Touting for Love

According to the BBC, "Self-confessed cynic Jeremy Butler, 32, got a whopping 93 phone numbers, after handing out fliers and standing next to a 3m-tall banner reading: 'Girlfriend wanted, apply here'.

"On his list of telephone numbers he said: 'It definitely beats going down the pub'.

I couldn't be happier for Jeremy. It's a bold and direct approach for which he should be congratulated. However, I can't help but feel sorry for people who don't live in Cricklewood. Cricklewood has, of course, revolutionised my dating life. You can imagine how delighted girls are when you suggest adjourning to your apartment "in Cricklewood". Not that I date outside Cricklewood too much anymore. The girls are universally brighter and more beautiful in the area so there is very little incentive to venture into the ugly world beyond the Broadway.

My advice to Jeremy, once he's made his way through the 93 numbers, is to move to Cricklewood. He never need feel rejected or alone again. I'll even take him to Pedro's on his first day in the area.

The Beach

A literary piece for the many romantics in Cricklewood

I am strolling along the bright cream sands of a far away beach, breathing the salty air, seeing you everywhere.

A wave crashes onto a rock in the soft wet sand near my feet. It makes me jump as the sand and spray surges over the rock and across everything in sight. You are there in the spray, coyly flashing me a smile as you confidently stride from the elevator. The world falls at your feet. I am forever touched.

The sun is beating down on me. It warms me all over. I feel strong. Your eucalypt eyes are there in the rays of light. They warm my soul.

Slowly the droplets of spray form round circles of white salt on my skin. I taste one with my tongue. Nobody is here to see. My mind flashes to the taste of your lips.

There are no people but I am not alone here. The beauty of nature is all around. Your smile accompanies me, reflected in the smile of this untouched world.

The warm water and wet sand merge and run over my feet, enveloping and massaging my skin. I think of your soft figure beside mine, close, as we sleep. I reach out to hold you but feel only the warmth of the sun.

I sink into the soft white sand and the beach sinks into me. Infinity stretches out before me. My heart swells as I gaze on our future, rising up ahead. Your face is there before me. I stroke the hair away from your eyes, behind your ears. You move a little closer.

My feet slide over the sand and I feel its contours. My hands ache for your smooth soft brown skin. As my toes dig into the sand, they uncover the glossy speckled surface of a perfect cowrie shell. You remove your shoes. It’s the first time. You are perfect. In every possible way, you are perfect.

The water draws me to it. I lose myself in it. A perfect wave rises before me and I push off the hard sand, propelling myself powerfully forward, the water pushing against my face, rushing hard against my legs. I feel excited, driving through the freedom of the sea. And now I am lost in the fervour of your eyes, the excitement of my soul, the anticipation of love as we explore our spirits, sitting side by side in front of a crowded bar where there is no-one else in the world.

I stand up and feel the waves washing over me. I relax and let them take control, surrendering to them. I feel your deep kisses taking hold of my soul, invading my mind, stealing my spirit forever.

I emerge from under the water to the brightness of a clear blue sky. I am floating now, water lapping against my cheeks, baking in the summer sun. The water supports me as I relax into it. I am sharing my life. I am together with you. We are relaxed in our deepest mutual trust.

As I make my way back to the shore, the water falls beneath me. I look over to the distant green cape. It is a wall of rock, spilling over with lush forest that runs forever to the land. You are there too. Your strong supple body, full of health, full of life.

The water, once a rich deep blue is now dappled by the orange glow of the setting sun. The water sparkles like your happy soul. I am free. I could do anything. I can be anyone. You and I are running together along another deserted beach. We feel free together.

I am walking through the streets of Cricklewood. You are holding me tight, smiling into my eyes. We stop in the middle of the crowded street and lose ourselves in a passionate kiss. As I hold you, I breathe your scent and become lost in the beauty of your nature.

The Gladstonbury Festival

Cultural Events>World Class>Reviews>Gladstonbury

Well, the Gladstonbury Festival came at last on Sunday and what a day it was! Rides, amusements, cultural displays, bands and a selection of home-grown and imported nutters, wandering aimlessly and randomly shouting at people.

I had a busy day that day, what with the washing up and the ironing, but I did manage to canter past and how it warmed my heart to view the happy throng! Hundreds of happy faces, basking in the sunshine and in the light of their own communion.

“Lovely day, dear!” said the old duck from Chichele Mansions.

“Beautiful!” I replied, “and so wonderful to see you!” I reached out and grasped her hands warmly.

She obviously felt the strength of the sharing which, I believe, in Gladstone Park is more intense than in any other place in England. Scientists attribute this to the presence of the Pleasure Gardens which imbue the surrounding playgrounds with that indefinable sexual spark. Feeling overwhelmed, she hurried away to a place of solitude where she could reflect on the moment.

Mr Jones, despite his forty years in boiler making, I’ve always considered to be a kindred sensitive soul and so I was not surprised when he sought time for reflection almost immediately upon seeing me, so strong was the shared energy in the Park that day.

These are the things which can be found and enjoyed in the hearts of our fellow travellers at Cricklewood – no time more strong than during Gladstonbury and at no place more intense than Gladstone Park.

Apparently, there is another festival held elsewhere in the country which has been named after Gladstonbury. I took a moment from drinking in the communion of souls to survey those at the Cricklewood festival on how they felt about this development. Here are some of the things they had to say:

“Glastonbury? Never heard of it. You sure someone hasn’t just made a mistake and said it wrong?” Jim 48, Cricklewood Lane

“I don’t know about that, love. People are always wanting to mess about with things that work. I’ve been coming to this festival for nigh on five years and I’m not changing now.” Dot 75, Willesden High Road

“If they want another festival, let them have one. Not everyone can afford to travel up to Cricklewood. Especially country folk. Live and let live I say. We can still have ours here.” Barry from Barry’s Cricklewood Electrical.

“Piss off!” Shelly 30ish, address unknown.

For this correspondent’s part, I am glad that the warmth and love that we feel at this time of year can flow from Gladstone Park in Cricklewood to Willesden, Dollis Hill, Brent Cross and West Hampstead. And if what we do in NW2 can bring joy to the lives of those as far afield as Somerset then so much the better. We in Cricklewood have always believed in joy and sharing… and the special secrets only we can know of the Pleasure Gardens in Gladstone Park.

Cricklewood, the Temptress

In my emptiness, you filled me
In my dryness, you watered me
In my contentment, you nuzzled me
To my happiness, you brought ecstasy.

In my fatness, you starved me
In my restfulness, you cut me
My happy heart, with anger you mangled
In my confusion, you struck me.

We rode the waves of the highest highs
and you tossed me into the lowest lows.
Am I grateful for that?
No.

Cricklewood is a seductive temptress, absorbing, enfolding, lulling, preening. A milky velvet breast into which we sink, soon resting our exhausted heads and suckling with contentment.

Beware! Cricklewood is not all Broadway and neatly painted concrete gardens. She is a fickle lover, tiring easily. The day comes. The day that Somerfield's low fat yoghurt is too runny; when the Crown stops your tab; when Pedro's gets your order wrong.

On that day, we each respond in our own way. From one fellow traveller to another, please, prepare.

Our Purpose

The Cricklewood Herald represents a new era in publishing for the international metropolis that is Cricklewood. In establishing this bold venture, the editors are mindful to acknowledge the paths already blazed by the likes of the Willesden and Brent Times and the Willesden Herald. However, as we walk down our burgeoning Broadway, it is impossible not to stop and reflect that the time has come to move on from baby steps to something more befitting to the economic and cultural significance of the Cricklewood region.

We have therefore set out to establish something of truly Cricklewood proportions. The shackles of Willesden have been long outgrown and weigh us down. From this historic day, Cricklewood and Cricklewood alone shall stand on her own two feet. From this day, we will set out to publish the greatest, wisest and most heartfelt expressions of who the grand old lady of Cricklewood really is to us.

There may be times when you read articles here which may not actually appear to be about Cricklewood at all. When this happens, we encourage you to read again, think more deeply and open your minds. Cricklewood is a place where all cultures, all roads, all railways (not very many tubes) and, ultimately, all consciousness meets. So every time you visit, we hope you will prepare yourselves, even if you are not fortunate enough to live in Cricklewood, to take a little bit of Cricklewood away with you.

Enjoy.