Sad demise of 'chicken addict'

I’m making a Blurb book (an internet design program for photo books) of snaps I’ve taken in and around Peckham, most of them dating back to the early part of this glorious century. Not all my photos and words can fit into what will be a small book; some will find their way into the Blog. Here’s one.

This headline stopped me in my tracks: 'CHICKEN ADDICT’S SUICIDE'. What is it like to be addicted to chicken, I wondered? Doomed to a constant ingestion of KFC? Incredible chicken cravings that can erupt at any time? Never feeling like you can eat enough of the damn bird? Does the addict's day start with a giant bucket of fried chicken wings? Can you get high on chicken? Does addiction lead to dreaming about chickens; inhaling, like a junkie with his crack, chicken aroma; wishing there was a device to mainline it, spending every penny and conscious moment chasing the chicken dragon? 

When I bought the paper I discovered I was on the wrong track. The 'addiction' was to live chickens. The man kept 73 of them in a flat he shared with another man. But, when a new batch of eggs arrived for hatching, the flatmate objected, and threatened to move out. At the inquest, the flatmate explained that the dead man 'had an addiction to chickens… He had 73 when he passed away -- I said this and the 20-plus rabbits was a problem -- insanitary.' This led to a row, which, apparently, triggered the suicide. The Southwark Coroner said the man's death was a loss to medicine. He had been a surgeon, originally from Iraq. 

Odd couples

Today on Radio Four I heard that H G Wells’ father used to own a shop that sold china and sports equipment. Footballs and porcelain is a pretty daft retail proposition, so too is the offer of teas, coffees, and tennis re-stringing in a shop in the Elephant and Castle. As you can see, this rather sublime venture is now boarded up. A friend tells me there’s a stall on Rye Lane in Peckham selling bras along with brassicas, but I have yet to find it. Must try harder.

The wedding dress

The bridal gown in a Peckham charity shop window reminds me of my French friend, Brigitte. On the eve of her wedding, she left behind her house-guests (a dozen or more) in order to do a trawl of local second-hand shops in a hunt for a wedding dress. It turned out she already had one but had gone off it. Luckily, she found a replacement which fitted perfectly and she looked wonderful on the day. What a demonstration of sang-froid. 

God & Money

DIVINE MONEY appears to be a new business in Peckham. Putting together divinity and money is kind of crazy but, well, why not? Many of us see it as something to worship, although Jesus didn’t, the prophet Mohammed forbade usury, and Buddha would have seen money as impermanent and something that ties a person to the wheel of life. Oddly, now that we are all destined to have less dosh (most of us, not all of us) we’re re-discovering simple joys such as baking bread, growing veg and singing in choirs. Quite divine, really.

Raising a laugh

‘Don’t pull that string!’ warned the Bun House publican (see entry below). I didn’t. Then along came one of the guys who works there and he pulled it. The regulars must have seen this trick hundreds of times, but it seemed no less amusing to them than it did to me. The monk’s days of dangling over a mahogany bar are numbered: Friday, 27 January is the Bun House’s closing party after 114 years of pulling pints for Peckham punters.

The Bun House and the Fat Boy of Peckham

It’s an old Peckham boozer, soon to be an ex-boozer as financial interests have moved in. ‘Switzerland’ is whispered but is left unexplained… contracts ensuring silence have been signed… and the landlord mutters the ‘pub game is dead’ and he may be right. This kind of pub, anyway, is past its best. Although, the Bun House has not just been a dingy pub; it has been adopted by art students wanting unconventional exhibition spaces and for the past several years the place has been enlivened by modern art and modern artists. The banner in front of the pub, designed by Rachael House, draws attention to the shared birthdays of the Fat Boy of Peckham (an entertainer) and the Bun House. They were both born in1898. The pub will close its doors next week: no more Quavers, boiled green sweets, jammy biscuits or Brazil nuts -- fare which the publican provided for his clientele -- will ever be eaten there again.

Despite all

Phew! We made it through 2011. Through the madness of collapsing systems, institutions and hope. And, yet, we’re still here and so is hope. It regenerates like new skin on old wounds. So, what will 2012 bring? Well, there’s the promise that nurses will speak with patients; that the grammar school system will be revived for them as can afford private tuition for their children; that the financial world will be regulated sometime quite soon (honest!); that fat bonuses will be, ahem, poked a bit, and that, according to Polly Toynbee, half a million families in Britain with children under 5 will fall into absolute (not relative) poverty. Ah, hope. And charity? Where she?

Photo shows a part of the Berlin Wall which stands outside the Imperial War Museum. The museum has a stunning exhibition of Don McCullin‘s photography: Shaped By War. You may, like me, be amazed by the number of wars there have been since the end of World War II: the war to end all wars. http://www.iwm.org.uk/exhibitions/shaped-by-war-photographs-by-don-mccullin