Essay: The Stratford Crazies

(Picture, The two Ronnies pretending to be Crazies)

Definition: Stratford Crazy:

A person who is usually found on or around the crisis bench in Stratford town centre. Usually found in small groups or teams of crazies, they are always to be found in good voice and humor. Their vital role in the local community is facilitated by low grade rocket fuel, thinly veiled as a better quality rocket fuel, or white Lightening or Super Tennants/Skol Strong Larger (for the more discerning crazy).

Definition: Crisis Bench:

Benches in Stratford town centre where crazies traditionally ply their trade. Also used my manic depressives to contemplate, and old people to rest. (NB if you are from outside the UK and wonder what on earth I am going on about; switch into BBC World, find out what time Eastenders is on. Watch it and look for the little green in the middle of the square. You see those benches with people looking very intense (probably smoking), there! Got it! Good!) The crisis bench usually seats some of the most interesting and diverse people you will ever meet.

How, I hear you cry, could I spot these crazies in my own home town/village?

Well this is a difficult one to answer, as crazies are heavily influenced by the environment they emanate from. However, there are a few generic factors you can look out for: -

• Concealed drinking vessels.
• If you can see shiny gold on black/blue cans, that is an indication of Super Strength larger use
• Ill fitting 1980's European sports wear
• Cuts and bruises everywhere.
  

What sort of people are these Crazies and what is their role in society?

Good question and well put. There are many different types of Crazy. They have different aims and objectives, but the one thing they all have in common is their hedonistic lifestyle. Crazies don't live by conventional rules. They are their own bosses and will never answer "to the man". Many people are envious. I myself walk down to the high street at a lunchtime and wish I could be out in the sun getting drunk instead of having to go back to work.

The common mistake people make in regards to Crazies, is that they are disparate. Infact they are a highly organised and community spirited bunch.

Early in a morning around 8.30-9am all the crazies are lined up outside McDonald's, to be given their tasks for the day. Mostly they sit in silence and philosophize to themselves and each other, but some have more hands on tasks.

One Crazy who, I often see living in various phone boxes in the Stratford/Forest Gate area, lends his bloodshot eye to traffic safety. He shouts at the green man that appears when it is safe to cross the road and then shouts obscenities when people cross when it is not safe to do so. Very useful for blind people.

One Crazy is on secondment to the fashion police. Every time someone with glasses walks by he shouts "You should have gone to Specksavers!..... Have you got a fag?"

The festive season is a particuarly busy time for the Crazies. Startford also has an array of quite fine buskers plying their trade in Stratford. The Crazies take it upon themselves, for no commercial incentive, to act as backing singers and dancers for these musicians. Despite only a limited budget, Crazies often dip into the petty cash to by a festive hat in order to spread even more Christmas cheer!

The wonderful thing about the people of Stratford is that they always have time to chat to a Crazy. Legal advice, religion and Big Brother VI are always popular topics of conversation.

I went to speak to The honorable Hugh Wittington-Smythe, a retired High Court Judge and now full time crazy.

AB: Hugh, If I may be so informal, how did you break into the tight nit and secretive world of the Crazy?

HW-S: Well Andrew

AB: Mr Bull if you please.

HW-S: Sorry Mr Bull, where are my manners. It all started when I was at the Barr. The pressure of the job and the lack of self esteem that I was feeling at the time, really made me think I wanted more from life.

AB: A more hedonistic lifestyle perhaps?

HW-S: Yes exactly, a more henonistic approach. I wanted to devote more time to the lesser works of Plato and refresh my Socrates. Thucididies and his work on the Peloponnesian War. Fantastic stuff. Have you read it?

AB: Only the Letts notes.

HW-S: I know of some other part time Crazies on the County Court Circuit. They told me that the Stratford Crisis bench was the place to be if you were really committed to a life of hedonistic public servitude. Of course my family were a little upset by this turn of events, but they agree with the fundamentals of my Crazieness.

AB: Thanks you for your time Hugh.

HW-S: Any time dear boy. Fancy a swig?

AB: Not my hour I'm afraid, but thank you anyway.

I fear for the Crazies, along with the Marshgate lane protests, the Crazies are not happy about the Olympic bid success. They feel that with all the gentrification that will manifest from the Olympic success, that the Crazies will be driven out into the suburbs and away from their spiritual home benches. Mind you their slogan "Your Crazy, don't vote for London 2012" may have backfired somewhat.

In conclusion, not all Crazies were forced into this situation. A lot have done it out of choice. They live a lifestyle that they wish to live, which is more than be said of most of us supposedly non crazies. So when your out and about and you see a crazy in distress, see if their alright. Have a chat. You never know you might learn something!

How many degrees in a semi circle?

Well it had to happen sooner or later. Not being the sort of chap who likes to revel in his own glory, but if you have dallied here from Ian's blog chimply the best, I feel duty bound.

Today at roughtly 12.40 hours (GMT) during a moment of sheer concentration, skill and determination, I managed to throw my first 180 point score in lunchtime tournament darts. When the moment finally did arrive a large cheer rang out (mainly from me. Ian was begining to think I couldn't do it) and even the barman came over to see for himself.

Ok maybe this news isn't setting your world alight, but if this is the case there are therapy groups you could and should attend. It really is the most addictive lunchtime pursuit. Even rubbish players, like Ian agree!


I realise that my posts are becoming more darts related, so I will leave it at that. If anyone would like to discuss this MAGNIFICENT achievement, or even my 123 outshot on Monday, please feel free to post a comment and I will do my best to reply to as many of them as I can (ignore the hit counter down below, it must be on the blink).

May the darts be with you!

Food!

I'm getting worried about Ian. As you can see from this recent photo he slipped to me in between the pages of the Newham Magazine, he is nothing but bone and bone.

I myself however, am of more stoic proportions. Luckily, being 6ft3in my height helps to fuel my denial that I haven't got a fraction podgy over the last couple of years.

Being one never to miss a trick, it has allowed me to dust off some old one liners which I can drop into polite conversation.

"I do watch what I eat. I take a good hard look at it and then stuff it right down."

And "What do you mean; I'm in perfect shape! Round is a shape!"

Lastly (I promise) "It's not a beer belly, it's a fuel tank for my sex machine"

Every Cloud!

Manifestly, in a drive to loose a bit of weight before Canada, I am adapting a few new, so far uncoventional practices. As you may have read in a previous blog, I no longer drink until I've gone blind on everyday with a Y in it. This was considered bad form and so have knocked that on the head. It has been relatively easy to enforce, as long as I stay away from the "Jolly Boys" (you know who you are).

However, I think the hardest part is denying myself food at work. At this time of year when the schools are off, work becomes so dull, that I have bought some eyedrops to perfect the art of sleeping with my eyes open. Eating is inherently entertaining and legisimises a quick break from trying to look busy.

I take a packed lunch to work, but we also have a sandwich lady who comes to the office at 10.30am (crucial time in the morning, breakfast is by now a distant memory). Then to add insult to injury, if you resist that temptation we have a sandwich man turn up half an hour later (bloody psychologists the lot of 'em). If you can resist him as well (he's a charming young man), then I go out for lunch and reward myself with a jumbo sausage roll. No No, Wrong Wrong Wrong! Bad Andy Bad!

For the people who know me who are wondering why this sudden and dramatic change in attitude, the reason is two fold. Firstly, as I am slowly advancing in years, I am starting to become more sensible. "God Forbid!" I hear you cry. Sadly, due to stupid things like going to work, I cannot devote full time to the champagne lifestyle, I so richly crave and frankly deserve.

Secondly, after a period of excess such as a holiday, I have developed a strange sensation that emanates from my brain. Psychologists have diagnosed me with Guilt, and it's ruining my life.

Guilt, has some worrying side affects. It possesses me to go to the gym and undertake that unique form of masochism: SPINNING (see the bottom half of The Fury post). A game of tennis and a circuit class a week tends to keep the guilt at bay.

Therefore, to all the people out there who are battling the bulge, stick with it. I have lost a little bit already and am trying to keep the momentum going. If a friend says "don't eat that sausage roll, have a piece of fruit instead" don't punch their lights out. They are only trying to help. With a little will power and a good sense of humour, we could all look like Ian someday. I know it's his dream!

TTFN.

Easy As 123....

Well that's it. We've sorted out our insurance, booked our flights and told work when we are leaving. I have written the largest cheque I have ever written (£1001 for my flights and insurance... I felt weak afterwards) and have had a rather fun pub crawl on Friday night, thinly veiled as an attempt to find a venue for our leaving bash.

Monday is now upon us. All the schools I work with have broken up for the summer (which is ironic as looking out the window today, it looks as if the summer is now over), it's cold and grey, and there is a very eeriee silence at work!!!

As there are no schools, we are not getting the mad hysterical phone calls and barrage of e-mails and abuse we are used to. I miss it! It feels as if it could be a long summer. Mind you, the deeper we get into the summer, the nearer it is to Canada.

I'm busy training up the new boy. Rob, is Ian's brother and is taking over from us at the NEBP. He may be a hit with the ladies, but when he made me tea instead of coffee this morning, all pleasantriess were dispensed with, and the fury unleashedd. It's for his own good. He'll need a thick skin for this job.

(Just kidding Rob, I'm loving your work)

Imagine then dear reader, my relief as lunchtime approached. Rob, Ian and I strolled purposefully down to the last bastion of refuge, the Edward VII pub (where else) for a lemonade and a quick game of darts.

"BLAST!" I cried when I realised that I had left my darts at home. I was worried that we might actually have had to talk to each other. My fears were allayed when we stumbled on the pubs set.

I use the word "set" in it's loosest possible sense. They were more of a collection of three different sets of darts with different barrels and weights. They also had some knackerd blue flights which at least gave the impression of uniformity.

As the game got underway, we realised that we were setting new benchmarks in terms of our play. We were missing the board and marking the benches. When going for the doubles we ere hitting the score board more than the dart board. Lets face it, we couldn't hit a barn door let alone a double.

A bad sportsman always blames his tool. I was just about to become a very bad sportsman, when something rather strange happened.

After 9 darts we all had roughly 130 left. Ian went for the big 170 checkout, but when he hit 6 with his first dart he knew it was not going to be his day. I was left with, yes you guessed it.... 123.

First dart, go for odds, I hit the treble 19. Sixty six remaining. I go for 20, playing the percentage game, by leaving myself with single 10 or 6 for a shot at a double. But I hit the treble 20. Six left! Double three for a personal best 123 checkout.

Bang!Straight in. It was never in doubt. The darting gods were with me today. I felt as if I could miss it. The darting gods are a fickle bunch.

Back in the office now and it's still gray and cold.That's why I thought I'd write myself a little blog, so when I'm feeling bored, I can relive my highly insignificant moment of glory again.

God bless. (photo courtesy of Sir Ian Pope... What a silly grin!)

The Fury

The purpose of setting up this blog was two-fold. Firstly it was to be a lighthearted and humorous jaunt, as I move from London to Vancouver which people may wish to read and respond to.

Secondly, it is a medium in which I can unleash my RAGE AND FURY upon the meek, in a civilised way where nobody gets killed.

Today I'm feeling particuarly narked, so the latter of the two uses is coming into force. I'm not a moody person, but I can be quite an emotional one. If I ever find myself in a bad mood, I can usually hide myself away for about 20 minutes during which it will have passed and I'm back to the happy go luck chap I like to think I am.

Today is a bit different. I awoke this morning, pulled back the curtains to reveal brilliant sunshine for a wonderful morning. I felt terrible! And I couldn't work out why?

As a grand socialite who thinks he should be paid just for being me, I am finding work a trifle tedious. It's really hard to motivate yourself when you know that all your projects, which you have started and watched grown, have all come to an end. It's the closest thing to parenthood yet.

Now all that is left is for our replacements to start and train them up into the next generation of Super EBP Legends. Lots of organising, which is not really my forte`.

Not to worry, Only a few hours left before I go to the dreaded SPINNING! For those of you who are not au fait with the gym. This is a class which involves sitting on a stationary bike, peddling like fury at different resistances for 45mins to an hour. I believe it was first invented bt the Spainish, during the inquisition to extract confessions from non believers. It has since been used by the middle classes to repent their sins. After I finish a class, I always feel absolved. I also feel bloody knackered. I have no sense or feeling by the end of it. Spinning is my opiate.

It all makes me wonder if I will have the heart to really go for it in Canada. In my mind I have, but in my mind, I feel I could do most things if I was really up for it. Reality sometimes differs slightly. Through working with lots of campanies and schools, I have learned that nobody is ever as enthuastic about things as you are. You have to enthuse and pursuade them. (note to self: Maybe I should be a con-man.)

I forget that I am very comfortable in my big chair at my big desk, coming to the end of a 2 year reign here. When I'm out on the streets with no money or food, I'll soon buck my ideas up. I find that old woman with lots of dosh and a serious heart condition, marry her, subject her to my driving, and live happily ever after.

Only kidding. Dido, I'm all yours!

Sobering thought!

Bonjour,

I have discovered a new way of getting rid of hangovers.

Not drinking!

Now fear not distressed reader, for this is not a permanent sanction. I have merely decided to cut down my weekly intake to a trickle or nothing at all, and keep my love affair with beer and red wine confined to glorious weekends of indulgent splendor. My units are now comfortably within government health and safety guidelines, I don't bindge and I have never been so miserable.

You see dear reader, that this self imposed restraint has led to some very disturbing side effects.

When I went to the pub with Ian for a chat and a game of darts in the wonderful North Star Pub in Leytonstone, I drove. Ian, being supportive of my task, joined me in a glass of lemonade.

We chatted as normal, played bad darts for an hour or so (that's how long it takes us to hit a double sometimes), but then I asked if Ian wanted another cheeky lemonade. His answer was "Na thanks". Ian often refuses when I try to ply him with drink (he's the sensible one), but I didn't want a drink either. After 3 pints of lemonade, I could drink no more. I was defeated!

When I thought about it I felt pretty gross. Three pints of Lemonade is pretty heavy going. That then got me thinking as to how on earth I could physically drink 7 pints of Newcastle Brown Ale and still have room for a reconstituted Kebab and chips, like any other Tuesday morning?

I looked into the science of it all. I know that alcohol helps absorb food faster and beer dehydrates you by making you wee out more than you take in. All very interesting, but I'm not wholly convinced that this explains the phenomenon.

I believe that there are more spiritual powers at work. I'm convinced there is some sort of mystical force that resonates during the brewing/fermenting process. And it has the power to turn your stomach into a tardis/carpet bag/Chichister Cathedral!

The initial affects are staggering. You can't just go to the pub for one pint, the force inside you is already too strong. Even if you know you have to be home because your dinners cooked/take the dog out/kindney transplant, you quickly resign yourself to your fate. It's going to be at least three!!

Then at three pints, the force has practically taken over your soul. Your ability to make coherent decisions is gone. The evening is a right off, and as you are already at the pub you might as well stay!

After 7 pints your stomach gives you a tiny little reminder that you haven't eaten, and then it's off to the nearest Curry house or purveyor of dodgey Kebabs (remember, the more bacteria the better. It's soaks up the alcohol)BUT WHERE DO WE FIT IT ALL?

In conclusion, this has to be a miracle, an act of God that no man can insure against. It's like the changing of the seasons and the tides of the sea, it happens, and I can accept no responsibility for it. Well, that was my excuse anyway.

Manifestly, I ugre you all to not upset these Gods. Do not laugh or anger them, because they bite back in the morning. Be reverential and please drink responsibly!

Thank you and goodnight.

115 Check that out!

Dear reader,

Some of you will have stumbled upon my little ramblings from reading my Canada bound companions blog, chimplythebest by Sir Ian Pope. For this reason I feel duty bound to share the match report from today's lunchtime game of darts in the magnificent Edward VII pub in Stratford.

Ian, as you may know, Ian is not a naturally talented darts player. His somatatype is all wrong for a start. He needs to train up from his current ectomorph frame to more of a mesomorph/endomorph structure. I am helping in this regard, by acting as his sports nutritionist and making sure he sticks to his diet of Newcastle Brown Ale and pork scratchings. I am also trying to get him to start smoking, but he keeps giving up. Some people have no will power!

Manifestly, I am taking all the credit for his recent upturn in form. He has changed his approach to the game and even his personal motto from "The English love a looser", to "scorings for show, doubles for dough". Seriously, he has improved no end. I think this recent success has fueled his enthusiasm. We often get to 2-2 and play a tense deciding leg. I think, if we ever put money on it the pressure would be so great, spontaneous combustion would be a real possibility.

Anyway back to today. Robert was playing as well, but he hasn't had the time to develop his skills yet to be a true dartmaster. Be patient young one. So, in effect it was a 2 horse race.

Ian had a good run of darts in the first game. Scoring heavily and piling on the pressure. I was just about clinging on to his coat tails. It came down to the doubles. Ian had first shot at double 16. He missed only narrowly. A hushed silence filled the room. Not surprising as there was only the three of us in there.

I had 59 left and missed double 18 on my last dart. My heart sunk. It only takes one miss for the Pope to pounce! Unfortunately, he hit an odd number with his next dart which really messed up his finish.

I got one more chance and hit double 18 with my second dart.

And to to the next leg. Again, Ian storms off into the lead and is nearly 100 points ahead after 9 darts. It looked as if it was going to be another draw. I was playing poorly but had managed to get down to an outshot of 115, which is at the very limit of my range. However, I may not even have a shot because Ian had 3 darts for his double.

His three darts were well grouped but he couldn't get the double 16 then double 8 he required.

I stood up to the mark. A dodgey first dart strayed to the left, but landed in the treble 5. That was the 15 I needed. I was still alive. Next dart: hit the heart of the treble 20. It was still on. By this point I was in the zone and felt as if I was on autopilot.

One dart left. Double tops for to equal my highest outshot ever. BANG! It was IN! I had snatched victory from the jaws of defeat.

Darts is only a bit of fun, but that's because I won. Ian has not yet uttered a word to me. Instead he speaks to me through Robert. I hope this stops soon, otherwise it's going to be a very long flight to Canada.

Birthday Boy

On Sunday it was my 24th birthday. As I hurtled into my 25th year on this earth, I began to look ahead to what it might have in store.

My move to Canada is coming up frighteningly quick. It always seemed like something on the horizon. I was aware of it but isn't quite tangible yet. This is understandable.

(Ian and myself locked in mortal swingball combat)

We are still busy at work and carrying on with our normal routines. However when Ian said yesterday that we had exactly 11 weeks left and he hadn't even got the flights booked yet, I started to feel my stomach turn with a pang of anxiety.

Always good in a crisis (my life seems to consist of bounding from one small crisis to another), I dropped everything I was doing related to my paid employment, and got on the old
"dog and bone" to get things sorted. Panic over: probably until the weeks get into single figures at least.

My Birthday itself was great. I got up early after a night down the Old Maypole Pub with the boys (A George Michael sing-a-like performed the usual medley of hits to keep us entertained). I cut the grass! However the excitement didn't end there.

At about 3pm Mum Dad my 2 sisters and Ian had been invited around to Chris and Dougs house for a BBQ with their children and their partners. Chris being the hostess with the mostess and Doug with the almost in-exhaustible wine cellar, make a team that ensured that the evening would last long into the night.

It did!

Rather worse for ware after a few bottles of vintage oak barreled red, I headed home declaring my love for everyone. I got to bed told it I loved it, and awaited my morning punishment for my excesses of the previous day. I would take my punishment like a man, with a little help from Nurofen. I had had a brilliant time and so had everybody else. I even got my own flypast from the Red Arrows. It's just sheer coincidence that the VE celebration were going on down the road at the same time. Still, they killed two birds with one stone.

From Ectasy to Agony

It was less than 48 hours ago that I strode down the Stratford Broadway, more excited and nervous than I thought I’d be. I walked down towards Stratford Station. There, a big screen and a stage has been erected and a large crowd had gathered so see if the 30th Olympic games would return to London for the first time since 1948, and as has become what seems to be a nation obsession; beat the French!

The crowd was larger than I thought it would be, and you could almost smell the anxiety. Most of the people in the throng had 2012 badges pinned to their pin stripe suits and looked tense as the seemingly endless rituals of children singing and the formality of congratulating all the biding cities. These were not cheering, flag waving photogenic and well-marshalled publicity aids. They were at Trafalgar square. These were people to whom the bid really meant something. They were the local residents, whose hometown and probably their lives would be completely transformed by the outcome of this decision. There were the architects of the bid, for whom the decision would mean that all their hard work was deemed a success or a failure.

As I walked up to the station to take my place in the throng, I bumped into Mike, one of my best friends from home. He has just graduated as an officer in the British Transport Police. He was there in an official capacity to marshal the crowds. I went up and said a quick hello as we had organised to play tennis the next day. He said "I’d love to join you for a swift half after the decision but my bosses seem to think it’s inappropriate". Typical Mike!

Mike was ushered away and we were only moments from the decision. Everyone was silent and we all clambered together to hear what IOC president Jacques Rogge had to say.
They turned up the volume on the big screen. The envelope was opened. "The games of the 30th Olympiad are awarded to the City of"

Pause: the crowd started to rumble with anticipation which was getting so loud I feared I wouldn’t be able to hear it. However then, clear as a bell we heard the word that sent the hundreds gathered into shrieks of joy.
"London!"

It hit me like a thunderbolt! I got rather carried away in the moment. It didn’t matter because everybody did! People we shouting "We’ve done it, we’ve bloody done it!"

Confetti cannons went off, the Bid theme tune started to play and we all felt proud to be a part of that moment. I was surprised to feel like that, and I’m not sure I will again. Although I have done nothing to contribute to the success of the bid apart from register my support and send messages of good will, everyone felt united by the common cause for celebration.

As I turned around and started my walk back to work, the red arrows rocketed past puffing out smoke trails of brilliant red white and blue. At that moment I became a hypocrite as Edith Piaf voice emerged in my subconscious singing #Non, je ne regrette rien#.

Next morning as I got the tube into work, I was reading through The Times reading about London’s triumph from the previous day. The tanoy on the tube interrupted my revelry. We were informed that there had been a suspect package found at Liverpool Street station and that trains were no longer stopping. Furthermore Bank station had been closed because of a power surge due to the rain.

I got off at Stratford as usual and thought little of it. This sort of thing happens a lot on the tube.

I got into work at 9am. As soon as I had sat down, the phone rang to tell me that my recognition event in the centre of town had been cancelled due to a Bomb. I looked at the BBC website and read about the Bomb going off on a Bus at Tavistock Square.

Later reports of bombs going off at Aldgate East, Liverpool Street, Edgware Road, Euston and Kings Cross. Confusion reigned. We wondered if people had been killed, if being in Stratford, that we also would be a target. No one over reacted, but being so close to home, the events rattled us all a bit.

As the situation became clearer, we realised the full story, there had been 4 blasts. One on a bus and three on the tube, causing terror to the poor people suck on the tube trains.

All my appointments for that day and the BOSS day for the Friday were cancelled. People sat huddled around radios and televisions wondering if there were any new developments. Receiving e-mails and phone calls from all over the world making sure they are all ok. Wondering how we were all going to get home having no public transport

After the initial shock of it all, a spirit that is particularly British began to emerge. Our way, London’s way of fighting back showing terrorists that they cannot win was to gel together, help each other out and show a complete indifference to the tragedy of the mornings events. The civilians were following the example of our fantastic emergency services, which have efficiently dealt with the wounded so that they haven’t joined the list of the dead. They have worked so hard and for so long, that London had returned almost to normal with 24 hours. Bravo ladies and gentlemen!

Pubs and private houses were opening their doors to the victims. Making them cups of tea and bites to eat, caring for complete strangers. Everybody chipping in to make sure the terrorists know normal service is resumed.

If the evil people who committed this murderous act thought that by trying to terrorise our multicultural capital that they can divide us, then they were wrong. If they thought that they could cause long term panic and disruption, then they have failed.
Yesterday’s events were tragic and deeply upsetting. Nevertheless the response to these events has been nothing short of miraculous.

The last word should perhaps go to my friend Mike, who didn't make it to the tennis as he was still at work. He was one of the first on the scene at Aldgate East when the Bomb went off. He simply said "Sorry I missed the tennis, but I have seen some bad things today".

What a difference a day makes.