Modern Cadence

One of Boris Johnson’s first actions as Mayor of London was to ban the consumption of alcohol on all forms of London public transport. No need to say that Tories everywhere in the city rejoiced as the potential new dawn of conservative policing in the city. Up to 10,000 revellers chose to mark the ban at the weekend by partying and drinking hard on the Circle Line. Unfortunately, some let the well-intentioned majority down by reacting violently to LU staff and the event will be noted in history as yet another symptom of a morally ill society

From early on in the mayoral election campaign, it became clear that Johnson had no manifesto and would introduce populist solutions to non-existing problems. Chalk this down as the first in a string of future shallow measures.

London boasts two different police groups that control London transport. The Met Police are responsible for buses, bus routes and taxis and the BTP look after the rail network. To be clear, 15 crimes happen in every 1,000,000 passenger journeys. It is safer being on public transport than it is on the street. Why then does Johnson ban responsible alcohol consumption on public transport in London?

The public has truly been whipped up into a frenzy over this. Scaremongering on the part of more traditional Tory media has played its part here. Boris was clearly solving for a problem that doesn’t exist. Why doesn’t the right dishonourable gentleman try and tackle knife crime with some conviction? Why will he not tackle the gang wars of South London?

In lieu of anything interesting to say, here is a video that discusses my (parden the pun) pet hate - cats.

The writer Nuala O’Faolain died today at the age of 68 from metastatic cancer. Only diagnosed a few months ago with this terminal condition, O’Faolain chose not to undergo chemo therapy.

Despite her physical and mental upheavel, she agreed to be interviewed in April by Marian Finucane in what I judge to be the most engaging and memorable piece of radio you’ll ever be likely to hear. It was the sheer honesty, desperation and loneliness that came across that is in stark contrast to the oft-regulated grief you’ll see in Ireland. To my mind, she represented a modern view on dying, one’s that not any less valid than that held by an older generation.

Listen to the interview here or read the edited transcript here.

Today saw me vote for the very first time in the UK. Having voted in every election since I was 18 in Ireland, it felt surreal to vote in another country. It shouldn’t have been such a strange feeling really, considering I do all the other things UK residents do: pay tax to the Queen, pay council tax, use a social security number for NHS etc. And as strange as it sounds, it was very similar to how I remember it to be back home where some old fogies sit in a school room and use a ruler to cross your name out. Rather unusually, they didn’t ask for ID even though I shared the polling station with thousands of other Lambeth residents. What these people could not do however, was trace my family back for 5 generations like they did in West Clare when I went to polling station.

My first choice went to Lib Dem candidate Brian Paddick. As former Met Police deputy over here, I felt it was he who had the only manifesto that was strong on crime. For all the ailments that London suffers from, crime is the number one issue for me that needs to be tackled. Here in London south central, black kids are shooting the heads off each other for little or no reason. One mile away from me, Stockwell has seen gun crime rocket in the past few years. As a white man, I could get away with walking through many estates down there, but blacks guys between the ages of 14-30 are carrying weapons with the intention of shooting other black guys who may have wronged them or strayed onto their patch. It’s sad and hopefully Livingstone or Johnson (Paddick’s not going to win) will have the courage to do something about guns.

To be fair to him, Livingstone has done wonders for London. Whilst he hasn’t been able to build a whole new Tube system (some people think this is feasible in 7 years), he has integrated transport, made night buses safer and is charging ahead with environmentally friendly policy. The reason I didn’t vote for him is because he seems too eager to jump into bed with the latest socialist leader from South America. There have also been rumours that the people around him wield far too much power. Some would say that he and his associates aspire for a state of London to be created and I think this is dangerous.

Boris was never going to get my vote, especially after seeing him on the ITV debate. He has no policy and is surviving on gaiety and floppy blond hair. Problem is … he will probably win.

I joined more than 5,000 swaying New Zealanders to enjoy Fat Freddy’s Drop on Saturday night. Not knowing a whole lot about them, I was still intrigued enough after listening to their current album Based on a True Story to make the trip out to Hammersmith. Micheal, an old Infactaher, was over for the weekend to see them. Having witnessed firsthand the adulation they receive in their homeland, he assured me that they were the real deal. Who knew that this genre of music thrives in Wellington?

They played a terrific set and I enjoyed the Red Stripe. I don’t know enough of their music to do a proper review, so I’ll leave it at that. What I can say is that the crowd’s reaction was fairly special and that it meant a whole lot for them to see a band from home on top of their game.

Night was excellently rounded off with a trip to Angel with two randomers we picked up on the Tube. They had been to the gig and invited us to drink their cheap champagne to kill the journey. Much funky dancing and alcohol was had with these strangers in the Old Queen’s Head in Essex Road.

Oh drat. My negligence and the lack of diligence paid to this place is regrettable. A week’s stay in Lisboa (where I learned they speak with a Russian accent) has lengthened already dilated posting intervals …

This week I misread a newspaper headline. I read it as “Appendage removed through man’s mouth", when it actually said “Appendix removed through man’s mouth". Before cottoning on, I simply couldn’t understand why they would need to remove it through his mouth? But even after correcting my understanding, I read that doctors have successfully removed appendices through vaginas. What an inconvenience?

I was very pleased to read this week that David Hasselhof has successfully retained the rights to ‘The Hoff’ and ‘Malibu Dave’. He also gets to keep his catchphrase ‘Don’t Hassel the Hoff’.

However, the highlight of my week came as I closed my front door on Thursday morning to be greeted by a nostril-filling stench. It’s not enough to have to put up with the whiff from Continentals when they come over on the Eurostar, Londoners must now put up with their agricultural wafts too. According to the Met Office, factories, Dutch pig farms, German diesel engines and thousands of other smells came over the Channel in a cloud. Yes, a cloud. Who knew that clouds had expanded their capabilities to now carry smells around the world?

As sure as night follows day, good sleep proves elusive for me in incalculable cycles. Every now and then, and rarely with warning, I stumble into periods (usually only a few days at a time) of restless nights. Never before had this been a problem. Indeed, until now I could escape the bleak prospect of facing the world before 7am by rattling the foundations with snores.

In the past few years I’ve enjoyed the luxury of having a commute of under thirty minutes thus making it an unnecessary deed to set the alarm for any time before 8am. But in recent times, I’ve become accustomed to randomly waking up between the hours of 1am and 7am followed by much exploration of the mattress to find the “right place” in which to fall asleep. You know the routine. The first option is to try lying on your belly. After two minutes you give up that approach. Move to one side. Then you notice your arm is trapped under your side. That won’t work. And so the game is played for what seems like eternity. You get mad with yourself for not being able to get to sleep. You’re aware that morning is around the corner and that you’ll be tired for the entire day.

As that old sage points out, the light these mornings is proving yet another obstacle in the game of sleep. Decaf tea late at night, repeating the word “the” over and over instead of counting sheep, and wearing clothes at the extremities (gloves and socks) have all been considered but never put to use.

I may just resort to reading material that utterly bores me. Anyone know a good blog for inducing sleep (no jokes please)?

Maybe it’s context or maturity or diminishing giddiness, but the older you get it appears, the less funny Tommy Tiernan becomes. Back in my UCG days, the man would perform lunchtime slots around town providing students with the perfect excuse to skip Calculus II. He was MC every Sunday night at the GPO Comedy Club - what a great way to tee up the week?

He was part of a new breed of comics. Sure weren’t himself and Hector only having the craic? All the while, their former classmate Dylan Moran was casting his net over larger fish in the UK.

Tiernan’s brand of comedy was easy to relate to. It wasn’t sophisticated (even though he does try) and it appealed to any shred of nostalgia that people held on to about the 80s. Growing up in Catholic Ireland and his years at secondary school formed the backbone of most of his jokes. As young things in the early Celtic Tiger years, we lapped this stuff up. How we laughed at the poverty and simple nature of our existence way back when! Haw haw.

Watching his latest DVD (OK Baby) that I received at Christmas time from a good-intentioned family member cost me an hour that I’ll never get back. His jokes are the same, he has caught the not funny/offensive disease and is still shouting to increase the funniness of his joke (because we all know that jokes are funnier when screamed).

P.S. Yes, I had to get cross with myself for anglicising my pronunciation of his name. I said Mo-ran. Shame on me.

As a Liverpool fan, I was both disgusted to see Mascherano’s behaviour and glad to see that it was appropriately dealt with. Without wanting to wag a finger, it’s probably fair to say that this incident reflects a society where many younger males give two fingers to anyone and everyone.

I’m not a lip reader but the vitriol that the Argentine virtually spat at the referee was indefensible. Repeatedly he told the Steve Bennett to “fuck off". What other sport would tolerate this? Bennett endured a half hour of solid intimidation from Mascherano.

Rafa Benitez must retract what he said yesterday. To support this player’s actions is tantamount to telling Steve Bennett to “fuck off” himself. Liverpool’s shortcomings yesterday were all too clear to see yet their manager attempted to skirt the issue by putting the blame on a referee who could have mistaken the Liverpool players for teenage Toxteth terrors.

Daire over at Show us your medals makes the astute point that following the second yellow card, no Liverpool player dared to show dissent. The suggestion of a move to only allow a captain to approach the referee is a welcome one and has proved to work well in rugby.