“I got to go its an emergency” he says, “I have the whole park to myself, they are not sure whether they are staying open but they are letting me skate for ten, got to go, got to go.”

I then call Snowstation and ask if they will stay open and they say they will. The fellow behind the counter goes onto the course and finds Milo, explains they are staying open and takes 6 pounds off him.
Milo phones me up and says “Listen, they are staying open but you got to let me go, I got the whole park to myself, can’t talk can’t talk.”

I said I would see him in a bit and made my way there.

Dave R comes along and puts on the best matching shoe, board and coat outfit I have seen for a while. We attempt to skate, the bones are rickety, and the toes are cold…the last thing you want to do is take a tumble.

Within minutes I hear a crash and Dave is rolling in agony. One of the first pops of the day and his wheel landed in a deep hole in the wood. I didn’t see this one but Milo said in order to avoid crashing his face into a corner of a block Dave managed to skip and scurry out of the way on his knees. A kind of hop and skip across wood and metal to dodge the oncoming obstacle but only on his kness. At minus temperatures…not fun.

We do get a skate in.

Then I think the cold begins to break Milo. We take it to the pub and Milo and Dave order some burgers and chips and steak. Milo can’t seem to get warm, he is constantly complaining about a draft and he is shivering. So we move to another table where there is a candle in a glass. Milo starts getting really into this candle, clasping his hands around it. While the couple at the next table are out having a smoke he steals their candle. They are left in darkness on their return. He then books a cab home, repeating the phrase “door to door” a couple of times “can’t face that platform”.

Broken by the cold.

Westborne Park to Hackney please. We join him as he promises to pay 70 percent of the fare. And I leave my hat in the pub.

By Jacob Brown

Location: Jazz Square
Attendees: Ray Beers, Fattie, Art Griff, James, Siggy Sturlasson, Milo (Insert Nickname), Undersigned.
Special appearance: Baker
SMS Announcements:
“I’m here.”
“We’re running late”
“Want to skate Mayfair?”
“Could you bring some wax?”

Missed calls 6h15-6h45: 4

Temperature: Cold but bearable
Humidity: Dryish/Undamp
Session: 2hrs

Introduction:
Milo: Skating in a t-shirt on his own for 15 minutes, pondering the status quo.

Featured obstacle: Bottom “slappie” step
Go-to: Frontside tailslide
Roll-past obstacle: Barrier
Pose this shot: “Into the light”

Topic#1
Baker arrived halfway through the session and decided that he doesn’t need to skate more than every six months to put everyone else to shame. Ollie pop: 1/2 body height. Length of grind: N16 8JH.
Conclusion: Good one. More of this.

Topic #2
Malaga
“Never skate the day before a trip” was successfully ignored. Enjoy the weather.

New Pub: The Kingsland
Verdict: A pub’s pub. A landmark of frill aversion

Conclusive remarks: “This is such a good spot”

“You may have SKATEBOARDS, but I’ve got KUNG FU!”

Let me just repeat that in case you are skim reading or did not quite believe it, or think that he wasn’t being serious,

“You may have SKATEBOARDS, but I’ve got KUNG FU!”

The hilarity of this statement was hardly lessened by his futile attempts to grip my throat in a ‘KUNG FU’ manner. I continued to act as if he wasn’t a prick and thankfully the kebab shop owner came by and suggested to KUNG FU MIGHTY MOUSE that he best leave. So he did.

When we left a few minutes later I was looking forward to round two but our antagonist had scarpered.

The end.

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 – 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 BG’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 whoever’s thunder I’ve just stolen if minutes were on the cards. I’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.

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 it  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 primo’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,  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 ‘City Lit’.

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 ne’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 ne’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…  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.

THE WARDEN