Sirens Wailing Nine

This is my first blog. Well, to be fair, only the first under the Tightly-Furled Umbrella er, umbrella, which, for the sake of convenience and simplicity will henceforth be referred to as the TFU. (To Star Wars fans this apparently also means The Force Unleashed. I quite like that.)

I have written many, many previous blogs - so many in 2013-14 in fact that they ended up evolving into a book, called Against The Current, which is the laugh-out-loud account of how my wife Liz and I spent a year living aboard a boat in France. I say 'laugh-out-loud', but one review I received recently gave it only one star and was headed Shocking. In a way that's correct, the book is shocking in that we bought a boat without knowing what we were doing, set sail on the rivers and canals of France with little or no experience, had no qualifications, and were ignorant of many of the technicalities of full-time boating. Absolutely shocking, but we had a ball, and it was fun.

The person who was horrified by our adventures is obviously a dyed-in-the-wool sailor who no doubt wears a life jacket to bed at home in case flood waters lap unexpectedly against his duvet, which I sincerely hope they do sometime soon. Failing that, I hope an iceberg hits his bed. The book wasn't written for people like him - it's for those who want to know what it's like to take a gamble, sell-up, move to a new country, escape corporate drudgery and do something daringly different. Those sorts of people have given Against the Current four or five stars and rave reviews.

But here I am ranting about the book when this blog is supposed to be about London life. Forgive me, I will atone. Firstly, a bit of background, because I know you are begging for it.

I'm new to London. Liz and I moved here in September this year, and now live in Stockwell. The postcode is SW9 9TL. I had to use the phonetic alphabet on the phone recently to clarify this so that the S wouldn't be confused with F or the T with C, but couldn't remember my Alpha Bravos. So instead I said 'Sirens Wailing nine, nine Traffic Logjam'. That's more appropriate than Sierra Whisky, given the number of times the emergency services scream up and down Stockwell Road on a daily basis. And nightly basis.

We're actually half way between Stockwell and Brixton, so can claim dual nationality, depending on which happens to be hippest at any given time. Either a Stockwellian or a Brixtonian. Personally I favour being a Stockwell gent, not because I have anything against Brixton - its vibrant Jafraican culture is ace mon, it's just the ting - but I have big plans for Stockwell.

Given the moves towards independence driven by Brexit, the SNP, and recently even Canvey Island, I can see Stockwell becoming, for example, an independent country. I'd call it Stockland, and everyone here could claim themselves to be of Stockish ancestry. Our anthem would be Stockland the Brave, and we could all wear kilts. (Except, not wanting to upset the Scottish, we should call them klits.)

Our emblem would of course be the Stockish Thistle - like the Scottish one only a bit broader in the shoulder and with much harder pricks - and we'd have our own tartan, the colours of which would be inspired by the streets: chewing gum grey interwoven with polystyrene yellow and broken beer bottle brown. Lovely.

Or maybe not. But let's not waste some promising material; I will use some of this when I perform in a couple of weeks at The Cavendish Pub's 'Comedy Virgins' gig in Stockwell, in my other persona: ProbaBilly Connolly. You can call me Sir.

See you here next time. Make sure you have your passport ready.