Dogs are great, don’t get me wrong. They prove a trusty companion in life, they’ll eagerly keep fetching sticks as long as keep throwing them and are such devoted littles divs that even if you abandon then at a service station car park in Wales they’ll find their way back home again….probably…and won’t hold it against you. The thing that bothers me with dogs is that unlike say, goldfish, hamsters or cats is that when you acquire a dog you are not only getting a companion but also a rock solid guarantee that for at least ten years, at the minimum of twice a day you’ll be picking up warm dog poo with a plastic bag you’re just praying doesn’t have a hole in it, a fact that this branch of Sainsburys seems to recognise.

…and who needs that kind of commitment in their life?

 Like usual I was running late ( the phrase “You’ll be late for your own funeral” could have been invented for me) but thankfully this wasn’t mine, this was the funeral of Margaret Thatcher a figure that, depending you listen to, either divided or saved this country. Rushing across Waterloo Bridge I could already see a large police presence and tons and tons of crowd barriers. Whether they were there just for the funeral or were put in place early for the Marathon wasn’t clear. What was clear was that the crowd barrier business looks like something worth getting into. They must make a fortune.

There has been extensive debate since Thatcher died as to whether she had a positive or negative effect on the UK during her time as PM and I don’t think there’s any need to debate that further here. What I will say, just to get this out of the way early, is that personally I never liked the woman, she wasn’t exactly the kind of person who lent herself to being liked. As a kid she scared the living daylights out of me, the ultimate headmistress, she seemed reptilian, lacking in human empathy and very possibly hiding the fact that she could shoot paralysing red lasers from her deep set eyes. This was partly down to the likes of Spitting Image, the work of Gerald Scarfe and a thousand TV impersonators. She was the go to bogey woman for the age. When we stopped getting ice cold, half-pint bottles of milk and a lie down on the carpet after story time the teachers blamed Thatcher. When I saw police charging lines of men holding placards, images of bloodied faces and fire in Trafalgar Square they were almost always followed by footage of Thatcher. She seemed a woman to be feared. In the run up to this weeks funeral there had been a lot of talk of protest and people rejoicing in her death to which some commentators remarked that Thatcher would have delighted in. To me someone who would lead the country also taking a perverse pleasure in unpopularity seems a strange and dangerous combination. That’s assuming that she did feel any of that in the first place, she could have been deeply wounded by the loathing a large swathe of the country felt towards her and this talk of “delight” could  just be the invention of a few maladjusted Tories who have fetishised her single mindedness into something cruel and weird.

The funeral had been hyped up in the press as a contest between those who supported Thatcher and those who despised her. There had been predictions of busloads of anarchists turning up, hijacking the event and possibly trying to steal her corpse. The terrible Boston Marathon bombing created speculation that terrorists might use the funeral for a high profile attack. Other sections of the press painted a picture of London grinding to halt, of clocks being stopped, traffic silenced, rivers of tears sluicing through the gutters. In the actual fact none of them were close, the real thing was actually quite a boring affair.

The first thing I noticed when I reached The Strand was that there seemed to be a hell of a lot more police officers and crowd barriers than needed for the amount of people milling about, however towards the Royal Courts of Justice the pavements became crowded and harder to negotiate. I wanted to get as close to St. Paul’s as I could but all the crowd barriers made it impossible to get anywhere where the only view wasn’t of a whole load of backs. I cursed myself for being late and set off around the back of the LSE to try and find a better vantage point. After a few attempts and exploring some side streets I had no idea existed before, I realised that my efforts were probably futile. It seemed that every office in the area had emptied to watch the show. At every side street I was greeted by the same sight, lots of the backs of heads and people clambering up whatever they could to get a view.

Eventually, and to my surprise, I found myself right next to St. Paul’s and managed to see the steps leading up into the cathedral flanked by guards. I could hear applause echoing from buildings further away and ducked back down a few more streets until I was in a position to make out more backs and the passing of the funeral procession. People clapped and cheered, whether it was out of respect or misplaced relief was unclear. Behind me a middle aged woman was being interviewed by a French TV station about why she was there. She was midway through telling them about how Thatcher had destroyed much of this countries industry when another woman stood immediately behind her and started clapping loudly and shouting “God bless Margaret Thatcher” in an obnoxious, sing songy, town crier-esque manner causing the crew to abandon filming and ask the lady to stop making so much noise. She refused and the two ladies began having a go at each other much to the delight of the assembled crowd. “Thatcher would never have let in all these immigrants…NEVER!” the unhappy clapper announced as if this ended the debate and in no way revealed her to be a moron. “Try telling us something she did do rather than something she didn’t do” countered the other. “Heard of the Falklands?!” was her response which, surprisingly, got a small ripple of applause “…or the poll tax” which as her chosen continuation received considerably less and caused some people to walk off, including myself. One city worker, all big tie, smarmy face and over confidence shouted at them both “Why don’t you both shut up you stupid lesbians?!” which actually caused a policeman to tell him to go back to his office, more light applause. This whole exchange between the women seemed to spread something through the people milling about and some low level, mostly twatty bickering had broken out in a few places. “The Tories are a bunch of criminals” said one man with a grey beard who was arguing with a young guy in a suit who was watching the funeral on TV through a window, “Yeah but they’re our criminals…we voted for them” he responded. I was still trying to figure that logic out as I got to Ludgate Circus where I met the first real group of the protestors I’d seen.

At this point soldiers had begun marching back from St. Pauls to chants of “Waste of money, waste of money, waste of money.” I’m inclined to agree with this. At a time where we’re being told that there is no money to be had and that cut backs need to be made I do find it a mysterious decision to lavish a reported £1o million pounds on funeral for a very divisive Prime Minister. I’m still not sure why this happened. Was it because she was the first female prime minister? I’m sure she would have hated the idea. She may have “smashed a glass ceiling” for women but she boarded it up and got on the phone to the 24 hour glaziers pretty damned quickly afterwards. Was it because she was a prime minister through a time of war? I sincerely hope not because logically that suggests that we’ll have to do the same thing for Tony Blair…and can you imagine what that would be like?!?! Shudder.

Around Ludgate Circus there was more bickering as one old man planted himself in the middle of protestors and told them that they were a disgrace to the nation and should all move back to North Korea. A quick look over the people he was talking to revealed that none of them were from North Korea. He then went on to brand them all communists, soap dodgers and workshy benefit claiming frauds. “Pinochet was great!” he continued. He did all this with a smirk on his face which went unnoticed by a particularly shrill looking woman next to me who began to shout “He’s a plant, a PLANT!!” Where, by who or for what reason she imagined that this old div had been planted in the crowd is mystery. It was clear to me, if not to him and the people around, that this guy was more of a troll, he was trolling the crowd, an analogue troll. He knew what would get people fired up and was spouting his nonsense to get the “lefty poofs” as he called them, all riled up…and it was working. Immediately he was surrounded by cameras and people wanting argue with them. He was still smirking as he said “Bobby Sands…what was his nickname again… “Slim”? This sent out new waves of outrage through the crowd. The outraged were arguing back but yet smiling at the same time. It was clear that both sides needed each other. Without the other what would they have anymore? What would define them? Who would they argue against? This was an eternal game, one side infuriating the other but deep down kind of liking, maybe even fancying each other like Bogart and Bacall, Batman and the Joker. I had to suppress an urge to tell them to just get on with it and kiss to break the tension.

The whole event from a crowd perspective seemed like an exercise in attention seeking to me. Nobody really wins by protesting a funeral and others showing up dewey eyed, spouting platitudes about what a wonderful person Thatcher was just shows how short some peoples memories are and how effective a bit of hasty rebranding in the press can be. I left feeling that both sides of the fence just as ridiculous as each other. What does anyone really gain from turning up to an event like this? Nothing. I’ve people watched at a number of big events over the past few years and I’ve come to view us as quite a peculiar people who want to be part of something, anything we can really and will hold strong beliefs for as long as we need to. More than that I’ve noticed how we dance to whatever tune the press is playing on it’s fiddle at the time. There were a lot more cameras present than there were controversial people there, anytime anybody did something vaguely interesting they were immediately surrounded and orbited by people clutching microphones and camera. I’ll be intrigued to see how many of these end up on the news tonight.

Just before I left Ludgate Circus Channel 4′s Jon Snow arrived with a couple of producers and crew in tow. He began questioning one man about why he was there. “I’m here to see the funeral, why are you here?”

It was a good response and made me think I should probably just go home.

Patrick Dalton

What an astounding deal from the good people at Asda! You can buy two Dr Oetker pizzas for the price or…erm…two. Actually looking again that’s not much of deal really but that’s not important as I wouldn’t buy these. Why? Well who buys food made by a doctor anyway, especially one with such a sinister sounding name. Dr Oetker sounds like the name of someone who should be carrying out questionable experiments in reanimating corpses in a grim Bavarian castle somewhere not producing “ristorante style” frozen pizzas.

Spotted by Andi McLoew

We don’t have a culture of tipping in London bars. It’s just not the done thing. Not because we are a tight fisted people more because drinks are already ludicrously expensive in most places and because, unlike other countries, being a barman isn’t seen as a legitimate vocation here, more of a stop gap on the way to something else. This is shame as other countries can do it so well. In the U.S  the barman takes your drinking very seriously as you tip him after each drink. He’ll make sure your drink is refreshed before you even ask him to, he’ll give you some bar snacks and after you’ve had a few drinks he’ll give you a couple of free ones. There are no such things as measures either.

Here every single last drop of booze is strictly measured to make sure that you don’t have accidentally enjoy even one tiny drop, one wayward bit of booze vapour more than you’ve paid for. Bar staff will sell you a drink only to bark  less than 20 seconds later “Ladies and gentleman can you finish up your drinks PUH-leese” and threaten to take it off you unless they see you gulping it down in the manner of someone who has just emerged from a terrifying, thirsty ordeal in the Sahara desert.

Maybe if drink prices were lowered just a smidgen and bar staff  became a little more attentive then we could start a culture of tipping here. It’d take a while to get used to at first but as the smoking ban proved seasoned drinkers are a versatile bunch who can adapt to change easily. Incentives like the one displayed above could only help things along.

Spotted by Tom Cullen

You know that statistic that if you put a gun in bum you’re 98% more likely to be shot in the ass that someone who doesn’t….or something like that…well this guy obviously threw caution to the wind and stuck it up there anyway, for thrills or for simple storage isn’t exactly clear.

He could be one of those pro-gun nuts that has fetishised gun ownership to the point that he likes to be penetrated by firearms or he could have unwittingly been being used as a human silencer/smuggling device/manchurian candidate by a second party who at some point would subtly stick their hand into his ass and start pumping lead into an unsuspecting crowd.

Either way this person strikes me as a “I’ll give you my gun when you pry it from my cold, dead ass” kind of guy.

Spotted by Jonathan Buckmaster

As the popularity of this blog has grown more and more people have been sending me photos taken outside of London. At first I struggled with the concept that there are other places apart from London but after looking at these photos I can confirm that it’s true. There is literally an entire planet out there…honestly. So with that in mind a new international version of this site is being launched next week.

Do you have any funny photos from outside of London that you want to share? Do you live in another city or country and want to show us something funny/weird/cool from your stomping ground?

We’re also looking for submissions of your funny stories from where you live or where you’ve travelled, photo stories from odd places, video content and more. If you think you have something interesting to share about your urban experience then let us know.

Send over any submissions to shhhlondon@gmail.com and if they’re funny/weird enough I’ll post them to the new blog.

Thanks!

Patrick

If your chosen career is pubic topiary then really there’s no time for coyness when punting for business. Other places take a far more prosaic approach as evidenced in this picture HERE .

Spotted by Daniel O’Brien

Not content with buying up the Star Wars universe AND the Marvel universe, in an unpredictable move The Mouse is seemingly claiming ownership of individual streets in Tottenham. I’m not sure what this means or what the implications are for the people that live on this street. Will moustaches and beards soon be banned? Will it become mandatory for people that live there to smile all the time? Frankly I think they’ll struggle with that one…this is London after all a town where the mantra could be “Turn that smile upside down”

Spotted by Sarah O’ Mahony

Shit Londoner Jonathan Jasor sent in this photo of a rather specialist shop and said….

“Check this out, if there was a “random shop of the year” category, this one would certainly be a heavyweight contender, Transformation…a shop entirely dedicated to..cross-dressing!
Yes, and it’s in King’s Cross, obviously!
I don’t even know where to start… the picture of late 80s dude picture next to… the same 80s dude in a flamenco dress, classic before and after shot? The fact that “This could be you”? The sign in bold letters saying “confidential crossdressing specialists”?… or the confident statement that “no matter what age or shape” you are, they’ll make you a gorgeous specimen of the opposite sex?
I don’t know, for my part, I’d always give the thumbs up to a shop that advertises and sells “realistic breasts”!

I really like the fact that there is something for everyone in this city. Maybe one day we’ll get a mash up, one of the Jesus guys will stand outside and shit will really hit the fan London!!”

There are so many charities these days sometimes it’s hard to keep track of what you’re donating to. Did you just drop your money into a collection to save the tiger or to shoot the tiger? Are you donating to an organisation that is helping street kids or that is enslaving them to work in some kind of Temple of Doom-esque mine? Frankly, who can be bothered to check anymore.

But…

When I saw this photo my interest in charity was awoken again. The pooper people need your help London. I’m not sure what exactly they need our help with but it sounds urgent. As a cause it might not be a particularly easy sell to people. It lacks the cute/dying kids/animals angle that other charities exploit so well…and it’s about poop which traditionally people don’t like to discuss (except of course in that bemusing new “Do your scrunch or fold?” toilet paper campaign). Plus, and this is just a suggestion, I think their branding could do with a little work.

Spotted by Peter Blackwell