By Andrew Baker Esq.
Risking monopolisation of this one today yes it was slightly like that vulgar advert in places but all in all I personally had a bloody good roll about.
To answer your polite enquiry here is the breakdown Pearson â€“ Euston Square Brick Banks (to clear up any obvious ambiguity the grass outside Euston station is actually called Euston Square not 400 yards up the road at the Euston Underpass (pedantic taxi driver in the making)).
Then SOAS banks (and hip in BGâ€™s case) followed by perigrinations around the University of London and a degree of buggering about round the back of the British Museum. Some went home but the remainder up the oh so smooth Gower St to the very fun banks with grindy top (busted), the Euston bank and finally the other (green? It was dark) banks which I slammed hard on about 10 times but eventually emerged the victor.
Watering hole was The Rocket Euston Road complete with Missy Elliot at 150db. Apologies to whoeverâ€™s thunder Iâ€™ve just stolen if minutes were on the cards. Iâ€™ve saved you some time anyway.
Photos then please Henry and James Davis.
JD please would you publish the video as I own the Intellectual Property Rights. Your movie is much anticipated but my trick wont be a surprise and my ego wont allow it to be forstalled.
By Andrew Baker Esq.
With British Summer Time finally affording the assemblage evening daylight hours, congregation was successful amongst the ancient courts of Chancery. Southampton Buildings is secreted between the Inns and Bars of Staples and Lincolns Inn Fields, and houses what has been since the days of Curtis Mccann and the Bank of America the Gas Banks; the genesis of said sobriquet, dear readership, unknown to your benevolent chronicler. Opinion and conjecture were gently aired upon the hue and saturation of chosen curiosity – Is itÂ Battleship blue or Gun Metal grey?
Entertaining common regard for the curbstone atop, and scant disregard for the window abrupt, rear-truck pivoting took place (Yours Truly) and other such variations (Smith – HK, Tail – JD) which were certainly pleasing to behold. However the latent mischievousness of the Gas Banks did not procrastinate, and was rude in its uptake of claiming said participants. I received a good wallop, James Davis a speedy lick of the flat, and Bradley Griffiths the most unfortunate of primoâ€™s to send him sliding (grinding?) homeward with a sharp awakening upon the elbow.
Not fearing such interruptions (as indeed are common dear reader) and the fire within our hearts renewed,Â the skating continued notwithheld with a bank-to-manual alternative from Milo, and Charlie Graley disappearing over the hip as if a Gloucestershire dale.
Alas our natural light was replaced once again by the artificial of the Roman City, and sent us forth in direction St Mary Le Strand: southbound along Chancery Lane. Then west behind The Royal Courts of Justice and the London School of Economics to emerge upon that Grand Thoroughfare – The Kingsway. Consequently intersected and on once again toward the Elysian fields of Victorian theatre – Drury Lane.
Hardby and along the way Mr Davis happened upon a rather odd piece of architecture; a Great Wedge, the surface of which verisimilitudes that of an open-air swimming pool – tiled and rather slidy. This incongruence was swiftly undertaken to be an object of our interest, and with plenty of up’s and off’s (and more than a few not-quite-ups-to-prostrated slidings about) our intrigue and pleasure was culminated in Bradleys ollie out of tiled wedge and into Kemble Street, captured photographically by the good benefactor Henry Kingsford, and witnessed with considerable indifference by those requiring nicotine and the higher-educational benefits of the institution â€˜City Litâ€™.
On again and under the window where Dickens worked as a child in the filthy blacking factories, circumventing Freemasons Hall, along Great Queen St and Long Acre into Covent Garden. Onwards south-west toward the rookerys of Seven Dials and the Hogarthian gin-soaked alleys of St Giles.
Decision was made at the Charing Cross Road and Brewer Street car park was made for through the lascivious districts of Old Compton St and environs. The top floor of this testament to the late 20th Century is the receptacle for a most awkward and steep bank and hip, the spectacle of which allowed me to appreciate the difficulty and skill required in skating it. James Graley and most managed carves, James Davis was facile with frontside ollies.
The steady and unbroken surface of our chosen arena encouraged those of a flatland disposition to continue the performances notwithheld, with Jacob recording Ben, until alas the moment arrived whence we descend as fast as one dares down to the street and into nearby tavern.
As we departed the concrete carbuncle and harbourer of our instincts we happened upon a rather unsalubrious neâ€™er-do-well who attempted to chastise us for our genius. Sending the malevolent rogue on his way we found ourselves in Beak St where we gladly patronised the Old Coffee House Inn. A charming establishment (except for the recent aquisition of two televisions) with a gladly bar-lady who, on the contrary to the neâ€™er-do-well, expressed interest in our activities and made us feel very welcome.
And finally, as the curfew tolled the knell of closing time, we each headed home for another day in the direction of the Oxford St buses, passed where the birthplace of William Blake once stood, and where from the window of his garret he witnessed angels.
Wednesday 20th saw the plucky hunters take on a most frigid evening in March ‘King of the Months’, but the scent trail hung close to the ground which led to a satisfying outcome for many.
Lord ‘Henry’ Snowdon began by setting up a quasi-erotic flashing booth at the Diving Boards. As the East London Under 25 synchronised swimming team never showed up Henry had to make do with The Golden Heart skateboard B team (reprobates and retirees). Flashing thus took place, but the usual Jacobean stomp-slides were replaced with CP Sparkean board-misses, J Davison tail-nevers, Little Mattean finger-pointers and B Hullean earth-shakers. The A team cast off and suspected rapper B.R.A.D. once again failed to see the point in failing to point his board correctly, and landed bloody everything like a Man-Am on Wang.
At the far end of the arena Wurzel Bragg dutifully warmed up his varicose veins for later attempts at ‘A Modern Trick’. It will come as no surprise to you, dear reader, that he ultimately failed. He is after all, one of us.
Camera shy new boy ‘old boy’ Baker skated around with hungry puppy eyes and legs with admirable pop considering his declining years. This writer also saw him perform a quick-nosed manoeuvre later that eve for which he made his fortune, firstly in RaD, latterly on myskateordie. IMAGINE WHAT COULD HAVE BEEN…Â Sorry, caps lock stuck on this typewriter. I long for a way to automate the processing of these words, using an electrical Difference Engine of some kind.
The scent split the group across the city, distracted by architectural follies in which many a trap lay for unsuspecting country folk. Lord Snowdon and the Earl of Brinkworth took up the reins with a inclined display of stylery in front of the Polish Builder’s Association. Metal met marble in a clash of the titans from which only the victor could emerge victorious, displaying the ultimate futility of using multiple cliches in one sentence.
Towards high moon the huntsmen reconvened in an underground shelter, probably a Roman badger sett of some ilk. High entertainments were had by most, hare-like leaps and cat-like balances betwixt a platform of extra hardened mud. Then at a local hostelry, with multi-tasked aural arrangements, cheap ales were quaffed in the name of coaxed muscles, weary limbs and naturally-formed dopamine.
Despite the apparent unfairness and flowery inaccuracy of this account, I trust the reader understands that the church newsletter has a limited print run and must appeal to ALL the village, churchgoers AND otherwise.
“I pulled a model and went back to her house, but purposefully left my board in the Addison Lee cos she didn’t think skating was that cool. Turns out she thought I was a producer anyway so fuck that shit.”
“I was getting out of the bath when my ankle slipped on my flatmate’s dildo. My ankle’s fine but I can’t really sit down at the moment.”
“I wouldn’t come out tomorrow anyway cos Ugly Betty is on E4 and I can’t tape off Freeview. And my mate’s mate told me not to use BitTorrent cos the CIA are using it to build a database. And did you know Orange keep a record of every number you dial from your mobile and then charge you for it at the end of the month?! Fucking cunts.”
“I’m working at the end of the Piccadilly line, my board is at the end of the Central line, my shoes are at the end of the Metropolitan line and I left my wallet on Eurostar.”
“I heard that the weather is going to be slightly different to how I imagined it would be which would make skating either indoors or outdoors nigh on impossible.”
“I also have an allergy which I’ve never told you about, but if you knew I doubt you would sympathise.”
“My boss told me to be the last one in the office each night if I want to get on. The problem is there’s this other guy there who thinks the same so we have an ongoing competition which I refuse to lose.”
“If we end up going to [insert any of the small number of winter evening skate spots here] then you can count me out. That place sucks. I don’t even want to skate anyway so fuck knows why I am included in this email. Which pub are we going to?”
There are no minutes – from me at least – because Saturday is different to Wednesday.â€¨â€¨ However it was epic.â€¨â€¨ Most people skated from Hackney to Waterloo via 2 or 3 major spots each with a session on. Then most people skated from Wandsworth to Pimlico via 2 or 3 major spots each with a session on.â€¨ â€¨After a brief overview of the map that looks like a total of around 8 miles, and that’s if we went the best way and we didn’t stop to skate, which we didn’t and we did, respectively.â€¨â€¨ Perhaps I should say it was fucking epic. Skate of the year 2008, setting global standards and it’s only January.â€¨ â€¨There was video around so look out for that shit at the premiere. I won’t name names although Ben did strive to ‘get in the minutes’ so there he is. Someone else can do a trick rundown or a chart countdown or something…I counted 5 pints at the Morpeth Arms before I lost everyone in the tunnels of Oxford Circus.
I am completely incapable of writing anything today, but I had a brilliant time.
Playstation was good, but a few too many professional and talented amateur skateboarders. It felt a bit like when the skating stopped for a minute you could have a quick go. But it ended on the small mini ramp with some very good times including about 20 runs by Jacob ‘Salba’ Brown.
The fun curve rose very steeply as we consumed alcohol, received massages, then decided to skate from Notting Hill to Tottenham Court Road. Nearly 3 miles of comedy slams and slides, hotel forecourt confrontations, traffic dodging, risky grinds on unknown steps, through the park, on the street, everywhere. Arguing to get in to low end clubs. Getting randoms from inside to pretend they know us then the bouncer letting us in but the random getting into trouble for lying. Shooting skateboards across a busy dancefloor and not getting kicked out, in fact everyone finding it funny. Skating up to TCR at 3am, Joey Crack thinking we were actually out skating, which although not too far from the truth should have been obvious from the stench of beer from Charlieâ€™s exploded can if nothing else. I talked shit to a taxi driver on the way home, I presume the others carried on.
Another triumph I thought. Nine grown men cavorting round the streets for two hours.
Brad needs to get a pro model soon. Cab-to-man was a treat to watch.
Milo ollied his biggest set of steps this millenium.
Henry leadership of street spots fuck knows how he knows where they all are. And he did a rather good tailslide pop out fakie that not many people saw.
Chas and Dave sang some cockney firecracker numbers, although I did it switch to show them up.
CP ‘Super’ Sparks claiming to be tired but still skates like he’s toning it down so as not to put us off.
Ben ‘3flip’ Hull can’t help but look like some kind of style god when he steps on a board.
Dave R skated till nine THEN went to Playstation for ten minutes THEN came back east to the pub. Brunel would have been proud of this heroic feat of transport engineering.
Oh look! I done a thing where I mentioned everyone so no one got left out! How fair! Except those who didn’t turn up, and me for writing this type of shit.
Skating down the multistory car park several times like it was 1987 and we were allowed to have fun. I’m sure you boys had fun in the lift but I wasn’t going in that deathtrap.â€¨â€¨ The fact that we had a session on THE FLAT at the first spot was like making something out of nothing. Until Ben slammed twice in the same slam which was both selfish and greedy.â€¨â€¨ Standing outside the Golden Hart and deciding to start a skate magazine called Too Little Too Late. I think it stands up to the cold light of day and would love to discuss it again next time I am pissed. Or sober.
Well I had a jolly old time I must say. There were leaps into the air, the smack of maple on plywood, and the cries of suffering polyurethane. Occasionally even a truck scrape and a whoop for joy. Some even did the flips. â€¨â€¨My tricks of the night:â€¨â€¨ Dave R fakie body varial 270 pivot tail (I think, only he knows what the hell it was) on the big mini ramp.â€¨ James G confident vertical destruction and endless frontside grinds and large ollie grabsâ€¨. Brad G everything that happened in the zone between his feet and the groundâ€¨. â€¨Bad one of the night: â€¨â€¨Queueing for 5 minutes to hit up anything on the street course only to have your efforts squandered by a visual ignoramus with C-H-A-TÂ R-O-O-M tattooed on his knuckles.â€¨ â€¨â€¨Anyway, if you weren’t there I hope Eastenders was worth it. The activity of skateboarding is brilliant.