onionbagblog
North London Martyrdom
Back in 1834 and 100,000 people protested about the deportation of the six Tolpuddle Martyrs, sentenced to transportation to Australia for setting up a friendly society. The Trade Union movement was born, and in celebration of this, a mass procession from Copenhagen Fields down to Kennington Common took place.
My Saturday afternoon re-traced the route in reverse, travelling South to North. I'm not a fan of North London, and as I approached the badlands along York Way, I was reminded why m'colleages at The Gruan bemoan the supposed regeneration of King's Cross, now creaking under the recession. NW1 is still a dump, despite the splendour of the nearby St Pancras trying to resurrect the area.
But then I turned the corner into Caledonian Road and snaked my way into Edward Square. The twee-ness was almost as intoxicating as the traffic fumes I choked on cycling through King's Cross.
It was like a scene from a 1984 TUC rally. Union banners were on show, proudly depicting scenes of struggles past; entry was free, but the traditional whip round of a bucket was paying the rent. Stalls somehow uniting the international struggle with the micro-economic division of labour is NW1 almost made sense.
Remembering the Tolpuddle Martyrs
But whereas the rallies and gatherings of my political past have had a hard, antagonistic edge, Tolpuddle in London day was like listening to Arthur Scargill speaking at the Big Chill.
Picnic blankets adorned the grass square with the traditional TUC picnic of home made sarnies and home brew keeping everyone entertained for the afternoon. The sun was shining and children were enjoying the face painting activities. Maybe this is where the Left went wrong back '85? A brightly coloured butterfly on the ginger bonce of Neil Kinnock would have surely seen off Thatcherism.
No left wing festival wouldn't be complete without a turn from Billy Bragg, and Tolpuddle in London didn't disappoint. I've seen the boy Bragg play over the years in all manner of venues; record shop counters, toilet venues, mid-size theatres, Clap'ham Common and the rolling fields of Somerset and Avon. Oh, and the Phoenix Festival. But this was without a doubt the most wonderful ambient arena that I have had the pleasure of experiencing the Bard in.
Sun, Cycling (sort of) and Bragg
England, Half English, There is Power in a Union and a rather misplaced strumming of Sexuality - it was all good stuff. And then just as I was contemplating upping sticks and moving to North London (it really was that lovely,) I was tapped on the shoulder by a complete stranger who then gave me a great big man hug.
Awwww.
There are very few situations where heterosexual males should embrace over, but a shared love (and ownership) of a Moutlon bike is just about acceptable.
Bragg, Booze and Moulton Bikes
And so I cycled back down to the Beautiful South, following in the footsteps of the 100,000 early Trade Unionist 175 years ago. I'm not sure if this mass of neo-Marxists then stayed and settled in South London, but I was flying the red flag and back on familiar home turf.
Few things get me excited in North London. Billy Bragg, Boris bashing and Moulton bikes were the perfect combination. I must remember to bring my own picnic blanket and home brew next time.
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| Sunday 26 April, 2009 |
Back in 1834 and 100,000 people protested about the deportation of the six Tolpuddle Martyrs, sentenced to transportation to Australia for setting up a friendly society. The Trade Union movement was born, and in celebration of this, a mass procession from Copenhagen Fields down to Kennington Common took place.
My Saturday afternoon re-traced the route in reverse, travelling South to North. I'm not a fan of North London, and as I approached the badlands along York Way, I was reminded why m'colleages at The Gruan bemoan the supposed regeneration of King's Cross, now creaking under the recession. NW1 is still a dump, despite the splendour of the nearby St Pancras trying to resurrect the area.
But then I turned the corner into Caledonian Road and snaked my way into Edward Square. The twee-ness was almost as intoxicating as the traffic fumes I choked on cycling through King's Cross.
It was like a scene from a 1984 TUC rally. Union banners were on show, proudly depicting scenes of struggles past; entry was free, but the traditional whip round of a bucket was paying the rent. Stalls somehow uniting the international struggle with the micro-economic division of labour is NW1 almost made sense.
Remembering the Tolpuddle Martyrs
But whereas the rallies and gatherings of my political past have had a hard, antagonistic edge, Tolpuddle in London day was like listening to Arthur Scargill speaking at the Big Chill.
Picnic blankets adorned the grass square with the traditional TUC picnic of home made sarnies and home brew keeping everyone entertained for the afternoon. The sun was shining and children were enjoying the face painting activities. Maybe this is where the Left went wrong back '85? A brightly coloured butterfly on the ginger bonce of Neil Kinnock would have surely seen off Thatcherism.
No left wing festival wouldn't be complete without a turn from Billy Bragg, and Tolpuddle in London didn't disappoint. I've seen the boy Bragg play over the years in all manner of venues; record shop counters, toilet venues, mid-size theatres, Clap'ham Common and the rolling fields of Somerset and Avon. Oh, and the Phoenix Festival. But this was without a doubt the most wonderful ambient arena that I have had the pleasure of experiencing the Bard in.
Sun, Cycling (sort of) and Bragg
England, Half English, There is Power in a Union and a rather misplaced strumming of Sexuality - it was all good stuff. And then just as I was contemplating upping sticks and moving to North London (it really was that lovely,) I was tapped on the shoulder by a complete stranger who then gave me a great big man hug.
Awwww.
There are very few situations where heterosexual males should embrace over, but a shared love (and ownership) of a Moutlon bike is just about acceptable.
Bragg, Booze and Moulton Bikes
And so I cycled back down to the Beautiful South, following in the footsteps of the 100,000 early Trade Unionist 175 years ago. I'm not sure if this mass of neo-Marxists then stayed and settled in South London, but I was flying the red flag and back on familiar home turf.
Few things get me excited in North London. Billy Bragg, Boris bashing and Moulton bikes were the perfect combination. I must remember to bring my own picnic blanket and home brew next time.
reply via twitter
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