Bloomsbury Bowled over

Bowling is a relatively marginalised recreational activity in the UK. One hesitates to call it a sport because it’s possible to get drunk while doing it.

Admittedly, if practised at a hopeless, novice amateur level it would just about be possible to get laggin’ while playing football, rugby, cricket, tennis, curling, jujitsu and many others. Competing in the 110-metre hurdles or hurling a javelin while supping from a toxic tin of Super T would surely take more impressive dexterity, but you get the gist.

In the US bowling tournaments are big events, where participating Septics can win enough to keep themselves in cheeseburgers and Oreos for at least half an hour.

Not all of our transatlantic cousins take the game of frantic frames and fancy jackets seriously. The Farrelly Brothers’ ‘Kingpin’ is perhaps the most underrated of the aforementioned sibling’s films but is a minor comedy classic and arguably responsible for the artistic rehabilitation of curmudgeonly comedy icon Bill Murray. Highly arguable, given that ‘Groundhog Day' came out the year before, but I digress.

‘Kingpin’, the occasional episode of The Simpsons and the odd scene in Peep Show notwithstanding, 'The Big Lebowski' provides the most hilarious and best fictional portrayal of bowling in the States.

This latter Coen Brothers’ cult fave screens on a loop above the pins at the end of five lanes at Bloomsbury Lanes.

A knowing and playful touch of irony which helps the WC1 joint stay a step ahead of competition such as the reliable Rowan’s Bowl in Finsbury Park and the down-at-heel Lewisham AFL in the league of London’s top alleys.

Bloomsbury has long been beloved of the now-not-quite-as-cool-as-they-used-to-be Shoreditch hordes because of its karaoke lounge (replete with thousands of retro and indie tunes) and occasional new band performances and this too is a boon.

It was somewhat unsettling to bowl two yards behind an avant-rock skinsman/guitarist cranked out Battles-esque experimental sounds at John Peel Day last night (Saturday 10 October).

The alley’s website lacks full information about our unknown man’s stage name, but this will be appearing here soon. I never met Peel but listened to his consistently interesting shows occasionally and got the impression he would have enjoyed and been invigorated by the music played in his name.

Many other patrons did and were, not least the staggering casualty who could barely speak coherently or walk two steps without spilling his recklessly-nursed bottles of Asahi…

Prince Albert wins pub pun prize

Only Fools And Voices is perhaps the best name for a south London karaoke night imaginable, so congratulations to The Prince Albert on Royal Hill in Greenwich.

The SE10 street is also home to three other pubs. Some 50 yards south of the the Albert Meantime Brewing Company linchpin The Greenwich Union sits next door to popular Young's hostelry Richard I, while gastropub The Hill perches on a corner a few yards north of the other three.

Even if it didn't have such a great karaoke night moniker the Albert is easily the best of the four. Aside from the selection of beer and cider, availability of full packets of cigarettes behind the counter (none of this 16/17 cigarette per packet extortion one expects from machines) and pool table, the deal is sealed with a jukebox. London and particularly south London is a something of a jukey desert in 2009 so any tune provision is not to be underestimated. It may also give drinkers a few ideas for a Only Fools And Voices slot, too.

The London Game rediscovered

Board games have a distinct whiff of geekiness about them but are at least an amusing diversion from electronic consumer goods.

Ultimately, any distraction which stops people, albeit momentarily, from tapping or scrolling feverishly and incessantly on their phones, Blackberries and MP3 players can only be a great thing.

Games publisher Condor and The Priory Arms should take equal credit in this particular case. Condor brought The London Game to the world and the Priory has been kind enough to provide drinkers with a copy.

It's not as uncompromising and hilarious as any real tube experience, but easily as frustrating.

Three improvements would make this game longer and more appropriate for lengthy drinking sessions.

Presently the game only includes tube stations as far as Zone 2. I propose a new edition which includes all 270 stations on the network and each of the 40 DLR stops. This would make the game pretty convoluted, particularly if manufacturers could implement the second improvement simultaneously.

Currently each player receives two tokens per game to close any station of their choice. This should be upped to three or four depending on the amount of players, so disruption levels are more in keeping with the real life experience.

The final improvement should be Hazard card alteration. For now Hazard cards move one or more players to alternative stations on some flimsy pretext or another. A dose of realism might work.

How about "Watch tourists get sold pony drugs before taking in a night of shit indie, watery lager and kebab vomit: Go to Camden Town", "You decide only one haircut on the same head is not enough: Get down to Old Street" or even "Time to tar and feather the recession villains: Send half the players to Westminster with lead pipes and the rest to Bank with nail-adorned spanking paddles"?

Jokes denied by admin agro

This rather moody photo of Hammersmith Bridge sums up today's oppressive climate better than it did on Sunday.

Schlaping down the District Line to well-to-do West London is not this reprobate's usual MO but the aim was to watch Britain's most famous misanthrope present a new episode of his comedy panel show.

Alas the trot to Riverside Studios was a waste because of the badly organised ticketing system. The filming was heavily oversubscribed. The only option was to make like a weary production crew and sack it off with drinks at the lairy Irish pub opposite the studios.

Solid Gold serve up the goods

New experiences are what makes life getting up for, so it was pleasing to see Minneapolis ravers Solid Gold get their funky Cut Copy-style skills on @ The Queen Of Hoxton last night.

There's a hefty dollop of Passion Pit wired into their pneumatic synth and guitar oeuvre, but this is obviously a good thing. Debut album Bodies Of Water (out in the States back in January but due here later in the summer) is packed full of tunes like silkily anthemic current single Bible Thumper. There weren't many in the basement of TQOH to witness SG tear it up, but they'll soon reach a larger audience.

TQOH itself has only been open a few months having been Industry in its former life. It's still pretty damn Shoreditch, but in a good way. It's dark, loud and full of the open-brickwork opulence and trash-glam clientele that often make Friday nights such a rewarding mix of sleaze and decadence.

Bo' man chooses Clash correctly

Of the many fine hostelries visited in NW1, NW5 and NW3 (in order of chrono-
logical arrival rather than anything else) yesterday only one offered outdoor table tennis.

Photo is of the trusty best mate practicing on said table in the beer garden of The Old Eagle.

Despite the violent and sporadic showers beer gardens were clearly the place for a pair of jokers in north London because top telly chap Leigh Francis was supping a pint and hunched over a Mac with a writing partner out the back of The Abbey Tavern.

It would've been too predictable to quote a Bo' Selecta! catchphrase, even though Avid Merrion in particular is a brilliant creation. So instead I asked him and his pal the only question that really matters.

Like all right-thinking people they both prefer The Clash to The Pistols.

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Here's top yank harmonica fiend Son Of Dave getting his Dizzee on. What would the Bow MC hero make of it..?

Passion Pit fare better than beggar

Boston synth gang Passion Pit have excited many with their fluorescent muppet-pop on record but could they translate such iridescent joy into a winning live performance?

On Wednesday night @ Heaven a take on ‘Little Secrets’ may have suggested otherwise when the brilliant album track from debut Manners was stopped after a laptop went awry.

Lead geek Michael Angelakos and Co had better luck the second time round and threw themselves into a tremendously forceful, if ragged, rendition. ‘Sleepyhead’ leant less on the Irish folk sample than the original and was better for it, while the overall set emphasis was always on the euphoric, post-house music element of the band’s sound.

‘The Reeling’ rounded off the show far more convincingly than it ended the band’s Glasto set last Saturday and the damp, satisfied PP fans sloped off into the night. Or at least as far as The Ship And Shovell next door.

For a pub near Charing Cross, it's well worth a visit. Experienced London drinkers will know about the paucity of good pubs on the manor. The nearest top-grade hostelry is The Nell Gywnne but that's a bit of a jam along The Strand if you're on Villiers Street and looking for a drink within 50 yards rather than 500.

Towards last orders a homeless fella without any authorised vendor ID tried selling outside drinkers his "last" copy of The Big Issue unsuccessfully. He was unthreatening and good-humoured but a curmudgeonly middle-aged barman in shorts and a pastel-striped shirt moved him on aggressively. The illegitimate flogging of TBI shouldn't be encouraged but sun burnt matey in the striped shirt won himself no new customers with his attitude. Anger, commerce, crime and desperation - a typical London vignette.

Elton busy Furnishing new abode

LL will not be turning into the Evening Standard's property section any time soon, but news of a bricks and mortar nature has filtered through about Elton John's new pad.

Apparently the writer of mint tunes like Rocket Man, Saturday Night's Alright For Fighting and my own personal fave


is moving into a meaty gaff on the corner Graham Terrace, SW1. It's no surprise to report that it's the most imposing, expensive and coveted house on the street. The Duke of Westminster owns most of the manor but clearly doesn't mind flogging part of it it on to the nation's favourite toupee-wearer.

Sources tell me the Duke himself is a personable chap and what is in little doubt is how well he treats his staff. All manner of perks are available to his employees with some enjoying knock-down mortgages on Belgravia homes and pension deals the rest of us plebs can only envy.

Sure, he's worth a bob or two, but if he can take the sort of measures which ensure a decent degree of loyalty, what's wrong with the corporate world following suit?

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Is it me or are there more flies about than usual this year?

Fun times on the No 2

Did Thatcher really say that any man over the age of 26 who finds himself on a bus should consider himself a failure?

No one on the top deck of the No 2 southbound from Park Lane yesterday lunchtime cared. I was busy sending my friend a photo of my amazing new pink pants, just as the bus zoomed past her office on Vauxhall Bridge Road. Her conclusion was that they were too glam for the average toilet. They may yet make an appearance here.

A cheerful and funny black Londoner of West Indian descent to my right was busy talking about Ibiza, Pro-Plus, gym membership and various drug deals he was involved in while he built a skunk spliff. Two fellas of Portuguese origins two rows in front of me listening to some firey salsa on a mobile phone. But the most interesting bloke was directly in front of me.

While rolling a joint of his own, he kicked off by telling a woman on the phone that "sixty per cent of the music industry was gay" and that there was no way he'd be making "batty boy tunes" because there was "no need for that". Then he loudly explained that when he made love (he didn't say anything stronger than that) he didn't just make girls come, he made them squirt and that if the woman on the phone had not experienced this she had not had "GD", which he explained meant "good dick".

Unsettling stuff to hear on a bus and far too much information but no one hurtling around Vauxhall Cross complained to the dude.

On South Lambeth Road an attractive young woman dressed in tiny tight shorts and a snug boob tube walking slowly past the bus stop we had stopped at. Almost immediately the man in front saw her and alerted the Portuguese lads. Soon the spliff-builder to my right and guys around him lent over so half a dozen men of different races were soon perving on the unsuspecting girl. Laughter and acknowledgement that summer had definitely began followed, even if the whole scene felt sleazy and sexist.

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To Greenwich for beers with an old friend who edits three magazines about cranes. He was having difficulty deciding which shot to order in The Coach and Horses, a pub we usually avoid because of its idiotic no-smoking area enclosed by clear plastic walls.
The friendly barmaid suggested a slippery nipple. I said, "No way, that's the kind of thing they drink in Essex." She was from said county and told me to fuck off.

Egg-splattered BNP leader complains: "They could've separated the whites"

It was hard to know what was funnier yesterday. Unite Against Facism's attempt to make a Nick Griffin omelette on College Green:



Or going on my first proper "date" in about eight years.

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Borough has arguably the best selection of pubs in London and is also my favourite overall area of the city. The former probably has some bearing on the latter. On the seemingly endless bus journey there I wondered if anyone actually does "date" any more.

Most relationships I could think of, including previous ones of my own, began as friendships that moved on when they took a physical turn for the better.

This is much easier, unforced way of doing things than the whole bullshit world of dating, which is often akin to a series of ghastly job interviews.

There's also the uncomplicated fun of the one-night stand but that's another kettle of bream entirely.

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Conversation with my date flowed as hilariously as it did the night we met. On that occasion she approached my mate and I in Koko to claim we looked homosexual purely on the basis of an animated discussion we were having.

This night was less confrontational but far kinkier.

Credit where it's due: Headline paraphrased from a joke emailed by the best mate.

What you sayin'?

Today licked tramp scrotum so enthusiastically it's better to think about the weekend's entertainment.

On Friday saw Junior Boys perform live @ The Arches.

They didn't really bang it out the way you want at 2am on a Saturday. In that respect they're similar to Hot Chip in a live setting (too much boo-hoo, not enough largin' it).

Both bands do that sorrowful, soulful, deep electro thing with consummate skill, just don't make enough big tunes.

The venue was fat, though. Aside from being on the correct side of the river as so few top class London clubs are, it was your typical open-brickwork, strobe and smoke-machine cavern: A cross between Fabric and Heaven, albeit on a smaller scale.

A decent night, particularly in Room 2 where the Greco-Roman soundsystem had a few interesting heads (including Kieran Hebden aka Four Tet) laying down dark breakbeat, twisted two-step and some brilliant music that defied categorisation but had psychedelia and afrobeat influences. Sweaty, vital fun.

Saturday was all about Stella during the England game before experiencing my first ever bike race in the flesh.

Hit Smithfield to see the whooshing majesty of lycra-clad bods travelling at unnerving speed with the trusty best mate. These days he prefers cycling to football. But then he does support Millwall.

He was also the first person to tell me about Critical Mass and ghost bikes. Both are important for cycling in the capital, the former a bold celebration, the latter a sober warning.

The day didn't finish at Smithfield but kebab minutiae, furtive phone calls and a tube conversation with a drunken Irishman aren't exciting to anyone but late-night novices.