Eight Things I Hate About Stokey

By Nick Griffiths

It’s very easy to bang on about how great Stokey is, and much of the hot air is true. But where’s the fun in endless positivity? If we’re not careful, we’ll become Jacqui Smith. Or Geri Halliwell! And that would never do. It’s time to play Devil’s advocate…

1. The Gooners. Yes, I know – and the Gooners hate the Spurs fans, but then there are only three of us in N16, and one of them passed away last Tuesday. White Hart Lane isn’t that far away! I can always spot the other living Spurs fan when I watch a North London derby on Church Street, because he’s the only other prat in the boozer grimacing into his pint.  I’ve watched sodding Spurs v Newcastle in the Auld Shillelagh – and we were outnumbered by Toon. Same for Villa. And Blackburn. Are we really that unfashionable? (Rhetorical.) I’ve seen small children in Arsenal tops – so small that they could only fit on the HEN – wandering down Church Street, clutching an organic teddy, and I have wept. Alright, I didn’t weep, I went ‘Jesus’ inside.

2. The bendy buses. It’s a cliché because it’s true. Bendy buses are as reasonable a solution to public transport around N16 as the average elephant herd, or Ken Livingstone with an armchair Velcro’d to his head. Not only are they ungainly, ugly and not manufactured in Aldenham, but they don’t have an upstairs from which you used to be able to nose inside The Vortex. I never imagined I could feel nostalgic towards an old bus, but I do. I’ve hung off the back of a Routemaster up Albion Road, like Fred Astaire during a dance routine, sensed a monoxide rush in my nostrils and been shouted at to ‘Oi! Get inside the bus!’, and I have never felt more alive. Bendy buses make me feel more like Boris Karloff as he is today.

3. Three-wheel prams. I seem to recall a survey that suggested Stoke Newington houses more mothers than any other place on earth, including maternity wards in China. Why do they all gravitate here? ‘Cluck-cluck-cluck’, they go, while little Jonty/Arabella howls at the street lighting from inside a three-wheeler offering more safety features than the average Volvo. Have you seen how much those things cost? I’ve just found an Easylife Off Road Buggy on the net for over 300 quid! Who takes their fucking baby off-roading?!

4. The noticeboard in Fresh & Wild. It’s quite bewildering how seriously some people take their diets (and hence themselves). People on that noticeboard literally plead with F&W to stock the latest liver-friendly antacid minki beans from Peru. (Put the Blackberry down – I made them up.) The wife and I often nip inside the door, just to have a laugh at the po-faced lunacy. Yet the people who scrawl that high comedy fail to see it. Imagine being trapped in conversation with one of the fuckers!

5. The Islington influx. There was a time, not so long ago, when the then-occupants of N16 thought I was a middle-class wanker. (I know, I know.) These days, I get to use inverse snobbery on the latest influx: the 20something barristers and dentists priced out of N1, with their unapologetic halitosis and Cameron cheeks. Considering Bohemian Rhapsody to be a timeless classic does not make you bohemian! Here are some approximate figures. In 1990, a two-bed flat in N16 cost £3.64. Today, the same flat costs £1.2 billion. In fact, sod the Islington influx, we’re on the verge of a Chelsea influx, and what a bunch of ***** that lot are.

6. The ubiquitous worthiness. Everything’s so bloody organic, or recyclable, or sustainable, or dolphin-friendly. Don’t get me wrong, I love dolphins as much as the next man (unless the next man’s that bloke in Ireland), it’s just: where’s the spontaneity? Doesn’t the self-righteousness ever get so stifling that you want to dig out a 1970s can of Elnett and – just the once – offload the entire tube into the goddamn ozone layer? A glaring example of that worthiness: small children on wooden cycles with no pedals, pushing them along like something out of the 1850s. Why not put the kid in tails and a top hat and be done with it? Children need pedals! How else are they going to skin their knees? Life lessons. Life lessons.

7. Gastropubs. No doubt a result of 5 (see above). Fine as pubs, for sure. But if I wanted to eat mille-feuille of hand-slivered, slow-roasted, oak-matured, Orkney-bred, slaughtered-while-listening-to-Enya lamb with daintily-picked, crinkle-cut, Mercedes-bonnet-fried pomme de terre au jus de Elizabeth II (or Harry, if the kitchen’s out), at some bizarre price, I’d sod off to an actual restaurant. On the rare occasions that I enter a pub wanting to eat – surely missing the point – I want pub food! Doesn’t everyone? Oh.

8. The council. Actually, I love Hackney Council and think they do a really grand job.