A shamelessly self-indulgent post

Well, it’s my blog.

And it’s likely to be getting a rest for the next week or so, while I disappear to join the ranks of the propertied classes, or “smug middle-class bastards”, as I believe they’re officially termed.

In preparation for this, I have done all the “things to do” on my “things to do” list. There will, naturally, be a new “things to do” list come Monday, but for now there are no “things to do”, except fun ones. Excuse me while I snoopy-dance my way out of the building.

The burbs

My two-week period of homelessness has meant I am spending more time than usual in London’s leafy south-eastern suburbs. A couple of nights ago I went truly off-piste and ventured out to Biggin Hill by bus. And you know what? It’s nice out there! What it lacks in 24-hour shops and, well, people, it makes up for in prettiness and a cheery fellow-feeling that you don’t see so much of in town, largely because everybody is in too much of a hurry to stop and make conversation (and anyway, if you start a conversation with the wrong person you might get stabbed). All the bus drivers said “hello”, including the one who took me, and only me, from Keston to Bromley in about the same time it would have taken by car (thank you, Ken, for all the new bus lanes).

Also, I got to see horses in fields. I like horses in fields, as long as they are quite far away and separated from me by something solid (e.g. the side of a bus).

Beard badness

Never mind the funereal procession of black gowns (you have to say “gowns”; “frocks” at a push – never “dresses”) on display at last night’s Oscars ceremony: I am more distressed by the profusion of poorly-thought-through beards. Witness the otherwise-attractive Seth Rogen, James McAvoy, Viggo Mortensen (although in his defence, he’s never looked good, apart from in comparison with the rest of the cast of LOTR, all of whom were playing monsters) and the master of the ill-advised facial hair arrangement, Johnny Depp. Sigh. Such a shame.


If I weren’t getting my hair cut by the best hairdresser in the world (no, of course I’m not linking to her; I’m not stupid) tomorrow afternoon, I might have gone to Palace v Wolves. Wolves are two points and two places below us in the table, and if we lose this game I smell a nail in the coffin of our play-off chances. If chances can have coffins. And if (metaphorical) nails have a smell.
I will actually go to a real game at some point, rather than thinking of excuses not to.


Tonight sees arguably the season’s most-anticipated fixture yet: Palace reserves v Millwall reserves at Bromley Town Football Club. Unbelievably, considering the likely demand for tickets, I have managed to procure one and I’ll be cheering south London’s finest (alright, second-finest) along with gusto. Results to be posted here just as soon as I remember, and don’t say I don’t put myself out for this blog.
Edit: it was a thrilling 0-0 draw.


I have a shiny new staff pass from work which gives me free travel on tubes, buses and trams. It’s the best thing ever, but not so much because of the money I’ll save. The reason I’m really excited by it is that every time I swipe it on an Oyster reader a little message flashes up and it says “staff”. And each time that happens I want to tip the bus driver a knowing smile, one that says: “yep, you and me pal, we’re staff“.I haven’t actually done it.