Back, back, back

Back from my latest jaunt, and am presently surprised to find nothing has closed down since I’ve been away.

In the news: The Sun & Doves gets a very nice write-up in The Publican; Jude Law’s sister has a design studio in Camberwell; and Rupert Everett had some hows-yer-father with Sir Ian McKellen here (warning: Daily Mail).

How very edgy and cosmopolitan we are!

Author: Peter

Long-time resident of Camberwell, author of this blog since July 2004.

28 thoughts on “Back, back, back”

  1. Having just read the Rupert Everett article you referred us all to (I do feel unclean, I must admit, because it was The Daily Mail), I realise that I share a common past with Rupe! After the Donmar run,the RSC production of Macbeth tranferred to The Young Vic (it had been very successful and they obviously couldn’t find anywhere else, for those of you that have ever been to The Young Vic) and I was the Box Office Manager there at that time.
    I have to say that, Ian McKellan was a bit too “luvvy” (and by that I mean, a bit theatrically grandiose) for my liking. The Macbeth production was great, however. Saw it about 15 times during the run at The Young Vic.

  2. Ian McKellen has importuned two of my young pals. One when they were both working at the Nash, albeit in different plays, and one when they were doing panto at the Old Vic.

    I have to say, though, that two mentions of Camberwell is no reason to post what is basically a PR exercise for Rupert Everett’s autobiography. Keep it to yourself from now on.

    I don’t want to hear about Jude Law’s in-laws either. Edie, Ondine and Marlowe? Give me a break.

    The Black Sheep shows PremPlus games, I discovered today. It does have a Black clientele, though, which might put off some posters on this blog.

  3. Mush. I served Ian McKellen many times in the past. He was always polite and a good customer. We never chatted. Some other famous customers were not as straightforward to deal with.

    LH. You’re sounding flat. Why?

  4. I was a flat yesterday. Spent much of the time in the flat, flat. This was after my NCT class parents evening spent largely in the Silver Buckle on Friday night. It was fantastic. While you were away, Peter, a mystery poster called Alan Dale, the son of a Mrs Cicely Dale, sang the praises of the Buckle (as I know call it), then his two posts disappeared off the blog-planet completely.

    Anyway, we all piled in the Buckle, paying 3 quid on the door, after lining our stomachs in the Hermits Cave. The place reminded me of the “police canteen” on Lamu, an island off Kenya, where large ladies line the walls to try their luck with the mainland officers who are there to police the Arabic coastal dwellers and drink beer forbidden elsewhere on the island.

    The music was mainstream pub/club dance music but occasionally there was modern African music. When that came on, the whole atmosphere lifted, stepping up a gear like a Lamborghini Miura shifting from 3rd to 6th at 6,000 revs.

    It was rocking, as they say. I can heartily recommend the Silver Buckle. It was rammed with a cheery, mature, mixed crowd of people all on the pull. This was in stark contrast to the dishevelled, down-at-heel crowd who were there the last time I went several years ago. The Buckle is like a bar from a Ry Cooder song: if your spirits are low, go drink beer in the Silver Buckle.

  5. I heard about the Alan Dale situation; it was created by him linking to a betting website, which my spam filter detected and threw out. If he agrees to remove the link, all his posts will be restored.

  6. He was great, as irreverent as Lord H, gave us some diversity training when we were beginning to compare which rocket salad where was best.

  7. And by the way — I love the piece on Natasha Law, I suspect, for all the wrong reasons. Those poor children (yes, Lord H, Edie, Ondine & Marlowe). I so want to be a fly on the wall when they each enrol at the Academy, Peckham on their first day of school. But then again, I don’t suppose they’ll be going there, somehow! Mummy will want their “spirits to soar” or somesuch claptrap and they’ll be commuting to Winchester with Mrs Doubtfire.

  8. I thought the story about Sir Ian would make great inspiration for one of Mark’s Green Plaques:

    “Sir Ian McKellen — introduced many young actors to the Greek arts here”

  9. @Lord Henry.. I spent Saturday phoning round most of the pubs looking for Football and also found the Black Sheep seems to be the only place.

    Sad that we have to leave Camberwell to watch football round here. 🙁

    Anyone else found anywhere else for football yet?

  10. As I said, there is the Albert on Bellenden Road; that’s not within the confines of SE5, unfortunately. The Black Sheep, however, is — albeit a long-distant arm of our galaxy.

  11. Don’t know much about football pubs unfortunately but can add my recommendation of the new Thai place on Coldharbour Lane. I went there with my boyfriend on Sunday night and we were very impressed with the quality of the food and the price — £35 for starters, main meal and quite a large amount of Thai beer for the two of us.

    although the spiral staircase down to the basement toilets looks like an accident waiting to happen!!

  12. People eat jellyfish. This, from the Horniman aquarium. Jellyfish move by jet propulsion. Their mouths are also their bums. The sea wasp is a cubozoan, a box-shaped jellyfish that is the most deadly thing in the sea: its venom is cardiotoxic, neurotoxic and dermatonecrotic (causes necrosis of the skin). Plankton means “wanderer, drifter”, in Greek. But it is the phyloplankton (plant plankton) that are the most fascinating creatures — they look like something you’d see in Tate Modern or on textiles worn in the Silver Buckle.

  13. Mark B — As I have mentioned before there is a pub right in the deepest furthest corner of Camberwell just behind Ruskin Park on Cambria Road — It’s called The Cambria and they do a rather fine Sirloin Steak and show ALL the football including Prem Plus matches and even Chelsea TV (if you like them) — It’s less of a trek than The Black Sheep which is practically Oval…

  14. The owner of the Cambria is called Wayne and hails from Sunderland. I met him last week. He was eating a hearty sausage toad in the hole kind of thing.

    Mushti! Served & Good Customer was about his demeanour in a public setting. No Greek arts but it was the West End darling. That kind of thing’s always been reserved for south of the river.

    Football TV. There is a fairly huge block to showing sports: the fees charged by Sky. A pub owner of my acquaintance has an annual bill just short of £400K to show live sport in his 40 pubs. Rather steep I’d say…

    Must try the Thai.

  15. Dagmar — on holiday in the Antipodes (that’s basically Australia, Mushtimushta, to save you looking it up) I once staggered down to the kitchen of the hovel I was staying in, albeit whilst tired and emotional, and gasping for a drink, and ended up quaffing…yes, you’ve guessed it, a box jellyfish!

    Fortunately, I was airlifted to the local Ramsay Street hospital in time for an ersatz Karl Kennedy to perform an emergency tracheotomy. Since then I’ve been fine, if you can call living in this Louis-Ferdinand Celiné-like den of iniquity “fine”.

    Mark — I WAS feeling flat the other day. Lady H has left me, an occurrence I could give two tuppeny-bits for. However, my man Carstairs seems to have left with her. Not only that, but the silver is missing, as is the stash of opium I had hidden in the polar bear in my entranceway. My bull mastiff, Dillinger, is also MIA.

    I am conjuring a plan to have my entire wardrobe outfitted by barön jon. I shall then spend what remains of my inheritance in the Drink Store. If still on my feet, I shall enter the Silver Buckle and play merry hell with whatever nondescript bastards I shall find therein.

    I fear I may not be long for this world.

  16. That’s a coincidence, Lord H, I have a tatty copy of Celine’s Journey to the End of the Night which I bought in a charity shop in St Ives. “This’ll be a lark!” I said to Baby Poppy.

    The book contains pessimism, failure, anxiety, nihilism and inertia. It’s the inertia you want, Henry, not the despair stuff, at a road junction in your life like this. Also vinegar. If you get stung by a sea wasp, apparently, people should pour vinegar over you and that might help now.

    I’d rather talk giddily on about phyloplanton and poor Henry’s domestic “arrangements” than face up to the fact that our flat is now for sale and there’s talk of looking in East Dullwich.

    Imagine the playground of Goodrich Primary: “My dad’s a lawyer.” “My dad works for Channel 4.” “My dad’s a web designer…”

  17. Apparently if you get stung by your common-or-garden wasp, urine, as opposed to vinegar, is supposed to assuage the pain. At least that’s what one of the older boys told me during my sojourn at Sandhurst. It seemed to do the trick.

    Still no sign of Lady H, although I think Carstairs has returned and is playing his “pranks” around the house, the fiend.

  18. Carstairs may fall into the category “prankton”. I’m told planets and plankton are both drifters, in Greek. What a wonderful range of wandering, from the tiny phyloplankton to the mighty Saturn, whose heavy influence weighs on me as I consider the labyrinth of streets that spell the word DULL. More Peckham Lidl vin de pays!

  19. Carstairs didn’t offload my opium onto you, did he, Dagmar? If he did, that’s receiving, and I will be on to the Filth to drag you down to Carter Street and give you a good going-over, as in days of yore.

  20. He may have done, I’ve been awfully sleepy. Maybe it’s the humidity. Lucas Gardens is like the African Garden at the Horniman, or so it seems, steams, streams, dreams… I was in Peckham at lunchtime and saw again the sign for Victory Food Stores: “Jesus is Lord Phil.” The Mitchell brothers from East Enders have gone neo-con, or so it seems in my mistiness.

  21. So, I wonder if the tradition of putting vinegar on fish & chips has its roots in some ancient attempt to bring the fish back to life, Dagmar? Perhaps our Foremothers/fathers were assuming that the fish had been stung by a sea wasp? Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?
    Lord H — I resent your comment that I would have to go and look up Antipodes, but forgive you because throughout military training as a boy, you were gullible enough to believe that line about “I’m only doing this because I think you’ve been stung by a wasp”. You poor deluded fellow. I suspect their motivations were somewhat darker. Go and poor yourself a drink, draw the curtains, and ponder!

  22. Friends, in a move otherwise irrelevant to the foregoing proceedings, may I be bold enough to refer you to my newly initiated and very fine blog:lord-bunty-chunk.blogspot.com/

    Although I have eschewed this recent technological innovation for as long as possible I find that as so often happens with such things one is in the position of dear King Canute fighting the sea, although in my case reference to Caligula’s war on much the same sea would be more fitting.

  23. Lord Bunty Chuck — your blog seems to consist of a picture of Flashman, and your shiny sword.

    If that was your intention, it’s a work of bloody genius! Sign me up!

    Mushtimushta — draw the curtains and ponder? You mean like Daniel Auteuil in HIDDEN? I prefer to go forth in all my splendour, twirling my monocle in the bright light of day.

    Chris Langham was at Sandhurst with me. Coincidence?

    “Innocent until proven guilty,” that was always Carstairs’ defence. Speaking of Carstairs, I’ve just seen a ticket stub in his cubbyhole for a flight to Montreal. Has anything happened in Montreal this evening?

    I can’t feel my left hand. Is this a bad sign?

  24. Lord Henry, your acutley powerful sensitive organ has cut through the veil of ignorance and has percieved a profound truth, namely than it is conjectured that Flashman was my father — the father I never met.…

  25. I can’t find either Daniel or Auteuil in my Collins Pocket Dictionary, so I’m afraid I have no idea what you are talking about, Lord H!

  26. Fauteil is an armchair philosopher. There are many such in the Hermits Cave. Some are stool philosophers. Celine sometimes came in, scowling at the lot of them. Barthes used to get completely deconstructed — sometimes all that was left was a hat.

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