I have been recently bereft of creative juciness. I have had word constipation. I have been bored and boring, irritable and an arse. I could tell you that my laptop screen was smashed and that I have been technically homeless for the last 3 weeks and I’d be telling the truth- but honestly? I just didn’t feel it. But then I did- so I bought a new lap top on ebay- one of those sexy white Big Mac things and am just going to keep writing until I hit upon a theme – so you might want to scroll down a bit.

I was advised recently during a bout of witty banter with some chums, that my blog was “self indulgent crap”.  Well duh. Show me a blog that isn’t. Anyone who writes their own blog has ego the size of a Welshman’s inferiority complex. The very nature of blogging is self indulgent- I check Google analytics every morning to see how much ‘traffic’ I have had (err 6 visitors yesterday-my self is enjoying rather limited indulgence). I will go on Facebook when I have finished this and tell every one of my 300 (Ha!-popular!) friends that a freshly baked blog is just ready and waiting in cyber land for their enjoyment and perusal. And then I will phone my 7 actual, proper friends who have better things to do than court popularity on Facebook and tell them to read it too.

So I better write about something then. This might be an angry blog- I can feel a touch of bile in my water.

I am moving into another  house in Putney in July- which is the reason for my current homelessness. I really like Putney and since living there call it Pikeney less than I once did. It is not as young and vital and energetic as Earls Court, where I lived for 7 years, but then neither am I. The High Street though is dismal – it could be any high street in any poxy provincial town in Britain- it’s basically all mobile phone shops. And a Starbucks. Halfway up is ‘Ye Olde Spotted Horse’, a famous Pikeney (fair in this context) hot spot where I once ate my weight in mustard-soused flowers and slept in the loo.

Off the main drag of the High Street is Upper Richmond Road which houses amongst other things – from the 10th of July – me. Also, conveniently and potentially dangerously, the pub that has recently taken over from The Atlas in West Brompton www.theatlaspub.co.uk  as my favourite in London, The Prince of Wales- www.princeofwalesputney.co.uk. It used to be the kind of pub where Chelsea Head-hunters came on holiday. Where you’d get a ham sized  knuckle driven into your larynx for not being a neanderthal, tattooed cretin. Like Fulham Broadway is now.

But now, now its right smart. But not. Which is the great thing about it. When you walk in, its an old fashioned working mans bar, with football on the telly and proper old men called Derek or Ken, reading the Daily Star and being sexist. Then you walk through into a middle pubby bit, with leather sofas, board games- probably, and 1930’s Guiness prints and horse shoes all over the place. Finally a proper restaurant, with an open kitchen, rotisserie machine and a black board with the provenance of all the ingredients, and facts about how many cows are slaughtered quarterly for your enjoyment. And what their star signs were.

The food is crackerjack- There are homemade scotch eggs and pork scratchings the size of mobile phones on the bar and fabulous burgers, served on small chopping boards. Small chopping boards are the new plates in London pubs apparently. Go just for the triple cooked chips. Triple cooked chips are the new chips in London pubs apparently. If I open a pub I shall serve quadruple cooked chips and bloody clean up. The serious restaurant menu is priced according to aforementioned provenance- Lahore Karahi, this is not, but in the last few months I have supped and luncheoned on pigs head, venison hot pot, whole sea bass, charcuterie platters and praline parfaits and it has all been immaculate and interesting and thought provoking some how. I love it.

And look-  just thinking about it has robbed you all of what would have been a much more interesting angry blog.

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