MsMarmitelover

Shopping Trip

noreply@blogger.com (theundergroundrestaurant) — Sat, 24 Dec 2011 13:30:00 +0000

"Can you buy some salad, we've got Trish Deseine and her children *coming over tonight?"
Audible sigh. Barely intelligible mumbling along the lines of 'I'm sure her kids don't want salad.'
"What kind of salad?" heaves The Teen.
"Cos or Romain?" I suggest.
"Is that in a bag or in a big ball?" She questions.
Enjoying the mini insight into The Teen's worldview, I laugh:"It's in a long 'ball'"
"I don't understand." says The Teen.
I try to explain that it's the leaves that tend to be used for Cesar salad, her favourite.
"Wait! I've seen that. It's got a long stick on it" she exclaims.
"Er not really."
"I have to get conditioner too but nobody conditions their hair on Kilburn High Road. I've tried so many shops and they don't have it anywhere." She grumbles.
"Maybe cos you won't ask in shops if they have something?"
"They laugh at me."She says.
"What do you mean, they laugh at you?" I ask, trying to imagine shop assistants laughing at a request for conditioner.
"When I go to Way2Save they laugh at me when I don't know what 'coriander' and (said with an eye roll) 'flat leaf parsley' is?"
"They literally laugh at you"
"Yes. It's obvious I've been sent out on a shopping trip by my mum, so they laugh."
"Do you now know what 'coriander' and 'flat leaf parsley' looks like?"
She snorts: "No. And I'm not interested. When I'm older, I'm NEVER HAVING PARSLEY EVER"
She takes my card and goes off to Kilburn High Rd.

*cancelled. They probably heard about the salad.

Results Day

noreply@blogger.com (theundergroundrestaurant) — Wed, 17 Aug 2011 22:43:00 +0000

This morning:
"Tomorrow you will never see me again if I get a bad result" says the teen.
I say nothing.
"I mean it".
Later:
"What kind of results are you expecting?" she queries. I tread carefully, knowing the wrong answer could spark florid accusations of 'insensitivity'.
"Erm, passes?"
Even later:
"If I fail them all will you be disappointed?"
"Of course not" I lie.
Tonight, by the Aga:
"I've got to decide what to wear tomorrow" The teen declares with an air of great import.
I laugh.
"Don't laugh, everybody is discussing it. The main thing is, not to do what Sarah did last year and come fully made up, in heels, really dressed up."
"Why does anyone get dressed up?"
"You haven't seen anybody for weeks, since the end of term." She rolls her eyes. The eye equivalent of 'Der'. The teen is a specialist at eye work.
She continues: "Anyway five minutes later Sarah got really bad results for her GCSE's and was crying her eyes out. All her make up ran down her cheeks. I don't want to make that same mistake, look wise."
"Hmm. So you are aiming for a sober but glamorous look ideally?"
"Yes. Black jeans I think. A tailored jacket. NOT heels."She draws breath, fiddles with her hair, looks serious."Glasses perhaps?"
I join in: "Quite preppy? A bit, I've already got into university?"
"Yes" she says thoughtfully.
"Will you be upset if I don't get all As?" she asks again, after a pause.
"School doesn't matter" I say. "Everybody knows you are clever. You did my accounts last year. You learnt Excel at 16".

Update: She got 4 A's and a B.

Amy Winehouse 14 September 1983 – 23 July 2011

noreply@blogger.com (MsMarmitelover) — Sat, 23 Jul 2011 19:00:00 +0000

Amy in concert at Glastonbury 2008. Pic: Kerstin Rodgers

Infiltrators

noreply@blogger.com (theundergroundrestaurant) — Sat, 15 Jan 2011 22:18:00 +0000

The news about the undercover cop living for seven years as an activist was first sent out in an email by Indymedia last summer. I don't particularly remember seeing Mark Kennedy or Mark Stone as he was called on the scene, around at anti G8 camps or protests. When I first joined Rhythms of Resistance, an activist samba band, in 2003, I discounted the endless rumours of certain members being, in fact, policemen. One guy, unfortunate perhaps in having the surname 'Blue', was particularly targeted with this slur. Every week, in the pub afterwards, people would whisper about each other. I just thought it was paranoia. I also thought it was a kind of activist ego trip. As if we were so important, dangerous and destabilising that the authorities would make the effort to join the band, come to rehearsal every week, wear glittery pink clothes, go to freezing demonstrations, just to keep an eye on us. We were a public band anyway, anyone could join, we were actively recruiting members.
I got in trouble for starting up a Facebook group and Twitter account for the band, despite the fact that we already had a Myspace page and a website. 'Facebook is run by the CIA' I was told, by members that had personal Facebook accounts. "So what!" I'd counter "if they want to know about us ('they' being a nebulous undefined 'the government, MI5, the police, the army, the forces of evil') then they just have to attend rehearsal. "
I guess I was wrong. It seems incredible that Mark Kennedy was paid by the government to live as a hippy, to smoke dope (gotta be aufentic yeah?) and hang out in squats. The police suspected he'd gone native, Serpico-style, he was enjoying it all a bit too much.
Mark Stone found out that 'anarchist' activists are actually rather nice, trusting people who want to make the world a better place, who don't eat meat and worry about animals. The fact that he ate meat was one of the giveaways. In the UK, most political activists are vegan unlike the activists I met in France, who remain carnivore, whatever their politics.
And Mark was shagging around, his poor wife in the real world has discovered. Perks of the job? Lots of lovely activist totty. That's another thing, sexist behaviour is common in activist circles because 'there's no war but the class war' and feminism as an exciting cause has all but disappeared into a poorly attended separatist enclave. You won't find many women over the age of 30 in this world nor mothers.

Dances

noreply@blogger.com (theundergroundrestaurant) — Tue, 11 Jan 2011 15:57:00 +0000

"I'm thinking of internet dating" announced The Teen this morning.
I'm still asleep but suddenly I'm wide awake.
"NO" I yell. "You are only 16! Why don't you go out and meet someone?"
"I don't want to meet someone who goes out. I want to meet someone like me, who doesn't concern themselves solely with drinking and laughing. I want someone who stays in and reads books and watches TV."

I recall all the dodgy internet dates that I've had. I really don't want her to be in that position. Not a 16 year old.

"Don't you have 'dances' anymore?" I splutter, knowing as it comes out of my mouth I sound archaic.
Cue derisive, loud laughter.
"DANCES? DANCES?"
"Yes, we used to have school dances at your age"
"We are not living in the Victorian age" she says.

Actually the school dances weren't exactly a picnic either. Lots of arrogant lads from University College School. I was 14 when my mum took me out shopping for my first school dance between my school, South Hampstead and UCS. My mum convinced me that I looked good in a lime green nylon shirt from Marks and Spencer's. In this shirt and my mum's borrowed velvet jacket, which didn't quite fit, I spent the evening shifting nervously in the dark, seemingly attached to the wall. To escape the ongoing humiliation of never being asked to dance, I escaped outside.
Some of the boys were standing there, smoking a cigarette. Trying to sound cool while talking to them, I swore. One of the boys haughtily spat he couldn't stand girls that swear and they left, leaving me alone and crushed outside.
The teen blithely continues: "I've seen this guy online. He's 38. Fit."
"What about boys of your own age?"
"No thanks. They are all clean shaven and boring."
"Watch out for stubble" I warn, "I remember having terrible red rashes from the tip of my nose to my chin from snogging unshaven men."
"Anyway I've met someone" she says "He hands out The Evening Standard outside the tube station"
"A high flyer then?" I say, unfairly.

"Look" I say "You will meet someone, I guarantee it. But no internet dating. Christ, all those perverts will be round you like white sharks drawn to raw bait."

The age of Aquarius and wikileaks

noreply@blogger.com (theundergroundrestaurant) — Wed, 08 Dec 2010 20:56:00 +0000

The age of Aquarius has had a good press, especially in the 1960s. The musical Hair where the song originated, seemed to herald a millennium of free love, no rules, communes and equality.
Aquarius, an air sign, in medical astrology, centres upon 'circulation' and people with strongly Aquarian charts may suffer from poor circulation; but this term also applies to communication. The internet combines almost every Aquarian attribute; citizen journalism, global conversations, technology, equality and transparency. Twitter grew exponentially in 2009 when there was an eclipse in Aquarius and several planets were transiting the sign.
But Aquarius has always had a dark side; equality can mean sameness, suppression of individuality; global means ignoring the local and allowing certain corporations rather too much power; while transparency is anathema to government and our own private data can easily be lost, stolen and distributed.
The wikileaks crisis was always going to happen. And now we are seeing the reaction of big business; Paypal, Amazon, Visa, Mastercard have frozen the wikileaks accounts. I want to express my disapproval of their actions by withdrawing my business, but in the case of credit cards, who do I go to that isn't a multi-national corporation beholden to the US government?
Options, of which the internet seems to provide plenty, are now revealed as an illusion.
A new kind of war seems to be developing: a detached, techno battle with hacktivists against the big guys, duelling each other with Denial of Service attacks. Interesting times.
I've taken a quick look at Julian Assange's chart: Sun in Cancer, moon in Scorpio. It wouldn't surprise me if he has some issues around women, most Cancerian men do, relating more to their mothers and the feminine than is usually regarded as butch. Transiting Pluto is opposing his Sun: he's up against it. Pluto is power, crushing ruthless power. Moon in Scorpio is intense, sexual, secretive and controlling. He has Mars conjunct the North node in Aquarius. Mars in Aquarius and Venus in Gemini can be a cool customer, his energies tend towards technology and revolt rather than romance. He's married to his laptop. The North node suggests a fated aspect, this is his destiny.

Another, more detailed astrological analysis of wikileaks/Julian Assange: http://astrotabletalk.blogspot.com/2010/12/wikileaks-and-uranus-pluto-americas-new.html

What to buy each sun sign as a gift

noreply@blogger.com (theundergroundrestaurant) — Sun, 12 Sep 2010 23:47:00 +0000

It's a bit early for Christmas but if you are very organised, a Virgo perhaps, then here are some hints:

Aries: a red rosette stating that they are 'Number One'. Tweezers for their monobrow.

Taurus: Food, blankets, singing lessons.

Gemini: anything gossipy... Katie Price's latest autobiography? Language courses. Subscription to Time Out.

Cancer: things to cook with; therapy; subscription to home improvements magazine, antiques.

Leo: wigs, a Hollywood style mirror with lots of lightbulbs around.

Virgo: sewing machine, gardening tools, anything craft.
Libra: dentistry, a session getting their colours done.

Scorpio: cleaning products, drain cleaner, a voucher for colonic irrigation, sex.

Sagittarius: horse riding lessons, holidays, New Age books.

Capricorn: stand up comedians course, a book to write their accounts in.

Aquarius: nothing, they don't believe in Christmas.

Pisces: alcohol. Unless they are Muslim or underage in which case, a prayer book or music.

Cote

noreply@blogger.com (theundergroundrestaurant) — Sun, 29 Aug 2010 17:54:00 +0000

We met at the bouledrome, open only during the season, cheapest drinks on the Cote d'Azure. As old men and young played boules, the Mistral kicked up and blew sand in our eyes. We had to hold onto our plastic cups so that the yellow aniseed liquid didn't spill. Behind the bar, shelves were crammed with trophies, enormous, some with gold figurines crouched low in a bowling stance. 'Bienvenue au bouledrome plantourienne' said the notice on the wall. Turns out Plan de la tour is one of France's top villages when it comes to boules; competitions are sometimes televised. They've even done well in the 'world cup'... 'coupe mondiale de petanque'. Plantourienne, I didn't know a village name could become an adjective. But of course: Tropezienne, Grimaldine, Maximois, Cogolais... the inhabitants of the local towns had names.

Si had broken up with Sarah since I last saw him. I didn't much care, I didn't much like her. Typical French bird: didn't like other women, slim-hipped with a smile like a shark, a face full of European teeth and smoker's wrinkles. But she'd clearly suffered in the relationship, propping up Si. As a woman I knew.

He told us the story:

"I was in the middle of France, one of those nowhere towns with nothing to do. She was working in a chain hotel: Formule 1 or one of them, on an industrial estate. We worked different shifts. She worked days, I worked nights. We never saw each other except Sundays. And then she'd want to walk. I don't mind a walk. One hour, an hour and a half maybe. But she could walk all day. She loved it, had the boots and everything. One day on our day off she took me for a walk round a lake. After a couple of hours I could see we were only half way round. That was it.

I left, I had very little money. I bunked on local trains to get back down to Provence. I progressed stop by stop. It was November, freezing. I'd arrived in Limoges. I was sitting outside a cafe having a smoke. This old woman comes up to me, hunched over, with dyed red hair, in her 70s. She asked me for a light, heard my accent and talked to me in English. After a bit she asked me where I was staying. I said 'In the station, if the police don't move me on'.

'Why don't you stay at mine?' she said."

Si broke off for a minute to say to us 'How nice is that?' in his dry Mancunian accent. We all agreed.

'"Great I'd love to' Si replied to her.

'That'll be 150 euros for the night' the woman whipped back. 'But you must wear a condom'.

Si almost choked.

'Yes I am a prostituée' said the woman.

'No thanks love' managed Si. The woman shrugged and went into the bar. A while later, Si saw her leaving with a man in his 50s. "

We all laughed and wondered out loud. Does she do this every night? In her 70s why does she care about condoms? Isn't she scared? Talk about entrepeneurial!

We moved up to Bar de la Poste. In the touristy world of the Cote d'Azure, Bar de la Poste stood out as the real thing, a proper neighbourhood bar. Ordinary, even though Johnny Depp and Vanessa Paradis live in the village. Men would enter and kiss each other. When I lived in the South, I went regularly, nursed a kir while the teen was doing her drum lesson. After a few weeks they kissed me too.

Si had got the 'copain du village' act down pat. Every few metres he'd slap someone on the back and boom 'Salut mon pote'. They'd probably discovered him in a few ditches over the years.

Si was a golden boy; tall, handsome, blond, square shouldered and jawed. He had pretensions to write. Every so often he'd shyly pull out a few scribbled pages; mostly about waking up drunk with a mysterious girl. We rowed frequently. He didn't read women writers. So I can name him in this post in complete confidence that he will never read it. But the idea that someone apparently interested in literature would avoid the output of an entire gender shocked me.

Si drank all the time. I accused him of drinking like Bukowski or Hemingway but not writing like them. He annoyed me. All that privilege and looks and blowing it away on drink.

"It's not like becoming an alcoholic will automatically turn you into a talented writer you know" I'd say irritably.
He had a new girlfriend I'd heard, from the village.
'Tell me about her?'
'We've split up' he grinned.
'When?'
'Last night'
'What happened?'
'I was a naughty boy.'
'Who with?'
'Another girl from the village'
We looked at each other. The village is small.
'So you shat on your own doorstep' I said.
An older woman came up to the table then and started to shake her head and wag her finger at Si.
He ordered another pint.

On Sunday we made our way to les plages d'embarquement near La Croix Valmer. There are some beach front restaurants serving moules and frites. It being the season, loud eurodisco tumbled across the tanning bodies, tall blue africans wearing higgedly towers of pink cowboy hats loped from group to group selling beach kaftans, doughnut sellers, boys with summer jobs winked at girls and sung about hot beignets. A little further up the street a bar chugged with rock n roll music. Where do old session musicians retire? The south of France naturellement. A synth player with a long white Zappa moustache, a portly guitar player ripped licks worthy of Bowie and the Stones, no surprise, he'd played for them all. The sax player wore red sneakers and blew until his face was the same colour. A gaunt blue eyed grey-haired man twanged on the double bass player. They reminded me of The Faces live, Spinal Tap on their holidays, dirty hot bluesy rock n roll. An English guy wearing head to toe black and proper shoes, not sandals, sang Jimi Hendrix and Van Morrison. Old girls wore mini dresses with the insouciance of dolly birds from the sixties, varicose veins be damned. A man with long white hair and a red headband nodded. I remembered that the Gypsy Kings were discovered around here by Brigitte Bardot.

Wallflower at the orgy

noreply@blogger.com (MsMarmitelover) — Sat, 03 Jul 2010 10:48:00 +0000

Arrived in Barons Court. Not Maida Vale, as he'd told me.

"It's the first white house." Ben said.

Outside security cameras tracked us. The pale thudding of generic techno music, the modern soundtrack to all recreational events, pounded through the fence.
We'd forgotten drink. Rules were you had to bring three bottles of wine or 12 bottles of beer.
The offies were closed.

"I've got a tiny bottle of airline wine in my van." I suggested to Ben.

"That'll have to do" he said "Look, you do it, you ask if we can come in. You are confident, good at talking your way into situations"

"No, Ben" I said firmly "You man up. Yes I can do it better than you but I'm not going to".

At the door we were inspected by a portly middle aged man with plucked eyebrows and a thinning pate. Alex. He opened the door just a little bit, we squeezed through.
The inside was suffused with blue, from ultraviolet bulbs. We faced a spiral staircase. On the left was the kitchen, on the right, where you would normally expect a living room, was a large room containing 7 or 8 beds. Dimly I could make out brown bottoms, dark against the glowing sheets, bouncing up and down.
We entered the kitchen. Alex gave us a clipboard and asked us to write down our names, emails and phone numbers.

"What shall I call myself?" I asked Ben.

"Well I'm known as Simon Jones. You could be Mrs Jones."

I wrote that down on the dotted line. I let Ben put his mobile number on there. Behind me, men were walking around bare chested with their bottom halves covered with towels.
Ben handed his tan leather jacket into the cloak room. He was wearing a thin white T-shirt. On the journey here, he asked me if I'd noticed that he'd been working out.

"How much is it?" he asked the barman.

"Are you alone or in a couple?"the barman replied "if you are alone it's £125 but free if you are in a couple. However you know the rules don't you? You can't play until the lady plays. She has to initiate."

The penny dropped, this was why I'd been invited. Ben, the bastard, just wanted to get in free.
While this conversation was going on, I looked around the kitchen. A few white cardboard plates were on the counter: a couple of mince pies, a desultory trail of Hula Hoops, a stack of mini spring rolls. Quite plebeian snacks for an orgy, I'm sure I could cater it better: figs, grapes, chocolate dipped strawberries, maybe some eclairs...
But I guess some people weren't there for the food.
I sat on a stool next to the fridge where, attached by magnets, were notices for forthcoming events 'MILF' night and 'BLO' night (Black ladies only).

Ben crackled into my ear "you might be interested in the MILF night?"

An older lady came up to me and shook my hand. This made me feel slightly more relaxed. The truth was, I was terrified. I was tensed up. Going into a house with maybe 60 strange men in varying states of undress brings up all your fight or flight instincts. This is what women are afraid of, this is what women are taught to be afraid of, since birth. It goes against every instinct of self-preservation. You are amongst the big beasts, creatures who are directed by their sexual impulses, large hairy mammals with big pudgy fists. Why would any woman voluntarily put herself in that position?
Alex came up to us and suggested, through clenched and bleached teeth, that we wander around, see upstairs.
I'd only been there ten minutes. I felt pressurised. I could feel Ben's impatience next to me.
I gulped. Lets do this. We walked up the spiral staircase. There was a TV on the wall, I wondered who had been evicted from Big Brother.
Below, crowded around a sofa, were maybe 10 to 15 male hairy backs of various hues and their paler bottoms, thronged. On an adjacent sofa, a man sprawled, looking. His proprietorial gaze seemed to be that of a husband. Underneath the men, all I could see of his wife was a calf, ankle and foot clad in black stocking, her leg bent up in the air.
I stood stiffly at the other end of the room.
I wanted to move about, to look, to investigate but I was too aware of my part in this as desirable meat. I was bait. You can't be a reporter when you are bait.
I moved down the hall, I was looking for a toilet. I found a corner and pressed my back into it, against the wall. I had a view into two bedrooms. In one, there was a man, no, a woman, I could see the pendulous tear-drop of her breasts as her head rose up in the oscillation of her work on a prone body. Later, when she stopped, coming towards me, I could see she had few teeth. Darkly I wondered why.
In the other room, the bulk of the men were collected. Sometimes I caught a flickering glimpse of white female legs. A large black man came out, he introduced himself to me.

"It's that lady's 30th birthday. this is a party for her. She wanted 30 men!"

"I bet she's sore" I tried to quip. Thirty candles I thought.

The black man had pale blue eyes. I clutched Ben's hand. Where I was standing it was very narrow, but no man touched me as they went past. Nole me tangere. They all had ultraviolet dandruff speckled on their bare shoulders, twinkling like stardust. A blonde woman in her twenties announced to me laughingly

"You are going to get eaten alive!"

The black man talked to me, he was well spoken. "Your first time?"

"Yes" I squeaked.

"I come about six times a year. This has alot of people, this party. It probably would have been better if you'd come to a smaller one."

"So many men...." I say "I know there are women but they all seem to be invisible, buried under a mound of men"

"You are always going to get lots of men where there's a possibility of women..." he says "of sex".

"N.S.A" I say, thinking of the singles night I held at The Underground Restaurant around Valentines Day. How only three men came compared to 18 women. Strings attached.

"Yeah" he agreed "No strings attached. There are different sorts of parties...I went to one called 'fat munters', it was held in a car park. Loads of men there. I've been to one called 'fat and ugly' ...still loads of men".

A small man, not much bigger than me, with closely cropped hair, joined in:

"I thought it was bi night tonight? The girls having fun with each other?"

Me: "Bi night is only women?"

The small guy snorted:"Oh yeah, we don't want bi men!"

The black guy agreed "Oh no, none of that!"

Lesbianism and bisexuality was not, in this world, a sexual choice but a spectacle for the titillation of men.

The black guy seemed kind. "Don't worry, no one will force you into anything you don't want to do here. People will protect you"

I trusted him more than I did my companion.

Ben: "Lets go into the bedroom"

I stood stock still, a mess of nerves. I'd worn pearls, a black dress, black heels. I was wearing the most clothes in the whole party.

"Lets go downstairs then"

We went to the bedroom with all the beds.

"These are pros" explained Ben. "As you can see, they are rather better looking than the other women."

A young mixed race girl, very pretty, with slim hips trimmed by lacy knickers, strolled gracefully past.

"Can we go?" I asked Ben.

His face fell. He put on his best Oxbridge accent, trying to gain control "We've only been here ten minutes. Lets go upstairs"

"You said we can go anytime" I insisted

I could see he was worried about Alex. About his reputation in the sex party world.
I walked to the bar, one guy muttered something to me.

Ben smiled "That guy likes your bum".

The black guy was standing at the bar.

"You going?" He asked me.

"Yes. I'm sorry. It's not for me"

He looked at Ben dismissively.

"When you get home you should give this guy a slap. I'm proud of you." he said to me.

"I'm not judging anyone" I said. "It's not for me"

"I brought a friend along, she had the same reaction. She is profoundly deaf and finds it hard to meet anyone. But she couldn't handle it. " He shrugged.

"I hope you gentleman have a good evening" I say with exaggerated politesse, departing.

Ben and I row all the way home. He seems anxious. But then it emerges that he is angry, that I should have known what it was like, that he explained it all clearly. I counter that I couldn't account for my own reactions, it was physical, visceral.

He admits: "Well that was probably the sleaziest place I could have taken you to even in that genre of party: pure conveyor belt sex."

I remain interested by the male gaze, how men think, how they compartmentalise women, whether they feel, if they are just like us. I don't think most women know.

A link: The truth about the porn industry in the Guardian

Football astrology part 2

noreply@blogger.com (MsMarmitelover) — Thu, 24 Jun 2010 18:11:00 +0000

I wrote a piece on Bethea Jenner's football astrology talk a few weeks ago. Yesterday Bethea and I, after a quick lunch gathered from Monday night's leftovers, staggered down to the North London Tavern to watch the game. Bethea was wearing red and was skittishly nervous about the game.
The North London Tavern, surprisingly, was not too crowded and we managed to secure a table right in front of a screen. Last Friday, I watched England play Algeria and was shocked, for I seldom watch football, at the slow and sluggish lack of energy. The England team footballers didn't seem to care and criticisms about 'eleven millionaires on a pitch' not having any motivation rang true. Wayne Rooney was upset that the fans booed them, but it wasn't surprising. Imagine paying out all that money on a flight, hotel, tickets to watch your country play in South Africa and getting that performance.
Even yesterday, we managed a goal, but England weren't exactly playing 'the beautiful game', there was no flow, no grace, no natural talent on display except for a couple of youngsters. England make it look like hard work. As a non-football expert, I struggle to understand how we can have the best league in the world, so many famous footballers and yet be so underwhelming as a side at the World Cup. Is it all about the money?
Bethea explained to me that some footballers retire from playing with England early so that they can concentrate on their last few years with their clubs, earning a few extra bucks. The F.A, whose initial meeting chart forms, she believes, the chart for Football itself, are no help as an organisation, being run by a bunch of stuck in the mud old fogeys who stymie talent and creativity.
We looked at the chart for the match: I can't remember the details due to drinking two pints of lager (I'm a cheap date and I was trying to get into the swing of things) and hopefully Bethea will post more on her blog (Sybil's Boudoir) about it. My first impression of the chart is that England's main opponent was not so much Slovenia, but the expectations and hopes of people back in England.
But expect upsets: Uranus, having spent seven years in Pisces has just moved into Aries. Uranus which equals rebellion, shocks, innovation, the unexpected in the sign of youth, aggression, energy and enthusiasm. England are Aries, and should always play in red, the Arian colour. Capello should pick young players. I remember Michael Owen and Rooney as youngsters in the World Cup, it's shocking that Owen, at 30, is no longer playing for his country, and Rooney, well, if you told me he was 42 rather than 22 I wouldn't be surprised. He looked ancient, bald, puffy, tired. Maybe they are pushed too hard, too young.
Rooney, astrologically, is having a tough time. Saturn, the planet of age, time, depression and wisdom is transiting his natal Mars, aggression, competitiveness, drive, energy; he probably feels as ancient as he looks. Not a good transit for a sportsman. This transit won't last long but it's timing is unfortunate for this World Cup.
The French manager, Domenech, uses astrology to pick his team: he dislikes Scorpios and won't play Leos in defence. As astrology deals with 12 signs and football has a team of 11 men, possibly this could explain why France are out of the World Cup.
You can read more about astrology and football in this book: Football aims for the Stars: How the Constellations Can Affect Planet Football

Runaway

noreply@blogger.com (theundergroundrestaurant) — Thu, 17 Jun 2010 17:20:00 +0000

My teenage years were pretty vile. I was always either running away from home or being chucked out. I was the oldest and therefore my behaviour, no longer a compliant child, was a shock to my parents. By the time it came to my brother and sister, they were worn out and had given up on rules.

I ran away and stayed out all night when I was 14, sheltering in a church from a thunderstorm. Another time, I stayed the night in Muswell Hill ladies loo. One day, after I refused to clean the bath tub while my brother was lounging about: "Sexists!", my parents kicked me out. I moved to a squat in Camden Town, Royal College Street, just up the road from where Rimbaud and Verlaine lived.

Jesse Birdsall the actor shared the place with me, along with the sometime drummer/manager/mate of Madness, John Hasler. The place was very basic and had no heating. I lugged a bag of coal from the corner shop to light a fire in the tiny fireplace and lived off kebabs from the shop opposite. It was winter.

A few days later my parents put all of my belongings into black plastic rubbish bags: "Take these or lose them to the rubbish collectors!". Such fury on their part, they acted like they hated me.

I was at art college, flunking badly. I wanted to be a fashion designer and would make poorly constructed items on my mother's sewing machine such as vertically striped black and white trousers in satin (doh!) which I teamed with a pale pink angora sweater from Sex at World's end. I had a boyfriend who told me, on the first date, that he was going to be famous. And he was.

My parents were so strict, so threatened by my independence. I had to do whatever they told me to do. They constantly emphasised that it was their house, not mine. I felt insecure for years, until I finally bought my own place. I swore that if I ever made proper money that I would help homeless teenagers.

Teenagers get a bad rap in society; all those hormones, all that energy and curiosity. The boys are stabbing each other and the girls are trying to get boys to like them.

Many teenagers are homeless, because they were in care, because they don't get on with their parents, because they were abused, because the parents don't know how to parent. And sometimes the parents and the teens just need a break from each other.

This initiative seeks to help by getting teenagers on the street back into education.

Campaign to get half a million teenagers worldwide off the street and into school:

Tell Us Your Story is giving people the opportunity to recognise and reward others who have made a positive impact on their lives or in their community over the past year. Entries are submitted online at http://www.avivatellusyourstory.co.uk/
Launched by Aviva, for every entry they will donate £1 to the Street to School Programme - a global initiative with the aim of reaching 500,000 children worldwide, helping them get off the streets and back into education.

A weekly prize of £1000 will also be awarded to the local hero that captures the hearts of visitors to the site and receives the most votes. One overall winner will be chosen by a celebrity judging panel for a prize worth £10,000.

About Street to School:
Railway Children is the UK charity partner for the Street to School programme.
Railway Children is the only charity working across the UK with vulnerable children.
Every year in the UK, 100,000 children run away because they’re unwanted, unloved or abused and many are never reported missing.

Revision

noreply@blogger.com (theundergroundrestaurant) — Mon, 07 Jun 2010 00:05:00 +0000

It's midnight, I go into the teen's bedroom. Her laptop is propped up in front of her. All I can see is the glow of her face in the laptop light. She hasn't left her bedroom all day except to make a bowl of pasta.

"Eventually you are going to lose the use of your legs" I snark.

"You've let a moth in"

I turn the light on, see it land on a poster of Kurt Cobain. Smack! I lift my hand and there is a smear of ex moth on Kurt's jumper.

"How dare you do that to Kurt!" the teen yelps.

"I think Kurt would have appreciated it" I retort

I look on her windowsill, she's growing something in a pot.

"What's that?" I ask

"Not telling you"

"Is it marijuana?"

She rolls her eyes. "No, like I'd do that here"

I wait.

"It's basil"

I see the packet now. How sweet.

You see, when kids aren't at school they do all sorts of creative things they don't normally do. She's also started mowing the lawn on a regular basis.

"Um, have you got any exams coming up?"

"Tomorrow" she says casually, not moving a muscle.

"Tomorrow!!" I exclaim."When's the exam after that?"

"I've got exams all this week, every day" she replies.

"Aren't you supposed to be revising or something?"

She takes a deep philosophical breath..."Well, I feel, at this stage, whatever happens, will happen..."

"Que sera, sera?" I paraphrase, an eyebrow raised.

"Yeah, that sort of thing. By the way, don't wake me up in the morning, it's an afternoon exam"
I close the door. I hope she knows what she's doing. Watching David Mitchell panel show re-runs will not get her into university and watching Black Adder does not count as history revision.

The Boy and me

noreply@blogger.com (theundergroundrestaurant) — Mon, 31 May 2010 09:03:00 +0000

I first met George in the bogs at the Vortex. Screwdriver were playing and the atmosphere was thick with violence which jarred amongst the glitter and gladrags of the camper prettier punks. One Skin had gathered his own large turd in a pint glass and was threatening to throw it at people.

George was 15 and reapplying his makeup in the ladies. He loved my vintage lipstick, so matte it practically tattooed your lips and lasted almost a week. George wanted to borrow it. His friend 'Mickey', with a ginger mop and svelte body minced even more loudly, their quickfire repartée crackled arcs of lightning-fast bitchery into the Soho night air.

I liked George straight away. I'd never really met a gay man before who was so open. A week later he turned up at my parent's house in Highgate "you coming down the Vortex?"
On the top deck of the number 43 bus he explained gay sex in detail: that they took it up the arse, although some men preferred to be the fucker. He told me about some posh party where an older man locked and mounted him in the loo. I lapped it up. George told me that he was gay but that he expected to get married and have children later. That seems kind of poignant now.

Every Thursday night for a few weeks, George and Mickey (feather boa, piping voice) would come round on the way to the club. We'd perform last minute adornment on my parent's enormous Heal's zebra print sofa.

I was into a 'mod' look at that time, even though I was a punk. Sixties Twiggy-style dresses were cheap and plentiful in the charity shops: painted eyelashes, pale lipstick, white tights and I was set. Every Saturday I'd go down to Camden market, before it became a money laundering joint for Israeli mafia, and create my look for that week.

My friendship with George cooled when I threw my 18th birthday party during my parent's holiday abroad. In those days you had to deal with tribes, as neatly delineated, warring viciously in the high streets of Britain, as any civil war. You had your Punks, your Teds and your Skins. I spent hours taping a party cassette, alternating all three genres of music. Ever the cook and hostess, I made tons of food. A harbinger of the future, I spent almost all my party budget on food: cheeses, baguettes, salads. People laughed. It wasn't very rock n roll. But I was glad of it, people vomit less when they've had something to eat. For my hostess outfit, I ran myself up a pink tutu, badly, it kept unravelling throughout the night.

I'd invited a few people from the pubs where I lurked every opening hour in Highgate, some mates from the Roxy and the Vortex. I had a boyfriend: Tone, to whom I'd recently lost my virginity in the back of my mother's Honda. It was cramped but surprisingly pleasurable. I was dating outside of my caste: Tony was a Ted. He had a solid laquered quiff and jeans so tight that he sewed himself into them every night. He smelt of Paco Rabanne, hairspray and fags. To this day that smell turns me on. I wasn't allowed to touch his hair

"I love you babes but don't touch the barnet".

He only ate cheese sandwiches. His sister was in jail. In his fonzyesque leather jacket, rough but rule-bound like so many working class men, his 'otherness' and his talent as a cartoonist enamoured me. Like most men, he was prepared to spend any amount of money on me for drink, but food was something else: once, after a drinking sesh at the Duke of Hamilton pub in Hampstead where he and his crew, who were later to become the band Madness, hung out, I said I was hungry.

As we walked down Hampstead High street in the rain from the chip shop, sharing the damp vinegar soaked bag, he said

"'Course I love you, I bought you chips".

I looked at him: he was serious. Buying me food, even a take-away, showed commitment of a different order.

I was in the papers with Tone, front page of the News of The World 'Punk and Ted in love'. Going to clubs together was difficult: if I went to a rockabilly club, I needed a set of bodyguarding girl-Teds, all clad in gingham blouses and hoop skirts, picked out by Tony, to accompany me to the loo otherwise I'd get beaten up. When I took Tony to punk clubs, it was easier: punks were more liberal, allowing Skins and Rastas into their clubs. In fact all the girls fancied him; my good friend Simone, ha! briefly ended up with Tony when we split. Ah the heartbreak and betrayals you learn growing up.

So my 18th birthday party was all prepared. My brother and I had moved all the furniture upstairs.

Later, when 300 people were crammed on the dancefloor (punks were pogo-ing to the Clash, then the teds would take over for Sha Na Na, it was a dance off!), fights were breaking out all over, my boyfriend was nowhere to be seen, the food had gone, the police had turned up and people wouldn't go home, I was very glad we'd taken that precaution.

About 50 people stayed the night, including Melissa Caplan, shortly afterwards a famous fashion designer for New Romantics, and Boy George.

"I had to stop George from spray painting your parent's living room with graffitti" Melissa told me.

I was shocked that a friend would consider such a thing. I still got in a heap of trouble with the parents, even though my brother and I had spent a week clearing up. We weren't sure how to repair the fixtures and fittings though, such as the wood surrounds of the doors which had been ripped off. For a week or so afterwards whenever I went out to a club, I was famous as the girl that had 'that party'.

A couple of years previously I hosted a dinner party for a guy I thought fancied me. My menu was laughably seventies: grilled grapefruit halves with glacé cherries, spaghetti bolognese, and baked apples with custard. I had 12 or maybe it was 15 people over, a ridiculously large amount for a 15 year old. Grilling the grapefruits took forever and the main course didn't get served till 11pm. By which time I was exhausted and drunk. Then my good friend Clare Bennett got off with the object, a preening cock whose millionaire father owned a plastic bag factory, of my affection. Bitch. Story of my life: I'm in the kitchen, thinking bizarrely that my beautiful food would pull in the love while my mates are outside, wearing platforms, face glitter and flicked up fringes, actually getting some.

One of the guests was a pixieish young man, black hair, tiny features and periwinkle blue eyes, named Jon Moss. He had access to a car and would sometimes whisk me off to Maxwell's Hamburger joint in Hampstead after the pub. He seemed interested in me.

Maxwell's was a very exciting place: you wouldn't believe how novel burgers appeared in the 70s. Mostly I couldn't afford to eat there: I'd go with someone else and pick at the free tray of sauces.* There were four sauces I seem to recall: 1) ketchup, proper Heinz, not the watery vinegared red stuff they served at Wimpey 2) a lurid green relish, which may have had pickled cucumbers in it 3) a nuclear yellow relish, perhaps made of corn 4) thick Helman's style mayonnaise, not 'salad dressing'.

Jon Moss represented glamour and money, he was also exotic because, it was whispered, he was adopted. I'd never met anyone adopted before.

One weekend he invited me to Liverpool. My nan was babysitting as my parents were away. I was almost 16 and determined to lose my virginity. So I persuaded my nan to let me go. We drove up in a tiny car, disappointingly I was in the back seat, Jon had a friend with him in the front seat. We stopped at a motorway cafe (something I'd never been to before, as my family never holidayed in Britain) and irritatingly Jon decided to pick up a hitchhiker. It meant I had even less room in the car and the prospect of a romantic hymen-busting weekend with Jon dimmed further. I felt sidelined especially as Jon was noticeably friendlier and chattier to this Hitcher than me. They jabbered away, ignoring me, obviously considering me too young to understand their lofty talk.

Suddenly I heard them talking about prophesies, I jerked into action: "Are you talking about Nostradamus?" I interjected.

A moment's silence followed in which I could almost physically hear their minds reappraising me as perhaps not the bimbo they had thought. They had no idea of course that I'd been brought up in a family immersed in mysticism such as Arthurian tales and astrology.

In Liverpool the party was in a barely decorated house. I was hungry. The party dragged on. I kept wondering when Jon was going to have his way with me. After all why else did he invite me? Jon was upstairs, busy, talking to others I guess. I was alone on the sofa with his mate, front-seat guy. At about 4am in the morning, front-seat guy did that creeping his hand along the back of the sofa thing, trying to put his arm around me. Ugh! No way! I thought. Just then Jon came down and saw. He smiled. He was fine with it!

The next morning we drove back to London. I was perplexed. I didn't understand what had gone wrong. I'd returned virgo intacta, what humiliation. I didn't see Jon for a few years after that.

Can you imagine my surprise when Culture Club burst on the scene?

*I'd recently been to America on holiday with my parents. American restaurants were a revelation after years driving through France going to Relais Routiers. They had 'help yourself' salad bars, blue cheese dressing, huge glasses of iced water which were brought to your table even when you didn't order it. The service was friendly. Friendly!! They told you their names and everything! They said 'you are welcome' and 'hi' like they knew you!

The astrology of football

noreply@blogger.com (theundergroundrestaurant) — Sun, 04 Apr 2010 09:43:00 +0000

Can astrology help predict England’s success in this year’s World Cup?

Housed in a grand and elegant room at the Theosophical Society premises near Baker Street, the Astrological Lodge of Great Britain hosts talks on Monday nights, the most recent being on the the astrology of football. It specifically looked into what our chances will be for the World Cup 2010, held in South Africa this summer.

While the idea of using astrology might seem ridiculous, footballers themselves are actually remarkably superstitious. Top clubs have had feng shui (the astrology of space) performed on their stadiums and pitches. At the famous Maracana stadium in Rio de Janeiro, witch doctors do hypnotic drumming rituals at the pitch before every game. Brazil has won the World Cup more times than any other nation; so could voodoo be the key to their success?

Despite football’s tendency towards more alternative ways to improve performance, attendance at the talk was rather low. Most astrologers tend to be women of a certain age wearing purple, not known for their enthusiasm about football.

So, how do you do an astrology chart for football?

First off – as astrologer Bethea Jenner demonstrated – you set the time for the inaugural meeting of the Football Association (26/10/1863, 19.00hrs, London). Football is therefore a Scorpio.

Bethea then put up the England chart (yes countries have charts, as do cities and businesses), the 1966 winning chart and the chart of the FA for comparison. England itself is Aries and the England team always play better in red, the Arian colour.

We then looked at the chart of England manager, and Gemini, Fabio Capello. Bethea was optimistic. Compared to Sven’s chart – where his Neptunian philandering (secrecy, fantasy) coincided with the relaxation on wives’ and girlfriends’ attendance and the whole WAG phenomenon – Fabio will get us a long way. ‘He’s tactical,’ says Bethea.

She thought Beckham should play. As a Taurus he’s not a speedy player, but typical for his sign, has longevity. ‘He won’t last 90 minutes but he’s important symbolically,’ she says. Sadly she was more right than she realised, and it looks set that he won’t be playing any minutes at all.

Looking at Wayne Rooney’s tense chart, Bethea and fellow astrologer Neil Spencer clash. Bethea thinks Rooney will do ’something awesome’ whereas Neil believes he will injure himself.

The chart for the first England match in South Africa is spectacularly good. We may not win the entire competition but we will go far. In the past, Germany, with its Neptune on the FA’s ascendant at 24 degrees of Gemini, has ’shattered all our dreams’. But this year, Bethea doesn’t believe that Germany or England nemesis Argentina will win.

Astrological Lodge of London
50 Gloucester Place
Marylebone
W1U 8AE

Happy birthday Sweet Sixteen

noreply@blogger.com (theundergroundrestaurant) — Tue, 23 Mar 2010 10:00:00 +0000

Today the teen is sixteen years old. For once I do my übermummy bit and make her breakfast before school.

Standing in the kitchen, munching on some sourdough toast spread with Brittany salted butter and Marmite XO, she looks at her mobile phone and says
"Only one happy birthday text."

"Shall I send you one then?" I reply wryly.

She rolls her eyes "Popularity is measured by how many happy birthday texts you get, how many pages of happy birthdays on Facebook. None of my friends have texted."

"Maybe because you will be seeing them face to face in an hour and they can say it verbally?" I suggest.

"You need happy birthdays in at least two ways...." she explains.

" Two platforms?" I venture.

"Yeah." Her phone beeps "Oh, got another one. Clearly this person doesn't know me very well, they can't even spell my name right." She ponders "It must be this boy I know that's dyslexic" She replies to his text...." Ah no, it's his friend " She laughs slightly "I'll tell him to stop stalking me"

She looks down at her phone "Another one. From Grandma. I'm going to look such a loser"

She's wearing incredibly high heels. I've been worrying about how she dresses recently. Men have been following her home. My teen says that happens to all her friends, not just her and it doesn't make any difference what she wears, men still harrass her in the street. But what can you do? You can't lock up your daughter.

"Are you taking flats?" I ask

"God you sound like a granny" she retorts "no offence. Anyway, stop worrying mum, look at me! High necked top, long trousers, every inch covered"

She caught me googling 'serial killers' and 'paedophiles' the other night.

"So what are you going to do today?" I ask "now you are 16"

"Fuck loads of guys, leave home" she whips back. "No, actually 16 is rubbish. You can't do anything. I can't even vote. I think the voting age should be brought down and they should do more politics in school. "

An election is coming up and she can't participate.

The teen "You adults can't imagine how frustrating it is not to be able to buy anything you like, go anywhere you like, clubs, pubs..."

She stops and nods, eyes shining "18 is the big one. That's when everything will change. I'm going to go crazy then"

Posh lunch club

noreply@blogger.com (theundergroundrestaurant) — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 19:26:00 +0000

Teen gets home.

"I've got some dinner ready" I say. For once I've been a good mummy.

"S'ok. I'm not hungry. I had a posh lunch, in a restaurant. It was someone's birthday."

"Where did you go?"

"Rocca. It was yummy. And the waiters are buff." She stops, looks dreamy and sighs "Some people are so lucky. The rich kids go out to restaurants for lunch."

"To proper restaurants?"

"Yeah. One kid goes to Carluccio's every day."

The mind boggles. I start to imagine little gentlemen from the Lycée, white linen serviettes tucked into their necks, legs dangling above the floor, having set lunches at various Michelin star establishments near the school.

Her school is in South Kensington.

The teen expands "Some kids get pizza for a pound, some go to 'Raisin d'etre', a posh sandwich place. The poor kids go to Tescos. The really poor kids take packed lunches."

She's doing her GCSE's at the moment.She's just done her mocks. It's going ok, apart from Biology. We have to find a tutor, but to find the money for that on top of school fees, it's not easy.

"A. spends £900 a month on tutors. He gets three hours a week"

The class system is alive and well in England. We tried to get her into a good local girl's school, Camden, which is free but, despite being on the waiting list for six years, she didn't get into the sixth form. You have to be really poor or really rich to get into Camden. Really poor because you live in a council or housing association flat in the local area or really rich because you can afford a private property nearby. So I guess I'm going to have to try and find the money for the Lycée for A levels.

There is a local comprehensive but the teen worries about bullying. There's police there, not just outside the school but inside, patrolling, practically attending lessons. But if she went there, she could come home for lunch, just as French children do.

The fastest astrologer in the West

noreply@blogger.com (theundergroundrestaurant) — Mon, 01 Feb 2010 22:42:00 +0000

When my daughter was small, I looked for part-time work from home. I did loads of jobs, anything really, but the one that lasted the longest was doing astrological charts over the phone. I was taught astrology by my mother.

I did charts for Mystic Meg, Shelley Von Strunckel, Jonathan Cainer and others. You know those numbers at the bottom of their pages in the newspaper that you ring to get a personal reading? It's people like me that do the readings.

First of all it was hard. People had terrible problems. They don't ask for readings when things are going well. The work was exhausting, mentally, for you have to keep them talking while you do the calculations (can't have dead space on the phone, they'll hang up) plus analyse their birth chart in a few seconds. It was also emotionally draining. I sought advice from the other astrologers who advised me to 'smudge' the area I was working from, to light candles and incense.

It was a very pressurised job. Like selling psychic double glazing.

After a while I managed to erect a mental protective barrier. There came a point when, while I was compassionate towards their problems, it didn't get to me anymore, I didn't take their problems home with me. I no longer lay awake at night, wondering if I had given good advice, what was happening to them, whether their boyfriend was beating them up, whether a mother's son would get out of prison, whether this 50 year old man would ever get a job again. You can't take it on.

I got really fast at doing charts, just like the title of this piece. I could look at the circle, the wheel, and sum it up in a few sentences. I'm not a technical astrologer. I see the map in it's entirety, and it speaks to me. It's a visual thing, I don't know how to explain it. I'm what my mum would call a 'pub astrologer'. I don't like to get into long discussions about the science of it. I don't want to spend energy justifying it to sceptics. But it's a system that works. That is my experience: astrology, miraculously, just seems to work.

Generally people come to astrologers when they are experiencing Saturn transits. Saturn stays in a sign for about two and a half years. The effects are concrete, depressing, restrictive, limiting. I love Saturn transits. You always learn something from them. You always come out, having achieved something. The only thing to do during a Saturn transit is get your head down and work. Even if the 'limitation' is not working, being unemployed (very Saturnian), you will work on yourself, dig deep, stay still and learn your lesson.

Saturn transits have physical effects: your back hurts, your bones ache, you may need dental work, you age, you feel tired, you feel cold.

It's easy to help people with Saturn transits. Mostly it's a question of time. 'In two and a half years time, or less, this bad patch will be over' you can say.

The other reason people call up are Uranus or Pluto transits. Uranus is the divorce transit. When it hits your sun, moon or 7th house cusp, you can be fairly certain that you will be having problems with your partner. We all have something called a Uranus opposition when we are around 40. That's often when people get divorced or quit their job.

This time the physical effect is exhilarating, speedy, a rush, like you just got electrocuted. You can't sleep (whereas with Saturn all you want to do is sleep), you are wired. Uranus lasts a shorter time, but it's effects are far more destructive. If you have been resisting change or staying in denial about a crap relationship, Uranus is your wake up call. There's not much you can do. You just have to roll with it. Sometimes it'll be your partner that has the life changing event; maybe he/she is having an affair/admitting they are gay/having an accident/throwing in the towel and saying I can't stick the same old routine anymore. They may be happy with that. But your life is turned upside down. In this case you have to take your courage with both hands and see this as a refreshing breath of air and change yourself too. But it's hard.

Pluto transits are slower, all pervading, transformational, psychological. It reveals death, power and sex issues. There's nothing you can do about Pluto transits other than accept what is happening. It's a good time to get therapy.

Mostly people ring up because of this stuff. You hone in on the issue, try to energize them with a few sentences. The fundamental service you perform as an astrologer for your client is to say 'yes this IS happening. You are not crazy. Yes it is awful. But this too shall pass'.

That's why I like astrology rather than any other 'occult' practice. It's all in the timing. You can predict when it will start and when it will finish. I like that.

Many of the people that call don't even know what astrology is: sometimes they say can you read my palm? Er, no not over the telephone (and I'm not a palmist). Or they ask if you can talk to their dear departed dad. No I'm not a medium either.

Being a single mum, I mostly did the phones the hours of 9 till 11pm; when my daughter had gone to bed. And of course, the callers were single mums too. The worst time for single parents is that dead zone, when the kids are asleep. It's at that hushed time you become fully aware of being alone, the only adult in the house, the clock ticking and your umpteenth night in a row, home by yourself, just you and the fridge. Sometimes the loneliness is so frustrating and I'm not really talking sexually. You chomp at the bit when you hear people coming out of the pub or club, carousers in the street, having a good time in company. Times like this, motherhood feels like jail.

Many of my callers could not afford to call. When I was working it was £1.50p a minute and it would take at least 5 minutes to get the chart up on your computer. As the astrologer you only got 40p of this money but sometimes the customers would get angry with you. You'd take the flack for their anxiety about the cost, and their unhappiness and desperation about the situation that they were in.

When I knew it was a single mum calling from a council estate, I'd do my best to do the chart as quickly as possible. Sometimes I'd say
'you can't afford this. In fact I predict that if you continue to call me or others like me, you will end up broke'.

We weren't allowed to do charts of people under 18. The funniest call was from a woman who gave me the birth data of an 8 year old.

'I'm sorry but under the rules I cannot do this chart' I said.

There was a small silence.

'Actually it's my dog.' Then, pleading, 'please do his chart, I really want to know his future'

I figured the rules didn't apply to canines but I'd never done an animals chart before. Tentatively I started to read the chart, just as if he were human.

'Strong Jupiter: very optimistic cheerful nature' I said.

'YESS!' said his owner 'always wagging his tail'

I managed to keep a straight face as I read the rest of the chart. The owner was very happy and said that I was "spot on" about everything.

At times you'd get the smart arses: you'd ask:

'Date, time and place of birth?'

'Don't you know?' sneered the voice 'call yourself a psychic?'

'No I don't actually, I'm an astrologer. If you don't give me this information then we might as well terminate this call' I'd snap back.

In the end I did this job for about 18 months. I must have done thousands of charts.

Before computers, an astrologer would take say a week to do a chart, just the calculations. This meant they'd do a few hundred charts over a lifetime. Now I could see a person's birth wheel in seconds.

I got burnt out. I gave up and never did astrology for money again. It felt wrong for me. I don't criticize other astrologers who need and deserve to earn a living for a subject for which they have spent thousands of pounds (books, software, courses) to become adept. But it felt wrong for me.

Way to go

noreply@blogger.com (theundergroundrestaurant) — Mon, 25 Jan 2010 03:04:00 +0000

If you are gonna die, cut off in your prime, ravaged by Motor Neurone Disease, then I could not think of a better funeral than that of Val Jones, activist and samba drummer with Rhythms of Resistance. In a band, you often spend hours with someone, in practice, at gigs, waiting backstage, sometimes we were in heavy situations, penned in by the police, at marches or travelling for three days in a sweltering mini bus to a political conference in Belgrade. I never knew Val was married. I never knew her surname was Jones (I thought it was 'Dazzle' her activist name). I never knew she went to art school.

In terms of attendance, her funeral was a veritable 'Who's Who' in the activist, alternative political world, the one that you never hear about on TV and in the papers, except as 'evil protesters' but which, undeterred by bad press, are an engaged force for grassroots change. Much of the congregation wore pink and silver, the colours of Rhythms of Resistance. Val wasn't famous, there will be no obituary in The Guardian or The Times, but everybody in that unacknowledged world of political protest was there, celebrating her life.

You know those demonstrations, those protests, particularly against the war in Iraq? You know how marches used to be so dull? And how they have become lively exciting edgy street parties rather than an angry futile trudge past an uncaring parliament to Trafalgar Square? Then again you may have flinched with projected embarrassment at the straggly mohican haircuts, the dreadlocks, the rag-tag colourful anti-fashion freegan outfits and the unpaid ridiculous idealism of scruffy students and dyed-in-the-wool older activists delusionally imagining they can even dent, let alone change, the status quo...

But you can't deny their hope, their dedication, their concern...nor their sense of subversive fun and sheer bravery.

Much of that is thanks to tactical frivolity...a form of protest which started in Britain with Reclaim the Streets in the 1990s and truly took flight at the beginning of this millennium, in 2000, at the protest against the IMF in Prague. Rhythms of Resistance was formed in London afterwards, the first practice taking place in Highbury Fields. We are now ten years old. RoR were the musical wing of the pink and silver block, samba having always been a form of protest in Brazil by the blacks, former slaves drawing upon their Angolan and Congolese roots, against white landowners.

Val was part of Reclaim the Streets, a non violent direct action collective that would occupy roads and throw a party, briefly preventing traffic from dominating public space. RTS formed a sign language for meetings: one finger up meant 'I'd like to say something'; both hands waggling in the air meant 'agreement'; hands forming a 'T' meant 'I'd like to make a technical point with concrete information'; a fist meant 'I'm blocking this'.

As Val's colleagues, representatives from the Rossport anti-Shell pipeline protests, carrying the Irish flag, Mark from London Action Resource Centre, playing guitar, somebody from RTS, talked about Val, there was laughter as well as tears and some of us used the hand language to demonstrate agreement.

Val, ever the ecologist, chose a green ending, with a woven biodegradable casket, so pretty you almost felt it could double up as a nice bit of conservatory furniture, and a forest burial at St. Pancras cemetery.

We all formed a line of drums and played some of Val's favourite samba tunes as she was lowered into the ground.

Lido love

noreply@blogger.com (theundergroundrestaurant) — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 21:43:00 +0000

Watching a Tracy Emin film in one of the cubicles

Story cubicle

The park

Mini rave in one of the cubicles

Fan dancer, it was so cold her flames went out very quickly

A slideshow containing quotes from MsMarmitelover

Musicians playing by the icy pool

On Saturday 9th of January curators Adriana Marques and Gilly Fox persuaded the London fields Lido to open at night to celebrate it's extraordinary history, an event called Lido Love.

230 party goers braved the chill, crossing the dark park made pale and safe by the crystalline snow.

Here is a story of the time that I lived at the lido 2002-5.

Many creative and interesting people and projects passed through the Lido during the years that it was squatted, saving it from demolition.

Cabwise

noreply@blogger.com (theundergroundrestaurant) — Wed, 23 Dec 2009 08:25:00 +0000

Only take a licensed black cab or mini cab...it's not worth the risk to get in the cab of some random bloke cruising outside a club or bar...really...

Down and out from Paris to London...

noreply@blogger.com (MsMarmitelover) — Sun, 20 Dec 2009 21:54:00 +0000

Guest post by my sister who was trapped on the Eurostar train last night. These are her observations and experiences:

My journey from Paris to London this weekend:
I was supposed to get the ill fated 9.13pm train from Paris on Friday night but I missed it due to train delays from Lyon.
I stayed the night in Paris at a hotel which was provided for by a Eurostar voucher. We were told to return early Saturday morning.
At 5.30 am, I waited by the Eurostar desk at Gare du Nord for the 7.13 am train. The staff at that point knew that a train had been stuck all night and didn't know when a train would be running again. We were repeatedly told to 'go away' and come back the next day 'maybe there would be a train'. Passengers responded with 'Go where?'. Staff had no information.

As soon as Eurostar staff realised the scale of the problem with the trapped trains from Friday night returning to Paris, they said 'No we can't help you now there are too many people'. In short, they got stingy.

We were told to call Eurostar customer services in France, which I did (at 11.11am), but I was told that there was nothing they could do: 'sorry can't help you Madam'. I asked for a hotel voucher for the Saturday night or until a train was available but staff now denied that they could give out hotel vouchers. I knew this was untrue as I had been given one for the Friday night. I told him that I knew that the vouchers were in the office, he replied 'I'm sorry Madam, thank you for your call'. I quickly asked for his name, he reluctantly replied 'Dominic' but refused to give me his last name. The name 'Dominic' sounded made up as he sniggered.
The only time any action happened was about 11.30 am when the passengers from the original train stuck in the tunnel (on Friday night) were arriving back in Paris. Suddenly the French Eurostar CEO and variety of assistants turned up to speak to the French press. They stationed a box of croissants next to them as passengers came out, a last minute effort at appearing to look after the passengers. As soon as the press left, Eurostar management disappeared again.
I waited in Paris until I managed to get on the 3.30pm train. It stayed on the platform for an hour while we were waiting for a train driver to turn up.
A few brief details about the journey: at one point we were going through the tunnel, I could suddenly smell burning in the carriage, the air was 'mistier'. As I walked up and down to see where the smell was coming from, an announcement came 'the engine power had gone' and 'the driver was letting the train freewheel to get out of the tunnel'.
The British passengers had a gallows humour throughout this: joking that it was 'day two in the Eurotunnel house and that they wanted to go to the diary room' and laughing when the train manager spoke in 'allo, 'allo English over the public address system saying 've are going to turn ze lightning off' (meaning the lights).
I kept wondering when Shelley Winters(Poseidon Adventure) or Fred Astaire(Towering Inferno) were going to pop up and do a cameo role.
Once through the tunnel, we then remained stuck, travelling a few metres then stopping, not far from Folkstone for approximately seven hours. It was frustrating watching other trains go past.

The passengers were patient until it had just been going on too long. We had been without lights, food, water, heating and communication. The doors were locked. There seemed to be no manual override to open the doors once the electricity had failed.
Eventually the train managed to get towards Ebbsfleet (a major stop where some people had left their cars) but the train manager refused to stop there and wouldn't explain why other than 'health and safety'. That is when passengers started to get very angry. Some of these people had been stuck on the train the night before, so it was their second night in this situation.

The atmosphere turned nastier when a woman apparently saw the train staff in a carriage taking pictures of themselves and also of passengers. Her 12 year old daughter took pictures of the staff doing this and they grabbed the camera from her. This is when we heard fighting in the carriage next door.
One of the problems was that there were no native English speaking staff on the train. We were reliant on the translation skills of the rather youthful French staff, who did their best but had no experience or training to deal with the situation.
A couple of passengers came through and said that the train driver, a man, was weeping in a carriage.

I also noticed that as we got out of the train at St Pancras at around 12.30 am, no Eurostar staff were present. Cases of water and boxes of croissants and crisps had been dumped, not even handed out, for weary passengers to have in their hands ready for the waiting media.
Passengers were given slips to get a taxi and told to go outside. (Only 2 staff handing these out for 700 passengers). When passengers got outside and tried to hail black cabs, they refused to take the fare because the vouchers were only for radio taxis.
There was no information for passengers stranded in London that night: no hotel information, no hotel vouchers, no coaches laid on. When you phoned up the British Eurostar customer care number there was only an answerphone message about booking tickets over the Christmas period. The impression I had was that Eurostar were trying to deal with this at a minimum of expense.

The model Claudia Schiffer was apparently treated very differently. She was whisked away in a taxi.

In conclusion yes, nobody died, but I generally got the sense that Eurostar were not interested in spending the money to communicate and help the passengers going through this ordeal.

Safety issues.

When we were left in the dark several times for several hours due to the train having no power this actually meant that:

1. There wasn’t any backup emergency electricity to light anything.
2. The power failure meant that we were trapped in the train and the electric doors were sealed shut. No manual override.
3. Evacuation: no luminous signs to indicate any emergency exits/windows to help us to break out. (Every pub/club has to have this by law... why doesn’t a sealed high speed train?)
4. We wouldn’t have been able to find our way out in a fire/smoke situation or a derailment. In the event of a problem, there is no doubt in my mind that we would have not been able to evacuate quickly and would have died through asphyxiation in the panic and mayhem.
5. The Emergency Windows are marked as such ONLY on the outside of the train,(reading letters backwards in panic/chaos is hard) so the passengers on the inside could not tell which ones were the windows that could have been smashed with a hammer in case of evacuation. Many signs are masked by handles. They were also written in small letters.
6. The power failure meant that the Train Manager could not make any public address announcements. There are no battery loud-hailers on board.
7. None of the staff have any basic medical training or are designated as such. A pregnant woman fainted. Passengers were asked if they were medics. A paramedic who volunteered, went to her aid but noticed that although the staff surrounded her - not one of them had thought to bring the medical kit. THEY HAVE NO TRAINING TO COPE WITH INCIDENTS. I found the young staff as polite as they could be in this ordeal but they didn’t know what to do. At times the staff hid in another carriage as they couldn’t cope or make decisions for themselves and at times asked us passengers to pass on information hoping it might makes it way down 17 packed carriages.
8. Staff did not appear to have emergency torches.
9. As a society, we have had many disasters such the Moorgate tube crash, the Reading train crash… the sinking of the Marchioness boat, Hillsboro… the list goes on. Why doesn’t Eurostar/Eurotunnel have to conform to basic Health and Safety measures?

MsMarmitelover: one of the reasons I asked my sister to post her account here is because she put the above list on safety on the Eurostar Facebook page and it was removed. She has posted it again on Facebook and it remains for the time being.

Cussin

noreply@blogger.com (theundergroundrestaurant) — Mon, 30 Nov 2009 11:12:00 +0000

In the bathroom. My daughter was putting on foundation in the mirror. Her skin is perfect.

"Why do you wear foundation?" I asked. "At your age?"

"Because I've got skin like an old woman" she said "everybody teases me about it at school. I've got those things...that old men get when they drink ..."

"Thread veins?"

"Yeah, that. I've got tons of blemishes and I have to cover them up"

I looked at my face in the mirror. I had crinkly bags under my eyes. I pushed at my skin, it doesn't spring back into place as it would have a few years ago. Even a year ago.

I seemed to have aged enormously since starting The Underground Restaurant. In fact I haven't properly looked at myself for a while, being so busy. I've neglected any 'beauty routine'.

Next to me was my teen...her perfect heart shaped face...

I sit on the toilet and sigh: "So apart from your weight, your height, the little bump on your eyelid and your old ladies' skin...what else do people at school criticize about you? It seems, according to them, you are absolutely hideous"

"Look that's how it is. Everybody cusses everybody else." my daughter says patiently as if speaking to a retard.

"Do you?"

"Yeah. 'Course. Probably."

"You slag off other people's looks?"

"Well my friends and especially S."

"Why S?"

S. is particularly beautiful, tall and slim with almond-shaped eyes and great hair. She's been spotted by model agencies.

"Everybody has a go at S" snorts my teen "because she's so perfect".

"Does she get upset?"

"Yes, sometimes she cries"

"So you are all making each other feel bad? I mean you come home and cry too" I state.

My teen shrugs.

Cussing, that is, the art of putting each other down, does seem to be worse than it was in my youth. I wonder if it comes from 'freestyle rap battles'. It must be hard, though, for teenagers to build up any self-esteem when every imperfection is ruthlessly targeted. Or does it toughen them up?

Butters

noreply@blogger.com (theundergroundrestaurant) — Tue, 17 Nov 2009 01:41:00 +0000

"I'm butters" said my teen.

Now I know I'm biased but my teenager is the most beautiful girl in the world. Bar none. Actually I'm not biased, this is pure fact.

"You are gorgeous" I say soothingly.

"No I'm not. I'm fat. And I'm short".

There's no point lying. She is short. But she's not fat. Not yet anyway. She probably will be later on, just like me. To be honest, I don't think I'm fat, but other people do. I look at all the women we are told we are supposed to look like and think 'Where's the rest of you?'. They look like half people.

She talks about the teasing at school, because of her height.

"Basically the deal here is that you aren't average. You want to be average. There's such an emphasis on being average, but it's boring." I say

I try to think of someone short, not too great looking but with such personality you don't even notice. I hit upon...

"Look at Danny Devito! He's short but I don't think he's ever turned in a bad performance" I tell her brightly.

"But has he got a girlfriend?"

"Yeah. He's married and everything" I say

The teen thinks for a bit.

"I expect that's cos he's famous. I'm not famous. No one is ever going to like me. I've been single for two years."

"You are 15! Someone is going to like you. Of course they are!"

"No never. No one's ever going to like me. I'll be a virgin when I die"

This conversation was provoked by the fact that she liked a boy. He seemed to like her. In fact she started liking him because she thought he liked her.

She thought they were close. He would text 'I love you'. Even today, when 'I love you' and relentless hugging is common currency between friends (not the seldom uttered tight-lipped words that slipped out by mistake, of my youth), texting that phrase to the opposite sex means something.

My teen talked to me about this as we drove...

"I didn't know what was going on, so I took the plunge and texted him: 'Are you into me?'" Tears trickled down her downy cheeks. "He said 'No. We are just friends'."

I recognised this feeling so well...

"I really hate that. When blokes you fancy just want to be your friend. When they flirt and confuse you." I commiserated. "They are power tripping"

"I know" she sniffed.

"I mean my attitude, in the words of Jayne County, is: 'If you don't wanna fuck me, fuck off'" I joked.

"Me too."

We drove in silence, bonded in mutual misery.

Bad libel

noreply@blogger.com (MsMarmitelover) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 22:18:00 +0000

Singh, Goldacre and Cohen enjoying a pint at the Westminster Skeptics meeting.

Readers will know that I have been following the case of missing Madeleine McCann. I've been perturbed by the actions of their lawyers, Carter Ruck, who menace with libel anybody who questions the parent's story. They have managed to ban Goncalo Amaral's book 'The Truth of the Lie' and sent threatening legal letters to various websites and discussion forums. I recently spoke to a Sky News journalist who told me "Any news comes in, we are told to write it from the point of view of the McCanns. But you will notice, we never say 'abducted' Madeleine McCann, we always say 'missing' or 'disappeared'".

Whatever you think about this case, most people would agree that free speech is important. Particularly in Portugal which only recently became a democracy.

On the 12th of October, around 8.30pm, I saw a tweet from @guardianmedia. They were being gagged from reporting on Parliamentary proceedings in apparent contravention of the Bill of Rights. Checking the story it was clear that Carter Ruck were up to their tricks again. But this time they went too far. Myself and many other twitterers RTed and spread the word wide and far. One blogger found out the story was regarding toxic dumping by Trafigura. Soon the words #carterruck #trafigura and #guardiangagging were trending all over the world.

The night after I attended a talk at a new branch of Skeptics in Westminster, started by lawyer David Allen Green. Tonight's star speaker was Simon Singh, fighting a libel action brought by the British Association of Chiropractors; and guest speakers, journalist Nick Cohen, and science writer Ben Goldacre.

Newsnight were there too. In fact I could be seen on the news clip that night, taking pictures and jotting down notes.

David has an interesting history...when I met him over a year ago he was a Conservative. But it was clear when talking to him that he was no ordinary Conservative, in fact many of his opinions were as far left as mine. In contrast to Winston Churchill's (1) dictum that...

"If you're not a liberal when you're 20, you have no heart. If
you're not a conservative when you're 40, you have no head."

   ...many people I know, myself included, seem to venturing further left as they grow older. Perhaps this is the Thatcher generation growing up? Green wrote a brave blog post earlier this year, in which he describes how he is no longer a Tory. 
  The mood in the meeting room that night was triumphant. Twitter had overturned the injunction by Carter Ruck on the Guardian, perhaps things were not as bleak for Simon Singh as previously thought?
  David Allen Green thought that the court hearing could have been "the most important constitutional case of our generation". But Carter Ruck blinked first.  
  Simon Singh was going to face a similar ordeal the day after. He's a science writer who wrote in the Guardian that chiropractors made false claims as to the efficacy of their treatments, specifically in relation to curing asthma in children. He used the word 'bogus'. Whereas the rest of his article may have been fair comment, the use of this word provoked the British Chiropractic Association to sue for libel. Unusually they did not sue The Guardian, the paper that published the article, but Simon Singh personally. 
  Nick Cohen spoke to the meeting about how London has become the centre for libel tourism, where the international rich can seek redress in our courts, even if the supposed libel has not taken place in this country. He cited the example of Roman Polanski who sued the magazine Vanity Fair for libel, for they had suggested that he had made sexual advances to  a Norwegian woman on the way to the funeral of his murdered wife Sharon Tate. Cohen is scathing: 
"Polanski was a fugitive on the run from justice but he won against Vanity Fair. Polanski does not have a reputation to uphold, he's a self-confessed paedophile rapist." British justice bent over backwards for Polanski, enabling him to testify via video link form Paris, for if he came to Britain, he risked being extradited to the United States for his rape of a 13 year old girl thirty years ago.
  The judge found for Polanski saying we must not judge him on morals.
  Cohen finished by joking that since the Simon Singh case, he was staggered by the sight of geeks in arms. "The thing about scientists" he said to laughter from the room full of beards and specs "don't make an enemy of them. May the force be with you."
  Ben Goldacre spoke next. He fought a libel battle not so long ago and knows exactly what Singh is going through. He said that health was a particularly important area for freedom of speech. Peer review, criticism from others in the profession, is an essential part of medicine. The most popular and referenced medical papers were generally critical of certain drugs.
  Speaking frankly, Goldacre owned up that what Singh said may have been unfair. But that was not his intention, it was a "slip of the pen". But for this he is being persecuted through the courts. 
"It is ridiculous and dangerous for a discussion about the  pros and cons of a treatment to be held in an atmosphere of fear.
 
  
Simon is lucky, he isn't alone and  has fought the action. But with the libel laws at present, people are basically being told to 'shut up'. 'Shut up' is the argument of people with no arguments"
  Simon Singh stood up to speak to a huge cheer. He talked of the expense of libel in Britain; it is a hundred times more expensive here than anywhere else in Europe, meaning only the rich can afford to sue for libel. Another worrying aspect of our libel laws is that the United States are having to change their laws to cope with our  libel laws.  The Americans reformed their libel laws in 1964, during the Civil Rights movement. 
  One of the issues is that along with the fact that Singh is being sued personally, he is not being sued by an individual but an association with all the structure and support that bestows. It 's David versus Goliath. We saw this in the Mclibel trial, the longest ever in British courts, lasting two and a half years, which was a PR disaster for McDonalds,  backfiring badly.
  As a lawyer from the city, David Allen Green explains, clients come with complaints. They don't know the technicalities, they just want someone to shut up. Some times it's copyright, sometimes it's contempt of court. It's ridiculously easy to sue for libel.
  The Lords say that companies which have shareholders can sue. 
  There are four degrees of libel, Green explains:
  
Being Sued
Articles being spiked
Articles heavily lawyered
and perhaps the most worrying, articles which are not written at all, the result of self-censorship.
           'Just as politics cannot be separated from life, life cannot be separated from politics. People who consider themselves to be non-political are no different; they've already been assimilated by the dominant political culture--they just don't feel it any more.' Pramoedya Ananta Toer

The situation now, with bloggers, Facebook and Twitter, with everybody writing and reporting, harks back to the 17th century fashion for pamphleteering. As Cohen says "The net makes hacks of all of us. The law sees all of us as publishers."

The campaign for libel reform is not just about science. We are not getting good journalism as a result of libel law. It is a maxim that you can say what you like about politicians, mostly they are fair game. But The City, which has collapsed this economy, has been untouchable. In 2008, a Danish newspaper investigating Icelandic banks, received a writ, preventing them from reporting what they found. We all know what happened to the Icelandic banks.

Singh gets up and answers questions: "Is the Guardian supporting you?"

Singh: "The Guardian were helpful for the first six or seven weeks. They offered the right of reply or clarification to the BCA. But they wanted a full out apology. The Guardian agreed. However I can't apologize for something that I believe is true. I can't have my wiki page saying that I caved."

Ben Goldacre: "Three months my life was dominated by my libel case, sitting in the dock. It cost £535,000 for my defence. We won but still after costs we were £175, 000 out. It took a year and a half of my life altogether."

Singh:"I've kept in touch with The Guardian. The problem for them was they were not actually being sued, I was. I understood their position: If they backed me, even if we won, they would lose at least £175k. They thought 'If we lose, we lose a million. This is during a time when we are laying off journalists.' How could they justify that? At that time they were being sued by Tesco, Elton John, Ben's case, too much going on at that time. If the Guardian helped with the defence, they could be implicated."

Local newspapers don't even bother writing about anything controversial anymore. They can't afford it.

More news on the Simon Singh case and Superlibel can be read at the JackofKent blog.

Personally I don't find it a particularly outrageous claim that chiropractors can help childhood asthma with manipulations of the body and massage. In France kinesitherapists do this all the time, paid for by the French National Health. I'd certainly rather that than an inhaler which is what British GPs hand out at the drop of a hat. But then I'm not a scientist, I'm just a mother, who relies on her own instincts, knowledge, observation and connection with her child to determine what is best for her health. In the past, I've found I am generally right and the doctor is generally wrong.

(1) Although looking further into this quote it appears it might be a mistake to attribute it to Churchill.

Battle of Hastings

noreply@blogger.com (theundergroundrestaurant) — Sun, 18 Oct 2009 14:10:00 +0000

The teen went to Hastings yesterday to do geography coursework on tourism. She got up early on her day off to get the train there.

"Did you have a nice time on the journey with your friends? "I ask

"Oh stop sounding so homosexual about it. Soooo gay. 'Did you have a nice time with your friends?' "she mimics in a smarmy mummy voice.

I continue: "Well how was it?"

"It was jokes. We had the two most liberal teachers come with us, they slept the whole journey but made sure they were in another carriage. In our carriage you could see how annoyed all the adults were. I swear every time my friend laughed I could see this guy sighing. She's got a really loud laugh.

"and Hastings? What did you think of it?" I asked.

"It's a shit hole. Nothing there, just some shops and the sea. We spent our whole time in Macdonalds then bought some beers for the journey back"

"Did you manage to ask the questions for your coursework?"

She'd spent days preparing a questionnaire. They were supposed to ask tourists what brought them there, where they stayed, what they did. I said she should ask whether tourists would appreciate a home restaurant in Hastings.

"No way!" she said, staring at me with incredulity

"NO way"
she repeated just in case I hadn't understood the first time.

"There were only residents, no tourists. And the couple of tourists we found when we asked 'could you spare 5 minutes to answer this questionnaire?' refused to talk to us"

I think about this. Of course, what tourist will visit Hastings in October? Really the teachers should have thought this through.

" It would have been better to do it in London, at least there are tourists here. But my teachers said it would be good for us to see another town. Hastings has got the highest suicide rate in Britain or something. The funniest bit was when someone's dog shit in the middle of the tourist office floor. When we went back a couple of hours later, they were still trying to clear it up"

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marmite lover
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