Unexpected Pleasure

The other great part of taking the boat to work is the walk from the pier to my office. It's a ten minute walk that takes me right through the centre of London (Covent Garden, China Town, Soho). This morning I came across this picture unexpectedly positioned opposite The Shaston Arms (just off Carnaby Street).

I stood there and took in the Rubens masterpiece for a good quarter of an hour before continuing on my way. The painting tells the story of Samson being betrayed to the Philistines by the prostitute Delilah. The picture is a freeze frame in the story; of the precise moment when Samson, exhausted from a night of passion, has his hair cut off.

Isn't pleasure so much better when it comes unexpectedly. Ironic as Samson's pleasure ended in unexpected disaster. There's a moral to this story. Only ever expect disaster; then pleasure will be more pleasurable and disaster more avoidable.

Me, Ken and The Immigrants.

I've always thought Ken's Den was a great building, it signified a move away from the terrible architecture of the 80's and 90's and back to a style that was well thought out, practical yet stunningly beautiful. It's a great position also - opposite the medieval Tower of London and next to the Victorian baroque Tower Bridge.

I like Red Ken and I think most people do. Except cabbies, but then they're amongst the most ignorant, right-wing reactionaries I've ever come across. I hate to generalise, but I'd say 6 out of 10 solo cab journey's elicit some kind of complaint about 'immigrants' or ' the blacks'. Although I've noticed 'Poles' are the new 'Blacks'. And it's usually Ken's fault that this 'glorious nation' has 'gone to pot'.

Well fuck off then and leave me, Ken and the immigrants to get on with the job of getting on together. And no, you're not getting a tip.

Zeal Does Not Rest

I experienced an internal jump of glee when I first caught sight of HMS Ark Royal in Greenwich harbour this morning. It was a feeling that I'd not had since I was a young boy, a very definite excitement about the awesome power of killing machines.

It took quite a few years and experience of global conflict for me to resign myself to the fact that war was possibly the most terrible element of human life and that these colossal machines were no more than instruments of that terror.

But still there's something about it, something about the technology, planning and zeal of war that, very deep down, provokes an excitable urge to fight fight fight.

I wonder if this urge is what ultimately causes war, or whether war causes this urge?

Righteous Fun House

So after two long years the 3.55 Club return to its spiritual home, the RFH. We are celebrating with White Russians and a meal in the all new Skylon restaurant. I just hope the paparazzi don't spoil our evening and we manage to slip away from the over-excited welcoming party to watch the England game in peace.

It's obviously a massive cultural event for the whole of London and everyone will want to steal a tiny glimmer of our collective glee to bask within, but ultimately this is our night and through the baying crowds and sickly gloop of anticipation we should always try to remember that.

Our thanks go out to the dancing girls, the vista, the portable bar, the lift audio, the disabled toilet and the bongs. Thanks for making each month so special; may it last forever.

RFH. UTC!

Pirate or Privateer?

The story of Captain Kidd is an interesting one. It seems he was a celebrated naval seaman, doing well in Anglo-French and Anglo-Dutch conflicts in the mid C17th. He eventually moved to New York and married into wealth.

He then starts doing a bit of privateering, hunting down pirates and the like along the American coast. Then in 1695, backed by several prominant English Lords, he sets sail on a voyage to track down some pirates and intercept French ships. The adventure goes pretty badly and he ends up tip-toeing into the area of piracy to avoid complete financial ruin. He also murders a crew member. It's all a bit vague. Was he a pirate or a mercenary gone a bit astray in the fog of war?

When he's finally brought back to England all his noble backers and political allies desert him and he's pretty much shafted at court. Then hung. Then gibbeted.

It struck me that no war is ever clear cut and that the line between privateerring and piracy is always impalpably fine. The one thing you can guarantee is that the 'noble backers and political allies' are never going to take responsibility.