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I arrived back from a lovely long weekend in Rye – great place (The Place on the Beach, check it out), great food (at The Place and The George inn) via a nasty 24 hour bug which hit me right between the eyes – to find Chelsea .. well … dead. It feels like one stop short of pulling down the shutters for the month of August. Seriously, it’s about as busy as the Newcastle United season ticket office here. Apparently Chelsea residents go all Mediterranean and hang out in the country residence, timeshare, villa or on the island (that’s more Knightsbridge) or boat.

Our fantastic fishmongers, wine merchants and other business owners have told us that takings are generally down by as much as 50% for this period and that they are cool with that as it gives them time to review the year and plan for the run up to Christmas. Interesting me thinks as obviously this kicks off the debate in my head about why we don’t formalize the month of August as a vacation just like The French and how it could help us all…. later.

So what to do? Loads of options:

• Organise a street party where we can all get to know our neighbours. Make it a lunch though and steady on the booze in case old Leylandii hedge grudges boil over into full on punch ups. Go to www.thebiglunch.org
• Throw a proper house party, make the most of it and turn up the music and brush up your DJ skills. Go to www.learnhowtobeadj.com
• On a similar theme, get in Guitar Hero – Metallica, Red Bull and Embassy Regal then gaffer tape who’s left of your neighbours to the nearest lamp post and let rip..  Go to www.guitarherometallica.com

My personal favourite is to close the southside of Hyde Park for a grass skiing tournament – seriously – it could kick start the interest in this excellent eccentrics pass time. There’s enough of us left in August in Chelsea to do it justice.

Grass skiing in Hyde Park?

I’m as smug as Charles Campion in a Kerela cook off on Kovolam Beach when it comes to Indian food. I moved to Kilburn to my brother’s flat which seemed to ooze curry from it’s walls – having spent 4 years at University in Bradford and his London living in areas densely populated  by Indians he knows his fennugreek from his fennel seed. So as a teenager I spent time in Bradford honing both my palette and cooking skills before spending 3 years at university myself, in Newcastle living in Fenham where curry wafted along every street.
Back to Kilburn. Willesden Lane has the longest strip of Kerela eateries in London, quite frankly we were all of a Dosa when it came to choosing where to eat such was the choice. Not so Chelsea, well actually you couldn’t get more of a contrast. Where is this cornerstone of British cuisine in SW3? In 7 months I’ve drawn a blank.
My search hit the jackpot last Saturday night when I decided to check out www.indigo-chelsea.co.uk. Situated on the posh stretch of The Fulham Road – that’s the Chelsea end dahling – just west of Ralph Lauren, Jigsaw and Bibbendum. On arrival, we were greeted by the doorman, all dressed up in full regalia, with a nod and a smile. Great start I thought.
We were seated next to an antique statue of  Garuda which had an incredibly calming effect, much needed as we’d just spent the day on a Tantra workshop and our emotions were a little jingly. Our waitress was smiley, chatty and helpful which made up for her lack of a complete understanding of the menu – with drinks quickly served we weren’t complaining as owner Ravi guided us through the intricacies of the vast choice on offer. It is heavy on the regions of Northern India but it gives a nod to the South with offerings such as Dosas and Sambars
Ravi explained that all dishes were cooked to order using organic ingredients sourced as locally as possible. Now let me explain what cooked to order means in an Indian restaurant. In your average UK curry house, generally run by Bangladeshis in case you dint know, most of the core sauces are pre-prepared for example using pureed onion and tomato. Basically they are in vast containers or pans and are then used with particular spices to make the many dishes on the menu. It’s quicker and easier but the downside is they don’t taste that great. Check out www.thecurrysecret.com for further details.
Ravi reminded us that all of his dishes are cooked from scratch with fresh spices hence the explosion of flavour – he was right. After an array of poppadoms and chutneys we decide to swerve starters and dive straight into mains. My date had her usual side order veggies: daal, saag, vegetable curry and I went for Chicken Adraki and mushroom rice with a side order of Channa Masala. It’s the best Indian food we’ve tasted for over a year without doubt, the assemblance of flavour was just perfect  in all dishes. Prices across the  board were reasonable for Central London. With an excellent selection of beers and wines to accompany the menu we can’t see ourselves eating anywhere else for the foreseeable future. I rounded off with a mango flavoured Sambuca, now that’s both dangerous and delicious.
Indigo was the first Indian eaterie in Chelsea when it opened 60 years ago and all that experience runs right through everything they do. We’ve been disappointed in eating out in the area, in so called reputable places that should know better. We now  know where to go for a great meal in the the area where we will will get exceptional service and value: no danger.
Indigo Restaurant, 153 Fulham Road, London SW3 6SN. 020 7589 7749

On Saturday 20 July 2009 the world of rugby was buzzing, The British and Irish Lions took on the World Champions South Africa in Durban. The first of 3 mammoth tests to be fought out over the next few weeks. I knew the game was on Sky TV, which I don’t have at home so set off to my nearest watering hole, ‘Chelsea’s friendliest pub’ – The Queens only to find out the friendship didn’t extend to paying Mr Murdoch for this particular game and inviting us all round to watch it. I put Plan B into action and had to move sharpish as they had kicked off. I weaved my way through the Kings road tourists like Shane Williams on a shimmy laden sortie, eager to score in The Chelsea Potter. I’d seen the last Welsh game of the Six Nations there, packed out, a rugby fortress amongst the fashionistas. Unfortunately this time they were showing Ascot, I saw two old punters at the bar, clinging to betting slips dribbling! Oh no! OK, I now decided to put my i phone to Google maps, flicking back and forth to the pub search on my Vicinity application. But not until I’d checked out The Trafalgar, just across the road. Actually I could see from outside it wasn’t on. Off to the Builders Arms then but as I saw the ‘Geronimo Inns’ sign next to the mother breastfeeding her baby outside I knew there wouldn’t be a single drop of beer on the Danish Oiled floors. The nameless wine bar on Sidney Street that used to be a boozer was equally disappointing. Back to the Kings Road then, Henry J Beans bar and grill, I was sure I’d seen sport there before. I was right, as I rushed in trying to decide which of the multi-screens to focus on, I saw figures on a pitch throwing a ball. Yes, a rugby ball? No, a baseball! Man, I need to get my eyes tested.
Surely the Irish guy behind the bar would know, Ireland had won the 6 nations a few weeks earlier. We agreed that my search would be more fruitful on The Fulham Road so that’s where I headed to – PJ’s was a long shot, I was right. Vicinity pointed me to The Crown next to the Marsden, not another breast feeding mother in the window? Bizarrely yes so I moved onwards to The Anglesey Arms where I’d seen the FA Cup semi final a few weeks earlier and bumped into Julian Lloyd Weber. I walked in and walked straight out. At this stage I decided to salvage some of the game at home watching on my laptop on one of those dodgy freesport sites so I hopped in cab. With a faster mode of transport I quickly decided to keep on hunting and expand the search area and headed for the Sports Bar at the mall at Fulham Broadway. 10 quid of a cab fare lighter I sprinted up the escalator building myself up for the second half only to find Sky Sports News on, sports bar my arse, this was starting to get properly stressful.
Outside I decided to head home on the tube only for one last brainwave …. Earls Court! Home of Aussies, Kiwis and Sarfers by the boatload, I was sure to find the game on there, 1,2,3 pubs four. I checked the screen and went straight through the door. I managed to watch the last 18 minutes of an awesome game. The final result after a sterling Lions fightback being 26-21 to South Africa.
My afternoon’s stresses melted away when one of the twentysomething stag party (dressed from head to toe in luminous orange including make up) standing opposite a thirtysomething group of South Africa fans shouted to over, ‘you lucky f*****s, you can stick your boomerangs where the sun don’t shine’….

I nipped into my local Prime Time video store on Sloane Avenue on Friday night. I love it in there as you get a proper cross section of the community. Loaded Dads with their kids picking 3 films for a mammoth movie marathon coupled with pizza washed down with litres of coke – you know it’s their only non organic meal of the week. You also get trendy youngsters picking a couple of splatter flicks to watch before heading into the West End or the bars on Walton Street to try their luck and run down the trust fund.
There’s also the kids from the next door estate spending what’s left of their pocket money (that they got on Thursday) after the film hire on the pick ‘n’ mix – jelly snakes and, ‘Jacobs Ladder’! Pensioners too,  mulling over the oldies, a chance to be transported back to better times, “they don’t make ‘em like this anymore Dot”.
Friday’s rental arrangement was a little different in that all films were only available to buy, it took me a while to work it out but I was in the middle of a fire sale: 24 season 6 £10, 5 latest releases for £15, 5 oldies a tenner. It was un-nerving. I enquired if the store was undergoing renovation only to be told the Sainsburys Local next door had acquired the land to double the size of the existing facility.
Sainsburys and Tesco, not content with ripping the heart out of Britain’s high streets, have in recent years taken the battle to the inner city residential and suburban areas. The result is the ‘local’ and ‘metro’ convenience stores, gobbling up the sites of former bars, banks and independent traders (the prime enemy) peddling a nutritionally spartan array of high salt high sugar snacks and ready mades for your average IQ challenged lunchtime office worker or post pub punter looking for instant munchies.
If you want to prepare a square meal you’re better off buying your ingredients from a Network Rail mainline station concourse – seriously.  As for getting enlightened, and increasing your blood pressure, read about the dirty tactics of the big four supermarkets in www.tescopoly.org. Once you have, stop giving them your money,  support your local traders and farmers markets and do your digestion a favour too.

PS; Actually the Prime Time pick ‘n’ mix is a more honest option than some of the guar gum laden coleslaws and dips in Sainsburys .

I spotted a most bizarre yet lovely sight recently that could have taken me straight back to the Hollywood Hills. Stumbling out of one of the Mansion Flats near Cadogan Square was a young mother wearing MBTs coupled with White (Sweaty Betty type) MC Hammer pants. I say this as I was deep in thought with head down and clocked her from her toes up.  She had a tight white vest on that only one-to-one intensive Pilates sessions could have sculpted and you could tell that she didn’t need the block book a course discount. She was carrying an open MaciBook, 3G roamer USB stuck in the side with iPhone  pressed between her shoulder and cheek. She was eloquently mouthing directions to the person on the other end of the phone whilst reading from the laptop screen. Once I had taken all this in I realized that, ambling like a pair of obedient Serpentine ducklings, her two gorgeous kids followed dressed in shabby Chelseaboho chic thumbing their Nintendo units without a care in the world…
How cool is that? Move over Helena Bonham Carter…

For some time now I have scrutinized the behaviours of people making their way through the various crossings at Sloane Square. From the absurd ‘shared’ space outside the tube station, already commented on in a previous blog, to the mixtures of zebra and pelican crossings at the other extremities of the square. I tell you it’s a Traffic Management PhD’s wet dream. From my observations it seems that the zebra crossings are the safest (yes I mean this) and most favoured places to negotiate the traffic – mainly because of location, traffic flow, vision – and most importantly lack of congestion . Now as there are more of these than pelican crossings, it seems the majority of locals choose to treat the pelican crossings (button operated with flashing green man) as if they were zebra crossings (black and white stripes on the road). Confused? Hey, spare a thought for me, I’m on a tube train writing this, with a squawking kid next to me.
The evidence is that in addition to many previous occasions, I noticed this morning that people are happy to follow the heard, mustering around the crossing like cows at the dairy ready to be milked before darting out to play with the traffic. There’s the odd young alpha male who legs it across in front of a bus glancing over his shoulder seeking danger cred. as he heads off, the stroppy, perennially spotty teenage girl who minces over in her skinny jeans clutching her A4 file of lecture notes – head down ignoring the traffic, the professional man/woman loaded with laptop/gymbag/handbag who makes a calculated effort to cross only to have to abort and do a 180 to return to the safety of the kerb edge desperately hiding their embarrassment – actually that’s me!
All this could generally be avoided if somebody just pushed the button..really.

OK OK, it had to happen ….. My first observation about, ‘The Chelsea Tractor’. To be honest it’s more about the ignorance of and lack of adherence to the Highway Code by the drivers of SW3, the majority of which just happen to be driving 4x4s.
Bearing in mind that Chelsea happens to be one of the most densely populated residential areas in Central London, this flagrant flouting of driving decorum really gets up my nose (careful, this sounds like a rant, Ed). What I particularly find offensive is drivers not stopping at pedestrian crossings. For some reason it happens rather too frequently on the crossing outside Johnson’s the dry cleaners on Sloane Avenue usually when I’m struggling home in the wind with half a dozen freshly pressed shirts and a couple of suits blown around my head making me look like I failed the audition for, ‘The Invisible Man’.
Seriously though, such is the speed at which they shoot past I can’t even crane my neck over and shout, ‘Oi, you….’ through their windows in Millwall fan abuse the ref. mode just to get it off my chest, well that’s what I thought until last week that is.
Dry cleaning done and perspiring nicely post 6km jog, this time I was about to cross with two carrier bags full of shopping when.., ‘Shheeeeeoow’ like the bat-mobile on PCP a black Maserati shot through at such a pace it caused my sweaty fringe to lick my face depositing about half a cupful of salty liquid on the pensioner next to me. For some reason, with hands full and thus without the option of defaulting to the usual two fingered salute, I proceeded to make myself as large as possible. In hindsight, I can only assume that this was based on some primeval fight or flight programming instilled within my DNA which at some point over the past few million years must have bumped into that of a Kimono Dragon. The resulting manoeuvre had me lean back, take a deep breath, lean forward and then kick out my right foot a la Beckham bending one (the full carrier bags providing excellent counterbalance) whilst simultaneously raising both my arms in lateral raise weight lifting fashion. Unfortunately I resembled a cross between a trainee Ashtanga Vinyasa Instructor, a Dutch Milk Maid and Basil Fawlty – scaring the pensioner, alerting the entire staff in the dry cleaners, falling flat on my arse and providing excellent entertainment for the twelve or so people sucking on their lattes in Starbucks window. Needless to say I get my coffee from Cafe Nero on The Kings Road now.

Big Issue vendors aren’t lepers

Last Saturday was one of those ‘maintenance’ days – get new tyres on the car, get a haircut, get a few things in as we had guests staying etc. So, hungry, at about 10am I nipped into Sainsburys on Sloane Avenue for a sandwich, not my first choice for fresh and tasty sustenance but I had a lot on. On exiting I noticed the regular Big Issue guy offering The Big Issue outside, like many vendors he was smiling and polite standing a sufficient distance so’s not to encroach on anybody’s personal space.
The reaction that I noticed to him though was quite upsetting. The response he got to his gentle offerings ranged from a complete head-down blanking rushing away to mothers ushering their children past him with such panic that they could only have assumed that he was offering their princes and princesses heroin.
We were due to sit down to dinner that evening at 8pm and I had to nip back to the store for a lemon about 7.30, guess what, he was still there. He’d been out there for 10 hours with only  a few short breaks. I asked him how many copies he’d sold and he told me 10 or 12. That’s less than £1 per hour, shocking in anybody’s money and on a Saturday. Homelessness is a disease, it can happen to any of us, on average most people are 3 pay cheques away from loosing their homes.
Buy the Big Issue today, keep on buying it too, it’s a great read. Even better try to find out a bit more about the excellent work that  the Big Issue foundation does, in fact why not volunteer?

My Mum is 80 this year and like many offspring, I’ve fallen into the trap of trying to dress my parents all trendy. My Dad’s wardrobe sports Paul Smith T’s, Ozwald Botang smart shirts and Fat Face casuals and he loves it. My Mothers though is less of a nod to Kensington High Street. Last Christmas I managed to get her wearing a Jack Wolfskin outdoor jacket, mainly in the garden, and some casuals from Peter Jones festoon her garment rail. For about 18 months now I have toyed with the idea of getting her a pair of Uggs… But is it a good idea? Too expensive, no my Mum’s worth it. Too trendy, no they’re very practical. They won’t look right, no they look great on anyone. Will she wear them, of course, she was a massive Wombles fan!
After running this mini cost benefit analysis over and over, I still haven’t bought her a pair as it just doesn’t feel right. Imagine how pleased I was then to spot this couple of pensioners out for a stroll, him in usual Chelsea apparel, her in similar .. apart from …. what’s she wearing on her feet? Yes! Ugg boots! Wonderful.

Trendy pensioners

Looks like my Mum’s finally going to get a pair this year. Mind you she’ll probably end up wearing them for digging the vegetable patch.