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The Fringe...
...the Festival
Martin Rowson
News in Brief
Readers Letters
Park Life
News in Brief
Dissent
Tapas Time
Back to the Fringe
Straight to the Point
Royal Bengal
Handy Contacts
Summertime Blues
Summery Justice
Up the Junction
Books/Poetry
The Factory
Summer Allergies
Farmers Market
The Arts
Away Days
A Royal Visit
Coffee Corner
Surfing N16
Man in North Bank
XWord
View from the Lane
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books / reviews / poems
Gail Chester is a 52 year old book historian, Jewish mother, feminist, carer, and community activist in Hackney, where she lives, loves, and waits for buses. This poem won the BBC Radio London ‘Roots Around London’ poetry prize.
murder mile by Gail Chester
They call it Murder Mile, I call it home.
They call it Murder Mile, I call it
Waiting for the 253 bus which never seems to go beyond Hackney Central
Despite telling us they’ve improved the service.
They call it Murder Mile, I call it
The Sam and Annie Cohen Day Centre full of Afro-Caribbean elders
The Turkish bakery selling ackee and saltfish bagels, bacon bagels, croissants
and pizzas
The Chinese Take Away selling kebabs, jamake patties, and fish and chips.
They call it Murder Mile, I call it
Marvin, trapped in his third floor flat
No longer able to visit his book-lined study, the British Library
Since the council took his Freedom Pass away
He wonders why his wasted body should condemn him to a wasted mind.
Yes, it’s murder all right
When you’re trying to raise your kids
And two of them have asthma from the cars
Racing through as they make their way to important other places that are
not your street
And you’ve just heard they’re shutting the local sorting office ‘for
economy reasons’
Like it’s going to be very economical to get the bus to Leyton to collect a
registered letter that arrived while you were out.
They call it Murder Mile,
Yet it throbs with the life of every continent
With the live and let live of every imaginable cultural variation
With the black and the white and the red and the green and the purple and
the pink and the brown
Of a swirling kaleidoscope of life
They call it Murder Mile, I call it
Rabbi Grunbaum arguing with Mr Fawzi about whether we should support
Bush over Iraq
Even though, or maybe because
They are both on the committee for Muslim Jewish understanding
Which, as everybody says, could teach the Middle East a thing or two about
peaceful co-existence.
They call it Murder Mile, I call it
A heartbroken mother whose teenage son has just been given two years for
possession and dealing
They’ve shattered her dreams, shattered her nerves
And all because a young boy wanted his own mixing table
Since they shut down the youth club and took his hopes away.
They call it Murder Mile, I call it
The road stretching between the shtetl on the Hill
Where the residents dwell, occasionally to excess, on matters of the soul
And the Town Hall Square, the so-called Heart of Hackney
Where the politicians meet, and the residents wonder if they have a heart at all.
They call it Murder Mile, I call it
Justin and Marie who moved to Clapton when their youngest was born and
they were priced out of Stoke Newington and are slightly nervous about
what all these killings will do to the value of their house.
They call it Murder Mile, I call it
Despair, as yet another friend announces they are leaving
Because it’s so dangerous in the city
Remember Soham, I say
Remember Dunblane
Remember Hungerford
Remember Telford
Remember that farmers have one of the highest suicide rates
Consider the pesticides and the sheep dips and the chemicals which deform
growing foetuses
Remember being teased at school, and thinking you were the only gay kid
on the planet
Remember going out of your mind with boredom in the small town where
you grew up
Then tell me it’s so dangerous in the city.
Wherever you live, the time comes to die
And Murder Mile is fuller of joyous life
Than all those places where alarmist headline writers pass their time when
they’re not at their desks giving us a bad name
lady in beige
Anne Beech
I adore you...
V G Lee’s second novel, The Woman in Beige, is a serious contender in
the wry, affectionate and often very funny feel-good beach read stakes – or a curled
up, istswirling autumn read, for that matter, if we’re feeling seasonalist –
that all reviewers like to single out at this time of year. (Apart from some
nohome-to-go-to public-schoolboy who informs his reader(s) that: ’This summer I will
mostly be reading Proust... in French.’) It was not a novel I expected to like, but
within pages, I was converted. Partly by an incident involving a dead dog in a cat basket.
But I give nothing away.
Our heroine, long-time Stokey resident Lorna Tree – whom we meet sketching rail
carriage fabric patterns, for heaven’s sake – struggles to make any sense
whatsoever of her deranged network of dysfunctional family, neighbours, best and hugely
infuriating friends, possible lovers, a giant, albino rabbit called Albert, and her
therapist. So far, so possibly astereotypical, but Lorna’s engaging take on her
universe – interleaved with the most improbable recipes encountered between book
covers for some time (for which health warnings might well be in order) – and the
acutely observed Stokey universe in which she maladroitly moves, conjures up an
affectionate and authentically realised world that might, on some foreign beach, make you
long to return home.
One or two faintly improbable plot twists aside, you’d be hard pressed not to enjoy
– and, like me, will probably end up rooting for Lorna as she struggles to appease
her pitch-perfect styleicon sister-in law, her drinksodden mother, dreamy Mister E next
door and her utterly unsuitable object of affection: the Woman in Beige. Lee has a
wonderfully original voice, and a feel for the texture of Stokey life – read it and
laugh. (Especially when you get to the bit about rabbit Albert and his bandanna...).
Diva Books, £8.99
man walks into a pub
by Rab MacWilliam
Among the criticisms we have received of N16 over the years,
perhaps the most common is the allegation that we are excessively concerned with public
houses and drinking generally. While utterly refuting this defamatory slur on our
reputation, nevertheless I feel I should bring your attention to an excellent,
recently-published book by a local author.
Man walks into a Pub: A Sociable History of Beer, by Pete Brown, is a
wide-ranging, informative and entertaining journey through our relationship with the brown
stuff from the days of the ancient Sumerians to the theme pubs of today. Brown’s
jocular and often self-deprecating style masks a voluminous knowledge of his subject, from
his list of 90 euphemisms for being bladdered via the economic importance of the brewing
industry in the Industrial Revolution to the complexities and consumer manipulations of
today’s massive brewing corporations. He cheerfully mixes anecdote, opinion and fact
to develop his thesis that beer and brewing have been profound motors of social and
cultural change over the centuries.
He is also not afraid to speak his mind, for instance when he describes a Caffrey’s
hangover as ‘one of the worst comedowns this side of heroin’ and, although he is
a fan of real ale (with great discernment, his preferred tipples are London Pride and
Bass), when he criticises what he perceives as the elitism of the Campaign for Real Ale.
Written with affection and authority, Man walks into a Pub is an intoxicating
read, best approached with a pint firmly in hand.
Pan/MacMillan, £10.99