Underground, Overground Wesbound

Station tea is a specific genre of experience: it is less a beverage and more a liquid coping mechanism. Today, I find myself consuming my caffeinated salvation at Upney, a station that is not quite my least favourite place to be, but certainly nowhere near the top of the list.

The name itself is a beautifully succinct piece of Anglo-Saxon geography. A millennium ago, this area was a low-lying, boggy expanse dictated by the shifting whims of the Thames Estuary and the River Roding. Coming from the Old English upp (meaning higher up) and eg (meaning an island or a patch of dry land in a marsh), Upney was the "upper island in the marshes". It was a strategic bit of dry gravel where one could stand without their boots immediately becoming sentient sponges.

The station arrived as a bit of interwar geometry, opening on 12 September 1932 as an "infill" stop for the colossal Becontree Estate. Designed by the LMS architect William Henry Hamlyn, it was given a distinctly austere, rectangular brick-box look that has remained aggressively unchanged ever since.

Indeed, the station seems to have decided that 1932 was its aesthetic peak and has steadfastly refused any form of modernisation. It is a structural time capsule where the highlights include the Private CS (Cone Store). This is an exclusive sanctuary for orange plastic (a VIP lounge for platform management devices) tucked away behind a door that advises you to mind the step.

Then there is the waiting room, which has been waiting for a renovation since the day the station was built. The blue wooden benches are quite handsome, but the walls are currently performing an interpretive dance of peeling paint and crumbling plaster. It is a masterpiece of geological decay.

One cannot ignore the historic infrastructure, specifically the venerable drainpipe dated 1931. It has leaked with rhythmic consistency for the last decade and is currently being held in place by a single, heroic zip tie. It is a testament to the fact that, on the Underground, "temporary" is a word that spans generations.

Moving to the staff quarters, we find the kitchen: a room containing a wet patch that never dries. It is an eternal subterranean swamp that appears to have established its own micro-climate, defying the laws of physics and evaporation.

In the midst of this decay, however, one piece of history survives: the station still possesses one original lock from its construction, though the key itself has long since been replaced. It is a lone sentinel of 1930s security.

A cold afternoon shift at the station. I had just initiated the day's primary objective (the construction of a structurally sound cup of tea) and settled in to prune the digital thicket of my inbox. It was mostly the usual collection of "valued winner" notifications promising Pixelbooks from shady scammers, which I swiped away with the weary, practiced hand of a man who knows that no one actually wins anything, ever. Then, the phone shrieked. It was the boss, projecting a level of cheerfulness that is inherently suspicious before I had enough time to finish my first beverage of the shift. "Hi, can you do me a favour?" he asked, the word "favour" landing in the room with the grace of a dropped piano.

In the specific, weary lexicon of the London Underground, a "favour" is never a request to go cover a few shifts in Mauritius (where I assume the transport is first-class and the pay is tenfold) but is instead a polite way of announcing a logistical apocalypse. It always means that somewhere on the line... a place so profoundly wretched that the original incumbent has simply collapsed under the psychic weight of it... there is a structural gap that only my presence can bridge. I rolled my eyes with a force that nearly caused a cervical injury, grunted a reluctant "I guess if I must," and performed the ultimate sacrifice. I poured my tea down the drain, watching my only source of emotional stability vanish into the plumbing like a departing soul.

I reluctantly made my way over to The Pigeon Kingdom to see out the remainder of my shift. The station sat there, glaring at the commuters with its usual cold, bureaucratic indifference, while the public moved through the ticket halls like a flock of startled sheep. Nothing of any great note occurred (a classic Underground move) until the moment I attempted to actually leave. The service, apparently sensing my desire for a horizontal position and a fresh brew, decided that my ten-minute commute required a twenty-minute contemplative wait on a draughty platform. It was a minor catastrophe, endured stoically.

Digital larceny. I was sitting there, finding profound emotional depth in a lukewarm cup of Earl Grey (an emotional milestone that had truly given up on life) when I received an email from a shady scammer. It chirped about "convenient and warm" rewards with the same genuine affection a ticket machine has for a rejected Oyster card. My sudden, unearned ascension to "valued winner" status was announced, promising a Google Pixelbook.

It is a trap, and a particularly spectacular one at that. The orange "CLAIM YOUR REWARD" button glares with a predatory intent, waiting like a well-fed pigeon for a stray crumb of personal data. Make no mistake; this is not a charming digital quirk; it is a digital catastrophe in a cheap suit. To click it would be to invite an end-of-the-world tragedy upon your bank balance, a logistical hurdle from which no amount of wry observation could save you.

The internet is a beautifully confused theatre, but one must navigate its digital alleyways with the caution of a man carrying a tray of overfilled pints through a crowded pub. Treat such phantoms with the cold, bureaucratic indifference they deserve. Delete the message, finish your tea, and remain suspicious of any "reward" that arrives with the subtle grace of a stampeding elephant.

Settled in tonight with what is arguably, if not definitively, Stanley Kubrick’s absolute greatest masterpiece. Full Metal Jacket. A film of two distinct halves, perfectly mirroring the grand, tragic duality of man.

The first forty-five minutes is a masterclass in the sheer, systematic madness of basic training. Kubrick throws in a few humorous lines early on (a brilliant bit of light before the absolute, suffocating darkness arrives). Vincent D’Onofrio’s Private Pyle is, of course, the tragic figure everyone rightfully remembers. The slow, harrowing unraveling of a soul.

Then, we pivot. The second half drops us straight into the stupidly destructive battle of Hue City, viewed through the lens of Joker, a war reporter trying to make sense of the senseless. The cinematography throughout is nothing short of spectacular; every frame looks meticulously composed, yet utterly unhinged.

But for me, the real magic is the local connection. It remains a glorious irony that large swathes of this brutal Vietnamese landscape were actually shot at the old Beckton Gas Works in East London. Classic Kubrick move, turning the industrial skeleton of Newham into a war zone. Even better, the film features some fabulous stunt work and a fiercely memorable performance by my old Underground colleague, Frances, who plays the young Viet Cong sniper. Absolutely brilliant stuff.

One of my favourite corners of the Lumiere in Romford is this glorious little shrine to the lost age of video rental stores. Every visit turns into the same ritual: me explaining to the kids that there was once a time when an entire weekend's happiness depended on getting to Blockbuster before everyone else.

Friday nights carried the sort of tension now reserved for penalty shootouts and Ticketmaster queues. You'd march in with purpose, only to discover the film you wanted had already gone, leaving behind that haunting empty cardboard display box like a tiny gravestone for your evening plans.

And yet, there was beauty in the chaos. Half the time you picked a film based entirely on the cover art. If the box featured explosions, glowing eyes, chrome lettering, or a man holding a shotgun while standing near lightning, that was considered more than enough research.

One has to admire the sheer, unadulterated optimism of modern commerce. Starting off my security checks on the platform, I spotted a gloriously bold sticker affixed to a rather miserable piece of infrastructure, courtesy of a local drug trading entrepreneur operating under the splendid moniker of Mr LDN.

It is a tragedy of community collapse, I suppose, but the entrepreneurial spirit on display was undeniably impressive. We have moved beyond the era of sketchy transactions in damp alleyways. Our local purveyor of illicit joy has gone fully corporate, complete with a QR code promising service that is "one tap away". It even featured delightful little snowflake and mushroom icons, presenting narcotics with the whimsical branding of a boutique bakery. A very London approach to business, really.

I stood there, beautifully confused by this digital revolution. Does one scan it for a loyalty scheme? Are there seasonal offers? Will a polite constable simply use their smartphone to arrange an exceedingly convenient arrest?

One suspects Mr LDN's business model is not built for longevity, but for now the 24/7 hustle remains very much alive. I continued onward, carrying a profound mix of irony and reluctant admiration for this digital-first approach to street pharmacy.

There is nothing quite like the quiet anxiety of your vehicle's annual checkup, before its physical. Betsy Jean, our trusty Ford Focus, named primarily because her number plate reads BJ10 and she possesses the distinct personality of a mildly disgruntled relative, decided today was the day to stage a protest.

When the mechanics attempted to peer under her hood, she flatly refused to open her mouth. The bonnet opening cylinder had completely given up the ghost. A total lockjaw situation. Classic Betsy move, honestly. She later had to be taken to a specialist just to get her jaw pried open, which felt entirely dramatic for a Friday.

Once they finally breached the perimeter, the news only worsened. Apparently, the old girl also required a brand-new set of shoes. Yes, all four tyres were deemed past their prime, and we couldn't her waddling about in a pair of well-worn slippers.

Back on the late shift. Delightful.

Naturally, the peace was shattered by a train operator with far too much time on his hands and an apparent aversion to stationary objects. He spotted a bicycle. On the platform. Minding its own business, not bothering anyone.

In fairness to the youth who left it there, he was acutely aware that venturing onto the afternoon peak-hour Underground with a full-sized pushbike is a cardinal sin. Eager to comply with the rules, he made the executive and spectacularly expensive decision to simply lock the offending machine to a platform post. Classic London move.

The operator, utterly scandalised, flagged it to the Fat Controller (I’ve no idea if the man is actually rotund, but he commands the airwaves with the booming, disembodied authority of Sir Topham Hatt himself).

"Hello guv, shift that bike from my platform."

"No can do, boss, it’s locked."

"Ah. Get the ERU to cut it off."

Bureaucracy groaned into action. I phoned some people, who phoned some other people, who eventually phoned me back to confirm the cavalry was coming. Half an hour later, three blokes from the Emergency Response Unit materialised, radiating pure, unadulterated fury at having their viewing of Coronation Street so rudely interrupted for a bike. It took them less than sixty seconds to brutally murder the lock. Then I dragged the liberated bicycle into my minuscule office for safekeeping.

Then came the twist. A remarkably polite young man crept up to my window. "Sorry to bother you, but someone has stolen my bike."

I relayed the tragic saga. Instead of the usual subterranean screaming match, he actually apologised. Multiple times. He accepted the demise of his very pricey lock, thanked me, and wandered off into the night. Absolutely unprecedented behaviour on the network lately.

The £15 Relegation Dividend

There is nothing quite like the terrifying mystery of a memory you never possessed. Yesterday, I stepped into my usual barber’s shop, only to be greeted by the customary, hearty "hello mate," swiftly followed by the deeply alarming declaration: "I owe you a free haircut."

Now, I cannot remember what I had for breakfast, let alone what transpired in the distant mists of last August. But one does not look a gift trim in the mouth. I simply went with it, nodding sagely while entirely out of my depth.

Apparently, during the sunny optimism of late summer, I had looked upon our beloved West Ham United and confidently predicted our utter ruin and relegation. My barber, a man of stouter faith, had countered with, "No chance, you'll finish mid-table mate... I'm so sure that I will give you a free haircut if you are."

An update on the progress of The Princess of the House, who remains out in Vietnam, bravely enduring a life without her Mum and Dad to fetch her tea.

She recently conquered the spectacular chaos of the Ha Giang Loop, briefly forming an elite squad of fellow nomads. Regrettably, like characters in a dramatic wartime film, they have now gone their separate ways. Such is the tragic rhythm of the backpacker lifestyle.

Consequently, a touch of the old homesickness has crept into the royal palace. By day, she is thriving, mastering the ancient arts of ring making and lantern making, presumably preparing to completely redecorate her bedroom upon her return. Classic. But the evenings, she confesses, are proving rather boring. It turns out that when you are used to a bustling social calendar, a quiet hostel room in Southeast Asia can feel remarkably isolating.

I am, frankly, beautifully confused as to what fatherly wisdom to impart. My own solo travel experience tops out at a couple of days, usually involving nothing more perilous than navigating a foreign railway station without a map. I am entirely unqualified for this role.

Still, I suspect this awkward little stretch is simply part of the deal. The Instagram version of backpacking tends to skip over the quiet evenings where everyone has vanished onto the next bus, the next island, or the next chapter. One minute you are surrounded by new best friends, the next you are eating supermarket noodles in silence while questioning every life decision that led you there.

Alli and I fled the oppressive, deeply un-British tyranny of the Romford heatwave today, dragging our slowly melting bodies into the glorious, air-conditioned sanctuary of the Lumiere. It was less a casual outing and more a medically necessary evacuation. Having now somehow clocked 108 films this year, I can confidently declare this place a secular cathedral for the cinematically unwell.

The Lumiere is a wonderfully split-personality triumph: one part indie cinema, one part community shapeshifter. The transformation of a once-forgotten old cinema into something this alive feels like a genuine victory for Romford itself. Yes, they screen the shiny new releases alongside dusty old classics that make my heart swell three sizes larger, but it’s the sheer variety of life packed into the building that makes it feel special.

It hosts the Romford Film Festival, a spectacularly spooky horror festival where I repeatedly pay money to emotionally damage myself, alongside vital LGBTQ+ programming that provides the kind of welcoming, safe space every town desperately needs.

High Art, Baby Yoga & more

Between film screenings, the whole place transforms with a kind of beautifully chaotic energy. On any given day, you might wander in and find:

Baby yoga featuring impossibly flexible infants and exhausted parents

Transcendent sound baths

Sophisticated wine and cheese tastings

A fiercely competitive movie quiz where people's dignity routinely goes to die

Happy Towel Day to all the hoopy froods out there.

It is a grand, comforting truth that Douglas Adams’ Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy trilogy (in five parts, naturally) found me in my early teens. It arrived exactly when required. Frankly, I felt entirely alien to this particular Universe, and was deeply confused as to why I had been deposited here in the first place. Classic existential crisis move.

Instead of answers, the Universe gave me a book that told me not to panic, completely reshaped my sense of humour, and cemented a lifelong love of sci-fi. It is a rare masterpiece that I have read more than twice (a spectacular club whose only other member is To Kill a Mockingbird).

So today, wrap a piece of fabric around your shoulders and remember: it is a tough world out there, but as long as you know where your towel is, you’re doing fabulously.

Don’t Panic.