Exploring Cricklewood

A tourist's guide to getting the best from Cricklewood

Recently, we have had a large number of readers writing in asking how they can make sure that their visit to Cricklewood is a memorable one. We felt it was time to help them out.

Coming to Cricklewood can, for many people, be a daunting thing. They know it's going to be the highlight of their travelling life and so they feel overwhelmed by a certain sense of responsibility. They have one chance to make their first visit to Cricklewood as special as they can and they want to get it right.

The first thing which must be said to those people is relax! Coming to Cricklewood should be a wonderful thing and planning your trip should be a joy. Let it happen the way it happens and rest assured - you will enjoy Cricklewood, no matter how you approach it!

There are three ways to travel to Cricklewood. You can take the Thameslink to Cricklewood International Rail Station (that's "International" in the same sense as "Birmingham International"); you can take the tube to Willesden Green tube station or you can take a bus from Victoria Station (a small rail interchange in Central London).

Cricklewood International is the fastest way to central Cricklewood. The station is olde worlde with tarmac platforms and no ticket barriers. Emerging from the station, with the fresh memory of the "Cricklewood" platform signs you will find yourself on Cricklewood Lane. Most people find that this is where they have their first "Cricklewood moment" - the time when they finally start to let themselves believe that they are here. Take a moment to savour this and then let the sights and smells of bustling traders and busy people wash over you. Take time to introduce yourselves to the drunks on the grassy hill outside the B&Q - they may offer you a drink! Poke your head into Somerfield and then cross the road to the boxes of televisions where you'll find one of Cricklewood's many "corridor shops". Make your way on down to Snappy Snaps and Phone City and you'll find yourself in the Central Business District... and the Broadway!

Our friends catching the bus will meet you at the Broadway. I recommend getting off at the stop outside the off-licence with the enormous "Carlsberg" awning. From this stop you can take in the majesty of the Broadway and the unique placement of McDonalds, KFC, Burger King and Chicken Stop all within 25 metres of each other. Cross the road to the Crown Moran Hotel. For those with a generous budget, book a room at this magnificent four star hotel and cross over the reception to the traditional hunting bar. Order an Irish beer and relax in one of the enormous leather sofas. For those who need to economise, treat yourself to a lager in the main bar and then make your way down to "the Cricklewood Lodge" for a bed.

For those coming from Willesden Green, you're in for a treat. As you emerge from the tube station, you'll see the Green across the road and Shish next door. Just because these are clean, well maintained and serve good food, DO NOT MAKE THE MISTAKE OF GOING IN! These are Willesden establishments. You are still in enemy territory. Turn left down Walm Lane out of the station, keep your head down and walk briskly. Willesden Green is full of the same old green leafy streets, well maintained terrace housing blah blah blah that make it so boring. Keep walking and remember, Cricklewood is just around the corner! As you approach the church, you will notice that Walm Lane becomes Chichele Road. See if you can feel the difference. You are now in West Cricklewood. Look up at the church. See if you can spot the marks of fire in the clock tower when the current fundamentalists which possess it burned the clock mechanism, believing it to be the devil's work. Walk on to the mosque. You're getting into the heart of Cricklewood. Coming up on your left is the famous north African restaurant. This is where you will have your Cricklewood moment for, on the right is the Barclays Bank, in front of you on your left is Cappucino et Gateaux and sweeping its way between the two is the Broadway! You are here.

After you've taken your time to get acquanted with the Broadway, Cricklewood Lane and the Crown, you'll need to rest. Don't try to do too much on your first day and, as you go to sleep, energised with the knowledge that you're spending your first night in Cricklewood, remember that tomorrow is going to be your first day shopping the superstores!

The pound - God's own currency

The pound, or more formally the pound sterling, is the official currency unit of the United Kingdom - the world's leading kingdom and home of the world's leading queen, Queen Elizabeth II. There are other kingdoms and queens but who has really heard of them outside of a few university intellectuals and the editors of trashy magazines?

The pound is the most valuable unit of currency in the world. Its name derives from the value of a troy pound of sterling silver. It is legal currency in England and Wales and must be accepted for purchases in those countries. However in Scotland and Northern Ireland only coins are legal tender - banknotes are not. The Scots and Irish are traditional people and prefer to use notes on more of an honour system. Thus, they rely on each of their banks issuing their own banknotes which may or may not be accepted elsewhere in the nation. This can make it quite tricky for Scots to buy kebabs at Cricklewood - and rightly so.

Leaving the Scots and Irish to one side for the moment - since that is the best place for them, the Herald has become increasingly concerned at the degradation of the value of the pound. This degradation has crept up on us but has occurred nonetheless. Our readers will be shocked to hear that the value of a troy pound of sterling silver is now £48. Why can't we buy a full troy pound with our pound anymore? Furthermore, thanks to Prime Minister Edward Heath, God rest his soul, we can now only get ourselves 100 pence for our pound instead of the 240 pence we could have got at the beginning of his stewardship. This represents a worrying trend and one of many questions this news source would like to put to Gordon Brown in our next interview with him. Why, even in the last four months, the pound has slipped 9% against the US dollar. Fortunately, the value of the UK currency still far exceeds that of those revolutionary ingrates across the Atlantic but it is definitively time to stop the rot.

Gordon?

Sandwiches

Regarding the importance of a well made sandwich and its relationship to living in central London

When you have eaten a well-made sandwich, the memory and the sensation do not depart easily. The soft yet crusty bread, the delicate blend of flavours, the crisp freshness against the meaty goodness, the experience is irresistible. Some days you need a bolder experience - warm medium-rare meat, juicy, dripping with warm salty gravy in a soft white roll. Eating becomes a pleasure, not a requirement, and life is warmed by the rosy glow of satisfaction.

Walking into my central London coffee shop (for even after 10 years' experience and seven years of formal education I remain unqualified for the prize of a job in Cricklewood), I looked at the rows and rows of once proud, now murdered sandwiches slowly suffocating on the shelves, entombed in their plastic wrappers. I sighed and said a slient prayer for them. I have, like all of my fellow city workers, been guilty of eating them. There is no choice. At least their bodies are not wasted, despite their prime having been cruelly ignored. However, there is no pleasure in a London sandwich. Tomato juice dissolves the mass-produced bread while a slice of processed cheese stares out defiantly, daring you to sacrifice your taste for food on the altar of your hunger.

In Cricklewood, the sandwiches are made by hand in a small bakery. The tomato juice does not have time to become acquainted with the bread and the processed cheese remains on a shelf in Somerfield. There is time to make sandwiches in Cricklewood.

Of course, it's been some years since anyone in Cricklewood ate anything other than a kebab.

The peeing plumber

A plumber caught on camera relieving himself in a customer's loft has been fined £3,778 and ordered to do 150 hours community service.

Read the full story at: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/southern_counties/4717327.stm

While this may, at first, seem a little shocking, I (and I suspect most Londoners) am not particularly fazed by it. In fact, after trying unsuccessfully for two weeks to get a plumber to fix my sewerage drain, I would happily allow them to urinate in my water supply if only they would show up when they say they are going to. I can always drink bottled water but I can't find alternative ways to dispose of my sewerage. The best I can do is try to hold it all in until I get to work but this can play havoc with your image on the tube. The other day someone threw a coin in front of me as I danced up and down waiting for my stop to arrive.

So here's an offer to all plumbers: Come and fix my drain and you can wee anywhere you want.

Cricklewood - A Picture of Affluence

Why are there rich people and poor people? Why are some areas nicer than others? Why do poor taste and poverty itself not necessarily go together? Many writers have examined principles around the sharing of wealth and principles of economic equality but today we must examine a new and unique economic inequality thrown up by that buzzing commercial centre, Cricklewood Broadway.

The astute visitor to Cricklewood will have noticed that the station is in need of repair, that the kebab shops are a little worse for wear - with the notable exception of the Prince - and that even the Beacon Bingo is starting to look a little tired. There are however three places of business which are nothing but shiny surfaces and affluent decor - The Crown Pub; Natwest Bank and Vodafone. To this must be added the brand new addition to this triumvirate - Snappy Snaps.

Of course, no business in Cricklewood can truly be said to languish. They may frequently be uneconomic propositions but it can always be said that at least they established themselves in Cricklewood. For as long as the bailiffs can be kept from the door, the happy proprietor may luxuriate in his Cricklewood address knowing that, while he may not be in a position to afford food, his soul will always be nourished by his conversations with the ordinary Cricklewood citizen and his heart will always be energised by visions of the sweeping Broadway marching on up to Brent Cross.

However, it is indisputable that these four businesses display more of the outward signs of success than the others in our grand little town centre. This, despite the fact that Cricklewood STILL remains untwinned (partly due, it must be said, to the apathy of the visitors to this site...). Why is it that these businesses enjoy such relative success? To understand this, it is necessary to examine their history.

It was the Crown and the Natwest Bank which first exhibited the trappings of wealth. This is easy enough to understand. The Crown prospered because it is a venue for people to gather. Traditionally people gather in pubs or in churches. However, with the extraordinary pentacostalism with which St Gabriel's was infected, the local church was not longer a viable gathering place. Indeed locals are still frightened away regularly by beaming clerics and fat hollering women, jumping and clapping in indescribably horrific ways. Consequently, as a gathering place, the pub began to enjoy a monopoly with those outside the lunatic fringe. Gathering together, of course, costs money in a pub. Herein, Natwest saw a market niche which it rushed to fill by quickly establishing a branch next door. Incidentally, KFC also established a branch nearby but, in one of the worst tributes to the excesses of capitalism, has failed to maintain it. Instead, the owners merely milk it for the earnings it produces from hungry drinkers.

More of a mystery is the Vodafone branch. Why is this so affluent? The answer lies in a cultural shift. As society became more mobile-enabled, gatherings became less planned and more impromptu. In this environment, it was important for regular pub-goers to have a mobile phone to consult their friends on important matters such as whether they would like a Magners or a John Smiths when they arrived. The two markets converged and so it became an economic proposition for Vodafone to establish its Cricklewood Empire nearby the Crown.

In researching the demographics of this journal's readership, we discovered that it has an abnormally high average IQ. This is partly because of the high IQ of Cricklewood and partly because active minds require quality. We therefore expect that you will have already worked out why Snappy Snaps has chosen its place next to Vodafone and three doors down from the Crown. However, for our less gifted readers, we pose the following questions:

• When you have, using mobile technology, gathered together a group of cashed up people filled with Cricklewood personality, is it not inevitable that you would have a fun night?

• What do almost all new mobile phones include as a feature these days?

• If you are having a really terrific night and someone has a cameraphone, would you not like a record of that evening for posterity?

• If, during such a fun night, you find your phone contains a blurred photo of your own or a friend's bottom, do you not want to rush immediately to have it developed?

I know I do.

Until next time.

Weekends - Cricklewood Style

Shining sun, toasting the Broadway.

Cricklewood bellies turning red as they mooch along unshirted down the lane.

Crowds in Pedro's, enjoying the cuisine, with the shopfront open to the world.

A moving throng making its way to Gladstone Park to enjoy the outdoor life Cricklewood so cherishes.

Children, faces smiling, competing seriously for points in the Clitterhouse Playing Fields.

Old women mounting the train, water bottles in hand, since it's important to take precautions in the heat.

United in the aim to twin Cricklewood with Paris.

Ingerlund

Following complaints that my last article was obscure, mildly offensive to Julia Roberts, Mick Jagger and the lippy masses and not completely entertaining, I have put my tail between my legs and agreed to post something else instead:

Sun is underrated everywhere but England. In England, people get into the sun on any excuse. It peeps through in the dead of winter and people shed their woolly longjohns and bare their flesh in sub-zero temperatures to drink in the meagre warmth. It’s both sweet and pathetic at once – these poor semi-deprived people who are so acutely-aware of their loss. I watched an Australian mocking their weather girl who was getting excited about temperatures above 20ºC… but the thing is that once he’d lived there long enough, he would get excited too. Apparently we might possibly have seen a ray of sunshine that day. I go to Spain or Italy and wear as little as I can because the heat seems so damned special. In Australia, some people look forward to winter and covet the shade. Vive la difference, I suppose. England has some good things: we speak English. On the whole, we celebrate diversity and do not judge difference. There are parts of London and even English countryside which are breathtakingly beautiful. The English are a proud people but more than any of these things, England is close to Europe and are awash with budget airlines.

So it doesn’t have sun very often? So it’s a bit cold, damp and dark for most of the year. So some of the urban sprawl (not Cricklewood) can be a bit ugly? Well, the thing is that the English know it already. And better than most, they appreciate what they do get when it comes. And so they travel. Even the closed-minded, unintelligent, erstwhile violent, beer-swilling hooligans – they travel. The thugs in France – they might not be as plentiful as England, but they have only to get on a bus to go to Italy, Germany or Spain. Do they? You betcha they don’t. England may not have much going for it – but at least its thugs travel.

Cases for Reform

... From a Cricklewood Perspective.

Some people have big lips. Julia Roberts has enormous lips. They are stunningly ugly. People can have surgery to staple their stomachs – why not their lips?

Others have faces like a crescent moon – where their forehead and their chins form the points of the moon. Reform is required here. Possibly with the use of putty.

Others are American. They need to be injected with chemical cynicism with or without their consent. Others are alcoholics. They should be given free beer for life. Unless they are violent drunks – in which case they should be imprisoned forever.

Me. I like olives. Used not to. Do now. Go figure.

What's cool about Cricklewood?

A few uninformed have been asking me what is so damned special about Cricklewood. To anyone who has visited the place, the question will seem bizarre, to say the least. The answer, of course, lies in the ambience of the place. The feel of the sweeping broadway, the hum of the cars, the buzz of the trains, the authenticity of the ramshackle stores and the extraordinary prevalence of kebab shops and greasy spoon cafes. However, for those with an interest in facts, here are some key points:

1. Cricklewood Broadway started its life as the original Roman road into London.
2. The Goodies always gave their address as "no fixed abode, Cricklewood"
3. Smith's Crisps were invented there when a Frenchman walked into Mr Smith's local shop with some thin cut fried potato slices. The crisps were subsequently manufactured there for many years.
4. It is the home of London's most recently convicted high profile brothel madam. It is also home to the Mayor of London, Ken Livingstone. We also have unsavoury characters living in the area.
5. It is such a special area, three Councils - Camden, Brent and Barnet have attempted to claim it as their own.
6. It is about to be twinned with another area - Show your support for this initiative by posting a comment!!

Are you a real Londoner?

The first step to being a true citizen of Cricklewood is becoming a true Londoner. Take this simple test to see if you are:

1. You need a new shirt. You go to TM Lewin only to find that the store is NOT on sale. Do you feel prepared to deal with the situation?

2. As you pass by the newspaper stand, the proprietor politely enquires whether you would like to purchase a newspaper. Do you feel comfortable?

3. While walking through Trafalgar Square, you see a kindly old gentleman feeding the pigeons. Is your heart warmed by this experience?

If you answered no to all of the above questions, you are well on your way to being ready to tackle Cricklewood citizenship. To further improve your chances, attach a comment to our Time for a Twin campaign below, in support of this important Cricklewood initiative.

Letters to The Editor

Strangely enough, we have received one from unexpected readers in Australia. We don't really understand it but have checked the capitalised words and they appear to be place names. It is posted as a comment to this, for space saving reasons.

Little bomb people, Cricklewood Festival, Congestion Charging

After a short absence from its laptop, the Herald re-emerges a stronger, fuller Herald with a longer article and whiskers.

Little Bomb People

Some little twits had a tantrum yesterday and created a little news story the rest of the media has picked up on. The Herald has only a few comments about these idiots:

• I am proud to be a Londoner today and I'm proud to be surrounded by Londoners.
• Some stupid reporter called Tim should be sacked from the BBC. He is making sensationalist news articles including phrases like "Will Londoners ever recover their peace of mind?" This man has obviously not been in London because it's full of people who are going about their daily business unfazed. Nobody looks at all scared and everyone, as far as I can see, has peace of mind. Idiots like Tim, who place the sensationalism that they think "sells" over the far better story of London's resilience, do not deserve to report. In fact, London today is full of grubby people selling the Big Issue, Londoners eating their Bacon Butties outside because they thought they saw a glimmer of sunshine and wondering if they should remove their shirts in order to catch it if it comes again, tourists flipping through guidebooks and poor service in the shops - the London we all love.
• The streets are fortuitously lined with wartime memorabilia to celebrate VJ day - a helpful reminder that this city has already seen it all and these little twits won't bother London too much.
• The Emergency Services are stars.

Cricklewood Festival

In the aftermath of this tragedy, Londoners will be wanting to get on with life and there is really no better place to do it than Cricklewood. So we are pleased to report that this Sunday brings us the Cricklewood Festival.

The Cricklewood Festival is a fun event for all the family, as indicated by the presence of Microsoft Clipart balloons on the front cover of the yellow flyers. One of these balloons even has a smiley sun on it wearing sunglasses!

The Festival is of course Barnet Council's answer to Brent's Gladstonbury Festival. Each Borough fought so hard and so passionately to have Cricklewood in its own boundaries that they ultimately had to compromise and split Cricklewood down the middle with the boundary being the Broadway itself. Since then, both Councils regularly compete for Cricklewood's loyalty - appropriately so. Judging by the brochure, Brent is winning - at least in Festival terms. Although, perhaps, as the Willesden Herald points out, this is due to the Council having nothing to do with the Brent event.

It looks a fabulous day - The Steady Boys are playing "a mixture of your favourite covers". Frank Lacy will be there - apparently he has "worked with many bands" - and the legendary Gerry Langley who used to play with Van Morrison in the 60s before Van Morrison became famous. This line-up, which I know you are thinking couldn't possibly be topped, is rounded out by none other than the Barnet College Musical Group! Be there smartly on 12.00pm to catch them.

This entertainment extravaganza is on at the Clitterhouse (no comment) Training Fields Sunday at 12.00pm. If there is absolutely nothing interesting on and I have no chores to do and I don't feel like sleeping, the Cricklewood Herald might be there to cover the event.

Congestion Charging

The extension of our very own Red Ken's congestion charge is up for comment. There are only 7 days left to let our man Ken know what you think. Write to the Council or pop in for coffee of an evening - Ken always likes visitors. The new zone does not extend quite to Cricklewood yet but, as a popular tourism and traffic area, residents and businesses in Cricklewood should consider the implications that the policy may have on them.

For the most part, the residents of Cricklewood are understood to maintain an indifferent yet concerned posture in relation to the Congestion Charge. While the current proposals do not encroach on the target audience of this journal, there are commonalities of interest:

• in reducing pollution and congestion;


• in considering the unique position of popular destinations; and


• through the operation of basic human decency which demands empathy towards our fellows in Kensington, even if they are not fortunate enough to live in Cricklewood.

Those who share the view that congestion charging should be extended usually do so in the belief that it will reduce traffic. It is hard not to gaze with heavy heart at the congested Broadway and wonder, whistfully, whether charging people a fiver might not discourage a few. This is to be expected from the generally innocent heart of a concerned Cricklewood resident. However, as we have had the painful duty to point out on other occasions, not everyone in the world has the pure soul of Cricklewood in them.

To explain, one must understand that there are a number of exemptions and discounts which apply to the congestion charge including disabled drivers, breakdown vehicles etc. Specifically, there is a 90% discount for residents living within the congestion charging zone. So if you live in Kensington, you will be able to drive throughout London all day for a cost less than bus fare.

The extension may not therefore reduce the number of people in Central London. It may in fact open Central London to a whole swathe of new residents now able to access the discount. These people may not use this exemption simply to travel in and out of their own houses. They may abuse it in order to go into Central London in the way that they could not before. I know that my readers in Cricklewood will be struggling with the logic here and I would encourage them to read it a few times through to be sure that they understand the point. Bear in mind that not everyone in the world is as ethical as people from Cricklewood.

It is a complex debate and a difficult trade-off between reducing traffic in Kensington and opening the floodgates to Piccadilly. The Cricklewood Herald merely encourages everybody to have their say before July 15.

It's Official! London is better than Paris and New York!

The IOC today voted that London beats the crap out of Paris, New York, Madrid and some other non-entity! The Cricklewood Herald was there in Trafalgar Square for the announcement and the atmosphere was jubilant. M. Chirac would not have enjoyed the event - Non! Rumours from Singapore are that a last minute campaign based largely on Cricklewood managed to swing the result in London's favour. Many residents of Cricklewood were present in Singapore campaigning and word is that some of the ashphalt from the recently resurfaced Broadway was distributed amongst IOC members to reinforce the connection.

The Herald salutes Lord Coe and his team and we say Cricklewood 2012 - We are ready!!

The Mayor of Cricklewood

In which we examine the origin of Ken Livingstone, the Mayor of London, the reason why all Mayors must come from Cricklewood and where we propose an important reform.

It’s a relatively well-known fact, at least in Cricklewood, that the Mayor of London lives here. That’s right, our very own Red Ken, here in Colourful Cricklewood.

What not everybody knows is why. Casual visitors to Cricklewood, as I have pointed out in other articles, often go away wondering why we refer to our area as “Cricklewood, London”, rather than referring to the rest of this urban sprawl as “London, Cricklewood”. We appear to be hiding our light under a bushel, not putting our best foot forward as a city. Just imagine what a shoo-in the Olympics would be if it were known as Cricklewood 2012 rather than London 2012! These same visitors become indignant that their travel agents had them mucking around with Big Ben and the London Eye when their time would have been better spent strolling the Broadway and checking out St Gabriel’s. Bitter is the New York shopping enthusiast who has wasted a day in Harrods and Selfridges when they could have been shopping in the Broadway Superstores and the B&Q.

Oddly enough, the origin of the Mayor and the reluctance of the Tourism Authorities to promote Cricklewood more strongly are to be explained by the same historical agreement – the unspoken Cricklewood Accord.

The Accord goes something like this:

“We the people of London recognise that the only really attractive things about our city are to be found in Cricklewood. We recognise that nothing we have can match the culture, architecture and natural beauty of Cricklewood. We acknowledge that we are in serious jeopardy of being lost in obscurity as the charisma of Cricklewood takes over. We therefore implore the people and businesses of Cricklewood to keep a low profile, to allow us to promote ourselves without their competition and to allow us to present the glory of Cricklewood as a subset of London. In return, we promise that the Mayor will always come from Cricklewood and never to install ticket barriers at Cricklewood Thameslink.”

With a proper understanding of this Accord, it becomes simpler to understand why Ken Livingstone was elected, even as an independent, and why Government has gone to such extraordinary lengths – pulling him in and out of the party, staging the Tube PPP arguments and so on – just to keep him there. The Accord must be kept, if London is to survive as a unique identity.

Those of you who have not visited Cricklewood or, indeed, London may be misunderstanding me somewhat. You might have read this to mean that there is something dull or passé about London. This is not the case. On the contrary, London would still be the greatest city in the world, even without Cricklewood. The point is not that there is anything wrong with London – merely that there is everything right about Cricklewood.

The proposition, therefore, that this newspaper would like to present is that it is now time we stood up and acknowledged this formally. We are not suggesting a wholesale promotion of Cricklewood – that would be foolish. Promoting Cricklewood at this point in history risks spoiling what is special about the place and would probably overwhelm the nation’s infrastructure. Rather, we suggest that it is time to give a more formal status to the Accord.

In this era of transparent and democratic open government, there is no longer a place for secret agreements, no matter how wisely conceived. It is time to recognise, in the statute books of Westminster, that it is agreed that the Mayor of London must always be a representative and resident of Cricklewood. In this manner, we could present more meaningful elections – one Cricklewood candidate against the other – rather than these meaningless and staged one-horse races.

This newspaper has no political standpoint and we do not comment on the suitability of Mr Livingstone for the job – except of course to state that he is necessarily better than someone from Dunfermline, Sedgefield or Folkestone. However, we are aware that there have been some local commentators recently airing views that a certain resident of Somerton Road may be better qualified for the job. Our proposal, to recognise the Accord openly, would allow for open elections where anyone from Cricklewood would be eligible to compete… and emerge Mayor of London.

A Question

Wherein we raise important questions for community debate

Today I was at Embankment and someone stopped me to ask for directions to Victoria. This immediately raised in my mind two obvious questions:

1. What was I doing at Embankment?
2. Why was that young man asking for directions to Victoria and not to Cricklewood?

Comments gratefully received.

The Streets of Cricklewood

A literary piece addressing some of the tragic life events which might explain why people leave Cricklewood from time to time.

The streets of Cricklewood are streets I try to avoid. The wide lumbering Broadway lined with its kebab shops, off-licences and pound savers is little more to me now than painful memories. I had to go there yesterday to pick up some mail. I caught the tube to Willesden Green. I knew I’d never have the strength to walk through Cricklewood Station. So I walked up Walm Lane – past St Gabriel’s on the right and I almost managed to ignore it – that magical place where we had stumbled late at night, drunk on our own love, and made her fantasy happen in the churchyard. God only knows how many times. She seemed so free, so guileless, so honest and I wanted her. I wanted to possess her, as much as I could and more. I wanted to surrender to her. I wanted to become part of her. There was no God I could have worshipped more.

The pain gripped my heart. I hadn’t really known before that it actually physically hurts. I thought all those songs were just tedious metaphors. I didn’t realise that her invisible hand actually reached into your chest and pulled it so tight that it burns.

I shook it off and walked on, down Chichele Road, past the Moroccan restaurant where she had taken me that night after I had mentioned to her that I liked tagine. I remember her eyes piercing my heart with their smile as they looked expectantly for approval across the table and it was all I could do not to take her face in my hands and kiss away the longing I felt for her.

I swallowed and walked on to the right down the Broadway past the bakery where we had shared breakfast so many times after tumbling out of bed, hoping to grab something quick before our hunger for each other overwhelmed us. We’d walk down to the bakery wrapped up in each other, me only taking my eyes off her long enough to check the footpath ahead to be sure that I wouldn’t fall – though I knew that if I did, I could count on her always to catch me… or I thought that I could.

On my left I could see from the corner of my eye the Crown, where we had often ended up when we wanted to leave all our friends in Soho and dance, just the two of us, unknown and alone in the crowded bar. All eyes always followed her as she glided through the doors and I would be so proud to be her man. She would be in the centre of the dance floor and every man there would want a piece of her. She’d smile, she’d flirt and she’d dance with fluid moves that were pure sex but she’d come home with me, every time, and I’d devour her – every smooth soft perfectly tanned inch of her. Once, at the Crown, there had been this fireplace and somehow she knew how to stand just so and move me just so…

I walked on.

I walked on around the corner to where our flat had been… where my flat was… to where the mail was waiting.

I took a deep breath and I turned the key. The click in the lock was familiar, the creak of the door was familiar, the way the door handle felt in my hand was familiar.

I don’t know whether it was morbid curiosity that took me the other path home. Maybe it was just force of habit that took me along that familiar path. I saw the place, though, the place I had to accompany her back to so many times. The place he had ruined. The place where she broke down and admitted at last to that persistent Detective that she had known him before. The place where the police chose not to take it any further. The place where our lives changed forever.

I felt less than I thought I would. My heart still raced, my chest still hurt but I was in control. I didn’t expect to be able to go home that night. She wouldn’t be expecting me back tonight anyway after this. I had thought it would be worse though, I reflected as I stepped onto the Thameslink for a hotel somewhere near Blackfriars. Somewhere where I could drink and drink and drink and drink, all alone, until I passed out alone and woke up to a new day where I could again bear to face this precious, dangerous girl and resume our life, nowhere near Cricklewood.

Things to love about Cricklewood

The first of a series exploring the unique beauty of the most extraordinary urban environment in the world.

The dew forming on the cracks in the concrete footpaths and soaking into it, in patterns.

The grey, green and brown plastic bins strewn about the streets after the bin men have come.

The buzz in Prince's kebabs after the pubs have shut.

The fruit man on Oaklands Road, heartily cheering, "One poun'! One poun'!"

The Beacon Bingo and its incomprehensible car parking policy, proudly displayed on the gates.

Pound-saver shops with more stock on the streets than in the store.

Mini-skirted underage girls in bright colours, parading between the KFC and the Crown, wondering whether they look mature enough to get allowed in either.

The low cost supermarkets and their low end foodstuffs.

The staff at those same supermarkets and their extraordinary ability never to smile, under any circumstances, ever. They are like our own Buckingham Palace guards.

The population's universal understanding that a red man on a traffic light is merely an indicative suggestion.

The honour system that still operates, largely ignored, at the railway station.

The shirt and tie attempts by Vodafone and Natwest to bring a touch of propriety. Many Cricklewood residents already refer to this part of the Broadway as "the City". In which case, Finbarr's would be Romford and Chichele Road, Notting Hill.

The dappled sunlight, brightened to a glare, as it bounces off the bricks of the monolithic B&Q and then lolls about playfully on the fields of bitumen carpark.

Abdullah

A literary thought piece with connections to Cricklewood that talented readers will readily spot and others will expand their minds by trying to spot.

Abdullah was exhausted as he stumbled into the mosque. Approaching him were two boys, perhaps a couple of years younger than him. They looked like they were Berber too. He smiled warmly “Salam”. Their eyes opened wide and they laughed out loud, shoving him to one side as they passed by.

He sank exhausted into a seat at the back and began to pray – pray as he’d never prayed before. As he poured out his soul to Allah, he felt the tears well up inside. How had he ever ended up here?

It was now, when he felt most alone, that he felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up into the warm eyes of a kindly old man. “Salam” he said, “I’m Aman Hassan.”

Abdullah had been studying English for five years at the mosque in Marrakesh. During the day, he worked in a stall at the markets and in the afternoons he would go to the mosque where he would read books in English with one of the clerics. Some were better than others, Tamil was older and pronounced things all wrong but he was patient and could explain things. Said was much more impatient, racing through the text and easily angered by mistakes. He still wasn’t sure whether Abdul-karim knew anything about the language at all. It was a challenge, though, and he was pretty sure that he was learning faster than his brothers who went to the school.

The idea that he might get the chance to go and live in London excited him from the start. To him, just the word, London, conjured up exotic images of traffic jams, wealth, purpose, opportunity, strange customs, strange beliefs and plenty of danger. He was Berber, though! He could handle all of that.

Hassan had a kind face and an open smile. Abdullah took one look and fell into his embrace. He realised that this was the first time in days when he had touched another person without getting a look of horror in return. The person in the underground railway at Heathrow didn’t seem to like him. He wasn’t sure why. He had arranged a place to stay for a couple of days and he knew he needed to get the underground railway to get there. It was an extraordinary thing, the station – so many people, so much English, so much machinery. He found the ticket office, asked the fare and bought the ticket. In all of this, not once did the man in the little window look him in the eye. He didn’t reply when he said hello or thank you, nor did he have a response when Abdullah asked how he was.

He was told at the mosque that there would be racists in London but that was why he had picked the window with the Arab man serving. It was a disheartening experience. However, he remembered all the long conversations he had had with the English and American people visiting his stall and the fact that not everybody wanted to sit and take tea. Some of them would be friendly. He just had to persevere.

“They are not trained in the Koran. They know not the light and have turned from it. The same cannot be expected from the unfaithful, my friend – nor given.” They were among Hassan’s first words to him. Abdullah had said nothing to Hassan and yet already Hassan seemed to know what was in his mind. “It is not you who are displaced and alone, my son. It is them. Look into their eyes. They are frightened and alone. You have Allah, always.”

The ride on the underground railway had been a long one. He soon found himself surrounded by people in each seat. He smiled broadly to them all but they looked away when they saw him. The woman next to him was talking to her sister. She too, apparently, was having terrible trouble making friends:

“I just can’t seem to meet guys, know wha’ I mean? They’re everywhere aroun’ an’ that but you can’t seem to get ’em, eh?”

“Excuse me!” he said with a warm smile, “I am Abdullah. Pleased to meet you.”

She looked over to him for a second, horrified, and quickly looked away.

“I am new here too. Maybe we could meet people together.”

“Come on love, we best go” said her friend. They got up, careful not to make eye contact with Abdullah, and hurried away into the next carriage. The train was full with people standing in the aisles but no-one took the seat next to him. They only looked at him when he wasn’t watching. He didn’t know why they did that – but it made him feel very alone.

“In my stall at home, they were much nicer. They would talk and take tea with me,” he explained to Hassan.

“You gave them tea from your own house and offered them products at good prices? You welcomed them into your country.”

“They paid more than we did.”

“But much less than it would cost here. Do they give you good prices here?”

“They don’t bargain here.”

“No.”

He had met his landlady on a cold and rainy night.

“Your room’s the first on the right, next to the lift. There’s no smoking or women allowed in the rooms and if you want breakfast, you’ll need to be in the dining room by ten. That’s the dining room there behind me. The hot water gets switched off at 9:30. No loud music and no pets. And I don’t want to hear from you unless it’s an emergency. I’m a busy woman.”

“This is your place here, mate. You stand out here and try to get the people in. The punters are easy to spot. They might have a brown paper bag from somewhere they went before or they’ll look a bit sort of nervous. Pull them in. Be friendly but persistent. Smile. Make them feel like everyone in the world is coming in to watch this girl strip… What? Well Jesus, if you’re going to get all religious about it then I’ll give the job to someone else, mate. But let me ask you this. Where is a freshly arrived Arab like you going to get a job in this town? How are you going to pay your rent? Anyway, it’s a condition of your visa. You’re only here as long as you work for me, mate. All I have to do is make one call and you’re out of here.”

“I don’t know if Allah will forgive me.”

Hassan understood. “You are dealing with people already lost. Their sin doesn’t matter, nor your part in it.” He squeezed Abdullah’s shoulder a little more, “Be strong. We will yet have the final success.”

He had only been doing his job a few hours when a woman passed by, tripped on the pavement and lost control of her pram. He righted it quickly, only to see again that horrified expression as the woman cried out “Get away from my baby, you awful man!” He leapt back as she stormed past him.

“All sleaze, those Arab men! Fancy doing that. Sleazes and terrorists every one,” he heard an older woman say as she went by.

“Worse than soulless, they have rejected the light and embraced darkness thicker than oil.” It had stuck with him. Sort of poetic. Something that Hassan had said during the four weeks that Hassan had taken him into his home, never wanting any rent. “Muslim to muslim, we help each other.”

No-one helped him on that day in his second month. He had gone to get his dinner and momentarily forgot that traffic ran on the left hand side of the road in this country. The car that had hit him sped on and he struggled to get to the other side as innumerable people walked by pretending not to see. As he sat on the footpath, pain pouring from his knees, he was vaguely aware of the people passing by. People he had already learned not to ask for help.

“Ignore it. It’s all a show,” one said.

“These people have to learn to get by on their own. Don’t give him anything”

“Let’s just cross over to the other side, eh? To be safe.”

These were the minority of course. Most just raced by, without seeming to see him.

Only one of those people who raced by felt a momentary pang of regret when they made it home. “I wonder if he really was hurt. I should have stopped,” she thought. “But then, I suppose I’d never have got rid of him. Someone else will have stopped, I suppose.”

They didn’t recognise each other when they saw each other again but she was nonetheless very very near to him. The force of the blast hit her directly. She was later identified from her dental records.

There weren’t any dental records for him. He hadn’t even heard of the NHS.

Australians in Cricklewood

Many people have recently been asking the Cricklewood Herald to address the issue of the number of Australians in Cricklewood. Throughout the borough, people are crying out “We are being overrun” and looking to the Herald to save them. Women are weeping and small children are increasingly being locked in for their own protection. One shopkeeper took particular time out to write to the Herald and express his concern that, unless something was done, his entire shop would need to be given over to the exclusive provision of Vegemite and Fosters. Today, therefore, we tackle the issue.

When fear such as this overruns a community, it is generally important to approach the issue from a scientific perspective. As the Met is so fond of pointing out, it is people’s perception of their safety on which police are judged, not just the facts relating to it. In acceding to the popular call, we therefore decided to commence with an examination of the facts – specifically, is Cricklewood being overrun by Australians? Perhaps… or perhaps the unfortunate plight of our largely antipodean neighbours in Willesden Green and Kilburn is colouring people’s perceptions.

Fear is an extraordinary thing. Footsteps behind us on a busy street mean very little to us, but on a dark evening in a lonely street when the full moon is sheltered behind stormy clouds and we hear those same footsteps behind us quicken somewhat, our minds can conjure up terrible images. So too, one or two people from other cultures in our cosy community will barely warrant attention – but when those people wear “thongs” on their feet, sport “eskies” full of impossible quantities of beer and loudly proclaim the wettest, coldest and most dismal of weather to be a “good day”, this can understandably disconcert the most unflappable of individuals. So to bring some perspective to the debate, we decided to commence with a survey to discover exactly how many Australians are currently living in Cricklewood.

Initially, we had thought to survey people walking down the Broadway. You can imagine how appealing this idea was to the journalists involved, the prospect of combining a pleasant walk along that famed avenue with the opportunity again to converse with our fellow Cricklewoodians. However, with Cricklewood’s now overwhelming popularity as a tourist destination, we realised that the sample would be likely to be largely comprised of tourists rather than residents. This left us with doorknocking.

Doorknocking can be a tricky business. While the traditional Cricklewood resident is a warm friendly fellow willing to open his door to all the world and having no secrets, we were not sure that this would be true for Australians. Those recently arrived may not yet have developed this open and warm outlook. We were particularly concerned that they might worry that we were seeking money from them. We are aware that very few Australians have funds of their own and would be wary of collectors.

[As an aside, we intend to address, in a separate article, how the residents of Cricklewood might assist to repair the damage to the plummeting Australian dollar which is now so low that most Australians are no longer able to come to the UK with any personal belongings, instead needing to fill their baggage with bundles of that unfortunately lairy plastic Australian currency for conversion on arrival into a tube fare from Heathrow to South Kensington where they set to work in the first pub they can find in order to pay for the evening’s lodgings.]

In order to show that we were not after money, we realised that it would be important to dress well, perhaps in a suit. This of course led to the next problem, being that on opening the door and seeing a suit in front of them, many of them might run away. To explain this, it is necessary to understand that we have been told that many Australians in London overstay their two year working holiday visas, understandably frightened about returning to the forbidding streets of Melbourne and the oppressive heat of Brisbane. Such people might well conclude that the two journalists in a suit on their doorstep were not in fact conducting a survey but representatives from immigration. It would be difficult to get reliable results if the survey’s respondents kept doing a runner.

Since we were reluctant to drop the idea of the suit – partly because one of the journalists (Cricklewood Crispin) felt he looked quite commanding in one and was excited to show the rest of us – we decided instead that it would be necessary to make it non-threatening. This is not easy in a suit. Almost any occupation you can imagine which regularly wears a suit could be threatening to an Australian – Government officials, Auditors, Lawyers, Undertakers… That’s when I came up with the solution which had been staring us in the face from the start – mormons. Mormons were wonderful warm people, never wanted money and wore absolutely wonderful suits. When I reflected on the lovely conversations that I had had with mormons in the front room of my ground floor Georgian conversion, it seemed too obvious not to have seen from the start.

We met the next day at the Corner of Cricklewood Lane and Lichfield Road and made our way to the first doorbell we could find. We had some namebadges on and it seemed to work since the door was immediately opened by a young man in his mid-twenties wearing a t-shirt, flip flops and shorts.

“My name is Cricklewood Chris from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.” I smiled, to put him at ease and continued, “We are looking to speak with any Australians you might have on the property. Are you Australian?”

“Nah, mate. There are no ’strayans ‘ere. Just us blokes.”

We moved on to the next property. Here we were answered by an Asian looking gentleman holding a large foam box and who appeared to have an unfortunate skin condition since he had applied heavy quantities of cream in a line across his nose.

“G’day” he said

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Sir, but we are from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints and we were hoping to talk to any Australians that might be living here. You aren’t Australian are you?”

“Jeez no.” I realised then that his accent was Punjabi: “What was being saying was ‘Good day’ which I am understanding to be a perfectly acceptable English greeting. You must be forgiving me Sir. Goodness gracious me, no. I am not Australian, My wife Ashanti and I are only being arrived in your wonderful country yesterday from our native India. We are still adjusting to your customs.”

We skipped the next house. It had a group of four ‘X’s on the front door which we took to mean that they did not wish to be disturbed.

The day continued much in this vein for the remaining forty seven residences surveyed. If there were Australians in Cricklewood, we found precious little evidence of it. As we had feared, the plight of Kilburn and Willesden Green seems to have caused a general panic in the Cricklewood community which is not borne out by the evidence on the ground.

The most likely explanation is that one of the groups of Australian tourists who are regularly drawn to the area were probably confused by the language, causing a misunderstanding which led residents to believe that this group was staying permanently rather than merely extending their visit through to dinner at “The Prince”. From there, no doubt, the rumours spread.

To those with concerns, the Herald’s advice is to relax. You may safely release your children and unlatch your shutters. Our community is safe.

Cricklewood Airlines

Following the resounding success of the Gladstonbury Festival and the completion of resurfacing on the Broadway, Cricklewood's reputation is increasingly outstripping that of London generally. Add to that the imminent commencement of the £2.8bn redevelopment of the town centre by Multiplex and the new Wembley Stadium just around the corner and it seems obvious that it will be only a matter of time before the commencement of direct air services to Cricklewood.

Faced with the prospect, one resident of Cricklewood had this to say on the topic of airline toilets:

Like every young boy, I grew up in awe of aircraft: the monstrous jet engines; the sleek lines of a fighter; the slow rise of a lumbering jumbo. The incredible fact that a seventy metre long metal boat that flies through the air with 432 people inside can actually be a fast and efficient way of getting around. Then, when you get over the fact that these extraordinary machines are powered by the same two turbines that you find just four of inside really big power stations, you start to get captivated by all the other airline amazement.

Nowadays, you can dial anywhere in the world, even from economy. You can send SMS messages from your seat. You can watch any of fifteen movies on your personal screen, play games and listen to 12 channels of music. I understand, from those in the know, that the kitchens are pretty swish now. They have some kind of gourmet chef for first class and, sure, the food in economy is pretty cheaply done but it’s still a fair sort of spread for something that’s been prepared on a big bus. Then there’s the safety technology, the autopilot, the GPS, the whole box and dice. You can pretty much have the Captain swap seats with that screaming baby from 47G and things should run along pretty smoothly nonetheless.

Of course, some things haven’t come so far. Like the Rock of Gibraltar, these things stand firm against the tide of progress and the thrashing waves of downright cleverness.

The first of these is the so called “on-board safety procedure”. Has this changed at all in the last twenty years? If you do end up in the sea, the basic drill is the same as it was in my grandfather’s day: bung on an inflatable lifejacket, toot your little plastic whistle (in the hope that the passing oil tanker ten miles away will be observing a moment’s silence) and flash your little light.

The rubber slides have, according to the safety message, still not been upgraded to the point where they can take a well-aimed knock from a high-heeled shoe and I’m guessing that the life rafts are not too different from those used in World War Two.

Of course, this is all perfectly understandable. You can have all the slides and lifejackets and whistles and lights that you like but if that big Boeing is going for a swim, you’re pretty much dead already and there’s no point pretending otherwise. So, with an eye to cost and practicality, technological development funding would seem not to have been centred on these little items. This I understand. I do not object to it.

However, I have a significant issue with the single most underdeveloped area of every aircraft ever put into commercial passenger service – the lavatory. No, I don’t mind that I have to wait for forty minutes to get in. Space is, after all, at a premium up there. Customers, after all, often drink too much. Fine. But, for heaven’s sake, look at the horrible things when you do make it inside! Inch for inch, from the plastic moulding to the stainless steel flapping bowl to the taps that only wash one hand at a time, these things are the exact same ugly product that has been in the air since Wilbur and Orville Wright’s bladders started to weaken.

Why are they still so awful? Perhaps it was Bill Boeing’s pet project, of which he was so proud that, on his deathbed, he decreed that it never be changed. If so, I’d like to know. We could all pay our respects and feel good about the beige sixties feel, the industrial vacuum cleaner toilets and the slip lock doors that all seem here to stay. Perhaps it was avant garde in his time. Sadly for we air travellers, I suspect I am romanticising this and I believe there is a simpler explanation.

What happened, I believe, is that there was a time, many aeons ago, when passenger aircraft were just about to become capable of long flights – flights so long, in fact, that we couldn’t really be expected to hold on until the next airfield. Boeing had a staff meeting at which the task of designing the loo was allocated to a young engineer whom I shall call Eric. Eric, not entirely happy with his lot, announced that he was off down the pub, where he complained long and hard to a bored barmaid whom I shall call Florrie. The next morning, Eric returned with some beer soaked sketches which we now understand to have been heavily influenced by three things: firstly, the stainless steel of the beer taps; secondly, the blondness of Florrie’s hair; and, thirdly, his own penchant for rendered plastic moulding. And then, as an afterthought, he put the little flower holder in because Florrie happened to mention that she liked flowers.

This, sadly, was pretty much it for aircraft toilet design. Boeing, after all, employ the best of the dreamers, the technicians, the speed kings, the romantics. They are simply not an organisation that employs toilet designers. Even Eric himself went back to his true passion of perfecting the little motors that move the flaps in the wings. Indeed, from that moment on, whenever the topic of the toilets is raised in the weekly management meetings, it is quite quickly glossed over – much as you might gloss over a tasteless joke in distinguished company.

In the deep deep recesses of the pits of their stomachs, I think the good people of Boeing know that there is a major project looming here, that something really ought to be done. They know – but can we really blame this fine organisation for hesitating? Their people have worked and studied hard to get where they are. They have outshone their peers and dazzled their teachers. Who can blame the manager who hesitates to crush young professionals of such pedigree with those cruel words, “Tony, you’ll be spending the next two years making the lavs look better.”