I came back to live in N16 a couple of months back for the first time in ten years. I decided, very specifically, to move to Stamford Hill rather than Stoke Newington. It’s a slight but important difference. Stamford Hill is less self-conscious and it’s nice to be able to hide behind he ubiquitous chassidim in a stealth dwelling near the public library.
Stoke Newington is more villagey. It’s spent a lot of time and effort making itself villagey so we might as well admit it. I saw one of those apparently pointless posters over the weekend flaunting the values of London Villages: that English image of the butcher, baker and candlestick maker. That and Patrick McGoohan running away from a large semi-sentient balloon.
But yesterday evening it actually felt like I was in a village. Wandering towards Morrisons (“More reasons to shop at Morrizhons!”) I slowed my pace to avoid an encounter with a twat who used to run a shabby N16 venue, shouldered past the Big Issue seller and navigated towards the fish counter to contemplate dinner options. Looking up from a battered pollack, I was presented with the gurning countenance of Mr Hugh Metcalfe, the cabbageheaded boss of The Klinker franchises PLC. He displayed some pigs innard to me and explained, “look! I’ve bought myself some new bollocks! Ooh!” An encounter with Hugh is always a treat, and it seems to happen increasingly often, which isn’t all that strange since he lives around the corner from me.
Returning home to find scary mail, a letter from my ex’s mother and a threat from the TV license motherfuckers, I settled to the business of the evening. This mostly involved fiddling with the levels of an envelope filter and a fuzz box and yodelling tunelessly. By ten o clock I was fairly satisfied that I had something to present to the audience and I recieved a phone call from Richard F. For no particularly good reason I deluded myself into believing that he was repeating the words, “the Crotch! Want to go to The Crotch!” I really should grow up one day. What he was actually referring to was The Rochester Castle public house in Stoke Newington. Known locally as “The Roch”, or as Tim insists “The ‘Astle”, but that’s just so he can say “Wanna go up The ‘Astle?” He really should grow up one day.
On my way to The Roch, I almost bump into Justin who is on his way to work. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there!” I say, quite truthfully. I was wearing a new pair of very large, very black sunglasses. We talk doom for a while, as opposed to talking Doom, and then he gets on a bus.
In The Roch is all Stoke Newington society. That chap from Builder’s Crack is standing at the bar looking vague, and half of Morning Bride and The Dublo are at the table with Richard and I am offered a position in a morris dance troupe. But that’s an offer which would be *way* too villagey to accept. And there’s some talk about a local policeman who used to frequent a gay karaoke up the road.
We are in imminent danger of losing our metropolitan anonymity.
