Bermondsey

Pronounced BURR-munzee. A bit like Chimpanzee and if you change the G to a B then it's also like ‘German Sea’. If you’re one of those witty people who turn Matalan into some sort of Debenhams Designer (Matt Allan) or All Bar One into some Italian bistro (Albaroni) then you may prefer to use the posh ‘Bur-MOHND-see’ pronunciation.  Located on the Jubilee line just one stop from London Bridge and in the ‘is that kid following me home?’(1) postcode district of SE16, Bermondsey is home to Shaltby Street Market(2), Shermondsey Street, Shouthwark Park and the Shite Cube Gallery (haha. Good one, Nicole).
 

In the next few paragraphs, I'm attempting to put Bermondsey on the map beyond being the home of Jade Goody’s mum and in a way that Patrick Wolf’s ‘Bermondsey Street’ album track never accomplished (from that difficult fifth album). You will read a few interesting facts not entirely sourced from Wikipedia, learn some etymology and/or toponymy (and what the words ‘etymology’ and ‘toponymy’ mean if need be) and discover a few celebrity residents you could bump into in the area. So the next time we meet and you ask where I live, I hopefully won't have to describe it as ‘the place where they found the girl’s body in the corporate scandal episode of Silent Witness in the last series’.
 

In brief, the name Bermondsey is thought to derive from Beormund’s Ey, where Beormund was the name of a local Saxon lord and Ey was Norse for ‘Island’. It’s now definitely not an island but there are various rivers running below ground, historically used to power local paper mills and factories and allowing the Morning Chronicle to coin Bermondsey as ‘The Venice of Drains’ and ‘The very capital of cholera’ in 1849. One of these rivers is the river Neckinger which is now completely subterranean aside from a few man-holes (hence being a useful dumping point for the Silent Witness victim) and only links up to the Thames through St Saviours Dock. As you all know (don't let me down, guys), St Saviours Dock is where Bill Sykes gets it in Dickens’ Oliver Twist and where James Bond’s speed boat leaps out from in The World Is Not Enough.

Neckinger, quite upliftingly, derives from the Devil’s Neckerchief i.e. the hangman’s noose, because they used to hang pirates in the area and display them out above the river as a deterrent to other would-be pirates. I think this sets the scene as to the sort of place Bermondsey used to be, and lets me tell the story of its rise from resting place of uber-villain Sykes to the heady heights of being the chosen location of hit TV show starring Gordon Ramsay and Mary Portas, ‘Hotel GB’.

  

Away from St Saviours Dock, after Tooley St has become Jamaica Road and you've turned and gone a little way down Abbey Street (presumably named after the now-demolished Benedictine Bermondsey Abbey) you pass the listed Neckinger Mills building, which was first a paper mill before more famously becoming a tannery (at its end, this was owned and runby Bevingtons & Sons Ltd.). Tanneries were a big feature in Bermondsey; huge names such as Hepburn and Gale, The Grange and Bevingtons & Sons meant that in c. 1792, a third of the country’s leather came from the area. In my research I’ve come across several claims that tanneries used to hire lots of women for the finishing process and as a result of working with fish oil in the glazing process, Bermondsey women were renowned for their beautiful skin and hair. Nothing says sexy like locks smelling of kippers and a face glistening with cod liver. Further on down Abbey Street, you also find the ‘Simon the Tanner’ pub, either named after St. Simon the Tanner/Shoemaker (this Egyptian Coptic saint who plucked out one of his own eyes because he saw it in the bible, before helping Pope Abraham to move a mountain) or a local tanner called Simon (“Alwight, Si. Can ya make me some leath-ah boots, innit? I need ‘em to protect ma plates of meat. Fanks, guv”).

Another famous factory in the area was the Peek Frean Biscuit factory, originally founded in Dockhead (read that street sign from a distance) in 1857 before moving to Bermondsey in 1866, which created both the Bourbon and the Garibaldi. Seriously. The exotic Garibaldi is actually from Saaafff London. Named after a folically-challenged geezer called Gary(3).

In 1838, a railway line was built from London Bridge to Greenwich, splitting the Neckinger estate owned by Bevingtons & Sons and creating lots of arched retail and storage units along Druid Street and Enid Street. During WW2, an arch on Druid Street under the railway line also suffered when 77 people sheltering from an air raid were killed by a bomb. This included the parents and sister of Bermondsey website maintainer ‘Bermondsey Boy’(4), from whom I’ve gathered a lot of information/hearsay. Things are looking up for the street now though; whilst no there are no specific biscuitries (is that a word?) in the arches, a walk past these in the morning now provides you with a good whiff of croissants from St John’s Bakery and Bea’s of Bloomsbury (which hosts film viewings in the evenings) and a stinky cheese nasal sensation from Neal’s Yard Dairy. On Saturday mornings, these units open up to sell to the public, fulfilling all of your bread, coffee, grocery and mattress (thanks, Beddy Buyz) needs. You might even spot Andrew Kojima from 2012's Masterchef holding a baby(5).

An essential sporting mention is the proximity to South Bermondsey station of noble footballing greats, and my Grandad’s team, Millwall Athletic. Originally from north of the river, The Lions moved first to New Cross then finally onto Bermondsey in 1993 to their current home ‘The Den’. I’m pretty sure they’re not exactly trying to dispute their rough hooligan reputation by calling their ground The Lions’ Den (also see chants such as “No one likes us, we don’t care” and the recent Millwall chant against Luton about the Taliban) and not even having Daniel Day-Lewis as a fan(6) can counteract one of your strikers being convicted of murder (I hope we’re just looking at you, Gavin Grant). Having started as the football team of a preserve factory (the Scottish-founded J.T. Mortons), they grew in size until WW2 during which they suffered alongside a lot of other British teams with the loss of young men and players in the fighting. The stadium also experienced bomb damage during the Blitz and then a few weeks later, some bozo burned down a stand with a discarded cigarette. You stay classy, Millwall Athletic.

Back into non-violent Bermondsey, and just off of Abbey Street you find Bermondsey Square, location of Hotel GB, the relocated Caledonian Market and Gregg’s Table. There’s also a convenient Sainsburys and cashpoint. Well, convenient if you need some bread and over-priced tinned goods. And cash. From the square, leading you up to Tooley Street and London Bridge station, is the adventurously named ‘Bermondsey Street’. This is one of the rare streets that has actually upped and came (upped and comed?) in frequently labelled by estate agents 'up and coming' Bermondsey. But before Gok Wan and his pooch made it the it-place to let your dog poo whilst you drink a freshly-brewed skinny latte, the street well and truly saw some dark days. It was so smelly in the olden days because of all the tannery work and all the fishy ladies that only the most anosmic(7) or cholera infected stuck around. After years of the road used mainly as a route to Bermondsey Antique Market, the street was eventually built up and is now lined with restaurants, cafes, independent shops and cocktail bars, along with the White Cube Gallery and the London Fashion and Textiles Museum. If you’ve ever visited me in Bermondsey, I may have overruled your google maps route to direct you away from the urine-soaked tunnels and dimly-lit estate paths, and down past the middle-class delights of this street.

In terms of local residents, you may find yourself running into Gok Wan (twice), Patrick Stewart (I wish) and Masterchef’s Buttery Biscuit Base(8) in the form of Gregg Wallace (we did when dining at Gregg’s Table. Subsequent googling of him has made me wary of harmless fish and vegetable meal paring tweets(9) but also made me wiggle my eyebrows and say hubba hubba only slightly ironically(10)). Beormund’s-ey-ians by birth include Boxer David Haye, Entertainer Michael Barrymore, Economist Alfred Marshall and whilst-she-did-think-Rio-De-Janeiro-was-a-person-she-did-signficantly-raise-awareness-of-cervical-cancer-in-young-women Jade Goody. A dream dinner party if ever there was one.

End.

(1) He was already going to the flat above mine, but he definitely didn’t need to speed up (he had a limp, but still managed to catch me up), cross the road and walk directly behind me at midnight, before asking if I’d go up to the flat to hang with him and is teenage mates.

(2) Names have been changed to protect the limited visitor capacity of certain visitor hotspots.

(3) Not really.

(4) http://www.bermondseyboy.net/2010/04/17/druid-street-arch-bombing/.

(5) This only happened once, back in March 2012.

(6) http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Millwall_F.C.#Notable_supporters.(7) Google tells me Anosmia is the smell equivalent of deafness or blindness.

(8) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IfeyUGZt8nk.

(9) Wallace met his third wife Heidi, a teacher from Cumbria who is 17 years his junior, in 2009 after she asked him a question about celery and pollock on Twitter.

(10)http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2012/12/15/article-2248527-168655FC000005DC-53_306x494.jpg

Game 6: The Jolly Dodgers vs. Reservoir Dodge

So I've been a little quiet over the past few weeks on a Dodgeball blogging front and if I’m honest I was sulking a little and felt as emotionally battered as we were physically battered on the court. In brief, we were stupendously beaten two weeks in a row and encountered a distinct amount of what we felt was referee bias. Though, in hindsight and with a healthy pinch of sportsmanship I think we can admit that after a few (probably) honest ref mistakes, we were a little overly suspicious and judgemental of further refereeing decisions.

It was ok though; Tactics Greg was back! We were in no doubt why he'd been absent the past week. In a team-building group email chain, we all received some delightfully taunting out-of-offices explaining that unfortunately he couldn't get back to us at present because he'd decided to take a spontaneous holiday to Las Vegas where he was living it up and having the time of his life. Thanks, Greg. That made all of us feel great as we trekked to Clapham in the cold after long days at the office.

Still, the global home of gaming can only have helped him pick up some more TACTICS. Andy was absent once more (another date, eh?) but Dr Ben was present (if wearing non-regulation attire of a noticeably different pantone). Still, after watching a few episodes of BBC Three’s ‘The Year of Making Love’ (IN AN ATTEMPT TO SPOT MY COLLEAGUE, NOT BECAUSE WE LIKE IT. Seriously), we had strong faith in 'Science' and how it could help us win. Thumbs up Science!*

We were nervous about this week though; The Jolly Dodgers 2.0 were facing the one and only Reservoir Dodge, Grammy nominated and two-time Clapham Dodgeball league winners. It was like the Mighty Ducks vs. The Hawks. Or more realistically, like actual ducks trying to beat the Hawks now after they’ve had 21 years of practice at ice hockey. No, more like blindfolded actual ducks trying to beat the 21-year strong Hawks whilst being shot at with machine guns by their substitutes. Not a chance, mate.

Still, we had Greg, Kira and Tony back (who actually sacked off a money-making opportunity to attend) and Matt's toe shoes were nowhere in sight. The referee was late so another team's dodger had stepped up to help out and we were off! Aside from a comical fall over then line into our side by a Reservoir Dodger, and then a nothing-to-see-here backwards worm slither to his own half which we let slide because it was funny, it was an honest and well-fought first set.

Some outstanding catching from our opponents; they often dropped down with no warning and scooped up our best ankle shots. One particular strength in their team was a girl in long shorts who threw and caught amazingly, though was got out time and time again as she turned her back and bent to pick balls up. If she'd remembered to face forward, we wouldn't have stood a chance. The first set reached 2-2, and then a few nifty catches later, Reservoir Dodge were one set up.

Despite another set loss, we were pumped. Both teams were clearly having fun, were playing honestly and were enjoying the fact it was fairly close. Ben, Tony and Greg 1920s-danced their way slowly to the other side in time to the music and we readied ourselves for set 2.

'Put it all on black' yelled Tactics Greg, helpfully. The game began and he must have gone all BlackJack with a ‘Hit me! Hit me!’ as that seemed to happen a few times. After warning Abbie about the perils of the old easily-catchable netball chest pass, during the games where he wasn’t hit, Greg proceeded to follow suit (an unintentional card game reference) with a few ridiculous high balls. Kira just went for it throughout the game, consistently lobbing well aimed low balls to the opponents. Ben kept himself up front on the offensive quite admirably and along with Tony and Greg did some great leaping and diving. Resident statistician and teacher Ellie continued making some great cross court lobs at our opponents and got a fair few out. Abbie made a few catches, but as is now standard hadn’t quite worked out how to not get hit immediately after re-joining the team mid-game. Every time, Abbie!

We were 2-1 down in the second set, and the next game was make or break. Could the Jolly heroes claw a victory after weeks of defeat?

No. Of course they couldn’t. We lost the game without putting up even a hint of a fight. After a brief droop of our muscular shoulders, we resigned ourselves to our fate and resolved to drop the defensive and just bloody go for it. Second set also finished with a 2-3 result. We may have been defeated this time, but it was as close as it could have been.

We had nothing to lose and it seemed that’s when our best play came out. The third set began with laughter and kamikaze spirit. As mentioned in previous weeks (and presumably discussed behind my back by my teammates) I had yet to catch a Dodgeball since I began playing in September 2012. Not one. I think I told you; I’m a dodger, not a catcher (insert own Michael Jackson ‘The Girl is Mine’ spoken banter with Paul McCartney voice). But my time had come. It was fate. One by one my comrades fell and I found myself alone against four eager and ruthless reservoir Dodgers. The noise around me faded and all I could hear was my heartbeat. Guided by some inner genius I suddenly discovered my sixth sense. It was obvious. I just had to catch it. Bam! A ball hit the wall to my right. Wham! A ball shot by my left. Then with slow motion, my eyes locked onto a ball speeding towards me. I braced myself and closed my eyes. Whooomph! Silence fell. I staggered back. Regaining my balance, I opened my eyes and looked down in absolute shock to the dodgeball clutched in my arms. Yes. Victory!

I'm pretty sure a choir started singing 'Hallelujah' in the background as a teammate came back in as a result of my catch (presumably Tony, as he really is one of our best). A few more shots came towards me and with disbelief I caught another ball. I got it. I finally understood Dodgeball. Me and the balls were at one. Admittedly a ball then hit me in the hip and I had to slink off to the side, but that didn’t matter. We won the final set 3-2, and I caught another two balls in that time. We ended on a high and after we warmly thanked the Reservoir Dodge for bringing their best game, we headed to the reserved seating area at the Loft to discuss next week’s game. The ultimate grudge match against our friends ‘Balls Deep’ happened to also be on fancy dress night.

(We presume this was reserved for us and not a outrageously coincentally-named rival company, operating in the Clapham area on a Wednesday evening)

With a bonus point up for grabs for the fancy dress and a night of free drinks waged with Balls Deeps’ Santiago, this was truly going to be the match of the season. The preparation starts now.

League table: see here 

*See the end of this article for some official suspicion of this so-called science.

Week 2: Go Mammoth Circuits

Highlights:

• School electronic gates complete with Stephen Hawkins intercom
• Tyrone the instructor being the only man in the world to work the 3/4 length trouser over leggings look
• The it-must-be-worth-it muscle ache of not being able to get out of the bed normally for a week

Having sacked off my expensive gym membership, caught up in the heady delights of Dodgeball and with the seductively subtle marketing talk of Go Mammoth’s Fitness Manager James, Jolly Dodgerettes Abbie and I had enrolled on the Tuesday night Circuits class in Stockwell (this). Yes, you heard. 100% a good idea. Not one horror story of senior-school circuit training where you couldn’t even do one pull up and you got hit in the face by a medicine ball came to mind. Hello ripped abs and Amazonian strength; we look forward to meeting you.

With a full belly of carb-y pasta, last week (our first class) we hadn’t quite left ourselves enough time to get to the venue. It took us about five minutes to work out local parking, and then ten minutes to work out how to break into the school where the class was held. We eventually found a gate and were patched through an intercom system (with a Stephen Hawkins ‘You. Are. Now. Being. Transferred’ message) to the 24h receptionist (mental! Even my office isn’t manned beyond 5.30pm). After going through the electronic gates, we walked to the main block and signed in. If I’m honest, I was slightly disappointed that this wasn’t one of those schools that had metal detectors on entry. Bloody sensational media! Letting me think that all South London yoofs carried knives and wanted to stab me up so that they could join a gang called All Bout Money*, and schools were now just prisons and teachers over-qualified riot police. Ridiculous. If it’s not true in Stockwell, I don’t think it’s true anywhere.

So that week we arrived with mere tenths of a second before the class started, un-stretched and Abbie with a full bladder. Lesson learnt, Stockwell.

This week we arrived twenty minutes early, and raced over to the fitness studio block to prepare for the class. With the fishy smell of another 24h receptionist’s dinner lurking in the air, we stood lunging/stretching/chatting on the stairs until the Go Mammoth Boxfit class finished. An Australian teacher and classmate turned up and after a brief chat about Caitlin Moran, we watched in disbelief as in Mary Poppins bag/Tardis style, person after person left the studio in what seemed to number bodies well and truly beyond the room's capacity. Perhaps Boxfit was actually some sort of survival of the fittest fist fight for access to the limited amount of air in the studio?

Instructor Tyrone must have quickly swept the oxygen-deprived Go-Mammothers into the cupboard, because the floor was clear when we entered and the only evidence of the hunger games battle was a few open windows with survivors standing by, victoriously breathing in the fresh air.

This was only mine and Abbie’s second week of Circuits, as we’d signed up slightly late to the classes and had nervously joined on week 3 fearing that we’d enter a room full of committed triathletes and sports fanatics who would scoff at our pitiful attempts at a press-up and would have furthered the already gaping fitness gap with those two extra sessions under their maxi-muscle belts. But after an amazing workout, with an enthusiastic and carefree instructor (Ty) and friendly group of Go-Mammothers of varying fitness levels, we were well up for our second week, and the fourth official week.

There were a few less attendees than week 3 but given that our aches from that class had only just subsided (if this were an arrested development episode, it would flick to footage of me repeatedly attempting to lift myself into a sitting position in bed two mornings later, before having to roll onto my front and fall sideways onto the floor, and of Abbie having to be dressed by her boyfriend because she couldn’t get her arms to work) we presumed the muscles of others had put up better protests than our own and were imprisoning their eager-to-work-out bodies to comfy sofas and forcing them to watch bad TV. Tyrone gave us a high-five when Abbie announced her surprise that we’d made two classes in a row before we got down to business and started warming up.

The warm up was different from the previous week (when we’d used skipping ropes) and as the class progressed, we subtly noticed that the instructor had taken everything up a notch, forcing us to all push ourselves a little harder. He went through various circuits, each focussing on something different (be it power, biometrics, resistance or cardio) and being long enough to cause you a little pain, but short enough that you don’t start praying to God to KILL YOU NOW. As a small, insider tip, I found the easiest way to stay focussed was to count the number of repetitions you were doing, rather than spending the 1m work-out wondering how on earth life would ever be the same again and wondering if Tyrone needed the battery in his watch replaced because you’ve clearly been doing lunges from a bench for FIVE HOURS NOW ALREADY.

I won’t reveal the structure of the class, as one of the best parts of the first week was not knowing when the circuits were going to end, and the euphoric relief when Tyrone changed the pop music (which I say with absolute delight is not the sort of dance shi*e that you get at a spinning class) to some calmer numbers for a quick abdominal workout and the warm down.

We're by no means uber fit. Aside from Go Mammoth Dodgeball, Abbie cycles to Uni and I run home from work once a month. And so whilst effective and tough, we found the class in no way intimidating or suited only to the mega fit. The instructor is encouraging, without having to resort to aggressive TOUGH LOVE and doesn't bring group attention on you when you're struggling. In fact, it's such a personal work out and about individual effort that you can't focus on anything but trying to coordinate a press-up hand clap without falling on your face or fighting not to accidentally star-jump backwards into the wall. If you ever are struggling, Tyrone will just come and quietly do the moves next to you to keep you on pace, and when explaining the moves in each circuit, generously lets you ogle his strong, sculpted arm muscles and toned body do the moves for a few minutes without making you feel like a trench-coated man at a children’s playground.

*Note, ABM is actually a real gang, and gang culture amongst children is not something to joke about. I think Dappy and that Bloods and Crips documentary have taught us that.

Day 129: London

Highlights:

• Wellcome Collection people watching
• Death: A Self Portrait, and particularly 
• Argentinian Collective Mondongo
• Subversive Spanish painter, Francisco Goya

Sitting in the Wellcome Collection cafe was an experience itself with its impressively diverse clientele. I sat with a coffee watching the raised eyebrows and smirks of the middle-aged woman opposite me clearly discovering the S&M delights of 50 Shades of Gray; the old guy to my left peering through his glasses at his touch screen phone whilst adjusting the cord that held them around his neck; two modern vikings with woolly coats walking past talking in a Scandinavian language and finally a 20-something guy dressed like a backpacking Crocodile Dundee. It was the finest visitor crowd that a European museum could offer. 

The glasses cord old guy next to me had a friend who was clearly a journalist. After discussing how newspapers should be bound by the shit-loads of stalker legislation currently in existence, he told a story about an article he'd recently written about a man who had called the police to report that his neighbour had stolen all of his plant pots. The police arrived at the neighbour's house later that afternoon and said if the plant pots weren't returned in 24 hours, they'd have to arrest him. So the guy returned the plant pots. Probably like you, I admit I was expecting a twist in this story and so was a little disappointed to find out that the whole purpose of the story was that sometimes police are good, quick to respond and use common sense. I suppose his point was just an extension of his criticism of media and the ridiculous sensationalism of modern journalism. I openly eavesdropped until they stood up, put on almost matching Canadian Mountain hats (like this), and left.

 

Abbie arrived a little later and after she’d eaten we lurked in the foyer waiting for her speech therapy mates; Canadian Kira and Chaotic Clare*. I picked up the Wellcome Trust guide and on the first page I opened, slap bang in the middle was new Dodgeball team mate and friend Ben Thompson, sporting the stylish cardigan/exposed socks and brogues look:
 

I mean, we knew he worked at the Wellcome Trust, but we presumed his science writing work kept him desk bound rather than allowing him time to pursue his museum brochure modelling career. Abbie sent him a ‘who’s this handsome devil?’ email and we sacked off waiting for her mates and just went into the exhibition.

We’d seen adverts over London for the past few months, but didn’t know a great deal about the actual exhibition other than that it was entitled ‘Death’ and we’d liked how that looked in our diaries (“Oh Thursday evening? No, I’m sorry, I’ve got an appointment with Death then”). But I impressed even myself when literally the first piece we examined, a photo of a skull-topped cane, I already knew the entire biography of the photographer. Complete fluke, but a few years ago when I was on a wave of reading musician biographies, I read Just Kids by Patti Smith, an account of her first serious relationship, which happened to be with tortured artist Robert Mapplethorne. He and Patti broke up owing to his commitment to being homosexual, though remained emotionally connected until he died of AIDS in 1989. I imagine the inevitability of his death at that time was the reason for the move away from BDSM art to photos like this skull cane, and his inclusion in the room titled ‘Contemplating Death’. 

The exhibition was nicely curated, with each room presenting a different stage of approaching, experiencing or coming to terms with death. We were examining a painting of the Good Man and the Bad Man, which indicated how the level of purity in your life will dictate the manner of your death (basically, don’t drink or have wild sex, kids. You’ll die like the baddie in Patrick Swayze’s ‘Ghost’) when Dodgeball Dr Ben turned up. He gave us a useful express tour of the good stuff in the exhibition (or at the least the stuff he knew a little about) and with his Wellcome Trust staff identity pass, we felt like we were hanging with a VIP. In the next room, the highlight was this incredible plasticine skull made by Argentinian Collective ‘Mondongo’. It’s so intricate and made up of such a large number of popular culture references, there’s no way any photos online do it any justice. You really should go see it yourselves. We’re talking Pacman meets A Clockwork Orange. 
 

The next room was called ‘Violent Death’ and mainly consisted of art about war, by Jacques Callot, Otto Dix and Francisco Goya. I’m mentioning these names in a way that suggests I knew who they were. I really didn’t. I’d completely peaked at Robert Mapplethorne. But later that evening, attempting to be a proper socially-aware grown-up, I was downloading some Radio 4 podcasts and stumbled across ‘Great Lives’ and a podcast specifically about Goya. Using the selection process of what to learn that I’d developed on my trip around Europe (whereby if the same thing coincidentally appears twice or more in a short space of time, I’ll read up on it) I figured I should have a listen. So turns out Goya was a Spanish painter whose works were pretty subversive and at times risque (he painted a nude woman with pubes. Goya, you ruddy devil). The podcast explained his progression through royal and noble courts, and his reliance on his wife Josefa as a sometimes muse and as a carer after he went deaf and suffered a mental breakdown. Over his lifetime, his non-commissioned work became pretty macabre, and it was some images from his series entitled ‘The Disasters of War’ that were in the Wellcome Collection. These were relatively miserable, though Otto Dix was probably a bit more disturbing and this was presumably because he’d actually been a soldier during WW1 and so all of his paintings were versions of his memories on the battlefield. Pretty dark. 

In later rooms there were some clever paintings with scenes that could also be viewed as skulls if you looked at them the right way (called ‘metamorphic postcards’, apparently. See here), and some sculptures, models and mexican puppets as well as some random photos of people holding skulls (and I use random in the correct sense; the curator Richard Harris had just found a selection of photos of unknown people who were holding skulls in their holiday snaps). Abbie liked the Victorian photograph of some science students standing next to a skeleton on a table, all typically unsmiling even as the guy on the end turns the skull to look at the camera. 
 

The last room contained an infographic about death and the causes of death during 20th century. Those Chinese have got a lot to answer to apparently. Two civil wars and then all that communism? Rotters. We were discussing non-communicable diseases when Chaotic Clare, Canadian Kira and Toe-Shoe Matt turned up. After briefly looking at the bone chandelier (see the timelapse installation of that here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TioV1BWjiyM) Abbie and I went to the permanent collection upstairs as they looked around, though called it a day after looking at the mummified man and the extracted, preserved tattooed skin of some 19th century LADS (minging). 

I figure if I end this post with the following, I’ll look look a prop-ah writer:

Death: A Self Portrait, curated by Richard Harris, is displaying at the Wellcome Collection in London until Sunday 24th February.

*A week doesn’t pass without Abbie coming home with a story about how Clare has lost something important, forgotten about an exam or locked herself INSIDE her own flat. I’m impressed how she happily functions in such chaos. 

Game 3: The Jolly Dodgers vs. The Dodger Moores

23rd January 2013

The team arrived full of optimism in Clapham last night. Greg was back from his vague work fieldtrip, and for the first time in Jolly Dodger history in some sort of snow-induced phenomenon, we had a substitute player. Seriously guys,  A SUBSTITUTE. Our opponents were the Dodger Moores, and we all took a moment to reluctantly agree that it was actually a pretty good name. Having dressed themselves in stripper-esque black bowtie against a bare-neck outfits thus far in the league, the Dodger Moores had taken it up a notch and were sporting some company sponsored tux t-shirts. Lined up like a shift of energetic waiters, their intimidating image was only slightly lessened by one male player’s short shorts (if you need visuals see here).

We looked on optimistically as the Dodger Moores took up the referee on her offer of rule explanation. Amateur first-game confusion on their part could only work in our favour. After utilising the referee for her fabulous photography skills and with the music pumping, the game began with the first of many unacknowledged false-starts over the course of the next 45 minutes. With some synchronised attacks from us, some synchronised ball drops by the other team and some invigorating tunes by the Clapham Leisure centre DJ, set one went 5-0 to yours truly.

After a tough game for the Jolly Dodgers 2.0 last week, without doubt we were back on top form. The shame, the horror and the anger all fuelling an onslaught not witnessed since the opening of the Jimmy Saville Abuse hotline. The Dodger Moores put up a worthy fight; one double-oh number (James) was the last-man standing in nearly all games throughout the match. His quick-like-a-cat spin to a sideways-on stance dodging tactic worked a treat, as well as his doubles-tennis-player-near-the-net crouch when left holding the dodge fort single-handedly. Embarrassingly, it had never occurred to us that a reduction of body surface area was a good approach to dodging! The rest of the team too threw themselves about with wild abandon, but time and time again, they found themselves pounded by a Jolly Dodger throw.

From our side, the sulking hero of last week Ellie provided fantastic distraction throughout the game with two horrendous dropping of balls whilst attempting to throw them, followed by a twirl and giggle as she ran away in embarrassment. Amazing, but seriously, twice in one game, Ellie (we need to talk about this).

It really was a week for the girls though. Alongside Ellie’s definitely (cough) deliberate flailing, Abbie made some superb catches, and Kira and I both caught and eliminated more players than ever before. Our female opponents also showed some strong skills and spirit. At one point, one of the Dodger Moorettes appeared to be crying. Abbie took the chance during a game reset to check she was ok and if we’d done anything to offend or hurt her (beyond our crushing Dodgeball play). Fortunately, it wasn’t our doing; her eyes were watering because one of her own players had elbowed her in the face. An accident we presume, rather than a brutal leadership style…

The Jolly Dodgers’ male players had a mixed game. Greg ‘No, seriously guys, WE NEED TO USE TACTICS’ Foot slammed the ball into the face of a girl with glasses (also an accident!), though immediately took himself off-court, visibly laden with guilt. Some great throwing by the rest of the lads though and Ben appeared to have 100% improvement on his dive and catch rate, leaving the game with bruises but also, finally, with eliminations under his belt. Bear Kemp Andy prowled behind Greg, awaiting ball provision to pelt the opponents with and Tony and Matt (without toe shoes) enjoyed the game and team spirit so much, they were actually happy to take their turns as subs. None of their usual frustrated-because-we’re-competitive-but-not-very-good-and-losing-ourageously attitude

We eventually reached the final games. A valiant team, the thrashed Dodger Moores continued to smile and charge at us on the whistle with a lion’s roar. To no avail, and I think during that game the Jolly Dodgers actually had a clean sweep of the balls at the start of the game. Just a little friendly advice Dodger Moores; too much roaring, not enough running.

Presumably to our opponents’ relief, the match finally ended. A 15-0 victory to the JD 2.0s. Then with probably the most sincere and heartfelt sportsmanship seen so far post-game, both sides shook hands and agreed it was one of the most entertaining and honest games we’d ever played. We followed up on this unifying game by heading to the Loft and asking to sit with the team. We spent the evening rubbing each others backs (and more…), talking about innovation and discussing fancy dress ideas for later in the season.

Dodgeball night in statistics (compiled by teacher/Dodgeball statistical analyst, Ellie):

·        Score: 15 v 0 to the Jolly Dodgers (epic)

·        Ellie’s contribution to score: 0

·        Boob shots suffered: 1

·        Face-shots: 2

·        Dropping the ball whilst actually trying to throw it: 2 by Ellie

·        Beers: too many to count

·        Inappropriate collective leg massages: 1

·        Former Channel 4 hit series Teachers cast members met: 1

·        Zombies met: 2 (volunteers for 2.8hours later: http://2.8hourslater.com/)

·        Enjoyment: 100%

Bring on game 4.

Game 2: The Jolly Dodgers vs. Dodgy Style

16th January, 2013

Battling their way through a Michael Fish-esque forecasted arctic storm (!), the Jolly Dodgers 2.0 easily made it to Clapham Leisure Centre for the early 7pm whistle. Defying all TFL delay warnings, they in fact arrived 20minutes early, allowing for a significant warm-up session. After discovering last week with relief that no other team had picked bright green for their team shirts, we finally committed the effort to complete the team strip, aiming to design a logo which would fulfil all appropriate categories (with the exception of comedy) and ideally take no longer than an episode of Miranda to create. After several hours of painful Photoshop tweaking, intricate cutting of transfer paper and green staining of the Bermondsey household’s table through Tony’s unsophisticated ironing technique, we were able to emerge with heads held high and a relevant (if barely adequate) team outfit. We hoped this was a two-fold victory; the skull and crossbones would surely intimidate our opposition to a state of petrified wimbling and by passing over T-shirt ownership to each player, we’d never EVER again have to wash the entire team’s sweaty gear. Abbie – we’re all sorry and utterly grateful that this responsibility fell to you.

We were ready – no – more than ready to face Dodgy Style, a team we presume were named to celebrate one of their players I-finally-feel-like-I’m-winning-at-life successful mash up attempt of 90’s classic ‘Good Enough’ with Psy’s 2012 hit. The Jolly Dodgers had a slightly different structure this week with ‘what do you actually do?’ Greg Foot living up to his name-tag by being absent on suspiciously vague work grounds. Back from Canada, 4-season strong Kira returned to the fold, hardened by the North American weather and invigorated by her first visit home in 18months. After fearing that Matt would be absent because of a ‘work dinner’ he turned up dressed in his finest toe trainers. Yeah, we’re talking these hobbit-like bad-boys http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vibram_FiveFingers. How could we lose with that technology to support us?

We recognised a few of Dodgy Style from last season: Kwai, a threatening, basketball-player like opponent and a girl (whose name I don’t know) with an unusual, but effective side-lobbing throwing style. Both were good, and we knew it was going to be tough game.

And so it began with a 3-2-1 FWEEEEEE (that’s the whistle) from the new referee. The first set was intense and closely fought. In one game, down to two vs. two, Kira was unluckily clipped on the ankle just as the whistle blew, bringing the score to 1-2. In the next game, controversy struck! Ellie received a shot to the back of her head (which was positioned at usual head level) that seemed clear to both us and the referee to be an illegal shot (it was obviously accidental, but still illegal), only to discover our opponents felt hard-done by this decision. A short while later the game ended, with the Jolly Dodgers 2.0 on top. Assuming victory of the game, we retreated to our wall for the final game and stood perplexed as there appeared to be some heated conversation between Dodgy Style and the referee. We’re still not quite sure what the actual argument was (does the back of the head not count as the head?), as when making efforts to discuss, Dodgy Style dismissed our interest and angrily (and ‘generously’) allowed us the game...

Possibly with the exception of Tony, the Jolly Dodgers 2.0 are a relatively uncompetitive team. It’s just a bit of a funny game, isn’t it? You can’t be that competitive when you’re the only person left against a full-side and you find yourself leaping about like a camp lord (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Louie_Spence) in the hope that you’ll at least finish the certain-defeat game with some semblance of pride. And we understand that in the heat of the game (which started so closely contested) individual decisions can wind you up slightly, but we were slightly putout by the hostility that this one verdict created. We hadn’t even pressed for the accidental head-shooter to be eliminated, which the Go Mammoth website rules declare was in our right (though this was mainly because we didn’t know about this rule until I just looked it up two minutes ago…)

With childish pride, we can announce that centre-of-controversy Ellie, a primary school teacher from Tooting, responded with equal hostility at what she perceived as un-sportsmanlike, overly-serious conduct (despite my battle terminology of last week, it’s Dodgeball in Clapham not war in the Middle East). In a move presumably learned from her six year old students, she initially refused to continue with the game and then once convinced to rejoin, sulkily lurked at the back of the pitch with a strong level of disinterest, slowly moving out of the way of Dodgeballs. The first set justly went in favour of Dodgy Style, though Ellie staying in until the end, with the other team not realising she was playing at one point due to her deliberate, nonchalant lean against the back wall, felt like a small victory for the downbeat Jolly heroes.

Set two began and perhaps the energising anger of Dodgy Style and the result of 20minutes intense and excessive warming up/pre-game throwing by the Jolly Dodgers 2.0, led to a brutal 5-0 win for the opposition. Their system of substitution was well done, and their team-wide strong throwing meant that most Dodgeballs bounced back to them without interference, allowing for a consistent offensive. No need to say any more about this set.

Aware that we had already lost the game, the Jolly Dodgers 2.0 threw ourselves into set three with abandon. Literally. We all watched in delighted slow motion as just after dealing a front-line throw, Tony dropped into a press-up to avoid an incoming ball and were devastated when it just clipped the back of his ankle. Ben leapt about like a voodoo masked tribesman dancing around a fire and Andy again appeared confused with one or two of the rules. Ellie impressed us as she caught several of fearsome Kwai’s throws and despite a severe case of tendonitis, Abbie proved a solid team mate. With regret though, I must note that Matt’s toe-shoes didn’t seem to improve his game at all. He definitely shouldn’t be embarrassed about wearing them though. Definitely.

As the assault continued, the Jolly Dodgers accepted their crushing defeat with laughter and continued whooping and we hope Dodgy Style’s improved mood was also due to the enjoyment of the game! No hard feelings, and what a team to find yourself up against.

The loft after for commiseration drinks with mutual losers Balls Deep.

Game 1: The Jolly Dodgers vs. 11 Shanes of Grah

9th January, 2013

And so begins a new Dodgeball season. Out of the ashes of the first 'serious' league's grappled-together-and-sometimes-struggling-to-put-out-a-full-side team of 2012, The Jolly Dodgers were hoping a committed, talented set of individuals would arise. With strength to rival Arnold Schwarzenegger, agility to rival Jessica Ennis, elasticity to rival Stretch Armstrong and with every Wednesday night free. After a pre-game strategy planning session/rule run-through and wedge of hydrating orange (well, glass of juice in the Go Mammoth discounted bar), seasoned players Moran and Shaw led the troops into the Dodge Battlefield, walled within Clapham's Leisure Centre. Heads held surprisingly aloft with the shame of the previous season's weak attempts at victory clearly brushed under a carpet and adorned in Sports Direct's finest green polo shirts (RRP two for a fiver) sans comedy logo (as Nicole had been too lazy to design it).

The atmosphere was buzzing as players signed away their safety on the Dodgeball form in exchange for a 2013 Go Mammoth T-Shirt; a noble sacrifice for the stylish red number. Watching the dying stages of a previous skirmish, the time eventually came for The Jolly Dodgers 2.0 to emerge from the sidelines into the enemies’ sight. First came archers Tony and Canadian Matt, with well-acknowledged powerful throws and gymnastically-impressive dodging. Next were the cavalrymen with horse-like grace and drive, new teammates Andy, Ben and Greg, who had only encountered the game at a Dodgeball party three years previously. And last but not least, the Dodgeball fodder infantry(wo)men to make up the female minimum requirement, Nicole, a slightly tardy Ellie and team secretary, motivator and coach Abbie.

The enemy at the gates: 11 Shanes of Grah, (wait, is that Grahhhh? Grey? Gra?) dressed in a less than intimidating mix of greyish T-shirts. First rule of Dodgeball: wear matching team gear if you want to appear at all threatening. One point to the Jolly Dodgers.

The six balls were unevenly lined up, the players restrained themselves to the appropriate wall with a stretched hand or foot, and the yellow Go Mammoth referee brought the whistle to his lips. And so at 7.40pm, Battle began.

New recruits Greg, Andy and Ben impressed with their enthusiasm, power and suggestion of using tactics. Tony hurdled over incoming cannoning Dodgeballs, Matt pelted to the front to smash balls against eager, forward standing enemies and Abbie pulled a muscle. As a dark cloud of pain and nausea descended over our leader, Ellie arrived and enthusiastically threw herself toward the mid-way line, succeeding in destroying crucial members of the other team, though often with kamikaze results. 

Perhaps unbeknownst to her comrades, Nicole only touched the ball twice in the first set, but presumed her dominating presence was vitally influential in the first victorious wave of battle, with the team securing the first set 3-2.

Having had a bit of a stretch, Abbie returned and led the Jolly D's to a 4-1 victory in the second set. The enemies played valiantly. With Dodgeball-friend Jordan a strong thrower and a gazelle-like female jointly impressing/amusing, with her speed, enthusiasm, and frequent newborn-giraffe-on-ice falls, 11 Shanes of Grah (apparently including team members Shane and Grah-am. Clever) offered a good defence, and went into the scuffle with good humour. But even with their energy-restoring system of substitutions, they were no match for the aggressive and powerful machine that was the Jolly Dodgers 2.0.

The game's victory sealed, the team went into the third set feeling pretty relaxed. Tony continued to throw himself around the field like a beach volley ball player trying to look up girls’ skirts, Nicole provided an easy target by turning her back on the enemy to explain the rules to Andy mid-game, and all showed a supreme catching-ability not seen since Australia’s victory and England’s shameful 0-5 defeat in the 06-07 Ashes series. A closely fought set, the still-victorious Bermondsey-initiated collective sadly lost 2-3. They left the combat arena to cheers of support from the onlookers and were declared "a real threat" by one of the Go Mammoth employees.

After filling in for another team, allowing the rookie players a little more practice, the whole team piled into The Loft for post-battle analysis and BOGOF bottles of becks. The merriment flowed, and the Jolly Dodgers 1.1 team proceeded to learn about their new, skilled comrades. The Lancastrian Bear Grylls meets Ross Kemp, ration pack eating Andy, the Wellcome Trust’s PhD extraordinaire Ben and nodule-growing, vagina-throated ‘what do you actually do?’ Greg. Several beers, a slated burger and a few Steve Wright ‘Alllllright! Ooooook!’s later, and a lifelong Dodgeball friendship was established.

Bring on game 2.