London, my London

After my stop at Arsenal’s football headquarters, the Emirates, I headed off towards Angel Islington. At the end of the speed-bump-filled Drayton Park, I was greeted by the A1’s last urban transmutation: Holloway Road. This is a long thoroughfare that runs from the North Circular or A406 to the Angel. To drive, walk or cycle on it, is to become acquainted with some of London’s landmarks, such as HM prison Holloway and London Metropolitan University. In its one-hundred-and-sixty-four-year-old existence the former has served as residence to one Emily Wilding Davison, of the suffragettes’ movement and infamous Myra Hindley, the notorious Moors murderer along with her boyfriend Ian Brady. The latter has counted amongst its famous alumni, one-half of Pet Shop Boys, Neil Tennant and feminist Julie Bindel. Law enforcement and education sitting almost side by side. I could not help thinking, as I crossed over to Palmer Place that more investment in the latter would probably mean making less use of the former.

My thoughts were still on London Met and its former student luminaries when my tarmac-licking two-wheeler turned left on to Liverpool Road.  Current Labour leader Jeremy Corby went there, although back then it was still being known for its former title, University of North London or North London Polytechnic. At the time of cycling from White Hart Lane to Stamford Bridge, Labour had yet to elect a new leader. The party was still in disarray over a disastrous general election and on a soul-searching mission. When I sat down to revise this post a few weeks ago, the British Parliament had just been asked to vote on the decision to bomb Syria. It had pitted Arsenal-supporting now-party-leader Jeremy Corbyn versus Spurs-loving Hilary Benn. Suddenly English football-s fiercest rivalry (think Yankees against Boston Red Sox in baseball) had taken on a different meaning. To add to the irony (or the sadness of it if you are a left-wing Labour voter), Arsenal’s nickname is the “Gunners”. Its crest has the image of a cannon on it. A peace-loving party leader, who supports a team that has a weapon of war as a logo, votes not to drop bombs on innocent civilians. Opposing him, but still in the same party, is a dick. Sorry, a cock. Apologies, a cockerel-sporting Member of Parliament. The Spurs crest is that of a rooster.

Another thought that assailed me as I biked on Liverpool Road, Angel-Islington- bound, came after observing my fellow cyclists. I had noticed a change in this now, very up-to-date bicycle-themed London landscape after I set off from Bill Nicholson Way. At first, there were barely other cycles on the road. The majority were pavement-riding, law-breaking, hoodie-wearing youngsters (and a few adults, too). Mudguard-free and thick-tired, most of these bicycles looked as if they were mainly being used to get from A to B.

The scenery changed as soon as I got to Stamford Hill. Here were the first fixies, which even the beard-boasting Haredi were riding. I noticed also an increase in bicycles with dropped bars with their customary Lycra-wearing proprietors. However, it was on Brownswood Road where the bike traffic increased ten-fold. Here were pricey Bromptons, dreamy, adventure-inspiring Lunas and steel-frame Noodles. As I came closer to the Angel, these classy-looking, expensive cycles were joined by Boris self-service, Santander-sponsored bikes. These bikes (except for Boris ones) were not just means of transportation to get someone from A to B. These were statements. Purchasing power statements. Fashion statements. Neighbourhood statements. What I discovered as I continued my journey towards the Thames was that London had not only become a more cycle-friendly city but also a place where the type of bike one had probably said as much about the owner as a car did.

I stopped for a few minutes outside the restaurant that has become my favourite eaterie in the capital. The Indian Vegetarian Restaurant on Chapel Market is a cheap buffet outlet with a friendly staff, a cozy and intimate atmosphere.

After this small detour I resumed my journey westwards. At the traffic lights at Angel Islington, I went straight ahead on to St John Street and turned right on to Roseberry Avenue where one of London’s two dance hubs is situated: Sadler’s Wells (the other one is The Place in Euston). I knew Farringdon Road was not far and with it, the Thames.

© 2016

Next Post: “London, my London”, to be published on Thursday 18^th February at 6pm (GMT)