The Tribes of London

Go west young (ish) man: it always worries me, there’s the language (I never mastered Welsh) and the posh types. Have you been to Parson Green there’s a Champagne bar called “Bijou”.
Anyway I set out to Putney to meet up with S and to go exploring and do some plotting.

And what follows aside we had a ripping time.

The whole evening did however give another chance to review London’s multifarious tribes.

First off the “The Grizzled Chelsea fan”: While I waited for S, I ordered a medicinal pint of Pride to be welcomed by a “for gawd sake mumble grunt the bleedin’ screen mumble” these strange grunts where coming from a gnarled Chelsea fan who’s main source of complaint and sorrow wasn’t that his universally hated team are universally hated or worse that their current success is funded from money that could provided decent health care for the poor of Russian. No, this half formed gargoyle was upset that I was partially blocking his view of Sky sports (you know their rolling, repeated every five minutes dull as a Chelsea semi factual “news” show). His apparently age and wealth of life experience having not taught him the vital lesson “if you’ve got one broken hand in plaster don’t go starting more fights in pubs”

Anyway wandering outside with my pint S turned up and we wandered off to indulge in necrophilia, no, no stop that came out wrong, what do you call a liking for tombstones and church yards?

Anyway after takings some snaps we wandered on the foreshore for a bit and as usual I found some treasure.
Tired of being barracked by the 12 year old wits and raconteurs from the riverside alcopop dens, we headed for the Bricklayer’s Arms that was a haven of burbling good humour and Timothy Taylor’s landlord. A haven until that is until our next tribe arrived.
The Rugger Buggers: yes, braying and flushed faced they burst in, Tim and Josh pressing to the bar to buy “loads of fawking beer”, like all posh people they were all wearing a uniform, in this case their traditional garb of beige chinos sports jackets, oxford blue shirts, one of those huge sportsman Windsor knots on their club ties all topped off with public school boy hair cuts.
For the next half hour they shouted and joked and generally acted like not just the pub but most of the world belongs to them. Thankfully the land lady tipped them out when Josh, or was it Guy anointed himself with his pint in the process of passing out.
After that calm returned until closing time.

Don’t get me wrong we had a great time the odd chippy Blue’s fan and inbred gimp doesn’t ruin my good humour that easily, especially in good company and with excellent beer.

Anyway wandering up the high street we had glimpse of Hades, the usual Friday night nonsense, semi clad girls crying in door ways, pink shirted blokes trying to flag down taxis, “mullahed” estates agents banging on the windows of kebab shops.

On the station we encountered the next tribe "The border line geeks Jnr. sales team": waiting in a glazed shelter they rolled up, a rainbow alliance of “casual Friday” young blokes, noses in large boxes of KFC. They discuss the Colonel’s fare, the white one leading the discussion pipes up

“Look, well, see back in the day”
(He’s at best 24 so this will be last year)
“I woz goin’ out with this Philipino girl and do you know what she could do”
I’m not the only one leaning listening in now.
“Do you know what” he continues
“she could do, right, well she could make her own chicken in batter, yeh, eggsactly like KFC, no lie, course she use to put all dem chillies on it but it woz well proper”
He goes on “da ya know what else, right we went to Dubai and she “

We are still all ears except we never know what went on in Dubai as all the time he’s be talking he’s been conducting his speech using a chicken leg as a baton. The Colonel’s special grease finally frees the poultry limb from his grasp and the half eaten thigh is somersaulted across the shelter and thwack hits the window next to me. The grease that now gently marinates my face causes the fried appendage to adhere to the glass and hang there without moving. We all laugh and the “little drumstick lad” apologises jokingly (amongst the “ ‘kin ‘ells” “whata the chances” of his workmates) to me offering, a chip as recompense for any offence, his sales technique kicking in as he goes on to offer me “a free dunk in his mates gravy” as a bonus for signing up. (Sadly my phone’s low on charge so I can’t capture his feat).

I demur and he sits down. The sales team settle down and brag about their targets and have a surprisingly un-sexist discussion of their lousy (but female bosses) never once let slip what they actually sold.

The train pulls up and I find an empty carriage and am followed aboard by a tall black guy in bright blue batik overshirt, pushing a nice looking racer “god, dem lads talk a lotta shit and no mistake” he says almost to himself.

So we speed into Waterloo and out for the bus only to bump into tribe #4
"the 99p nu ravers": a 10 legged race of year 10’s (fifth years in old money), one lass in a baseball cap that would have embarrassed Timmy Mallet, the boys in PLO scarves and bangles, one of them in the obligatory white plastic sun gebs. They are shouting and huggin’ in the way that kids do now but never use to. They bump into a friend going in the other direction and moaning and cursing commences,
“Listen, listen guys” says a flappy tall lad “Claire just heard about the rave right, the rave right, well it’s a POUND to get in” shocked looks all round.
“See, I said it was and I’ve got bare money”
Further “shock and horror” from the “crew” along with much urgent pocket fumbling, as they worriedly wander off.

Blimey I thought kids were loaded nowadays, and is it just me but a “rave” for a £1 isn’t that some bodies mate with an Ipod and a desk lamp! Also doesn’t “rave” sound quaint?

Anyway the 171 arrives before I can find out how this Jnr Branch of the IMF solved this urgent economic crisis. I did feel like giving them a £10 and telling them to treat themselves but blokes giving teenagers cash at 12 am outside Waterloo…..

On the night bus all went smoothly apart from the octopus couple in front, the female of the clinch, in between embraces berating her beau, punctuating each sentence with a teeth suck, that once heard got steadily more annoying, thankfully they get off still curled round each other.

After that it was just peaceful, my tunes mixing with the low hum of tired and “refreshed” members of my own tribe “the tipsy night busers” on the way thankfully to our beds.