August 10: London - Going Underground

Friday afternoon and I am sitting on a tube somewhere underneath Victoria station in central London. I've just changed lines; gone from the District Line to the southbound Victoria Line - three stops and I'll be at my destination of Stockwell. I've only been in London for ten minutes and already have helped out four lost tourists on the tube - I love how The Knowledge stays with you for a lifetime. I'm in London for a long weekend. Tonight I'm going to the Royal Albert Hall with friends to see Nitin Sawhney perform as part of the BBC 2007 Proms Concert Series. Tomorrow morning I meet a friend from South America who visits London for the first time. I'm looking forward to being her tour guide, and sharing my experience of London with someone who has never been here before. New eyes can teach the old to see again. The doors are about to close and my tube is about to depart. Mind the gap.

Just opposite Hyde Park in West London, is the Royal Albert Hall. Despite living in London during 1992-96 I never once went there. What did I do with my time back then? Why is it that we take so much for granted when they're underneath our noses? The Albert Hall is immense. It is an incredible venue. Big and round and deep. Just before the evening's act arrives I look about me; imagine being at the Colosseum in Rome, where everything is filled with rich, bright lights of soft shade and colour, the seats are made from deep, red velvet and everywhere you look you are surrounded by beautiful Indian girls. If that has appeal, then I wish I could capture what the Albert Hall sounds like when the music begins, because it comes alive with incredible accoustics, capturing every sigh and sound, spinning every note upwards to those of us who are in the Gods looking down on the Heavenly saints below. The Royal Albert Hall is its own musical instrument.

In the twelve years since I've been away, it never ceases to amaze me how much London has evolved. The vibe on the streets is definately more tourist-friendly, and everywhere you go in the capital reflects this. Taking my South American friend to places like Trafalgar Square on a sunny Saturday evening - the place was swarming with people, all smiling, dancing, playing football, all mixing and enjoying the view down Buckingham Palace Road to Westminster. It never used to be like this... full of cars and too many bloody pigeons! It was wonderful to see how a tourist responded to these sites which I'd seen a hundred times before and no longer blinked at. Her face and delight at seeing Tower Bridge, Big Ben, St Paul's and Leicester Square was great to be reminded of how special these places really are. They themselves never lose their magic appeal, it's just us who grow bored with seeing them, never really valuing them until we wake up one morning and realise that they're missing from our own repetitions.

It's Sunday evening and I'm up in Earls Court on the Old Brompton Road - my old patch, my manor, my old stomping ground. Funny, whenever I'm in Paris I always seem to end up at Notre Dame - in London I always come here, to The Troubadour cafe where I spent so much of my time during my London days. This place hasn't altered. Still the same. Although the music has changed a bit - no more classical Baroque but Morcheeba tonight, and it sounds just fine. Even the waitresses wear better looking smiles. My South American friend is exhausted and a little drunk from too much wine, not enough food and a tourist guide that walks and talks for hours. But she'll survive. We're waiting for our order of food to arrive. There's something about London which I shall always love, like one of those women you meet when you're too young to know what a good thing you're on, but somehow a beautiful friendship comes instead and eyes can still share a smile that no other knows.

July 31: Liverpool - Strawberry Fields Forever

In the town where I was born, lived a man who went to sea, and I'd watch him sail in thoughts beyond the green allotment fields. George the sailor as he was always known, and known will always be, was a sailor to those who always were and always went to dream, in our street, in our town, sailing close to mermaid songs that try to drag you down. George was a sailor who went to sea when he was young, he was young so went to see, and when I was young I could see that the sea had made him old, but was too young to see that he'd been broken by the sea. But though I was young I could still see that all he could see was the sea that he was sailing far, far beyond the waking dreams forever in the sleeping town that had no moonlit quay only stars and mermaids that sung above the green allotment fields.

Liverpool is one of the most famous cities in the world and is currently preening itself in anticipation of being unveiled as the European City of Culture for 2008. Streets are busy being spruced up to host such a grand event. Roads are being re-routed. Hotels are being upgraded. There is much development buzzing about the city at present. There's a sense of preparation in the air around the iconic Liver Bird Building down at the Pier Head, along with the incessant sound of seagulls. But Liverpool deserves its acolade. It's a city that has not been slow in sharing its own contribution over the years to areas as diverse as music, sport, architecture, entertainment, maritime and immigration, despite the city enduring many economic and political set-backs in its colourful history.

Liverpool will always be synonymous to many people for the Beatles. This is the home of the Fab Four. For those who idolise the group then this would be a Mecca for them. A pilgrimage here would reap many smiles. In the city centre, clearly marked, is Mathew Street, home to the Cavern Club "where it all began". There are numerous shops and souvenir haunts to wallow in. Tours are easy to find. Magical mystery tours can be taken to Strawberry Fields, to Penny Lane, to the Eleanor Rigby Statue, to the John Lennon Statue and to the childhood homes of Lennon and Paul McCartney. There's even a yellow submarine down at Albert Docks, where the official Beatles Story can be told. You get the impression that the city is so proud of the group and the four local lads 'who shook the world'. Even the airport has been renamed Liverpool John Lennon Airport. Local pride stands tall.

A short bus ride out of the city centre is Anfield, home of Liverpool Football Club and the famous singing Kop End. At the Anfield Stadium is a museum of the club's history. Old shirts, trophies, scarves, medals and memorabilia are on display. During my visit there they were cleaning the European Cup... the one they won for the fifth time and got to keep outright in 2005. It's a giant trophy. Huge. It winked at me as I strayed too close to it. A security guard soon approached. I enquired about the chance of me getting my hands on the trophy, and was told in no uncertain terms that only official hands were insured to hold it. But after some lengthy pleading, and making sure no other officials were looking, I was rewarded with being able to hold the coverted trophy for two sweet seconds. All those great footballers who will never got close enough to touch the thing... and there I was holding it - a boyhood dream come true.

At Albert Docks I am sitting with my mother having lunch. The waters inside this famous Dockyard are tranquil and flat. Reflections are easy to find in the sky. We are both commenting on how much we have enjoyed our time on Merseyside. We have both seen the things we wanted to see here in Liverpool and have been surprised with how much more this city has to offer - its Cathedrals, its sense of local pride, its warmth and its willingness to express its own identity with visitors. One of the things I like most about travelling is observing how such experiences - from places, people and moments - can shed a new light into our own lives. I love how Liverpool is so keen to share its passions and its talents. By allowing our passions, talents and dreams to sing their own songs, we in turn give many other people the chance to listen, the chance to share, to hum along to our tune and to enjoy what makes us smile.

June 10: London - Kinky Reggae

I am sitting outside a Morrocan restaurant on the Goldborne Road, Notting Hill, W10. The afternoon sunshine has made the tarmac hot and thick. I haven't visited this part of town (page 59 in your London A-Z books) for almost a decade. Despite the absence I feel so at home again. Everything is just how I remembered it - must be 'The Knowledge'. Summertime in west London makes everything come alive. The mood is different. The streets are filled with music. Colours are bright and vibrant, people blend and mix, buy and sell, the misery of a London winter is a memory that never really was. Everywhere you walk - around Ladbroke Grove, the Portobello Road markets, North Kensington - nods and smiles greet you as love and harmony ride the streets. When the sun goes down late, late in the evening, there's a lipstick coloured hue thrown into the air that coats everything with a lilac shade. But it's the punky reggae music in these west London streets at summertime which makes this part of the world so, so special.


Vereker Road, W14 will never be on anyone's London visit itinery - there are a million and one better things for a tourist to do and see in London. Vereker Road will mean nothing to the vast majority of people who live in London. But when I first left home, a week after turning 19, this was my first port of call, and here I lived for my first London summer. I have such fond memories of spending long summer nights hanging out of my fourth-storey window watching people walk in the street, hearing reggae music and making love to an Italian girl I loved very much. Outside my old front door there's no blue plaque saying I lived there, but I did. And the front door hasn't changed at all. Still the same. There was a Jamaican family who lived next door at the time and they were very kind to a very homesick boy during the winter that followed. I give in to the temptation to ring their bell, and find to my great delight they still live there. Big smiles all round.



What is so unique about west London is that despite being one of the biggest cities on Earth there is always a sense of community about the place. West London was always highly populated with immigrants from the Carribean, from Ireland, from travelling Australians - all of whom brought their own sense of belonging and identity. In a new place when you first begin to experience what it is to live away from 'home', it's nice to have support from others who have been down that path and can offer support. The locals of west London, who had survived the Blitz bombings of World War II, knew what it was to struggle and so everyone seemed to be in 'it' together. No matter what the going, everyone still has time to say hello. This is the great thing about London; it may be slow to reveal itself but it's worth the wait - it doesn't come running to you, instead you have to go and discover its underground soul.


Night time. I'm with friends in their garden and we've just finished eating a long, lazy evening meal. We all kick back and relax, waiting for darkness and stillness to come. We sit and try to enjoy the silence as the first star is pinpricked into the night sky. A fox passes through the garden, rustling the shadows hiding in the bushes. In the kitchen of 'Twice as Nice' - a Carribean Takeaway that backs out onto my friend's garden - we can hear the voice of the pot-washer begin to sing. It's a loud, clear voice in a heavy Kingston patois. Sounds as if he's got woman trouble. Poor guy. She loves him, he says, but she won't tell him. He knows she loves him, he says, but she still won't tell him. Why is she so foolish, he asks. Why does she keep that love hiding away from him, he asks. So he tells Jah that he knows she loves him. And he tells Jah, that he knows that He knows she loves him. Nothing worse than woman trouble, he tells Jah. He asks Jah to make the woman see sense. Salvation comes when an unseen house begins to play Sophie George's reggae anthem Girlie Girlie at immense volume. Summer nights in London just go on and on.