Madam Boucherie

Streetgeezer always dreamed of finding a music radio station that he could turn to without fear of hearing Phil Collins. He was unsure of the exact date of the death of Rock And Roll but he knew that every time he heard the voice of Phil Collins, he would experience a sensation that could only be the result of gagging on the stench coming from its rotting corpse. He thought he might give Classic FM another go but when he tuned to the station he found they were once again playing the Redetski March.

He turned to London News Talk and heard someone discussing the problems being faced by Latvia now that it was no longer in Eastern Europe. It reminded him of hearing a commentator observe that Wimbledon would not be the same if it was moved to Basingstoke.

He was on his way to West Hampstead where he had been requested by Mr Ryan, Manager of the 12-Bar Club in Denmark Place. West Hampstead annoyed Streetgeezer for the fact that it presumed itself to be part of Hampstead, though geographically it was part of Kilburn; a fact borne out by the Post Office having classified both areas as NW6. It seemed that many Londoners were infected with this kind of placism. He had heard it said that Chiswick Park was originally called Acton Green. Streetgeezer wished Acton could defy all expectation and logic and become fashionable like Islington. He wished he could tell the folks in Ladywell that you cannot polish a turd, SE13 is Lewisham. Docks by any other name would smell just as foul, so why, he pondered, do people embarrass themselves by directing you to Surrey Quays when they really live in Rotherhithe, New Cross or Deptford (on the Pepys Estate in SE8, pronounced "Peppies" by the immigrant inhabitants who know nothing of the famous diarist).

'Take us to Blackheath driver.' an asshole accountant once demanded in front of his yuppie friends. Streetgeezer drove them down the Old Kent Road through New Cross and up to the Heath. As he entered the Heath and found himself surrounded on all sides by grass he asked for further directions.
'Where are we?' he asked.
'This is Blackheath.' Streetgeezer exasperated loudly..
'Oh I don't know this part.'
'But this part is Blackheath, all this grass is the Heath.'
'Can you find the station? I can direct you from there.'
From the station he directed the angry minicab driver back to SE13.
'This is actually LEWISHAM.' Streetgeezer stated with all the contempt he could muster. Being an account job, he had done extra miles he would not be paid for, just because some dickhead educated way beyond his intelligence wanted his friends to think that he lived in Blackheath.

Streetgeezer planned a one-man campaign to expose the pretensions of West Hampstead and have it renamed "East Kilburn". His biggest "bete noir" was the butcher in West End Lane whose facade declared "Boucherie", and the baker who gloried in the name "La Brioche Patisserie". What would his old grandfather have said? He fought in the first war and hated his French allies, much preferring the Germans. He was a butcher by trade and he boasted the ability to speak butchers back slang, referring to himself as Retchtub. He would talk of buying "Flah a gel ebmal". Never feeb or krop. He lived in Colchester though Streetgeezer would tell people he had lived in Krapy Rub Snif (Finsbury Park).

Mr Ryan was called out and they turned right at the bottom of his road, right up to Mill Lane and right again onto West End Lane.

Streetgeezer pointed to the "Alimentation Ouvert" sign in the window of the Asian convenience store.
'Some think it's chic to use French, I just think it's passé.'
'Well at least they label their shops here.' The passenger observed making an obvious move to change the course of the conversation. 'I was in Russia last week and all the shops there were just called "shop". They had no window displays, so you had to go in to see what they were selling.'

'Maybe this is a smart ploy to get you to go in.' The driver suggested as they passed the Railway pub with its function room at the rear. In the Sixties it had been a club called Klooks Kleek, or something like that and was next to Decca or Deram or something studios where the Rolling Stones played .....or was it the Kinks. Streetgeezer wondered if his memory had always been this bad but to no avail.

'Ah but......' The passenger went on to tell how he had seen two watches he wanted to buy displayed in a shop that appeared to sell watches. When he asked if he could buy them the shopkeeper had given an emphatic 'Niet.' The assistant refused to sell them as they were the only ones she had and to part with them would leave her with nothing to sell.

Streetgeezer wanted to moan about French and did not welcome these irrelevant Slavonic interruptions.
'It must only be a matter of time before NW8 becomes Les Bois de St John just south of La Petite Maison de Suisse, or NW2 becomes Crick-le-Bois.' He began.
'In Ballards Lane N3 there is a car dealer called "Le Car", which might have made sense if they sold Citroens, but they actually sell Skodas.' He continued.
'Why do we have the "Cafe Rouge", the "Cafe des Amis de Vin" etc? Is there anywhere in Paris a "Jim's Greasy Spoon" or a "Penge Tea Rooms"?' He lectured.
'One night I was sent to Sadlers Wells to pick up Marcel Marceau. I overheard him complaining to his manager in perfect English that he wanted to do a new piece about an interrogation. He whinged about the deficiency of the English language in not having such a word as "Interrogatee". This,' Streetgeezer remarked, 'is the ultimate in Gallic arrogance, for MARCEL MARCEAU to insult the English language!'

After Quex Road, West End Lane sneaks away to the right leaving the inexperienced motorist surprised to find himself on the world famous Abbey Road.

'Ere Paul, if you take dose shoes off people might think your dead.' George suggested for a laugh.
'Dey do say 'ees been dead a long time.' Ringo quipped.
'Ey wack, shouldn't we get that Volkswagen moved?' John shouted to the photographer standing in the street by the statue at the junction of Grove End Road.

As the Minicab approached THAT zebra crossing Streetgeezer asked Mr Ryan if he'd had any reaction from the play he had recently seen performed at a fringe theatre.
'Only from the British Library, sending threatening letters 'cos I have not sent them a copy of the script.'
'And what can they do if you don't send it.'
'Send the boys round?' he suggested. They joked about the armed response wing of the British Library, 'Of course they could always revoke your artistic licence.'

They passed the giant gold dome of Regents Park Mosque and Streetgeezer urged his passenger to look across the road at 125 Park Road. A building never found on lists of the hideous that looks as if it was constructed from corrugated dustbins.

The West End was in sight with Sherlock Holmes' residence to their right as they entered the top end of Baker Street. Streetgeezer told his passenger about the frightening number of people he had overhead discussing the plaque on the wall of the Abbey National. Supposedly 221b Baker Street, people passing would ask such questions as, 'Did he really live there?' and 'Why did they pull down the original house?' and 'You know he used to take drugs?'. Streetgeezer accepted that Holmes and Watson are, even to those who know better, as real as anything thing else in the sad, flickering, Dralon-covered, cathode ray tube world most people inhabit.


At the junction of Baker Street and Marylebone Road Streetgeezer affixed his "look". A mere glance and just the slightest twitch of the lips, it ensured that theirs was the only car not to be approached by the Big Issue vendors and windscreen cleaners. He called it "the art of dissuasion".

'So what is on at the club tonight?' Streetgeezer enquired as they turned right by Capital Radio. He needed conversation to drown out the sound of his errant imagination which taunted him by humming a Hall and Oates song.
'Tonight we've got a blues artist.'
'Any good?'
'They say he could be better, but I've been told his career never took off after his doctor put him on Valium.'

He set his passenger down in Denmark Street outside Andy's Guitar Shop and turned the radio back on. The theatre critic was earning his reputation by criticising Ralph Feinnes performance in Hamlet at the Hackney Empire. Meanwhile three students were talking on the pavement. One said his farewells and walked off towards St Giles' Church.
'You fancy him don't you?' The boy sneered.
'Maybe.'
'Well I only hope he fucks as well as I do.' The boy whimpered like a red wimp.
'Almost.' The girl replied.

Soho