seems on the face of it to take a bit of work, in order to be accepted it’s helpful if you smarten yourself up a bit too, were one to go to the Royal Opera House one might find oneself looked down upon were one to wear jeans and trainers. I’ve already discussed etiquette and dress codes so won’t rant about it again, other than to say that opera has a reputation for being stuffy, snobby and stuck up for a reason. Falling in love with any form of music can take as little effort as being in the right place at the right time, we’re back to Pavarotti and the World Cup, for plenty will have investigated his work further as a result of the football connection, some may even have discovered they liked it.

Before you consider making drastic changes to your wardrobe, figuring out how to appreciate opera is a significant hurdle to be cleared, to those in the know it’s far more than a fat bloke standing on stage giving his vocal chords some considerable welly. I wonder how many people who have enjoyed ‘Nessun Dorma’ while tucking into a chicken balti pie are aware that it comes from an opera titled Turandot, and tells the story of Calaf, il principe ignoto (the unknown prince), who falls in love at first sight with the beautiful but cold Princess Turandot. In a frankly totally unreasonable example of playing hard to get, any man who wishes to wed Turandot must first answer her three riddles. If he fails, he will be beheaded. Most sensible blokes would think bollocks to this, plenty more fish in the sea and all that, but not our friend the Unknown Prince.

In the previous act, Calaf has correctly answered the three riddles put to all of Princess Turandot's prospective partners. Nevertheless, she recoils at the thought of marriage to him. Calaf offers her another chance by challenging her to guess his name by dawn. If she does so, she can execute him; but if she does not, she must marry him. The cruel and emotionally cold princess then decrees that none of her subjects are to sleep that night until his name is discovered. If they fail, all will be killed. Despite to the outsider this lady appearing way too high maintenance, the Prince isn’t put off. The opera tells of how her subjects fail to guess the name of the prince, with the famous climax coming as he realises victory is his. A triumphant battle has been won; you can see why someone at BBC Sport thought ‘Nessun Dorma’ would make for a good soundtrack to a title sequence. And no this isn’t my topic of choice over why X has only made the subs bench today, no, I wasn’t already aware of the story the song tells and yes, Wikipedia is my friend.

As well as reconsidering my position over the, like or understood issue regarding opera, after a round of the ‘I Have Never’ game, I can now claim to have seen opera live. If I were playing for points I would probably score myself a five out of ten for effort. The third annual Tête à Tête festival is designed with people such as me in mind, they show parts of operas rather than the full works, you can eat a meal in between shows and, playing on the ‘Nessun Dorma’ profile, the festival attempted to bring opera to the masses via the beautiful game: you could get in for free if you wore your team’s kit, something which would have the establishment in one of the mainstream theatres choking on their expensive wine. Snobs would argue that I’ve not really seen opera live, but what do they know anyway.

“Innovative challenging high-quality new opera can make a great night out for everyone,” so says the blurb on the Tête à Tête website. The company have been working to this aim for over a decade, driven by the belief that “opera can touch people’s hearts and therefore change their lives like no other art form”. You could argue they would say that, but one thing which can’t be denied is, if it weren’t for people such as this, in whatever art form you care to talk about, the entertainment industry would be a very boring place.

It’s a Friday night, the sun is out, kind of, and I’m sitting on a wall by the river. So close to the river in fact that one lean backwards too far and a ten foot drop would be followed by a big splash and a rather wet, premature end to the evening. There’s a bunch of musicians and singers to my left, including a clarinet player that looks more like he was left behind when the Wasps rugby team moved out of West London to play at Wickham Wanderers. They’re here to serenade those sitting by the Thames with a five minute snapshot of the kind of thing they might hear if they took the short walk to the Riverside Studios in Hammersmith. There’s a choice of four which could be performed as part of the ‘Light Bites’ series, which takes opera into open spaces around Hammersmith and Fulham. At first I’m disappointed they decide against the one titled ‘Lear TV’, which tells the story of how a duck elopes with a news reading kangaroo, although, on reflection, I wouldn’t really have known if that was what they had gone for. You see, the big problem I, along with most others that don’t do opera have, is it’s really difficult to follow any form of story. If you also, like me, find the style of singing that can be best described as how you’d sound if you were sitting on a washing machine, really rather irritating then you’re at something of a disadvantage.

The innocent members of the public seemed to enjoy the quick blast of an opera about an OAP bunch of performers who are trying to impress some important member of the audience, I think that was it anyway, and it’s back to base for the main event.

The Riverside Studios is probably best known for hosting TV programmes such as ‘Top of the Pops’ and the legendary nineties Channel 4 show ‘TFI Friday’. As well as the TV studios the venue has a cinema, theatre space, cafe and riverside terrace bar, in other words, it’s one of those fantastic multi-purpose buildings that will always have something going on. On this night I’m to see two chunks of different, contemporary operas, divided up by bangers and mash and several pints of Stella. If my choice of food and drink wouldn’t raise an eyebrow or two at the posh end of the opera world, then the fact that the first on the schedule starred Abi Titmus would have them considering whether a strongly worded letter to the Telegraph was worth the effort. A bloke from Chilly asked me who Abi Titmus was, and, having quickly reviewed what I knew of her CV in my head, I informed him she once shagged disgraced ‘Blue Peter’ presenter John Leslie, shows varying amounts of flesh in the likes of ‘Nuts’ magazine, and has made a few appearances on reality TV shows. It’s fair to say he was none the wiser, but her background is worth knowing when you find out that the show in which she makes her debut operatic performance in promises to take us to “the front lines of oversexed, overexposed starlets”. Abi’s part is as an older passer by, who hurls abuse at members of the paparazzi; a role I suspect didn’t require much character research before hand.

From my untutored position, I’m not sure this show would have suffered greatly had another actress played her part, I did however wonder if it would have been a sell out for the two nights without her and, in casting someone with the profile of Abi Titmus, it was mission acomplished.

For me though the more enjoyable of the two I saw was the second, titled ‘The Star Beast’, not least as the musical equivalent of a language barier was overcome by the writer explaining the story as we went along. Just as when I go to rugby league matches in London, far away from the sport’s traditional heartland of the North of England, the programme has a section explaining the rules for new comers to the game, having a bloke telling you where we were and what was about to happen, did mean it wasn’t fourty five minutes of song which had little meaning. Sure this was partly because the opera itself was still in a work in progress stage, but this was another example of how barriers were broken down, giving someone like me the chance to at least experience a kind of music I wouldn’t otherwise do, so that I have some actual reference points to make my decision on if I like it, rather than it simply being out of my reach.

Having highlighted the challenge to the norm that this festival has thrown up, I also saw plenty of positive media coverage. In one article I read, artistic director Bill Bankes-Jones was quoted as saying that “by exploring not what opera is but what it might become, this is a powerful glimpse into what looks like a really vigorous future”. Hopefully that glimpse becomes a reality.

It was the surroundings which made this as much as the content, something that can be said for a lot of the interesting art which happens in London. Sadly I don’t think opera will ever be for me, but it’s one more thing to cross off the ‘I have never’ list. I realize this is a bit of a generalization, but I suspect were I to go to one of the traditional venues, you know the ones where one must dress awfully smart before one is allowed in, I doubt I’d find people prepared to come and see Metallica or Iron Maiden the next time they tour: now these are people who really don’t know what they’re missing!

Far be it for me to leap to the defense of Manchester United fans, there’s enough of them to be able to argue their own case, but a popular accusation directed at them by supporters of other clubs, most notably Manchester City, is the number who live in either London, or more often, Surrey. It’s worth saying straightaway that there isn’t a shortage of United fans in Wales, the South West or on the South Coast, on a recent rugby league trip to Bradford Manchester United shirts out numbers the Bulls in a nearby McDonalds an hour before kick off, but that doesn’t seem to be quite the same contentious issue. Regardless of the location, this is done with good reason of course and, if you did a straw pole of the regulars in a sports bar in Guildford you’d certainly find plenty who’s footballing allegiance lies with the team from Old Trafford.

If you walk into a branch of JJB Sports in Kingston, you’ll find Manchester United shirts dominating the displays, whereas Brentford, AFC Wimbledon and QPR, clubs that are all within one bus ride of Kingston, won’t be represented at all. And why should they be? When I want to buy Brentford FC merchandise I’ll buy it from the club shop, I don’t want a cut of the cost of showing my support for a team to go to a middle-man retailer and, to view the same argument from the other side, it doesn’t make business sense to provide for me. It’s worth digressing for one second to wonder if, were Wigan Athletic to beat Manchester United, whether the fans who’ve bought their shirts from JJB Sports even register the link between their own desire to be associated with a world-famous sporting brand as much as a football club and the financial pulling power of Wigan Athletic to sign players who have the ability to stick one past United’s goal keeper.

Anyway, digression over, back on topic, fans, be them of London clubs, or Manchester City, Aston Villa or whoever often make jokes about, when United have lost away at Chelsea, how at least their fans won’t have far to travel home. A home which, if we use the example of Guildford, is however, devoid of a local team a parent can take a child to as soon as possible, negating the chance for Manchester United or Liverpool to be their offspring’s football team of choice. The local football league options for Saturday afternoon entertainment in Surrey at present consists of Aldershot, Aldershot, and, erm, Aldershot. With the greatest respect to ‘The Shots’, they’re certainly not a side which allows for a ten year old boy to wear the badge with pride in the playground, they’re hardly on Sky let alone exposed on terrestrial TV and they’re unsurprisingly overlooked in the world of the computer game (although if you do want a challenge you can be their boss on Football Manager). As a result, when kids kick a ball about in the park, only the most single-minded and unconcerned about pier-pressure child pretends they’re Kirk Hudson (key goal scorer in 2008-09 season) rather than Wayne Rooney. So as not to appear to be pointing the finger at one club, the same can be said for Brentford, Wickham, Crawley Town, Woking, AFC Wimbledon, Barnet, Dagenham and Redbridge, Gillingham and any other area in or around London where a lower league or non-league club is in the locality, giant-killing run in the FA Cup aside.

Kids identify with who they see on Match of the Day or playing on ITV in the Champions League, sadly, in the case of Aldershot, the real world necessity for fans to launch a special fund to help manager Gary Waddock cope with a reduction in his player budget as was done at the end of the 2008-2009 season doesn’t quite have the same symbolic status as winning the premiership, although as any genuine lover of football will tell you, the former is something fans should be proud of far more than the latter. Financial struggle is far from new for the Surrey club, after enjoying a reasonable amount of success in the seventies while then Aldershot FC, even drawing a crowd of over 18,000 to the Recreation Ground for a league match against Manchester United, numbers through the gates and ultimately, money in the bank was far less than was needed to sustain the club. Despite the players going without pay and the supporters attempting to raise the necessary revenue to keep the club afloat, Aldershot FC were wound up in the high court in March 1992. As the Aldershot Town website points out, “in the current day and age it seems incredulous that the club were actually wound up for a sum less than £100,000, although the overall debt was higher”.

A new club, Aldershot Town, was born on Wednesday April 22 1992 at the Royal Aldershot Officers Club during a public meeting attended by over 600 supporters still coming to terms with the loss of their club. It took them over a decade to regain a place in the football league, and the case of Aldershot FC is often mentioned when clubs enter administration and even when discussing the mind-boggling sums of money which are pumped into teams at the top of our game and, more importantly, the debt which is built up. A concern which led a group of Manchester United fans to break away from the glamour of the Champions League and form FC United, a supporter-owned side who are already rising through the ranks in the non-league world.

Rightly or wrongly, the financial side of the game doesn’t bother some of those who view football as merely a form of entertainment, a fashion accessory, something which isn’t the case just in the home counties or London, however it does explain why Slough, Guildford, Kingston, Chelmsford and other towns on the outskirts of the Capital where there isn’t aprominant local team (non-league success stories AFC Wimbledon and Chelmsford City aside) are full of fans of teams a considerable distance from the local pub where they go to watch matches on TV.

But there are enough teams within London for people in the home counties to support, why can’t they pick one of those? A fair question. In fact, it would make as much sense for Guildford to be a Portsmouth or Reading stronghold as Chelsea, Arsenal or Tottenham, Redhill for example does have a fair number of Brighton supporters and we do have that, on the face of it, rather odd local rivalry between Brighton and Crystal Palace, a local derby which involves a round trip of over 80 miles. This rivalry stems from Palace being relegated to the third division in 1974, meaning the two clubs were easy for the others fans to reach, and they boasted two of the biggest support groups in the league. A first round FA Cup tie in 1976, which saw two replays and a disputed penalty retake for Brighton which they ultimately missed, leading to a one goal Palace victory, brought the dislike to a head. Simply putting the two clubs name into Google at the same time quickly throwhs up stories of violence between the two sets of supporters in the seventies and eighties, running battles in both Brighton and Croyden before, during and after each match, those involved reliving memories of fights with as much pride as if they’d scored the winning goal on the pitch.

Many football fans subscribe to the argument championed by amongst others, Frank Skinner. In his autobiography he explains his love for West Brom by saying it’s the nearest football league ground to his place of birth, probably the most watertight justification for supporting anyone. If however the closest team to where you entered the world isn’t immediately clear, and, assuming there isn’t a bloodline to be followed, then really, you should be free to choose whoever takes your fancy. After all, how many Arsenal, Spurs, Chelsea and West Ham fans don’t follow the Skinner-theory, but get away with it because they live within the M25? At the same time pointing the finger at those who don’t support a team from London, a trip from Sutton to White Heart Lane, or from Walthamstow to Stanford Bridge is no better in principal than doing a round trip from Essex to Anfield, with public transport being as it often is in London over the weekend, in other words, virtually non-existent, a journey from Stains to Villa Park is no more difficult than to Arsenal.

Cities in other parts of the UK, as a rule, have no more than two or three teams, Cardiff, Leeds, Newcastle and Hull are simple, although, you won’t have to look too hard on Humberside to find Leeds United supporters. Edinburgh, Glasgow, Sheffield, Liverpool and Bristol are more complicated, Glasgow and to a lesser extent in terms of risk to your life, Liverpool, the religious background of your family makes the decision for you a no brainer, assuming that is you want to keep your actual brain in tact. I suspect the Leeds fan in Hull gets just as much stick as the Manchester United fan in Croyden, probably more so given the recent reverse in fortunes that has seen Humberside bost a relative footballing powerhouse over it’s West-Yorkshire neighbour down the M62. The underlying point here is, as with most of the North South divide fuelers, both regions have the same issues, whether it’s more annoying for those in Manchester who have their potential seat taken up by someone from several hundred miles away, or, like in the case of Aldershot or Wimbledon, the diehards who follow their local side, only to see it struggle or go to the wall because of apathy from the same postcode is open for discussion, although, losing your club altogether really can’t be much fun.

With my gig reviewer hat on, I once saw Audio Bullies play a DJ set at Spitalfields Market, a covered shopping area in East London, not far from Liverpool Street station. This novel idea was part of a series of small gigs by big name acts put on by T-Mobile, another featured The Strokes playing at the Natural History Museum. The hat I mentioned failed to prevent the acceleration of the flu which was already setting up home inside my body, not least since this show took place in the, what may as well have been open air, two weeks before Christmas.

That minor brush with illness aside, there are few things better than seeing live entertainment outside in London, and there’s plenty of places to do so. Be it the music festivals which are held in Hyde and Victoria Park, theatre in Trafalgar Square or on the Southbank, or the outside stage at the Shakespeare Globe, the idea of a summertime midnight matinee does sound very appealing.

Without doubt one of the finest of any venue in London, be that regular or one which has been created within another space, is Somerset House. This historic building in its current guise stands on the site of a palace built in 1545 for Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset. It fell into disrepair and was demolished in 1775, making way for what we see today. Many organisations and societies have occupied space at Somerset House throughout its long and intriguing history; the board of the Inland Revenue still use parts of it today, having first moved there in 1789. In the centre is a giant courtyard which hosts concerts and film screenings in the summer, and is the home for one of London’s most popular ice rinks during the winter.

Now one of London’s most eyecatching entertainment venues, Somerset House has been at the heart of English history throughout its existence. The riverside and Strand, due to their location, had been popular spots for London residences of those seeking influence at Westminster Court since the 12th century. The bishops of Chester, Exeter, Norwich, Worcester and Durham all had homes here, I dare say these were all on a far grander scale than the London flats our money grabbing friends in politics have as second homes nowadays: I suspect they’d laugh in the face of an ornamental duckhouse as well!

In the same way as now, when one footballer buys a house in Cobham and the rest all move in too, or trendy celebs try to be within staggering distance of Camden, by the 1500s these bishops had been joined by houses belonging to the King and Queen, plus the Dukes of Norfolk, Suffolk and Richmond.

When Henry VIII died in 1547 his son, Edward VI, was still too young to become king. Just as in the Lion King, when Scar seizes the moment of the throne successor still being a kid to get his paws on the crown, Edward Seymour, Edward’s ambitious uncle, jumped on this opportunity and had himself created Lord Protector and Duke of Somerset. Just in case you think you missed a bit in history lessons, Edward VI didn’t run away and hang out with a skunk and a warthog, only to return sometime later and reclaim his kingdom in a heroic action scene, the climax of which was soundtracked by Sir Elton John.

The new Duke and Protector decided he needed a house suitable of his newly found status, when in Rome and all that, and vowed to build himself such a place.

In 1547 work began on Somerset House, Seymour already owned the land, however clearing the site meant the demolition of a number of churches and chapels, something which didn’t exactly please his religious neighbours. To say that this was an extremely unpopular and provocative move is an understatement, it caused a clash with the ruling Privy Council and was the subject of the indictment that led to the Duke's arrest and brief imprisonment in the Tower of London in 1549.

You don’t have the sort of power Seymour had gained for nothing and he soon obtained his release and reinstatement. Somerset House was virtually completed by 1551 and, although he had commissioned one of the most influential buildings of the English Renaissance, the Duke had little opportunity to enjoy the place for another brush with the authorities came in the same year. His opponents had him arrested again and tried for the much more serious crime of treason.

This time there was no escape and the Duke of Somerset, Lord Protector of England, was executed on Tower Hill in January 1552.

The building became property of the crown, although once Elizabeth I became queen in 1558 she preferred to live at either Whitehall or St. James’s.

Somerset House got its first real taste of the entertainment world during the 1600s. James I of England and VI of Scotland’s wife Anne of Denmark and Norway found life north of the border rather dull and was given Somerset House, renaming it Denmark House. Anne encouraged the development of the English masque - a form of dramatic and musical entertainment, employing Ben Jonson to write and Inigo Jones to design the sets for a series of extravagant productions.

A further piece of historical interest surrounding this building occurred after Charles I came to the throne in 1625. Later that year he married Henrietta Maria of France, a devout Roman Catholic, who shortly after became entitled to Denmark House. We’ve all seen cases of when someone supports their other half in doing something which doesn’t endear them to others, but to say the least, the building of a Roman Catholic chapel within a royal palace certainly pissed a few folks off, adding fuel to the beginnings of the ill-will which would ultimately lead to the King’s downfall and head removal.

The 18th century saw the return to Somerset House as a place for entertainment, hosting the extremely popular masked ball which was either a private event, or one where any member of the public who could afford to attend were able to buy a ticket. Fancy dress was an absolute requirement, if only this happened now. Picture the scene, at one of the Queen’s Buckingham Palace garden parties, there’s Prince Charles looking thoroughly uncomfortable with the idea of wearing a Santa hat, meanwhile over at City Hall, Boris Johnson, being the wacky funster that he is, has thrown himself headlong into the occasion by dressing up as a dalek, and the GLA’s soul BNP representative is failing to convince people he’s come as Snow White as that’s his favourite Disney film, as everyone knows he’s hijacked the Mayor’s fancy dress drinks reception to remind the world of his parties position on immigration.

Think of the fun the tabloids would have if suits were replaced by animal costumes. the Somerset House website has a couple of interesting descriptions of the Masked Ball from the media of the day, the spectator talked of how "People dress themselves in what they have a Mind to be, and not what they are fit for", while this, unaccredited snapshot of the occasion described one woman’s appearance as “Iphigeneia for the sacrifice, but so naked the high priest might easily inspect the entrails of the victim”. God knows what they’d make of the lack of clothing you’d find on the red carpet at the Brit Awards!

I’ve been to Somerset House twice, and on both occasions seen the same band, Super Furry Animals, as part of the annual Summer Series, which in the past couple of years has hosted performances from Kasabian, Pendulum, Lily Allen, Unkle and The Blue Nile. The crowd at a Super Furry Animals gig doesn’t really go for fancy dress, and this night in July wasn’t warm enough to prompt anyone in attendance to wear the kind of clothing to allow for entrale inspection, but a damn fine time was had none the less. The Welsh band fit in perfectly here, quirky, intriguing and ultimately creating an uplifting experience, the only downer on the night was the ridiculous bar prices: £4 for a pint of Carling, are you having a giraffe!

One of the reasons for why Somerset House is such a popular venue is, despite being right in the centre of London, once you’ve walked through the gate and left the Strand behind you, you can easily forget about the world outside. Something which for many was more than welcome the previous time I saw Super Furry Animals in this venue, for it was the night following the day of the July bombings on public transport in 2005. It was a surreal evening, having a beer in the riverside bar in the sunshine, while police helicopters circled over head. They were still there as we walked back to Waterloo, and yes, had our route home required it, getting on the underground just over 24 hours after three trains had been blown up wouldn’t have concerned me in the slightest. People from elsewhere in the UK in the weeks after often asked me, “so are you nervous about using the tube?” The answer, for me at least, was a resounding no. Because the tube is such an integral part of how this city functions, it was important London dusted itself down and carried on as soon as possible. There was talk that this gig would have been canceled, the R.E.M show I was due to go to in Hyde Park the following night was moved back a week.

My other abiding memory from the night in 2005, on a much lighter note, was a reviewer who, at the time was writing for the Independent, holding court in the toilets showing off pictures on his phone. Live 8 was still fresh in the memory and he was proudly telling his companion about the night he’d had, backed up by a photo of “when I was standing at the side of the stage while The Who were playing”. Not for the first time in this building’s prestigious history would people have been boasting about being in with the in crowd.

Having posted a while ago about a comedy night I attended at the Bedford in Balham, I've since been writing about the history of the pub, for it's one of those, often to be found London boozers, that has a long and varied story behind it.

As a quick reminder, an old school friend came down from Newcastle, and, with nothing planned for a Friday night, the tried and tested method of searching the Time Out website What’s On list through up a comedy night at the Bedford in Balham, a pub which is far from being my local but is within easy reach on the train. The Banana Cabaret has been running for over twenty-five years, and, alongside live music, a gallery, dance classes and club nights, makes this far more than your average boozer.

Originally a hotel in the 1830s, the Bedford has been the main community hub of this part of South London ever since. A spit and sawdust gig venue during the sixties and seventies, the pub boasts early shows for The Clash and U2 on its CV of famous nights.

The ballroom upstairs, formerly the billiard hall, was the location for an infamous event of a very different kind, as it was used as the courtroom for the unsolved case of the death of Lawyer Charles Bravo in 1876, murdered by poisoning in a nearby elite Victorian household called The Priory.

His wealthy wife Florence had previously been married, in 1864, to Algernon Lewis Ricardo, son of MP John Ricardo, but had been separated from her first husband because of his affairs and violent alcoholism. She in turn had had an extramarital affair of her own, with a much older bloke, Dr James Mandy Gully, a fashionable society doctor who was also married at the time, and she had fallen out of favour with her family and society in general. Just think of the fun a 19th century version of The London Paper would have had getting stuck into this cat’s complicated love life.

Ricardo died in 1871 and Florence married Charles, a respected up and coming barrister in December 1975, terminating her affair with Gully.

The fun and games didn’t stop there however, as four months into a stormy marriage, Charles was mysteriously poisoned. Police enquiries in the case revealed Charles's behaviour towards his wife as being controlling, mean and violent. The relationship was unbalanced where power was concerned, as Florence was the wealthier of the pair. Being no fool she had held onto her own money under a new law introduced in England under the Married Women’s Property Act 1870, and this led, as you might imagine, to tension. Our friend Charlie the legal eagle can’t have been too thrilled at being played at his own game.

Although the case held at the Bedford was ultimately unsolved, plenty of theories have been put forward as to how the poisoning could have happened. One such suggestion is that, in an attempt to get his hands on his wife’s cash, Bravo was slowly poisoning her with small doses of antimony; she was suffering from another illness at the time. In one of those, clumsy pick up the wrong bottle in the bathroom incidents, what he thought was laudanum for toothache turned out to be something rather more serious, certainly putting into perspective the hairdie instead of shower gel screw up people have been known to make.

Suspicion was aroused further when, while being visited by doctors during his final days, at no point did he speak of how the poisoning might have happened. The housekeeper Mrs. Cox reportedly told police Charles admitted using the poison on himself when they were alone together, although she later changed that story in the dock to deflect suspicion towards Florence. The housekeeper had also been suspected of causing the death, for she had been threatened with the sack.

On this particular Friday night the historic courtroom location hosted a one time X FM DJ (Paul Tonkinson), a regular on the festival circuit (Ian Stone), plus a blind bloke and a shockingly unfunny woman (the names of both escape me), meaning it was a mixed bag, but considerably better than anything Friday night TV can offer, rugby league aside if you’re into that kind of thing.

Although plenty of pubs, bars and cafes have either been taken over by chains, many a drinking venue in the capital has a wonderfully intriguing past, the Bedford is certainly one of my favourite places this side of Central London for both the story behind the place and what you get if you turn up now, and is well worth a visit if you’ve nothing better to do of an evening.

Sometimes people who don’t regularly use the tube are unspeakably annoying, other times, they can make you wet your pants laughing. This morning was one of the latter.

A man and a woman got on at Embankment, clearly given the fascinating insight into his usual daily journey the bloke was giving his companion in that dull, small talk way older people seem to relish; this wasn’t a trip he’d normally be making. My guess is they were off to some event in the city as that was where they got off, it was a little early for tourists, plus the bloke had a suit jacket on.

We got to our next stop and a load of people piled off, to be replaced by a not quite so large number, but still enough to make MR Non-Tube Regular remark in his rather well spoken voice, “mmmm, this must be a popular service”.

It’s the Tube! At 9 in the morning!

It’s been a while since I wrote last, not a bad thing in a way as it goes to back up the reason for doing this in the first place. The day job, a music festival in Guildford (which created more work) and general day-to-day stuff has meant that the time to sit and write hasn’t been there. If you were to ask most people in London why they don’t get more out of living here, time, along with money will be among the most common reasons, however part of the point of this blog was to show that neither have to stand in the way of discovering what can be done here with a bit of research and imagination. The Friday just gone was a case in point. With nothing planned, that tried and tested method of searching the What’s On list of the Time Out website through up a comedy night at the Bedford in Balham, a pub which is far from being my local but is within easy reach on the train. A one time X FM DJ (Paul Tonkinson), a regular on the festival circuit (Ian Stone), plus a blind bloke and a shockingly unfunny woman (the names of both escape me), meant it was a mixed bag, but considerably better than anything Friday night TV can offer, rugby league aside if you’re into that kind of thing.

As has already been shown at the beginning of this blog, a quick look through an event’s list in the paper or online can throw up something to cater for almost all tastes and bank balances, something which is absolutely crucial given the time of year. Mid July for millions in the UK means school holidays, no lessons or homework for six weeks with endless possibilities of how to have fun, well in theory anyway. The child poverty figures referred to earlier and the amount of kids living in work-less homes means the reality for many is very different.

This week it’s been revealed that London has the highest cost for local authority child care in the country, outer London is the most expensive, with inner city areas coming a close second, meaning that even those who are in work will have other priorities, being more concerned with what to do with the kids while at work, rather than how best to keep them entertained when not. Outer London parents have to pay over £100 per week (£103), with inner city fees costing £62. In the private sector the costs between the two areas differ by just a few pounds.

So while many families living in London work out how to manage the next few weeks, both time and financially, another story which emerged on the same day demonstrates the polar opposites of lifestyle within this city of ours. The West End is bracing itself for what is described as an “oil rush”, with Arabic tourists set to spend £250m between now and September when Ramadan starts. Some shop-workers have learnt Arabic to prepare for the influx, with major stores even widening aisles to cater for the fact that many middle-eastern tourists shop in large groups: this is taking girls in Topshop to a totally different planet!

According to the new West End Company, Arabs out spend Americans by 60 per cent, if a major Middle Eastern royal family decides to come here that figure will rocket yet further, not least because, doing their best sheep-like being seen to do what the best do impression, tourists from that part of the world will go where the monarch has chosen for their summer retail therapy fix.

With so much money at stake it’s hardly surprising businesses are going out of their way to meet the needs of these mega-rich customers, it’s the same principal as when a major celebrity wants to visit the Harrods of this world: we’ve all seen pictures of departments, floors or even whole shops being closed off so that X can browse without having to mingle with us, the lowlife member of the public. The famous are noted for their eccentric, attention grabbing fashion statements, yet they would never fall fowl of a dress code. Not so the lady who was refused entry into one West End shop recently on the grounds that her six inch purple Mohican didn’t fit with the kind of style said retail outlet wanted to appeal to: I bet BritneySpears in her bald headed day would never have been turned away from anywhere.

This opens up a whole knew topic for discussion, or on this particular issue, ranting, that of impractical dress codes. Now I’m not for one minute suggesting city workers should turn up in Speedos and a Santa hat, although that would be bloody hilarious, but when the temperature passes 30 degrees as it did a couple of weeks ago, surely there’s no need for a suit? I mean, these people must be sweating buckets by the time they get to work and let’s face it; we all have body Oder issues to a greater or lesser extent. Is not wearing a tie or jacket really worse than being too sweaty?

I have no problem with standards, I don’t even object to posh restaurants and bars expecting you to dress up to enter their premises, think of the mess that would be made of their lovely carpets if people wandered in with their muddy trainers on. Which reminds me, once, having been to a gig in Hyde Park, I and one other fancied another pint and, having already had one or two, alright, a few more than one or two, we decided that was the night to try and gain entry to the Ritz, described by it’s own website as “one of the most prestigious hotels in the UK”.

“Sorry sirs,” the apologetic man on the door said, “no jeans allowed in here.”

Clearly scruffy hair and trainers weren’t at the top of his “you’re not coming in here” list that night.

“Can we come in if we take them off?” we replied, already making to do just that.

We were laughed at, but strongly encouraged to seek an alternative watering hole.

I can appreciate that a couple of student-looking types is not what they want in The Ritz, but what I’ve never been able to work out is, how does a genuine undesirable get spotted if they happen to have put a suit on? How many bad guys in films or TV shows go unnoticed because they blend into their surroundings?

Etiquette is fine up to a point, but it’s also a barrier judgemental people can hide behind, the lady with the purple Mohican could well have been a thoroughly decent person, but was looked down upon because of appearance.

One of the more common words which came up when I did my, ‘what do you think of when you hear the word London’ test was diverse, which is something that should be celebrated, not looked down upon by some snob who happens to be wearing a tie.

So if I’m going to write about London, I should really consider where London, that sprawling mass of humanity, begins and ends. Areas in the suburbs which, several hundreds of years ago would have been towns and villages in their own right, have since been swallowed up by the ever expanding, dominant creature that is our capital city.

Someone from Stoke Nuington which, for those who don’t know is a little bit North and a little bit East of Central London, once suggested to me that where I live, Twickenham, Hounslow, Kingston nearby, a lot South and a lot West of Central London, isn’t proper London. My own status as a proper Londoner can’t be questioned if you go by birthplace, Hammersmith, since that’s considerably more central, all be it a bit to the West.

Some would argue that you’re only in London if you have a postcode such as SW, EC, SE or NW, that would mean heading out of Waterloo you’ve left the Capital once you’ve waved to the Wombles from the train at Wimbledon station. Wimbledon could also be argued as a cut off point as it’s the end of a tube line, but so to is Watford, and that for many isn’t only not London, but the gateway to the North.

Others consider London to be anywhere within the M25, but that would include places like Windsor, and there’s surely too much green stuff on the way there for it to be part of the same city. That said, no matter where you live, you have a landmark which equals home and for me, like millions of others, entering the circle within that particular motorway is the same as crossing the river Tyne for a Geordie.

The area of Greater London was created in 1965 and includes 32 boroughs. It covers an area of 609 square miles, stretching from Havering in the East to Hillingdon in the West, and from Bromley in the South to Enfield in the North. For the purpose of this blog, if you can get there with an Oyster Card, and you’re life is managed, for better or for worse depending on you’re viewpoint, by Boris Johnson, and you have the power to vote him out if you don’t like what he does, then that makes you a Londoner.

So having defined, even if only in my own head, the places which I can call London, who can and can’t claim to be a Cockney?

Were I to want to refer to myself as a Cockney, if we’re being traditional about these things I can’t, since to be a fully paid up member of the ‘apples and pairs’, ‘cor blimey guvner’ brigade I would need to have been born within the sound of Bo Bells (towards the East, although not technically the East End if you’re still wanting reference points). I did have the tube going past the window of the room where I entered the world, and I suppose being born within the sound of the London Underground could be a modern-day method of claiming your Londoner status, but the entry criteria to the Cockney club is slightly more specific. My great grandma was a born and bred Cockney, but that’s one generation too many for me to be able to play for a Cockney football team, were we to be using the qualification method often favoured by the Republic of Ireland, and crap journeyman Aussies wishing to play international rugby:

“And what a proud day this is for Bruce McSurfboard, as he realizes the dream of being able to line up for his beloved Scotland in front of a packed house here at Murryfield…I do wish he’d take his gloves off though, minus 5? That’s positively tropical for March!”

Unlike say, somewhere like Newcastle where being from that city, you’re naturally a Geordie (assuming that is you were born north of the River Tyne), being from London and being a Cockney don’t automatically go hand in hand, despite the impression given by accents.

The earliest historical reference to the word “cockney” or forms from where it evolved from I could find was when London was referred to by the Normans as the "Land of Sugar Cake”, the translation being, pais de cocaigne. This meant an imaginary land of idleness and luxury, and the word "Cocaigne" referred to all of London and its suburbs, all be it the suburbs was a far smaller area in William the Conqueror’s day. It’s evolution into Middle English took it to Cocknay and Cockney.

According to Cockney.co.uk, a true Londoner is a Cockney, with the word, or 'cock's egg’ used as “a 14th Century term applied contemptuously by rural people to native Londoners who lived rather by their wits than their muscle”.

The first specific locational reference within the London area comes during the 1600s, when the term was used to describe those born within earshot of the Bow Bells by Samuel Rowlands in his satire ‘The Letting of Humours Blood in the Head-Vaine’ (as an aside, there’s a great title for a prog rock album if ever I heard one).

Early uses of the word tended to be derogatory (depending on where you are in the UK that’s still very much the case). To quote another literary source, in ‘The Reeve's Tale’ by Geoffrey Chaucer (written in 1386), the word cokenay is used to describe “a child tenderly brought up, an effeminate fellow". If you’re feeling especially bold you could liven up your visit to London by taking in a Milwall home match, and see how the locals feel about the origin of the word “cockney”. You might also like to know that the term could also be used for a young male prostitute; although the location of the nearest A and E department might be more useful.

The Bow Bells is a little misleading, since we’re not talking about the area of Bow, but the bells of St. Mary-le-Bow church in Cheapside in the City of London, not actually in the East End which is the popularly described Cockney heartland. Areas of London where the bells could be heard included Clerkenwell, Finsbury, Shoreditch, Stepney, Bethnal Green, Limehouse, Mile End, Wapping, Whitechapel, Bermondsey and Rotherhithe.

It goes without saying that this is no longer the case given the general noise of London, plus, the bells were silenced during World War 2 and, due to bomb damage, weren’t restarted until 1961. The immediate area surrounding the church is now no longer residential, so the chances of someone being born there, unless one of those occasional “Birth On Bus” headlines which the freebie papers would love, entering the world to the soundtrack of that particular place of worship is rather unlikely.

Migration has also seen the “cockney” heartland spread, with areas to the South East such as Barking & Dagenham now considered as places where the dialect is spoken. Naturally employment shifts has also resulted in expansion, as Chatham Dockyard grew during the 18th century, large numbers of workers were relocated from the dockland areas of London, bringing with them a "Cockney" accent and vocabulary. It wasn’t long before this distinguished Chatham from the neighbouring areas, including the City of Rochester, which had the traditional Kentish accent. That said, if you go by my where London begins and ends theory of Oyster cards and Greater London Authority management, Chatham isn’t technically London, it’s also outside the M25.

As the English have moved out of the inner city East End areas, ethnic minorities have taken their place, meaning were you to walk down Whitechapel Road, accents as far ranging as West Indian, Eastern European, African and Asian would be heard more often than that of traditional London or Cockney. In fact, among younger Londoners, those for whom London is their place of birth, but are first generation descendants from other nationalities, the language spoken is described as Multi Cultural London English.

Exactly when the “Cockney” accent became dominant in London is hard to pin down. According to Professor David Crystal, who delivered a talk titled ‘Sounds of the Streets and Stage in Shakespearean London’ at the 2009 Story of London Festival, people didn’t speak with much of an accent in the early 1600s, although there was some regional variation as a result of post Black Death immigration.

Following this up I contacted him to find out his thoughts on if Cockney speak was showing its face at the same time as the word was being used to describe the people:

“I'm sure there were local accents evolving in London, and there probably was a Cockney accent of some sort, even though the first recorded reference to 'Cockney language' is much much later - the OED (Oxford English Dictionary) has a quotation from 1776. If there was a social group, then there would have been an associated accent. There was no Received Pronunciation at that time though.”

I couldn’t write a blog on the Cockney world without mentioning the most famous feature, the rhyming slang, Pie and mash and Chas and Dave will have to wait for another day. Some rhymes are so common, they’ve become a part of everyday speak far away from the East End, one of the most common being ‘barny’ – argument, which originates from barn owl, meaning row.

Not only does that demonstrate the power of the slang’s ability to worm it’s way into the British consciousness, but also the randomness of it, especially considering that owl and row don’t rhyme. I wonder also, how many people who use the word Pony to describe something being rubbish, realize they’re using the rhyming slang for crap which is pony and trap.

Other examples are as famous, but through their comedy value: apples and pairs – stairs, brown bread – dead, plates of meat – feet, then there’s the ones which use famous names such as Pete Tong – wrong, Britney Spears – beers and Alan Whickers – knickers.

I’ll conclude some of these entries with a few oddities from the Cockney repertoire, but for now, since it’s getting late, I really should loaf off to me John Fred.

Before I get stuck in with this entry, I do realize it’s a long one. I had planned to split it but, such is the occupational hazard of newest going to the top, I figured this whole thing would flow better as it is. So, grab your beverage of choice and get reading.

London, capital city of the UK or, to be accurate in the eyes of the Scots, the Welsh, the Irish, and, in some cases, the English too, capital city of England. The home of the UK government, the UK’s financial hub, the main base for the Queen and the royal family, the location for England’s national football stadium, as well as cricket and rugby union, in the opinion of the International Olympic Committee the only place on this island of ours fit to host an Olympic games (Manchester and Birmingham did have a shot at convincing them otherwise), an entertainment centre to rival any in the world and the point from where, much to the annoyance of those from other parts of the UK, most of the national media is produced.

A few facts and stats about London for starters. In 2005 the city had a population of over 7.5 million residents, in that over half a million children lived below the poverty line. A 2009 figure released in June revealed that 15 per cent of children UK-wide live in homes where noone is working, In London that figure jumps to 23 per cent. London is also one of the European Union's most densely settled areas, only Brussels and central Paris had more bodies crammed into a smaller patch of land. The poverty line statistic might, in part, be explained by the fact that in 2005, London had proportionately more residents aged under 5 than the UK average. There were also more between 20 and 44 than elsewhere in Britain, 44 per cent of Londoners were aged 20-44 compared with only 35 per cent of all UK residents.

The same figures published by the Greater London Authority (GLA) in conjunction with the Office for National Statistics (ONS) in 2007 show that London has an above national average unemployment rate, and, as with much of the rest of the country, exam results continue to improve. No wonder the unemployment rate is high if, kids leave school or university in other parts of the country, then, armed with their impressive qualifications, head for London Dick Whittington-style once in their twenties, hoping to find work with the multitude of companies who have their head quarters in the South East. Unsurprisingly migration from both the UK and the rest of the world is high, in 2004 an estimated 218,000 international migrants came to live in London, equivalent to nearly 3 per cent of its population. A further 155,000 came from the rest of the UK. As fast as people were coming here, plenty were upping sticks and getting the hell out though. Over 350,000 people moved out of London, including 260,000 to the rest of the UK. London had a net loss of persons at all ages except 16-24, perhaps the mass of newly qualified bright young hopefuls realised it was no easier getting a job down here so scarpered off back to where they came by their mid twenties.

I’m not going to continue with this bombardment of figures, this after all isn’t a piece of Geography A level coursework, incidentally, I only just scraped an E grade for that subject having failed the GCSE, so it’s probably just as well I plan to swerve away from in depth analysis of the numbers. For the record it took me two attempts to pass maths GCSE, further proof I’d tie myself in knots if I try to do anymore than regurgitate the results of a Google search. The one observation that does leap out at you though is, it’s easy to see why London might appear to be crowded, culturally diverse and, for many, a pretty damn tough place to live.

I have however, carried out my own, small and distinctly unscientific stab at research. I wanted to play a quick game with a few friends and work colleagues, asking a couple of questions about the city I was born in, to get an idea of the impression people have of London, to go alongside the factual, numbers-based stuff.

If I say the word London, what word or words instantly come into your head?

What would you say is the most famous thing about London?

In answer to the first question, those living and or working here offered up cosmopolitan, polluted, crowded, lively, noisy, the river, the most culturally diverse city in Britain, Soho, mental, tourists clogging up the streets, dirty and inaccessible. In an interesting conflict of perspectives I also got beautiful on a summer’s day and grey, both are true, depending on the time of year and your own mood.

Those from elsewhere in the UK gave me multi-cultural, busy, crowded, fast, polluted, Westminster, diverse and also the fact that it’s a pain in the arse to get around late at night given that the tube shuts down before most clubs and bars chuck out. Amusingly, cockney wankers was also thrown in for good measure, glad to see London/Manchester relations are alive and well.

Regarding what is most famous about this city, those living here suggested the Tube, Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, the London bus, taxis, Oxford Street, Tower Bridge, people scattered on the steps of St. Paul's, men in pinstriped suits, Emo kids, the Queen’s guards wearing their gigantic bear skins, the Thames, London’s profile around the world and the amount of famous old buildings here.

Outsiders first thought of, Buckingham Palace (a few times in fact), Big Ben, Houses of Parliament, the London Eye, Wembley Stadium, the West End, the monarchy, it’s music scene, the Olympics and the Tower of London. One contribution from Australia did wonder, with a touch of gloating perhaps, “Why didn’t I think of gorgeous blondes in swim suits?”

These answers do, as was partly the intention, give us an interesting, perception verses reality contrast. Seeking Google’s assistance once again (other search engines are available), I checked out the dictionary definition of both.

Perception is, recognition and interpretation of sensory stimuli based chiefly on memory, or, if you prefer, the neurological processes by which such recognition and interpretation are effected. In a nutshell, insight, intuition, or knowledge gained by perceiving: no shit Sherlock.

The definition of reality is, the state of things as they are or appear to be, rather than as one might wish them to be.

Point being, the common perception of London offered up by those I asked who live and or work here leans towards the negative, we’ve all spent hours sweating on the tube or found the traffic infuriating but, the tube is only packed at certain times of the day, some of those inconvenienced during a tube strike might decide to walk part of the way to work and, were the weather to be nice, realise that London maybe isn’t quite so bad after all. Let’s face it, is being late for work or a meeting really that bad in the grand scheme of things anyway?

People from elsewhere weren’t falling over themselves to focus on the negatives, although the themes of dirty, busy and difficulty getting around were still there, more people highlighted the multi-cultural side of the city though.

In terms of the iconic side, both those from London and elsewhere instantly thought of the most popular tourist attractions, the postcard images. Granted this is a big part of what London is, doubtless when the Olympics roll into town in 2012 the backdrop of TV coverage around the world will feature some or all of the key landmarks, but for every Buckingham Palace there’s a quirky gallery, as attractive Oxford Street or Harrods might be, so to are the intriguing markets which are slightly off the beaten track. A football fan will instantly think of Wembley or that shiny new place Arsenal play in, but Griffin Park (Brentford) and Brisbon Road (Leyton Orient) although undeniably a little rough around the edges, has character too and are far less expensive.

The inspiration for this blog has come from an underlying interest to try and get more out of London, something which has been lerking in the back of my mind for a while. This was recently provoked into me actually writing a few ramblings from reading a fantastic book called ‘Pies and Prejudice’, written by one time NME journalist, current Radio 2 presenter, general media type and, crucially, bloke from the North Stuart Maconie. He spent sometime traveling around “the North”, looking at what makes it the place that it is, the people who live there, what makes them who they are, the history of the region and, why it’s better than the South.

I read that book while on the tube, and found myself wondering if my fellow commuters would have a similar pride for London as clearly came across in Maconie’s writing about the North, how many of them would even be that aware of what was above them? This isn’t however planned to be a London equivalent, or answer back, tempting though that was on the occasions when the boot was aimed in our direction. I would in style, prefer to lean more towards my other inspiration, the Robert Elms show on Radio London.

The BBC website describes it as “a celebration of every aspect of this tumultuous city”. The programme “revel’s in the numerous stories and characters, memories and aspirations which make this such an extraordinary place to live and work”.

Arguably the reply to my two questions about London which summed things up the best was the one which didn’t actually answer the questions at all. Better still, it came from a Scot. Having first offered up Wembley for both (based on Celtic’s impending visit), I got, “London is far too varied and has so much to see and do that it’s really hard to think of just one thing.”

And that ultimately is the point. Although a lot of people I asked came up with similar impressions and icons, depending on their own personal tastes they would have something slightly different as a perception, be it the music scene, historical places of interest, shopping options, theatre venues or sports teams and or stadiums.

It’s difficult to say exactly where I plan to take this blog, which is the attraction of writing it since, as was pointed out from North of the border, there’s so much on offer. Having a plan to rigidly stick to would be missing opportunities.

As the Robert Elms Show web page says, “we never hide the fact that London can be a difficult, expensive, noisy, dirty, sprawling mess. But we never forget that we love it,” or do we? That is, do we “never forget”? Or do we even love it in the first place? And if we don’t, why not? It is after all our home.

My mission which, so as not to wait my own time in setting it I have chosen to accept, is, put simply, to explore and explain, to get more out of living here and, maybe, were I to ask the same people, or anyone who reads this for that matter, the same two questions in a year or two, to get answers which better reflect the whole of London, rather than the picture postcard stuff, the famous old transport and the fact that London is, unarguably, dirty, busy and potentially overwhelming.

An impossible one? I don’t see why.

I’ve no idea how long Livejournal has existed, I’ve known about if for a few years though. Like with Facebook, it’s taken me years to find a reason for jumping into the pool, but I now have the motivation and, more importantly, inspiration, to write.

The point of this blog will be explained in the next couple of entries, but essentially I’ve been inspired to write about London in as broad or narrow a way as the inspiration takes me.

There is a chance I’ll get bored after a few weeks, time may well prevent me from being as regular as I’d like, but let’s just see where this goes.

Along the way, any thoughts, comments, suggestions, ideas, chuck them over here.

Ta

PS: the rain’s just started in my corner of London, just as well they built that multi-million pound roof on the tennis place, or the Andy Murray fans would be getting wet, in addition to wetting themselves with anticipation: bring on the thunder!

It’s approaching 10 PM on a Monday night and, despite the time of year it hasn’t been what you would describe as an exceptional summer’s day. It has been warm enough to mean that leaving home that morning without a coat or jumper isn’t being regretted at this late stage in the day, even by the Thames which can be a degree or two cooler. With the longest day of the year a mere 24 hours earlier, the last knockings of daylight are fading into a very pleasant London night and I’m walking along by the river, on my way back to Waterloo train station after a visit to the Shakespeare Globe on the Southbank. Although my latest career digression has taken me into the world of arts marketing, this is a rare theatre visit for me, and my first ever to the world-famous Globe.

It’s busy here, but not packed, although the bars and restaurants appear to have had another good night, the credit crunch which has left a cloud of doom over the city just a couple of miles downstream doesn’t seem to be having much of a negative impact on the Southbank. There’s a fresh breeze coming off a tidal Thames turning what could have been a rather stuffy night into one with a very comfortable atmosphere, the blue and white lights strung from the trees coupled with the dying embers of daytime and the London Eye lit up in green added to a backdrop of buildings old and new creates a setting that makes my group of three think, were we tourists we’d probably be saying what a fantastic place London is on a night like this. We certainly enjoy the moment, but keep on walking, keep on walking back to Waterloo, one of the busiest train stations in Britain, the place where a matter of ours earlier the relaxed vibe would have been totally obliterated by another London rush hour, Waterloo is carnage at 6 O’clock on a week night!

Such franticness returns to my world a matter of hours later as I join the rat race once again, I would point out though that frantic isn’t something I partake in, I refuse to run for a tube or bus when there’s another along in a few minutes. I don’t understand why people work up a sweat before they’ve even got onto one of those lovely tubes with no air con. For a lucky few that will soon be something of the past though, as it’s announced today that London Underground are to begin engineering trials for nearly 200 air conditioned Tube trains.

Among the other headlines Londoners are going to work to this morning are that at least 81 conservation areas in the Capital are at risk of losing their unique characteristics, so say English Heritage. Meanwhile the London Assembly bring us the happy thought that new businesses in London are more likely to fail than anywhere else in England, with that kind of stress awaiting them, you’d think people would prefer to be a little more calm on their commute, truth be told, most are programmed to do the same thing, at the same time, in the same order, five days a week, which is why tempers go walkies so quickly. Yet this is the same city which, a matter of hours earlier, at the end of the day, seemed so appealing. Maybe it was the organic cider with an alcohol content of 6.5 per cent which made the difference, or maybe, it’s all about doing something which will be encouraged in work places across London today, one of those horrible business speak phrases “thinking outside the box”.

During the day I check the Time Out website to see what they recommend for a Tuesday night out. I could have gone to see The Low Anthem at Union Chapel, I confess I’m not yet familiar with their work but the blurb enthuses “pastoral, bucolic, rootsily countrified Americana for Fleet Foxes fans with this waves-making trio from Providence, Rhode Island” – clear as mud as they say. Alternatively I could have taken in a Guy Bourdin exhibition titled 'Unseen' which “comprises over 30 images from the late fashion photographer's estate, including shoe campaign shoots and Vogue covers” … not really my cup of tea if I’m honest, I could have gone back to the Globe to see ‘As You Like It’ in the outdoor theatre (which did look rather appealing the previous evening) or there was the option of ‘Comedy Camp’ which was held in “this straight-friendly gay club”: just another varied night in the UK’s biggest city where anything’s possible. In reality I was late leaving work and endured a partly suspended District line due to a “passenger incident”, not that I had any intention of venturing out two school nights in a row. At least I had the memory of that cool breeze blowing off the tidal Thames, the fading light even at 10 O’clock at night, the walk in what was surprisingly fresh air for London and that organic cider to keep me company, something which I suspect most on my train couldn’t say, instead having to enjoy the journalistic talents of those employed by one of the many free newspapers which get forced into your hand, whether you’ve already got two or not. Newspapers which will paint a range of pictures of the city we live in, the everyday ups and downs of working and living, alongside the removed world of the celeb culture which dominates the media, who’s been seen where, doing what, with whom, wearing what (or what they’re not wearing), living “the life” which, apparently, the average working person is fascinated by as a form of escapism from their own world, assuming that is they’re lucky enough to have work in their world at all.

And there’s a question to consider, certainly needing more than a twenty-minute suspension on the tube to do justice to. Their world, the world in which the people around me live, be that the tangible, locational stuff, buildings, communities, boroughs, or the world they create for themselves given the cards they’re dealt. There’s a multitude of questions, topics and issues that can be thrown into the air, beginning with words like what, when, where, why, who and how. All provoked by the starting point of one, small, six letter word: London.

Getting answers could take some time, hopefully though, finding them will be fun.