June 2000
Liam?s
Letter from London
The tourists are teeming into London and pouring out through the mouths of the tube stations. Notting Hill is particularly busy and on a Saturday morning it?s a real effort to find room to walk on the pavement.
Like all strangers finding their way, they huddle in groups and string across the pavement blocking access in every direction. You dodge left and they move with you; dodge right and they are there before you. They smile beatifically and it?s difficult to take offence but the more they clutter up my space the more I find it difficult to maintain that London stoicism of acceptance for all and good will to the visitor.
They are usually proceeding like a great body of ants towards the Portobello market that is mainly antique, adjoining a section of wonderfully fresh fruit and vegetables. Why everybody visiting London should develop an uncontrollable desire to purchase an antique I do not understand but they will potter and pore at the many stalls and enter the deep-set arcades in search of that essential bargain. They enter trance like states and will stand mesmerised handling a piece of pottery or glass dish or hunting horn from deepest England.
The buskers take advantage of the generosity of the tourists and one man bands or groups of South American folk players will present their music and artistry for the occasional coin flung into their hats. Johnny, the Clare fiddler, has discovered busking late in life. He used to play round the Irish pubs along the Harrow Road but now he has gone big time and adopts a professional playing stance along the Portobello Road with the best of them. He can hit golden patches in his playing but some of his selections are a bit off key and he is in no way inhibited by the odd bum note. His fiddle case remains open for any donation and this will help to ease his thirst when he reminisces with his mates back in the familiarity of the Harrow Road hostelries.
There is good value to be had in the fruit and veg section. One stallholder sells all his wares at particularly cheap prices. This can seem like a real bargain to the unwary for he is practically half price of the adjoining stalls. But all his stuff is on the last days of its shelf life and will shortly begin to disintegrate. I once bought a couple of pounds of tomatoes from him and I was astonished to find that the following morning they were encased in a blue mould. His timing was so good that he passed them off just on the point of their demise. I have never seen anybody go back to complain ? he has that implacable look of the true London barrow boy; ?Honest Guv, I thought they were as fresh as a sea breeze.?
Celebrities are known to hang out in the area. Paul Gascoigne on one of his drinking sprees was seen around apparently handing bunches of fivers to surprised pensioners. This story is turning into an urban myth but an old drinker in the Young?s pub said he saw it with his own eyes and accepted a glass from the glazed Gazza. Chris Evans is another one reportedly seen weaving his way around with the fashionable and zany types he hangs out with. The film, Notting Hill, certainly put the area on the map but the real residents and regular passer throughs took the whole performance with a pinch of the proverbial. Notting Hill is certainly a chic area with old and interesting architecture that attracts the young and vibrant and the climbing creatives.
The seed for the Notting Hill carnival was sown on the poorer street of the 1950s but has now grown into a tumultuous demonstration of West Indian music and culture. In the older days it was easy enough to get near a float and even to meander behind with can of lager in hand. But now it?s got too big and you can stand for a long time seeing nothing but absorbing the energy and excitement of the crowd determined to enjoy themselves either way. It?s a nightmare for anybody living within the precinct of the parade for they are prisoners to the blasting music systems and the smell of bar b cued corn on the cob and chicken pieces. Many residents book their holidays for this time of year but others reach for the whisky bottle and cold beer and swing into the atmosphere and bop with the beat.
The Irish regulars carry on as usual and the Celtic songs and ballads are sung with even more fervour and passion in the Prince of Wales and Elephant and Castle. Nothing will change their lifestyle. The world and its mother can come crashing in but they will remain steadfast sipping a pint in the old pubs and chat away into the long night talking about things that that really matter. Like, will Kilkenny beat Tipperary this coming Sunday?
Letters from London 
