What should I put on the Fence?

Activity
It's not the same as Weymouth up 'er in London, Ooo no. No sea, no fort, no Weymouth Carnival with people throwing coins at the floats and raising hundreds of thousands of pounds in a 'community spirit' kind-of fashion. Not much community at all.

Where your Fencemaster lives in South West London is distinguished only by its one-way system, many shops, and complete failure of the town to do anything other than bow to its incumbent retailers (you know where I'm talking about don't you?). Being a pro-active kind-of person (ahem) I keep trying to do something about it, instead of just moaning and longing for a house in Salisbury, or Vancouver, or somewhere else entirely.

However, my 'doing something about it' only extends to writing letters to the Surrey Comet under various pseudonyms. Mrs Fencemaster insists that whatever I write about I use a pseudonym because of a truly disturbing incident I can only refer to as 'the Unfortunate Myra Hindley Episode'. You know the drill, if you really need to know all about that sorry episode, drop me an e-mail.

The fence shows the unmistakable signs of having been up to something in my absence. I don't know what, but believe pictures are on the way. Thanks once again to Heather, Justine, Jase, and Neil (Presley too) for looking after the fence while I was away the other week. Good, good, work guys.

Weymouth
I'm in Weymouth for the better part of this week. However there's an Internet cafe and Mrs Fencemaster doesn't know where it is, which is ideal. I won't be here too much though, it wouldn't be fair.

The whole www.whatshouldiputonthefence.com idea was not exactly born, but more baptised in Weymouth, where we have lots of friends and family and there are lots of pubs. Cousin Patrick, who is a proper cyclist and does 10 miles in about 24 minutes, came up with convict ship, which remains on the Star suggestions page (that your Fencemaster really must update).

There is a convict ship moored off Weymouth (HMP Weare), which is where he got the idea. I haven't spotted it this week and am convinced it's broken its moorings, the convicts staging a mutiny (after they escaped) and the ship's in international waters now, heading full steam for Cuba. The authorities turning a blind eye in an 'out-of-site, out-of-mind' kind of way. I can feel a novel coming on. It's the sea air - I'll go and sit down now.

Madonna
She's bought a house in Marylebone, so it can't be far away. Perfect. I can see her writhing about the fence in a disturbing manner while husband Guy Ritchie works on the film of the fence (Ironing board, kettle, and two smoking fences, or something).

He may be just 30 something, horribly successful, rich, and married to Madonna, but is he happy eh? I doubt it.

There was a character straight out of a Guy Ritchie film lurking about the fence last week, locking innocent dogs to it and such, until the girls got their own back.

Tapas
I was out last night at Bradleys Bar, in Hanway Street W1. For a Tapas bar, there was a noticeable lack of Calimari, little fried fish, Potatas Bravas, and so on. There was no Tapas at all infact. They don't do Tapas anymore, but there were crisps, so everything was ok after all. I came home on the train and even managed to get off at the right station, instead of overshooting by seven stops, waiting 30 minutes for a minicab, paying £20 to get home, and then waking Mrs Fencemaster up as I've invariably forgotten my keys. That's the usual result of a night on the town and it makes me unpopular at home, so is somewhat counterproductive.

I am still being heartened by the work of many fence supporters while I was away. I thought nothing had happened you see. How wrong I was.

Girls, girls, girls
Now there's proof that the fence is for everyone. I had always suspected it, but I was beginning to feel like I'd turned up to a party in a Sooty and Sweep costume

A group of people visited the fence in my absence and had a lovely fence-based party. There's substantial photographic evidence and your Fencemaster is delighted at this commitment level, and smashing gesture of support. Check it out man.

News is still coming in of other pilgrimages to the fence in the past week or so too. It's a Fence for Freedom, WorldFence, EuroFence, and so on.

Erich Maria Remarque
OK, so it's all quiet on the fence front. There was no action in my absence, which is probably best. The hate for your Fencemaster emanating from the landed classes (who love their fence and don't want it littered with 'filthy bicycles') has diminished naught, but grown to new heights (or sunk to new depths, whichever you prefer). It looks like I'd better keep quiet about the current outstanding issue, but suffice to say I've been expecting another visit from my mates at Marylebone nick. They are obviously sensible chaps though, so have let things lie.

Message me via the magic of e-mail if you really wanna know what the current issue is, or better still pop round for a pint. I am always asking people round for a pint and only a few people have taken me up on it (you know who you are).

Oh yes, there are poets out there! I was quite cheered after the clean-up operation, but with around 3000 messages on here it's cool that I've only had to delete about 10. My favorite verse is the one that involves the Fencefatherinlaw 'clocking' the landlady. I can only assume this involves presenting her with some kind of time keeping memento, to compensate for all the undue stress and worry I have caused. Hmmm.

Bone-idle
OK, some of you have noticed that since his holiday your Fencemaster has turned into a bone-idle work-shy fop. It's true. My brain's still in the Xeraco beach bar eating calamari (that is a vegetable isn't it?). I am doing my best to get back into the swing of Fencemastering, while keeping an open mind about what shape it's going to take from now on. I don't want to upset those charming police officers you know, and not just because they've got truncheons. However, the officers never mentioned performance artists, nor does the sign, so I am making enquiries thus. If anyone knows any kick-ass performance artists, please put them in touch with me. Tell them I'll make it worth their while.

Lamppost
The holiday went well. Considerably better than the week in France last year, whence a tired Fencemaster (I wasn't really a Fencemaster then though) got confused over a 'right of way' issue in a completely empty supermarket car park, in broad daylight. I now know that a lamppost has right of way. Always. There are pictures if you are really intrigued, let me know.

We spent a night in Barcelona as well as the five nights in Xeraco. Mrs F managed to make an impressive dent in her credit card (one of them) by booking the most expensive hotel I have ever stayed in, and upon paying the bill discovered she'd got the exchange rate wrong and it was thus twice as expensive as first thought.

It had a mini bar, but an intimidating one with no prices. It turned out it was an 'honesty' minibar. I don't see the honesty minibar having a place in the grand designs I have for dominating the London private minibar market. You have to keep an open mind about these things though.

The worst thing that happened on this holiday was my 8 year old beating me at chess. This was obviously far worse than driving into a lamppost, but I had the luxury of pretending I let him win, then went about explaining where he went wrong in a 'Competitive Dad' fashion. Driving into a lamppost affords no such luxuries, believe me.

Hooray
How lovely to be back at work. No, it is, really. I haven't had much time to do anything other than begin replying to e-mails and deleting all the naughtiness from the bulletin board. E-mail me if you want amusing Bernard Manning information. My newsletter subscription script seems to be broken and I am too dull-of-brain to fix it.

Either way, the entire coast of spain from Valencia to Barcelona can now relax as the Fencemaster family have retreated to their tiny house in Greater London. We were forced on many occasions to pay about £1 for a beer or £3 for a bottle of dry white wine. It was terrible I tell you, terrible. The first thing I did when I got home was go to the pub and have a surly barman reluctantly poor me a pint of poor quality watery lager for £2.65 while simultaneously reminding me that the junior Fencemasters are not allowed near the bar. That's more like it.

Thanks Callum for looking after everyone in my absence. You must let me get you that watery pint soon. Does anyone else want a pint?

You know where I am.

Away we go
Okay, so your Fencemaster's away for a week. You'll cope, I know you will. I'm back at the end of the month. Surely everything will be okay for seven days. I have people looking out for any fence related activity, if there is any. They'll take copious notes and maybe take pictures too, but are not as committed as me so can't be relied upon. I do believe it'll be all quiet on the fence front for a week. If you want to keep an eye on it for me, you know where it is. I'm going to miss this month's Critical Mass, which is a shame. I wonder if anyone will steer it in the direction of W1...

Back to going away. Mrs F loves going away, and has a particular fetish for voluminously large hotel rooms, the kind that have separate sitting rooms. One advantage of not having enough room where you live is that wherever else you stay seems huge, assuming of course it is actually larger than our tiny Fencemaster house, which everywhere has been so far. This time we're in a borrowed flat, which is lovely, but devoid of the one thing that makes staying in a hotel a truly spiritual and rewarding experience for your Fencemaster: A minibar.

I know, I know, the flat has a fridge, but it's not the same. It doesn't posses that magical minibar property of being full again each evening. For instance, even though you never told anyone you'd eaten the chocolate, the peanuts, the cashew nuts, and the crisps, not let slip to a soul that you'd drunk the two bottles of lager, the small dry white wine, the larger dry white wine, and one miniature vodka, then another miniature vodka; there they are. Reappeared in exactly the same place they were just before you took them out. It's spooky.

Mmm... Minibar
Reminiscing about minibars leads me to a great business idea. It's possibly even sounder than my previous one. This is it, don't tell anyone...

There's no name for it yet. I want to offer the possibility of an instantly-delivered fully stocked minibar to every flat, office, serviced flat, in central London, each replenished daily, or less frequently for those without the same commitment to minibars as your Fencemaster. Teams of eager cycle couriers could help with stock replenishment, as long as they don't mind carrying some bottles.

Don't worry about licensing laws, or any other logistical issues, there are ways round these things. I don't know what they are yet, but so many bright people visit this site, I'm sure we'll come up with something between us.

But Fencemaster, what's this got do with the fence?

OK - If you haven't already, check out www.mcglashans.co.uk - that's the crew who take things off the fence. They manage about 80 (I haven't checked, we're not on speaking terms) serviced flats and houses (and their associated fences). Each one needs a minibar. It's as simple as that.

I can see the headlines: FENCE ISSUE RESOLVED BY 'MAGIC OF MINIBAR'

In the unlikely event of McGlashans not playing ball, we'll need venture capital for, er, minibars, for premises and other infrastructure, and, of course, the numerous fact-finding trips. I look forward to hearing about wheels in motion upon my return.

Go on, see what you can do. It'll keep you out of trouble while I'm away. I'll count you in on the fact-finding trips: Las Vegas, Cozumel, Hong Kong, maybe Cumbria too.

Horward De Walden Estates update
Newly published information reveals that the Howard De Walden family are the 12th richest in Britain, worth in the region of £2 billion (over three thousand million US Dollars). The Estate contacted me in the first few weeks of this affair, and was positive about this site, made the usual negative comments about cycles locked to railings, but most interestingly told me that Howard De Walden Estates did not put up the sign.

The fence is the responsibility of the owner of the 999-year lease on the building. The building is opposite McGlashan properites. There's the newly appeared, if slightly bizarre, McGlashan Interiors in the ground floor retail part of the building. McGlashans do laundry in the basement, and McGlashans remove things from the fence (and point out what a sad existence I must lead). However they are apparently not the landlady who I am 'harassing'. Don't forget that the sign begins: HOWARD DE WALDEN ESTATES LTD. Confusion reigns.

I realized from the outset that whoever put the sign up would be protected by an insurmountable pile of wealth, not to mention that insensitivity to the world around them that the English upper classes are bred to achieve.

From the interviews about the fence in the press and on the radio that McGlashans have done (despite not being the landlords. DUH!), to arranging for three police officers to come round as a first contact, their words and actions have proved consistently that all my preconceptions about the ruling classes/upper classes/landed gentry were quite wrong. NOT.

Fencecam
Don't get your hopes up. I haven't given a Webcam/Fencecam any thought yet. I enjoy the challenge of getting good pictures with the digital camera (I borrowed it off a PR company about three years and two jobs ago, they'll never find me now). I can't see a permanent Fencecam getting close enough or at a good enough angle to make it worthwhile. It would have to be remote from my PC as well.
E-mail me if you know about such things and are convinced it's practical.

And another thing, my 'unmetered bandwidth' host has been fairly patient with me, and only started pointing out that 'unmetered does not mean unlimited' and making 'go away' noises when the hits went over the million mark, which they did after four weeks. Let me know if you want more information. Either way, my clumsy load-balancing solution to try and appease them (I like paying £6 per month) will serve to make me even easier to identify than I am already (if you care about such things) and get me into even more trouble at work. If anyone has any better ideas (about anything really), lets talk.
You know how much I like to talk.

See you July 31.

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