Reason To Be Cheerful

Walking down Ockendon Road, a quiet residential street in North London yesterday, I passed a plastic traffic island bollard in the middle of the road. And stopped. Balanced upon it was a book. A hardback, red book. Outsize, with gold embossed lettering down the spine.

The street was deserted, and so I crossed over and had a look. It was a brand new copy of ‘The Dangerous Book For Boys’. Unopened, the spine not even cracked. I was so impressed, I took a photograph of it on my phone;

I’ve been thinking since about this quite a bit. And it’s all good thoughts. The most likely explanation of how the book got there is that someone had found it lying in the street, and, assuming someone had lost it, placed it somewhere highly visible in the assumption that it’s rightful owner would trace their steps in the hope of finding it.

This simple act of kindness, a small attempt to help out a stranger, gave - and continues to give me - a warm glow. Just when you get worn down by the incessant screwfaces, the refusal to give up seats on the tube to pregnant women, the general abrasiveness of life in London, you witness something which reminds you there are people who are trying to be pleasant as well.

Either that, or it was a situationist art prank/book review. It was near Dalston, after all.

The King Of Shinar Is Hiding Out In Dalston

OK, so much of my time is spent planning how to get out of London. But that doesn't stop me loving the way anyone with half an eye can have their minds thrown in wildly random directions by the bizarre signs and views the city throws up. I don't mean to get all Iain Sinclair, psycho geographic on yo' ass, but take today as an example. Finished recording The Word podcast on Pentonville Road, had a couple of hours to kill before next meting in Dalston, so wandered through Islington towards my destination.

And just south of Dalston Junction I stumbled across this sign. I's a dead end, one back from the shopfronts on Kingsland Road, and the name just leapt out as slightly incongruous in this neck of the woods. Having googled him, I now know that Nimrod was a biblical king, who got his hands on the clothes worn by Adam & Eve, which gave him great power and the ability to kick seven shades of shite out of anyone he wanted. He started building the Tower of Babel - and that's where it all went wrong. A classic case of over-reaching yourself. That he's now given his name to a cobbled alleyway in one of the most multicultural areas of London has a certain pleasant symmetry to it.

Do The Hippy Hippy Shake

Just been absorbing a lovely record by Al Wilson. Best known for his recording of 'The Snake' which apparently was a big Northern Soul tune 'back in the day' - about which I have to confess, in the manner of Manuel from Fawlty Towers 'I know nothing' - I picked it up because of the title track, his take on Fred Neill's beautiful 'Dolphins'. Wilson's voice is a lovely instrument, and the arrangement does Neill's song justice.

But there's other good stuff on there as well. The stract I can't stop playing at the moment is 'Summer Rain', a very funky tune whose chorus details 'dancing in the sand, to Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club band''. Got me thinking how many artists from, say the rock/indie field would current soul singers namecheck in a lyric? Maybe Radiohead might crop up on a Saul Williams tune, but that's about it. Shame, in a way.