Xmas Greetings from Below Brixton Farm, London

Now that I’ve moved away from it and have no more operational input (or free produce from it), these pics are from the agricultural allotment in Brixton.  If you’re part of the scene, there, you know who to see (“see,” because, y’know, even I don’t have the phone number).

I did collect a number of spore prints to preserve the culture (and, I’m sure I can get some more if a Brummie farmer presented his- or her-self).  This collection of a dozen was sent out as Christmas Cards to a dozen or so people around the world that will recognise them and know how to use them to make (or diversify) their own little factories.  And, Her Maj on the postage stamp and content of the cards should be greeting enough to tip off the recipients who sent them (and the quality of the line).

Just call me Bunny Appleseed.  Or, Bunny Fungal Spore.  Or, Psilocybunny.

Until the South London Agrarian Group (SLAGs) recommence production in the Spring or Summer, I hope to hear from some of the recipients — in at least as discrete a fashion — about their Advent Gifts.

Report Delayed Until Further Notice from the Below Brixton Farm Project (now on hiatus)

While the Below Brixton Farm was still operational a few weeks ago (oddly, it was not An Incident which prompted it to fold up for the Winter), I was getting regular handfuls of fungi for my personal use…sort of a “thank you” for my mycological expertise.  Jackie is still in mourning a bit (mum passed in April, two other close relatives are in hospice care today) and decided to leave them aside until her head is a little better screwed on — maybe after it’s been a year, she reckons.

So, this has left me as a sort of Johnny Appleseed (or, Bunny Mycelium as it were) and I have dumped a bit of my largess on friends that have expressed an interest IN EXCHANGE FOR a story after they try them out.  I got one from one of Jackie’s former colleagues earlier this month and, since he is also in touch, regularly, with my main Brixton Buddy I figured my suggestion to take the whole load was going to be adhered to.   This time.

I took my last day of annual leave from the Oxford job Monday to visit another friend at the King’s College campus and hospital in Denmark Hill and figured it would also be my last chance to check in with my other guinea pig (while I was near enough to walk over).  I figured I could buy him one more pint and catch up on his wee psychedelic experience before our big move at the end of the week.

His mobile was unreachable.  I hope this doesn’t mean there was An Incident.  I hope I get that story, even second-hand, from him.  And, I hope he and his lovely missus have a wonderful Christmas and New Years (I seem to remember a trip to the Med planned for The Season).  And, I hope we keep in touch.

If you pay close attention to the area around the Brixton Market and St Matt’s Garden, you may have seen this guy whose woman gets taken for the 3 Card Monty bit in “Now You See Me 2” (inserted below).  The camera put a little weight on this thin mofo, but he’s as animated here as he is in person.  Fare well, buddy:

Jimmy’s Plaice, Brixton, London

 

Killing time after a meet-up at a hospital that’s part of King’s College London up the road, I spotted Jimmy’s Plaice and realised I was a bit peckish.  I didn’t need this much food but I was still pretty hungry.  “What are you looking for?  Fish?” asked, I assume, Jimmy.  I nodded, still scanning the hot box.  “All cooked fresh.  10 minutes.”  Excellent, I thought.

 

 

I was right, too. It tasted and smelled like there were beef drippings in the fryers, the fish was succulent, and the chips were absolute heaven.  A few streets east of the Brixton Market, if you’re in the area.

 

The Ritzy Cinema, Brixton, London

Pub #2188:

“Which screen are you?”  I frowned at the question.  She continued, “which film are you here for?”  Of course…the Ritzy is primarily a picturehouse…duh.

“Oh. No.  I just wandered in off the street.”  She rang up my Hells and told her colleague I was paid up.

My beer was at the top of the glass but the muscular woman (body builder?) poured off a half-inch then splashed a little more on top to make a small head.  I reached for the glass and she pulled back, rinsing the side of the glass with a spritz of water.

“There.  Nothing for you to lick.”

I like her.  “Pity.”  We both smiled.

 

The Marquis of Lorne, Stockwell, London

Pub #2177:

“Let’s meet at The Queen’s Head,” my drinking buddy said. He referred NOT to the pub up Stockwell Road; rather, the new mural on the alley wall next the M&S. “Ten minutes.”

I agreed and wished him a belated Happy Birthday. “I brought you something delightful to eat from The Jolly Farmer’s,” which also referred not to a pub but an actual Jolly Farmer whose speciality produce business I consulted on back in the summer.

I turned the corner and spotted my pal on his bike at the other end, near the SW9. We headed toward one another and, as I crossed in front of the painting of Mrs. Z, he ducked his head down and said, “once more around the block,” as he rode past. I took a few more steps, looked back, and saw him getting a quick interview from some Police Community Liason Officers. I pulled a map of the area out of my pocket and studied it, like the confused, white-guy-down-here-visiting-just-after-work-from-the-University-of-Oxford that I could plausibly be.

Meeting again on the next street, he said the stop-and-search has been a pain in the ass for someone as well-known in the neighbourhood as himself.  A kid got stabbed about a half mile south of here a week ago and that was the 5th stabbing murder in London in a week so the coppers have been especially thick, lately. We decided to meet up again next time I visited, “but, before we go…”.

 

 

“Yes?” he interrupted.

I wiggled a bottle of fungus at him. “Do you think you can get these someplace safe without another run-in with The Man?”

He smiled broadly and handed me a lump of something fragrant he had under his collar. “I’ll do my best, bruh. You be careful with that, too.” I pointed at my map and asked where Ferndale Road was with an earnest voice and a wide-eyed, tourist’s smile. Chuckling, he said, “maybe the cops are the LEAST of your worries.”

“Alrighty, then…you owe me a story once you’ve tried those on for size.” We went on our respective ways.

———————————————-

Tucked away a few streets west of The Queen’s Head (the pub up Stockwell Road, not the Beyonce mural) you’ll find — as I did, thanks to my white-boy-lost-in-Brixton/cloak-of-invisibility map — the Marquis of Lorne.  It is a gorgeous old boozer full of not-so-gorgeous old booze hounds (ah, but that’s not fair, as there is something spectacular in their solitary concentration on the glass before them).

 

 

The Marquis of Lorne is named for the kid that eventually became the 9th Duke of Argyll.  When his father (the 8th DoA) ascended, he was made the MoL. He was married to Princess Louise, the namesake of another pub that I’ve had shortlisted for nearly ten years now and still have failed to visit (despite steering others to it on a regular basis).  I see a trip to Holborn in my near future.