Friday
It
really is Friday today. I say 'Thank god it's
Friday' every day as a rule (except Friday,
just to be awkward). I'm usually addressing the
cat as he's the only other person up as early as
I am, he doesn't care either way though because
he's not a proper person, he's just a cat.
Some
smart competition ideas are coming up (see Competition,
below). Maybe the final fence flag will make a good
T Shirt. If you haven't a clue what I'm talking
about check out the Messages,
where the smart ideas are. I favour 'the best
idea for a competition' as the competition at
the moment. The aluminium drinking bottle is only
slightly used, by the way. I tried it once, but
being aluminium you can't squeeze it, so it's consequently
extremely hard to extract any water from it. Rumours
that I used it as a vase are untrue. Well, it was
only once.
Voting
seems to work now. I'll add it to the other 'What's
on the fence?' pages promptly. Silly, lazy Fencemaster
should have done it ages ago.
Some
of you still haven't popped round for a pint yet
(you know who you are). So come on down.
Competition
It's
about time there was a fence-based competition. I
have a prize here on my desk in the shape of a zefal
800 alu water bottle (£9.99 - the price is still
on it). I bought it because I admire all things aluminium.
My bike is aluminium, and car, and some other things
knocking about the house. As far as the competition
itself goes, well, I've got the prize.
Talking
of competition, check out the crazy shoe
fence. It's in New Zealand and I suggest we
all meet up at Heathrow asap and contrive to go
on an urgent fact finding trip out there to assess
their fence management techniques. Your Fencemaster
would love to go on a fact finding trip,
I'd miss Mrs F and the Fencemonsters, but there'd
surely be mini bars. Hmmm, mini bars...
Westminstars
Poor
Mrs Fencemaster has not been 100 per cent, but she's
back with us now. That's why your Fencemaster has
been somewhat distracted this week. I did notice the
cheeky message left in the suggestions area in reference
to my negligence, and felt compelled to add a rare
comment in my own defence. That's beside the point
though.
Mrs
Fencemaster was well enough to be able to point
out the remarkable resemblance between the recent
successful UK (and Australian) TV series Popstars
(1000's of hopelessly hopeful potential popstars
do their thing and are whittled down to the final
famous five),
and the new one, Soapstars.
I thought we, in the Fencemaster household, could
have a crack at this, and came up with Fencestars,
which is rubbish. Mrs F, who is much cleverer than
I, came up with Westminstars.
On
your TV screens soon: 1000's of hopeful
members of parliament (composed of anyone who can
be bothered to turn up and queue) gather in an orderly
line outside the House of Commons while a panel
of poncy TV producers and journalists bitch over
who should be 'invited back' for the next round.
Each potential MP will have 15 seconds to nail a
policy, produce a soundbite, or otherwise impress
the panel enough to win a real seat in the House
of Commons. You never know, by a remote chance we
might end up with someone who would actually do
something to stop this old city slowly disappearing
(see, I can spell it) into obscurity. Don't hold
your breath though.
Now who should the judges be?
Poor
Henry
Mrs
F was in tears on Saturday, which is always a cause
for concern. It was Henry. He's dead. Now your Fencemaster
is not going to mess you around here (would I do
that?). Henry was a hamster. The nice old couple
that lives at the end of our garden passed him over
the fence a few years ago: 'We thought your children
might like him. He was our daughters, but she's
got a boyfriend now'.
Behind
his fluffiness, Henry had all the usual hamster
traits that ensured your Fencemaster gave him a
wide birth. Mainly the razor sharp teeth (where
a mouse tickles, a hamster gouges straight through
to an artery). Anyway, he's gone now. Mrs F felt
guilty and said she regretted not spending more
time with him nearer the end. I told her he'd had
a good innings and that worse things happen at sea.
The
Fencemonsters were delighted, needless to say, and
wanted to bury him immediately. We've used the passing
of various elderly relatives to introduce them to
the concept of pet death, and it seems to have worked
well. I can recommend it.
Either
way, it provided a distraction from Friday (White
van - below) that was a less than successful day
on most fronts. Don't worry though; my job is safe
at least until the New Year. Thanks for all your
kind offers of alternative employment, which, incidentally,
amounted to none.
The
Fencemaster continues his search for the white van
going round putting NO BICYCLES signs on fences.
Maybe its someone doing it for a hobby. Maybe it's
the same white van that often attempts to sell me
a pair of hi fi speakers 'We've just been on
a delivery and we've got these left over. We can't
go back to the factory with them etc…'
A likely story.
White
van
Has anyone seen a man in a white van in or around
the London area? It's him that puts the signs up.
It's not McGlashans. I know because a man from McGlashans
just collared me and told me in no uncertain terms,
as he was cross about my accusatory tone earlier this
week.
As
you know I strive for accuracy and am delighted
to stand corrected. It is not McGlashans who put
the signs up. They wouldn't dream of it. Why they
haven't told me in the past three months I can't
imagine, but I promised to immediately point out
the base flaws in my foolish assumptions. Silly
Fencemaster.
However
Charlie downstairs secretly let me know he was demanding
my presence in the foyer while I was out earlier
and there was, as luck would have it, an important
new client for another part of the group sat in
reception. The CEO wants a word with me (he's 'furious'),
which isn't good.
Does
anyone need a creative director/editor/account manager/team
leader (some web skills, ex editor of two successful
magazines, qualified pilot) - bicycle, tall car,
powerful wife, and three horrible children to support
- in or around London (or Vancouver), salary negotiable?
Spiderman
Yesterday morning in the middle of Richmond Park the
long grass, usually distinguishable only by it's greeny-yellow
grass-like appearance, was lit up by a shaft of sunlight
that revealed a thousand silver flowers. They were
spiders' webs. The work, I assume, of several spiders.
I
have been a bit hard on spiders in the past, being
particularly careful to avoid countries were the
larger, hairier variety regularly make their way
into shoes, draws, and other places where they obviously
intended to catch you off guard. Now I have little
Fencemonsters to raise, (remember: I just want to
deny them all the chances I had when I was growing
up) being scared of spiders seems irresponsible.
When one scuttles across the floor these days I
attempt to communicate with it, watch it's behavior
over the weeks, I even begin to look forward to
it's eight-legged appearance each evening. Then
the cat eats it.
Cycling
home last night I noticed the unmistakable presence
of George Clooney in a cab. He was driving though,
which begs the question 'was it really him?' Another
cab driver seemed to think it was and a jolly exchange
was unfolding. I told Mrs Fencemaster all about
it: 'I'd get in George Clooney's cab anytime.' She
said.
The
silvery spider-produced flowers were gone this morning,
or perhaps the light wasn't right. There's a message
there somewhere. Maybe not. Oh Yes, cycling to work
is a good idea. That's the message.
Imagine
We (Mrs Fencemaster, the three Fencemonsters and
I) are back from Sunny Warrington. It was sunny too.
It's a different town from when I lived there almost
20 years ago. I remember a desolate landscape of crumbling
factories pouring chemicals into the air poisoning
everyone.
I
was a disparate youth with nothing to do except
go from pub to pub (there are lots of pubs in Warrington)
and get alternately beaten up by people from Liverpool,
and people from Manchester. Warrington is ideally
situated between those two cities to fulfill its
role of providing people to get beaten up. I never
actually was, I'm just going for the sympathy vote
today. I didn't even drink when I lived in Warrington.
Needles to say it's now a thriving town and everyone
in it seems, for some reason, to be a millionaire.
But are they happy? I doubt it.
My
mum's house is about the same distance from Liverpool
airport that I cycle to work across London each
day. Not interested? Well, they (I don't know who
exactly - yes I do, the owners, Peel Holdings) have
renamed Liverpool airport. It's now called Liverpool
John Lennon Airport. There's a smashing sign up
that your useless Fencemaster failed to get a picture
of. It's a Lennon self-portrait and has 'above us
only sky' added, for extra effect. Cool man.
Fencemaster
has some suggestions for other airports: Manchester
Airport has got to be Manchester Bernard
Manning Airport, and Heathrow would be much
better named simply: Sting Airport. There's two
for starters.
A
bad sign
I can only apologize for moaning about the trains
yesterday, but if you've ever tried to travel anywhere
in London, you'll understand. It does serve me right
for coming to work on it when I have a perfectly good
bike
sitting in the tiny Fencemaster garden. I'm back on
two wheels now and feel much better for it. Incidentally,
I'd like to recommend cycling 13 miles as an effective
hangover cure.
I
am delighted to see that a mention here of one of
my other web sites, www.thetrainlie.com (below)
raised absolutely no interest whatsoever. I will
thus abandon it forthwith. That's the great thing
about the Internet. All I have to do is ignore it
(The Train Lie) and the ISP I'm no longer paying
will eventually realize, plug it out, and it will
fade away forever. I wish some of my other problems
could be resolved so concisely (by just ignoring
them). They can't. I know, I've tried, and I will
keep trying too.
Fence-wise,
I'm adding more pictures that wonderful, kind people
have sent me of their own fence-based activities.
Yes, activities at this fence, in London W1. I am
sort-of retired as far as installing interesting
items on it myself is concerned. Why? Because three
very nice and very large policemen from Marylebone
police station suggested it might be a good
idea for me to retire gracefully (full
story). I can't, of course, stop other
people from putting things on the fence...
How
am I doing anyway? Is there any sign of bike parking
in London W1 improving? Not a chance. McGlashans
(those who 'manage' the fence and took it upon themselves
to put the signs up) have responded by putting more
signs up on every other fence in the area. I can't
bring myself to photograph them, do you think I
should?
As
a result, there's now usually a bicycle attached
to every parking meter and lampost on Marylebone
Lane. This makes them seriously in the way, especially
of the elderly and disabled. In addition, your Fencemaster,
a 36yo company director travelling 26 miles a day
in the most efficient manner this city can offer
arrives in W1 every morning only to be made to feel
like a criminal/second class citizen.
Well done McGlashans. Oh yes, check out the
McGlashan
contribution to 'Marylebone Village'.
I
feel there's been a (very) small victory though,
as these new signs don't say HOWARD DE WALDEN ESTATES
LTD at the top. It's not much of a victory is it?
It's rubbish in fact. But poor McGlashans, confusing
their letting agency with a family that owns £12
billion of prime London property, at least that
little misunderstanding has been cleared up.
The
Train Lie
It serves me right for being a bone-idle Fencemaster.
I thought I'd get the train today (did you spot me?
Bad shirt and freshly-scarred nose the sad result
of Mrs Fencemaster failing to have fruit
to hand at a time of crisis yesterday). It seemed
like such a good idea at the time. The tubes and the
trains in London don't work of course, especially
today, so the journey took over twice as long as it
does when I cycle, and cost £10 into the bargain.
One
would have thought that a leading international
capital city would endeavor to sort out its transport
infrastructure so people could get to work. But
no, it can't. It's embarrassing don't you think?
Before
I gave up on the transport system last year and
bought a bike I thought I'd have a go at it via
the magic of the Internet. What sparked me off that
time was a ubiquitous advertising campaign for www.thetrainline.com
You can log on, and guess what? Buy train tickets.
I never liked this idea from the outset.
What
seemed like a good idea to me then was to set up
a competing web site: www.thetrainlie.com
which I would use as a vehicle to expose the daily
negligence, incompetence (solicit anonymous statements
from train crew), provide pre-formatted letters
of complaint, a database of contact names and numbers,
and generally be a useful way for the daily victims
to log what goes wrong, building up into something
that might humiliate someone somewhere into doing
something. Fat chance.
I
didn't get very far with www.thetrainlie.com - just
a holding page.
It gets a few hundred hits a month by virtue of
people misspelling the proper web site address though,
and I have had a few dozen e-mails from interested
and encouraging people.
Does
anybody want to pick it up and run with it? I don't.
I cycle to work, as a rule.
Anyway,
be sure to check out the fence
on the fence.
Fetish
It's
August. You can tell by the weather. What else (in
addition to the torrential rain) is this month not
complete without? Correct! Morris
Dancers.
The
fence would provide Morris dancing (famous the world
over for combining drinking beer with exercise)
with an ideal backdrop for a Friday lunchtime. However,
this Friday has not got off to a great start as
the fence has been rejected by the 'Bagman' of the
first Morris group (I think it's a 'side of Morris
men, but I need more information). He was polite
and sympathised, but said 'we do not think it
appropriate to involve the Morris'.
I
don't know what to think, except I heard about a
group of Morris Men doing their think in a branch
of McDonalds
as part of a Channel Four comedy show. And what
about those fetish Morris dancers I heard about?
(Sound of Fencemaster looking in the Yellow Pages
under Morris Dancing for Fetish, then
under Fetish, for Morris Dancing).
Hey,
I found the fetish
morris dancers.
I'm
cheered now and will contact them forthwith.
Click
here to
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