New Vertical View

There's something otherworldly about the Zeppelins as they silently and calmly float across the London Sky. Like a scene from War Of The Worlds, this ominous, phallic airborne presence has suddenly appeared as if from nowhere, without warning.

The addition of the glass-bottomed swimming pool to the underside of the Zeppelin is a stroke of genius. After a decade of cheap flights, everyone is overly familiar with the horizontal cloud level perspective of aeroplanes. The sub aquatic vertical view is a new and quite exhilarating experience for even the most seasoned jet-setter.

However, the operating company do need to rethink their effluence prevention policy. The bluey inky clouds generated by a chemical reaction to urine or fecal matter only help to obscure the wonderful view. As a fellow sky-swimmer said to me in the changing rooms after my last visit; what's a spot of piss at 8000ft?

Tramp Ramp Scam

The ramp is advertised as thus: 'Homeless People: Win a Home'. The details specify that to qualify you need to be a certified homeless person. The aim of competition is to clear the river, using a stolen BMX and the ramp provided. Anyone doing so will automatically win a brand new house in Shad Thames.

What is not advertised is the fact that an identical competition is being advertised and run on the other side of the bridge; with entrants being simultaneously set off up their respective ramps. Even if the tramps do manage to make it further than half way across the river - they will be confronted, mid-air, by another tramp attempting the same feat but in reverse. The resultant collision more often than not leading to the concussion and subsequent drowning of both tramps.

Asked what the point was of this cruel excersize, Esther Porkdrink responded: 'The homeless crisis has become simply intolerable. Now can I interest you in a hot pork beverage?'.

Fail To Plan, Plan To Sail.

Captain Perseverance Brimshaw is now almost 95 years old. He started planning his maiden voyage aboard the Queen Mary in 1935 at the fair age of 22. All throughout his childhood Perseverance was an impeccable planner. It is a miracle that he ever actually made it through school as he would regularly plan the contents of his bag and pencil case with such microscopic precision that his gargantuan organisational effort would take all night and he would often only leave the house after being carted out by the family's long suffering butler, Smithers.

His self-funded maiden voyage aboard the Queen Mary was going to be no exception. If he really was going to be the first nautical expedition to circumnavigate South Amercia, through the Panama Canal and round Cape Horn, unaided, unstopping and powered entirely by steam; then he was going to plan every last detail and the details of every detail ad infinitum in a Zeno like marathon of analysis.

And so the planning continues and, unbeknownst to Perseverance, the top deck of the boat has since been converted into a bar that is regularly frequented by tourists, Asians and middle managers.

Bullingdon Boris

The Mayor of London, the London Assembly and the Greater London Authority were established by the passing of the Greater London Authority Act 1999. The Mayor and the London Assembly constituted a unique form of strategic citywide government for London with governance over an £11bn budget and responsibilities for areas such as policing, housing, the environment and transport.

Then on Monday 5th May, Boris Johnson took over, voted in by a mainly drunk, stoned, mentally ill or absent London electorate. He immediately fired all 700 civil servants and instead installed his very own hand picked committee of 10 Old Etonions; including Ralph Perry-Florquin Le Moule Rothschild (Chief Champagne Officer); Sebastian Prigg 3rd Baron of Altrincham (Master Of Ceremonies); William The Conqueror (Caretaker) and 'Picaninny' (a Chihuahua owned by Tara Palmer-Tomkinson responsible for Policing and Boat Races).

Talking about the election victory party Boris commented: "The party ended up with a number of us crawling on all fours through the hedges of the botanical gardens, and trying to escape police dogs ... once we were in the cells we became pathetic namby-pambies."

The Home For Forgotten Stars

Now nearing its 35th year, The Home For Forgotten Stars is in danger of becoming as forlorn and forgotten as its downtrodden residents. Its grubby concrete exterior only masks a shabby decaying interior. Stained, sticky carpets of indeterminate colour lead in every direction to 70's wallpaper of indecipherable design. These rooms display all the signs of retrenchment; a palace of terminal decay, its sad inhabitants in a state of irreversible decline.

Rocking back and forth are an array of ex-Eastenders and ex-Grange Hill actors who all tend to congregate, violently spitting out occasional mockney lines; 'I toldya girwlsa awl cheats din-I Robo' blurts out Robert Kenly who played '6th Form Boy' to Neil Rogers, or 'Robo' as he was then, and is still, referred to.

In the darker recesses of the building, through reinforced Plexiglas portholes, you can sometimes hear the murmurings of Doctor Who scripts, sometimes a line from 'Rentaghost' and if you're really lucky the mad soliloquies of Gary Coleman.

The Church of The Lowest Common Denominator

The founding principal of the Church is to emulate the life of the poorest and most destitute that you are aware of. In the late C19th it was the rural poor of Scotland or an urban destitute of London's East End that Eugene and his flock emulated. In today's age of global communication the subject of the church's devoted assimilation are the most miserable denizens of Somalian refugee camps.

With literally nothing except, ironically, the grand Victorian river-front palace in which they abide, the 'LCDs' suffer terrible hunger, thirst and health problems for their faith. Many suffer from Kwashiorkor (swelling of the abdomen due to severe protein malnutrition).

The more fundamentalist of the Church have been known to hire London thugs from the local underworld to 'act' as Janweed Militia and occaisionally raid the Church beating and subjugating the congregation.

Imperialist Square

I've started off the new year with a new route to work from disembarkation from the boat. The boat now docks at Embankment, rather than Savoy Pier, which encourages a more westerly peregrination through Trafalgar Square. What struck me was how many statues of imperialist military figures there still are in the square.

This statue of Sir Henry Havelock was nearly removed in 2003 (at the suggestion of Red Ken) and replaced with something more relevant. Obviously the real reason was that it was deemed insensitive that we still publicly celebrate figures like Havelock; who collaborated in what would today be considered an 'illegal' war in Afghanistan and led several draconian extinguishes of rebellious Indians in 'mutiny' against imperial rule.

He was also a dedicated Christian and distributed bibles to his troops.

Hurrah!

I Loike Your Spoike

The mornings are getting colder, darker. I dressed like an Italian boar hunter today to compensate and it worked. Instead of going to work in a digital media factory I imagined myself travelling up the Isonzo River, cleaning the barrel of a Marlin 30/30, anticipating the inevitable taste of BBQ hog meat in the great outdoors.

I pass Bellot's spoike every day. Joseph Rene Bellot was a French Arctic explorer. He is commemorated by this spike for his efforts to find the British Arctic explorer Sir John Franklin. Sir John went missing trying to map the Northwest Passage through the Canadian Arctic.

Talking of Canada, you really should check out Death From Above 1979. A sadly now disbanded rock duo. May their souls live on in our iPods forever.

World Of Wonk

Could it be that the world as we know it is an illusion of sorts; a concensual perception the result of a billion or so minds instantaneously perceiving it, each other and themselves. Is the collective name for this God? Do the strongest and most adamant minds stretch the collective perception in their direction? Does the whole align, adjust and morph according to the tirany of individual perceptive will?

It simply doesn't bear thinking about.

After I leave the boat each morning I walk through a little park between Embankment and Villiars St. It's a park always full of people, each mourning the end of a relationship.

An Unkindness of Ravens

I can undersdtand why Oliver Cromwell removed the palacial buildings from the Tower and ended its function as a royal residence. The Tower is very fortified with several walls and a moat. It's essentially a fortress and it would be unwise for the monarchy to remain in such a secure building and position of power.

We've had to have our monarchy exposed and unstable to effect parliamentary power and the (so called) reign of the people. For 350 years we've been unable to let the monarchy go altogether, but rather just have them there, unsure as to quite where they should go or what they should do.

I say put them back in the Tower, brick them in like the Princes of old and rid ourselves of that unkindness of ravens once and for all.

Southbank Holiday

We caught a boat to the Tate Modern from Greenwich. It takes about 10mins and lands you almost at the door. We walked around the Surrealism and Beyond exhibition as Iris slept. Sara and I spotted a few gaffs in the exhibition:

Firstly Paul Nash. Is this guy treally an artisit or just related to the curator? He had one picture that looked like shabby result of a GCSE Art & Design student after taking their first mushroom trip and 'really getting into surrealism'. It was utter tosh. This surely cannot be a real, acclaimed artist?

Secondly, Joan Miro: Brilliant but is it strictly speaking Surrealism? Andre Breton described him as 'The Most Surrealist of us all'. However, his work just seemed out of place in this exhibition.

Anyway we wandered along the Southbank and paid a visit to The Real Greek Souvlaki and all unconsciously agreed, whilst silently devouring our kebabs, that ultimately food was better than art.

Gosling Guardian

I'm amazed that this pair of Geese were able to bring up 8 goslings. It's the longest parade I've seen this summer. I'm surprised that some East London chav kids haven't stoned them to death if behaviour in our local park is anything to go by.

My lover and best mate Sara, mother of my child, is a protector of Goslings and all fluffy little baby birds. She's been known to scream and yell in the faces of chav kids and park pond attendants whilst simultaneously phoning the park warden and RSPB. She's saved a couple of stranded Goslings and a young Kestrel to date.

So, bird haters, watch out.

Life's A Man Made Temporary Beach

Once, out with Club, we walked down from the RFH (never get off the boat!) and strolled down the ancient stone steps onto the Thames Beach. This is a pebble beach accessible at low tide that someone has covered in sand.

The beach was full of 14 year old kids all racing around screaming their heads off. We assumed they were on Crystal Meth (aren't all kids these days?) and proceeded to attempt to buy some off them. Mike tried to chat them up. They divided themselves into three gangs: The Sea Horses, the Sea Crabs and the Sea Urchins. We never fully understood the significance of the gang nomenclature as our enquiry into that and into the possibility of them sharing their 'ice' came to an abrupt end when one of the urchins piped up 'er, hello Mr Grumbridge'.

We soon realised that we were in fact 'hanging out' with (and in Mike's case 'chatting up') friends of our daughters. Luckily we discovered they weren't on Crystal Meth afterall; just Red Bull and Pro-plus.

Pubs Football Pubs

We watch football at Doggett's. I once punched a ceiling panel out when jumping up in either joy or misery and punching in the air. It had something to do with Sol Campbell, but I can't remember what. It's not important; the moment was, the detail of the game is irrelevant. This is how it is with football. If anyone tries to tell you different, they are probably slightly sub-mental.

We also stop off at Doggett's on the way from the RFH toward The Founders Arms. Can you see a pattern emerging? That's right, I like pubs.

I like them so much, I wish I was one.

Sun Thing Wonderful

It finally seems as though summer has arrived after three long months of grey skies, rain and flooding. Greenwich shimmered this morning, bird's sang and people smiled.

What a difference the weather makes. This morning was the first morning in weeks that I have bothered to sit on the open deck and take in the sights and smells. I had been huddled away inside the boat with a paper and a warm coffee. This morning I reclined on the deck taking in huge nasal gulps of river air and all the light my pores could consume.

I feel a huge sense of excitment and anticpation. Like something wonderful is just about to happen.

Do Londoners Dream Of Electric Eels?

The Dixie Queen Mississippi paddle boat just doesn't seem out of place in London. Firstly, London is such a culturally diverse city that it's unusual when you can't see anything from another time or place.

Secondly it's a simulacra. A fake. A replica. There's something very London about that, at least very London right now. In a culture where authenticity is on the wane and instead replicated things and experiences are on the increase; then the Dixie Queen seems to fit in perfectly.

Irish Pubs, Chinese Takeways, Hackney Carriages, The Royal Family, Democracy, The Globe Theatre, London Dungeon, Nightclubs, Tower Bridge, Pirates. All trying to be something else, or at least pretending to be something they're not. But in doing so for such a long time, they now define what they are pretending to be.

Space Pens And Other Myths

Tower Bridge is often mistakenly called London Bridge. There's also an urban myth that London Bridge was once sold (to either an Arab or American) millionaire with them thinking they were actually getting Tower Bridge. I don't think this story is true. In 1968 the old London Bridge was sold to an American and shipped to Lake Havasu, Arizona; but that's because it was sinking and he knew full well which bridge he was getting.

There's another urban myth about NASA spending $4m and 2 years developing a pen that worked in space (zero gravity causes havoc with ink-flow). Upon being told this by a proud NASA official, a Russian cosmonaught simply replied 'We just use pencils'. Much to the embarrassment of the NASA official and entire American nation.

I want to believe this story. But its quite obviously bollocks.

Shakespeare, The Raj and Populism.

Until now I've resisted taking pictures of the obvious buildings along the Thames. Tower Bridge, The Tower Of London, The Globe Theatre all seemed a bit obvious. But what's wrong with obviousness? There's a reason that these things are popular and obvious landmarks; they're interesting and beautiful and people flock to them.

Is it a particularly British trait to condemn the obvious and popular? I can't imagine Africans or Indians being so offish about a popular person, building or thing. Maybe I don't know enough Africans or Indians to make that judgement, but there does seem to be something particularly British about putting down the popular.

Does this come from our inherent sense of superiority from our colonial past? Do we expect to be of the chosen few, like the 1500 Governors that ruled some 400 million Indians during the British Raj? Do we want life to be slightly better for us than for the masses? Is that why we always shun what they like and look for something 'better'?

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.

Babies Everywhere

There seem to be babies everywhere.

Maybe because I have a baby I notice it more, but spring really feels like spring this year. Albeit a bit late. The April showers are now May showers, there is a pidgeon roosting in our garden, goslings on the Thames and human babies popping out left, right and centre.

I may shave my winter beard off in celebration and really get into the spring of things. I want to eat asparagus, purple sprouting brocoli and rhubarb crumble. Maybe some lamb. Or baby sheep as they are called by, er, sheep.

I wonder if they'd let me fish off the back of the Thames Clipper? Like a Marlin fisherman, casting off the stern. I don't fancy I'd catch many Marlin though. Eel have to make do...

Piering Into The Mind

We were just pulling up to Masthouse Terrace Pier and I was thinking about my mum's visit last weekend. I was feeling guilty because she's just had a heart operation and I got the boat times wrong which meant we had to disembark the boat early and walk back to Greenwich from Masthouse.

I was utterly flabbergasted to find that the boat docked at Masthouse was, in fact, called Norma (like my mum).

Jung would have called this Synchronicity. His notion of synchronicity is "temporally coincident occurrences of acausal events". Which, in a nutshell, means that coincidence is meaningful. All very well, but what does it mean?

Interpreations of the mum-boat coincidence welcome.

Artefacts

I always stop to consider the giant red pillars and what they might have once supported. Or whether they indeed supported anything at all. There's just so many possibilities to consider each time they are observed.

London is full of these possibilities made up of layers upon layers of artefacts. Unfinished, abandoned or reappropriated buildings, objects and things.

It made me think of an article I read the other day about a housing scheme in London, whereby old properties are cleaned up and rented out cheaply to groups of 'guardians', who basically get a cheap place to live in return for ensuring the safety and integrity of the building. The company running the scheme (www.camelotproperties.com) suggested that the scheme was 'particularly suitable' for key workers.

So old, temporary, rough and shared housing is 'particularly suitable' for our most important workers eh?

Bloody Big Boat

I was confronted by this awesome sight this morning. 'Pauline' passed Greenwich and anchored just a couple of hundred metres west of the pier. She was being pulled along by two tug boats. So, in fact, she was 'tugged' up the river.

I never realised the Thames was so deep. I never imagined seeing a vessel of this size this far up the river. I wonder what she was doing here?

I couldn't help thinking what a great houseboat she would make. Extreme open plan living. You could have several football pitches, a bowling alley, squash court, disco and large go-kart track all in your living room. You could even use the giant fog horn as your doorbell.

The heating bill would be astronomical and dusting would be a nightmare. I don't think I'll bother.

Event Horizon

I was excited this morning. I knew that the Gormley sculptures were on the horizon and I was eager to spot them from the boat.

I should've remembered the telescopic lens though! However my memory is terrible and I don't have one anyway.

The critics are talking about how the rooftop scultures represent Man's smallness in the face of the cosmos. I think this is wrong. To me they represent Man's responsibility in the face of the cosmos. They are awesome, immediate, apparent, poised, expectant. Man's future is on the horizon and we need to address it; which we typically don't do because we are both literally and metaphorically enclosed by the city itself. There is largely no horizon in a city, so Gormley has created one.

Pleb Attack!

As you can partially see from today's picture the boat was pretty full this morning. I'm not sure wether it's the good weather that brings more people on the boat or whether it's just the service getting more popular.

London is one of those places where good spots are inevitably discovered by the plebs. Every decent pub, restaurant, vista or route only remains a tantilising secret for so long, before its delectable smell eeks out and the sniffing masses come-a-sniffing.

Maybe the world is like this. Maybe the world is too full and there is no longer the room for secret, exclusive places. Or maybe there is plenty of room and actually its just the human condition to despise it when others find what you have found.

Or perhaps they all just read this blog?

The River Flows On

The theme of military power seemed to continue along the river today. Wherever you look there are reminders of Britain's imperial past.

I found some poignancy in HMS Belfast's scruffy demeanour compared to the sparkling newness of Canary Wharf just several hundred metres east of the ex-warship. The river like a chronolgy of British power; From the military might remembered in moss-moored boats such as the Golden Hinde and HMS Belfast to the new commercial might of the financial behemoths that now tower above the river in the East Docklands.

At the centre of British power is London, and the centre of London is the river.

'How could drops of water know themselves to be a river? Yet the river flows on.'
(Antoine de Saint-Exupery)

History Boat

Rain meant all river commuters were indoors today. Still everyone had a seat and the boat was filled with the smell of freshly brewed coffee (only £1.50 for a Latte!).

On the boat I was reading Melvyn Bragg's The Adventure Of English. He makes the point that a language becomes global because of the power that supports it. Latin became 'international' through the Romans and later the Catholic Church. Just as English has become so through the military might of the British and now Americans.

It made me fully sense the control that history has over us, that despite our best efforts to forge out our individuality we are ultimately and inextricably linked to the web of humanity, both past and present, that envelops us.

Bugger and sod it.

The White Boat

I can't find out anything about this boat on the internet. The internet is rubbish. However I can spot it from a satellite. The internet is brilliant.

Here's what it looks like from space through a very powerful telescope: http://maps.google.co.uk/maps/ms?f=q&q=brandrams+wharf&layer=&ie=UTF8&num=10&msa=0&msid=109464698120816828243.00000112233c16c3f29e8&hl=en&t=h&om=1&z=19&ll=51.503066,-0.050688&spn=0.000846,0.001786

Now if anyone knows anything about this boat then please post a comment. I may have to go to Rotherhide to find out for myself. If you want anything doing in this world: do it yourself.

The Land Is Mad

I've been away for a week in the French Riviera. Needless to say, most of my time was spent in boats. I was at a TV conference and most of the companies out there hire boats to stay in and use for meetings. It's a very effective way of making sure people turn up to meetings. Everyone loves boats you see.

We sailed out to a small Island off Cannes where there was a monastery that had been there since the fifth century. We dropped anchor and lapped in the gentle waves on the clear aquamarine water. There were several other boats around and everything was calm, peaceful and beautiful.

There is massive potential where boats are concerned. A massive potential for calm, peace and beauty. Get off the land, get off the land, for the land is mad.

The Eggsassin

Whenever I travel past the lone house I always imagine living in it. It's my ideal house. It stands in perfect isolation, yet right in the centre of one of the biggest cities in the word. Plus it's close to The Angel Inn. And it's in a park. And it overlooks the Thames.

One day I will buy that house and I will paint it and I will moor a boat outside it. I will shoot cadbury's cream eggs using a catapult from the top window at yoofs playing in the park. I will become known as The Eggsassin, and I will speak to noone except the barman at The Angel Inn. I will always insist on sailing the 200 metres to and from the pub. I will be blissfully reclusive and have an anchor symbol on my doormat.

Yes, the boat journey often provokes these kinds of thoughts. Maybe I should get the DLR next week.

Pirates!

What a lovely sunny day. I didn't want to get off the boat and would rather spend the whole day sailing. I saw two large sailing ships on the voyage to work this morning. Three if you include the replica of the Golden Hinde, pictured here, which is permanently berthed at St Mary Overie's Dock, Bankside.

We often see groups of tourists or school children (very little difference) scrambling about the Golden Hinde dressed as Tudor sailors or Pirates, whilst we, usually drunk, jeer at them from the Thameside Inn which is conveniently situated right next door.

I bet Sir Francis Drake didn't have to put up with beery, stoned media wankers laughing and shouting obscenities off starboard. Although he did have the French shooting canons at him from time to time, which was probably just as annoying.

Submarine Dreams

The long Easter weekend interrupted my boating. Very annoying, couldn't wait to get back to work so I could travel my beloved Thames again.

I sat on the riverbank at The Cutty Sark Tavern with Vince and Mike on Saturday night and we discussed the idea that I could actually buy my own boat to travel to work and back. It would mean getting moorings at Greenwhich and Savoy piers. Imagine getting up in the morning, walking down to the pier, jumping into your craft and then whizzing off to work. Like a spy. I need to look into it.

We also discussed the idea of getting my own submarine. But that was much later in the evening.

Buildings and Things

Right I better start actually taking pictures of buildings and things. Shame I was enjoying the boozing and philosophising.

Tate blinkin Modern. Now there's a building. I go past it every day now. TWICE! I salute it every time I go past as it is currently CLUB HQ. By that I mean me and my mates meet there, at the private members bar which has a terrace overlooking the Thames. We meet at 3.55 on the last Friday of the month, normally at the Royal Festival Hall, but that's being refurbished for us.

I wonder if when I travel home from work on the last Friday of this month I'll see myself up there, having a great time. I wonder if I'll be jealous?

Ahoy! Bar On Board!

I just can't get over how great it is to get a boat to work and back every day. Work has now just become an excuse to go on the boat.

The boat journey also gives you time to reflect on things. This is aided by the presence of a fully licensed bar onboard. I had a glass of wine on the way home last night and decided that the purpose of life was four-fold: Firstly, to ensure the survival of the species. Secondly to ensure the survival of one's progeny. Thirdly to ensure survival of oneself. Finally to extract pleasure from life wherever possible.

I texted this profound thought to my mate Andy. He texted back saying if I reversed the order he was up for it.

Life-Changingly Good

My first day travelling to work in central London from my new abode in Greenwhich. Mode of transport: boat. On the website ( www.thamesclippers.com ) they promise no traffic jams, a guaranteed seat and spectacular views; And boy, did they deliver.

There are so many buildings, landmarks, happenings and curious items along the river that I've decided to keep a journal of them, as I experience them each day.

There's so much in fact, that I've decided to concentrate on a single riverside item each day. I'll take a picture of it, research it and upload my findings to this blog. Over time, hopefully, this blog will paint an idiosyncratic picture of the life of the river Thames from Greenwich Pier to Embankment.