The City-Side Alliance

Are cocks crowing in the city a cause for concern?

Having been unceremoniously ejected from my nice and cosy Jubilee Line carriage at Baker Street, I find myself slumped grumpily on a 98 bus as it stumbles nervously along Oxford Street. Steeling myself, I valiantly attempt to resume my pre-work, mid-journey, commuter-style application of lash-lengthening mascara, interspersed with the occasional slurp of a skinny latte. Ten pot-holes, 43 cyclists, 4 speed humps and one emergency stop later I abandon aforementioned coffee ‘n’ cosmetic tasks in a bit to minimise slippage and spillage stains to both face and clothing. I’m a bit miffed at this crude disruption of my daily routine but decide to make the most of my prime, front seat, top deck, above ground, Oxford Street location by peering into every shop window I pass and performing a critical examination of the state of the window displays. After minutes of aimless gawping I decide to inject some form of structure into this pursuit and begin comparing and contrasting the varying shapes, sizes and positions of the decidedly anaemic collection of shop dummies with the aim of identifying the least biologically improbable. I’m rather getting into my role as ruthless mannequin examiner when a rather strange noise rouses me from my task…

“Cock-a-doodle-dOO!”

Suddenly I’m in a field, propped up against a haystack, a sprig of corn tucked nattily behind my ear.

“Cock-a-doodle-dOO!”

There it goes again and this time I’m catapulted into a Thomas Hardy novel, flouncing around a country churchyard in a flowing skirt with a basket full of rosy red apples on my arm.

“Cock-a-doodle-dOO!”

As the cock crows thrice I find myself wholeheartedly denying my top-deck location and am thrown ever deeper into my rural reverie. I’m about to mount a combine harvester and start… well, er, combine harvesting, when my brain (or what’s left of it) kicks in. You don’t get cocks crowing in central London. You don’t even get cocks crowing in central Hampstead (well not cockerels). I climb off my combine harvester and start examining the crowded pavements of Oxford Street for a large pigeon with great vocal projection and a talent for avian mimicry – the Rory Bremer of the bird world. No pigeon in sight. Then I realise this loud crowing, this ill-timed cockerel call, is coming from a fellow bus-passenger’s mobile phone. Extraordinary. I’m still querying this peculiar choice of ring-tone as I open up my copy of the day’s Metro. An article about Londoners being the country’s biggest buyers of 4 x 4 vehicles takes my eye. Apparently 16% of us living in the capital plan to acquire an off-road car in the next year. Now I begin to crow! What on earth for, I cock-a-doodle-dOO! in my head? To negotiate the dirt tracks of Notting Hill? To conquer the rough, jagged terrain of Primrose Hill? To mount the steep, swerving streets of Penge? 4 x 4s use more petrol, have bigger engines, give off more pollution and are more likely to kill you if they run into you. Nice. Add to this the fact that they are totally unnecessary in a city and you’ve got to agree with Ken Livingstone’s pronouncement that Londoners who drive them around the capital are “idiots!”.

So we’ve got “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” ring-tones clogging up our ears, “Chelsea tractors" clogging up our streets – it’s almost like Londoners are trying to pretend the capital is some rural idyll and not the fantastic, frenzied, cramped, crowded and appropriately concreted capital city it undeniably is. True – it has some lovely sprawling parks and city farms, but however deeply you entrench yourself in these glorious green expanses you are still aware of their location in the heart of a beautifully, bustling city. This is what makes them so great. London is a city and a top city at that. Let’s celebrate its identity and not pretend we’re somewhere we’re not. Ditch the foul-themed ring tones and dump the 4x4s. Hop on a 98 bus, grab yourself a seat on the top deck, take a few minutes to glance along Oxford Street and remember where you are - in the heart of one of the best cities in the world.

Besides who wants to live in the country? Far too dirty.

“Cock-a-doodle-dOO!”

Hang on, is that my phone…?

Mace Polished Off

The symbolising authority of the Kenyan Parliament – a valuable mace – has been taken out of the country and traced to London. The treasure – without which the Kenyan Parliament cannot sit – was flown to the UK capital for extra-special polishing at a cost of 2million Kenyan Shillings. The Criminal Investigations Department is investigating the way in which the mace left Parliament.

Making Mincemeat of Picasso

A Picasso valued at 2.5 million pounds lost out to the painting of a beef carcass at Christie's International which launched a week of London auctions this month. The meaty masterpiece was sold to a hungry telephone bidder for a record 7.8 million pounds while the Picasso remained unsold.

Traditional Tunes for Tasteful Tots

An opera written just for children opened at The Royal Opera House his month. The performance of ‘Gentle Giant’ is aimed at youngsters aged seven and up and will kick off a UK tour. Tickets will cost between £5 and £8.

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