And here at last I find myself in the land of the monsters (of rock). The land that social convention forgot. It’s a weird world full of ‘fucking people’ who are constantly ordered to raise their ‘fucking hands’. Everything here can be described aptly with the ‘fucking’ adjective. And it is. Fucking tents, fucking mosh pit, fucking costumes and fucking weather. Even the police and security are fucking.
The monsters ceremoniously dress themselves everyday before ritually leaving their canvas huts around two to stomp down to the large communal area, known as the main arena. Here they worship before a stage by ‘showing their horns’. The males jump and bump into each other until their noses bleed, while the females bare their breasts to please the male monsters amid primal screeches and howls.
There appears to be every kind of dress you can possibly imagine, including the monster with a rubber snake around his neck, a trio of mankinis, and one monster in a scary SpongeBob SquarePants costume. Yes you think you’ve come across every species, until a monster dressed as a fairy walks by. Here, blue and black dreadlocks and painted skeleton faces aren’t out of place, in fact, they’re part of the establishment and the strange looks are redirected my way, at my conventional mousy-blonde hair, natural-looking mascara and t-shirt and jeans.
You have to be careful, because surprises jump up and poke your eyes everywhere you look. This land is strange and surreal. A man in a chicken near the stage takes his own chicken head off and then waves it manically around in time to the music. It bobs about above the crowd, back and forth, frantically, until it’s finally launched onto the stage. The man in the headless chicken quickly joins it, before the security show him where the exit is.
I try to avoid ‘partying while I poo’, as instructed by the signs inside the toilets, by eating only dry carbohydrates such as potato and pasta, even though I’m cruelly tempted every step of the way by mouth-watering curries, yard-long hot dogs and onions or satan’s smoothies. Dominoes Pizza has a stall this year, and I see a Dominoes Soldier, in the heart of the land of milk, soft dough and pepperoni, guarding it from the onslaught of marching fiends armed with toilet rolls.
Much of my time is spent reading skin. Monsters' stories of dragons and mermaids, plus invitations to suck my cock. Also listening to the strange chants, such as the esoteric, “ostriches!” It’s shouted out into the darkness and straight away, from all sides, a rousing “ostriches!” is shouted back, as if it’s a familiar mantra.
Then there are the obscure games. Football’s far too bland for the monsters. Here, new games are invented, this one for example. A ball is tightly wrapped in a piece of cloth (or it could be bat’s gut) and is thrown into the air with the inexplicable cry of “Val Kilmer!” The monster who’s aiming to catch it shouts out “Saucy baguette!” and is awarded a “Yeah, Roy,” from the others if he manages to get it before it lands on the ground.
Meanwhile, the monkeys in the towers on the perimeter watch the monsters’ mayhem unfold, with each of their hands poised ready either side of their holsters. One to grab the walkie-talkie, the other, a banana. Because you never know when trouble or hunger’s going to strike. They’re the dullest monkeys I’ve ever seen, and possibly only a struggling zoo in Tajikistan would bother to house them permanently. They just stand still, hoping for some action in their fluorescent jackets, each with a number emblazoned across it. 901, 867, 432, 949. Like lottery balls waiting to be released, so they can bounce about and crash into each other too. Monkeys watching over monsters, but at least the monsters have names.
And I’ve since discovered that although the monsters are hard on the outside, they’re actually soft in the middle. Hard, hairy coconuts, who easily crack a smile and can’t wait to share a joke, game or an arm around you.
“ I lost the mask near the loos,” I hear someone say as they walk past my canvas hut, which neatly sums up my experience in the land of monsters. You see, I began to let go of all the social conventions. My mask was slipping. The hair styling went first, then the teeth brushing and finally I was free of all my inhibitions, and found myself sleeping buck naked in my canvas hut with the zip open. I’m now getting the urge to paint my face and show my horns. Finally, I truly have arrived in the land of the monsters (of rock).
Saturday 27 June 2009
Sunday, June 7th, 2009
When I worked from home on Tuesday, I entered an altered state. I was half in the world of work, and half in holidayland. But actually in neither. I was in limbo. A place where my mind could float. Like a ghost that belongs nowhere, so can just drift aimlessly as it waits to be summoned to God’s office for its appraisal. Here in this limbo, I was susceptible to idle thoughts, ones out of the office and which no one could catch on my mobile or Blackberry.
I found myself drifting down the street at two in the afternoon on a weekday. It felt weird to be wandering, wondering, at that time of the day. And the streets seemed unfamiliar. The people were strange, alien even. Who were all these old folk anyway and where had they come from? They took over the buses, pavements, benches and supermarkets. It looked like an invasion by old-age vampires, who only come out in the day, with hospital bed-sheet white skin that’s so worn it’s become thread bare, semi-translucent. They hang upright from bus stop benches, glaring in the June sunshine and baring their badly fitted teeth at dogs, cats, pigeons and children passing by.
The species that shares this 9-5 territory with the vampire OAPs, is the yummy mummy. I see one drearily pushing a buggy containing her little monster wielding a dripping ice-cream. I float past two more, invisible, as they speak to each other in an unfamiliar language. 60 Minute Makeover, Trisha, Jeremy Kyle and Lie Detector Tests.
Then through the hazy sunshine, familiar faces appear. Those I usually only see swimming against the tide of the commuters. The bloke in the pork pie hat, strumming his guitar with an irregular rhythm, as if he’s trying to find the right chord. At low tide, I can see him more clearly. The bright yellow flower in the lapel of his jacket. The perpetual smile dancing on the corners of his mouth. The intense concentration, which appears to come so easily. Like he’s a Zen Master of meditation.
Then there’s the old black guy, who’s always dressed smartly in an unknown army’s uniform, sitting outside his favourite Costcutter franchise. Guarding it, so it’s protected from an unknown enemy. He watches time slip casually by in the reflection of his shiny boots. But at least time is his to lose. In the office, you’re not the boss of your time. It’s work’s possession and it devours it, until there’s nothing left but just the skeleton of the day. The scraps are all we have to remind us of who we are. Even in holidayland we’re too occupied with must-seeing things, being with friends and family, or catching up on sleep, to have much time for ourselves. Although in this state of limbo I got to snatch back some time for me. As if this limbo was a cool lake, refracting time on its surface, bending it in my direction. All I had to do was reach out and grab it.
I ended up in the park by my flat. The grass was verdant, luminous. Shiny crows glittered from within it, like black diamonds. A guy lounging on a bench sucked on his cigarette, fashioning a piece of amber to add to the setting, with just his lips and lungs. The creases in his face had turned him into a permanent smoker, even when he didn’t have a cigarette in his mouth. Time takes a cigarette, to escape its timelessness. These outsiders, who’d escaped from 9-5 jobs, did everything slowly. Because they had all the time in the world. Time gives them bonus points. The counting crows make a mental note of them. Pointless points for the idlers. When you slow down, your thoughts become clear. They crystallise. Becoming rare gems. Epiphanies.
From an open window, a flute unfurled its music. Then from another, I could hear the calling of the violin. They flowed together, creating celestial music. Separated in body, but not in spirit. In that moment, I felt elated. Everything made sense. My mind and body were connected. Then suddenly, a man in a dark suit emerged from the verdant green. He didn’t glitter, he absorbed all the light. A long shadow in the sun. He was the grim reaper, telling me my time was up. I was forced to return to the world of emails, briefs and Blackberrys. The crows were startled and took flight. Time had flown, out of my grasp. It obviously wasn’t my time. Yet.
I found myself drifting down the street at two in the afternoon on a weekday. It felt weird to be wandering, wondering, at that time of the day. And the streets seemed unfamiliar. The people were strange, alien even. Who were all these old folk anyway and where had they come from? They took over the buses, pavements, benches and supermarkets. It looked like an invasion by old-age vampires, who only come out in the day, with hospital bed-sheet white skin that’s so worn it’s become thread bare, semi-translucent. They hang upright from bus stop benches, glaring in the June sunshine and baring their badly fitted teeth at dogs, cats, pigeons and children passing by.
The species that shares this 9-5 territory with the vampire OAPs, is the yummy mummy. I see one drearily pushing a buggy containing her little monster wielding a dripping ice-cream. I float past two more, invisible, as they speak to each other in an unfamiliar language. 60 Minute Makeover, Trisha, Jeremy Kyle and Lie Detector Tests.
Then through the hazy sunshine, familiar faces appear. Those I usually only see swimming against the tide of the commuters. The bloke in the pork pie hat, strumming his guitar with an irregular rhythm, as if he’s trying to find the right chord. At low tide, I can see him more clearly. The bright yellow flower in the lapel of his jacket. The perpetual smile dancing on the corners of his mouth. The intense concentration, which appears to come so easily. Like he’s a Zen Master of meditation.
Then there’s the old black guy, who’s always dressed smartly in an unknown army’s uniform, sitting outside his favourite Costcutter franchise. Guarding it, so it’s protected from an unknown enemy. He watches time slip casually by in the reflection of his shiny boots. But at least time is his to lose. In the office, you’re not the boss of your time. It’s work’s possession and it devours it, until there’s nothing left but just the skeleton of the day. The scraps are all we have to remind us of who we are. Even in holidayland we’re too occupied with must-seeing things, being with friends and family, or catching up on sleep, to have much time for ourselves. Although in this state of limbo I got to snatch back some time for me. As if this limbo was a cool lake, refracting time on its surface, bending it in my direction. All I had to do was reach out and grab it.
I ended up in the park by my flat. The grass was verdant, luminous. Shiny crows glittered from within it, like black diamonds. A guy lounging on a bench sucked on his cigarette, fashioning a piece of amber to add to the setting, with just his lips and lungs. The creases in his face had turned him into a permanent smoker, even when he didn’t have a cigarette in his mouth. Time takes a cigarette, to escape its timelessness. These outsiders, who’d escaped from 9-5 jobs, did everything slowly. Because they had all the time in the world. Time gives them bonus points. The counting crows make a mental note of them. Pointless points for the idlers. When you slow down, your thoughts become clear. They crystallise. Becoming rare gems. Epiphanies.
From an open window, a flute unfurled its music. Then from another, I could hear the calling of the violin. They flowed together, creating celestial music. Separated in body, but not in spirit. In that moment, I felt elated. Everything made sense. My mind and body were connected. Then suddenly, a man in a dark suit emerged from the verdant green. He didn’t glitter, he absorbed all the light. A long shadow in the sun. He was the grim reaper, telling me my time was up. I was forced to return to the world of emails, briefs and Blackberrys. The crows were startled and took flight. Time had flown, out of my grasp. It obviously wasn’t my time. Yet.
Friday, May 22nd, 2009
They come dressed in their casual finery. Dresses and neatly stitched cardigans for the ladies. Striped shirts, panama hats and jumpers draped over shoulders for the gents. A Sea of Sartorial Politeness. Everyone waits patiently to be shown to their seats, and those already in their places delicately eat exotic nuts and sophisticated sandwiches from silver foil.
The etiquette here is one of respect for your neighbour. Make sure they have enough elbowroom, no big fat heads are blocking the view, and that generally all the spectators are comfortable and happy. The gentleman next to me lit up a cigarette before quickly turning to me and asking if I minded him smoking. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been among such a civilised audience.
And then the bull came charging into the arena. All the courteous chitchat that had been gracing the bullring’s refined architecture, stopped. In its place were the more primitive, ‘Oooohs and Aaaahhhs!’ I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. A nauseous excitement made my stomach lurch. Suddenly I realised that those sophisticated snacks were going to look a lot less refined the second time round.
Meanwhile, the bull was being taunted by the shocking-pink capes of the matador’s little helpers (or banderilleros), which curiously left most of the audience looking a little bored, as if it was the bit in the film where you usually nip to the loo. But there’s no way of escaping to the toilet during a bullfight, because you’re hemmed in on all sides by the Sea of Sartorial Politeness. To flee would require at least 46 ‘perdons’, and it wouldn’t exactly be in keeping with the required manners of the bullfight audience, one of which is to make sure your neighbours have a good view at all times. I suddenly realised that this courtesy, worn on the sleeve of the spectators, had lulled me into a false sense of security. I was going to be forced to stay until the death.
I hoped it would come quickly, as the bull was speared and stabbed repeatedly, first by a man in the advantageous position of being atop a horse heavily padded for protection, and then by the matador’s little helpers. Dasher, Dancer and Prancer skipped up to the bull before deftly planting brightly coloured barbed sticks into its back, which looked like Christmas candy canes. Sickly sweet. They darted off when the bull had time to react, aiming its horns in their direction. Ripples of enjoyment spread through the Sea of Sartorial Politeness, as the bull’s diverging Stream of Brave Blood began bleeding. The lady next to me in the red cardigan with the gold buttons and frill trim jumped up quickly to clap violently.
Now, finally, it was time for the one-on-one. Man adorned with elegant embroidery, beast with the crude cowardice of the candy canes. The matador used the red cape to control the unsuspecting bull gracefully and masterfully, making it look as easy as fooling a kitten. He boldly moved closer and closer to the raging horns. But he’s done this hundreds of times. The same routine, the similar strategy, the inevitable end. It’s an established ritual. Yet the bull gets to do it just the once, so it can only go by its natural instincts. This practised mastery is what the aficionados call ‘art’. Hemingway romantically described it as a ‘wonderful nightmare’.
The Sea of Sartorial Politeness became wild as it gazed at this art. A storm of screams and yobbish yells turned the arena’s architecture ugly. Pulsing veins popped up on necks and temples. I half expected the stripy shirts to rip open causing gold buttons to fly off all around the arena. Beast against beast. But decorum held firm and buttons were kept in place. The matador had the sword in his hand, poised for what is called the ‘moment of truth’, when he plunges the sword into the bull’s neck and cuts the aorta. It does take courage to do, because it’s when he’s head on to the bull, and the bull is at its most wary. But he’s been highly trained, like a slaughterer who knows exactly where to put his knife.
This time though, the matador’s aim is off. It’s not the promised quick, clean kill. So it’s more a ‘moment of half-truths’. A River of Brave Blood gushed from the bull’s head and a wave of delightedness passed over the Sea of Sartorial Politeness. The bull turned away from the matador, its head bowed, and walked into the wall that surrounds the ring. It stayed in the quiet corner for a few minutes, its back to the waiting matador. Apparently its last wish was to die in peace. It then collapsed hard onto the River of Brave Blood’s sandy bed. The audience erupted into aggressive applause, giving the matador a standing ovation. The gentleman next to me turned quickly and asked if I’d enjoyed it. His eyes were consumed by the thrill, mesmerised, as if he was in a trance. He didn’t even wait for my answer, and just assumed that I was as enthralled as him. I realised then that while the bulls are bred to fight, the spectators are bred to cheer the kill. Neither bull nor man can help themselves. Generations of careful breeding has made sure of that.
The same time as the matador had his ‘moment of truth’, I had mine. The reason I was there in the first place was because I wanted to see for myself what some call a ‘barbaric sport’ and others call ‘art’. The fact that a civilised country like Spain still condones bullfighting intrigued me. And you can’t just dismiss hundreds of years of a country’s cultural institution without trying to understand it first. A ritual that’s captivated many writers and artists over the years, from Hemingway to Picasso and more recently the director Almodovar. So in the end, did I understand it, did I connect with it, was I part of this barbaric civility?
Absolutamente no. I just wanted to be sick. My moment of truth was realising that I’ve been bred to abhor killing. Although I did put my feet on the seats in front of me. And I didn’t give a damn if my head was blocking anyone’s view. But I’m proud of that. And I’m proud of my shabby t-shirt and jeans.
The etiquette here is one of respect for your neighbour. Make sure they have enough elbowroom, no big fat heads are blocking the view, and that generally all the spectators are comfortable and happy. The gentleman next to me lit up a cigarette before quickly turning to me and asking if I minded him smoking. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been among such a civilised audience.
And then the bull came charging into the arena. All the courteous chitchat that had been gracing the bullring’s refined architecture, stopped. In its place were the more primitive, ‘Oooohs and Aaaahhhs!’ I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. A nauseous excitement made my stomach lurch. Suddenly I realised that those sophisticated snacks were going to look a lot less refined the second time round.
Meanwhile, the bull was being taunted by the shocking-pink capes of the matador’s little helpers (or banderilleros), which curiously left most of the audience looking a little bored, as if it was the bit in the film where you usually nip to the loo. But there’s no way of escaping to the toilet during a bullfight, because you’re hemmed in on all sides by the Sea of Sartorial Politeness. To flee would require at least 46 ‘perdons’, and it wouldn’t exactly be in keeping with the required manners of the bullfight audience, one of which is to make sure your neighbours have a good view at all times. I suddenly realised that this courtesy, worn on the sleeve of the spectators, had lulled me into a false sense of security. I was going to be forced to stay until the death.
I hoped it would come quickly, as the bull was speared and stabbed repeatedly, first by a man in the advantageous position of being atop a horse heavily padded for protection, and then by the matador’s little helpers. Dasher, Dancer and Prancer skipped up to the bull before deftly planting brightly coloured barbed sticks into its back, which looked like Christmas candy canes. Sickly sweet. They darted off when the bull had time to react, aiming its horns in their direction. Ripples of enjoyment spread through the Sea of Sartorial Politeness, as the bull’s diverging Stream of Brave Blood began bleeding. The lady next to me in the red cardigan with the gold buttons and frill trim jumped up quickly to clap violently.
Now, finally, it was time for the one-on-one. Man adorned with elegant embroidery, beast with the crude cowardice of the candy canes. The matador used the red cape to control the unsuspecting bull gracefully and masterfully, making it look as easy as fooling a kitten. He boldly moved closer and closer to the raging horns. But he’s done this hundreds of times. The same routine, the similar strategy, the inevitable end. It’s an established ritual. Yet the bull gets to do it just the once, so it can only go by its natural instincts. This practised mastery is what the aficionados call ‘art’. Hemingway romantically described it as a ‘wonderful nightmare’.
The Sea of Sartorial Politeness became wild as it gazed at this art. A storm of screams and yobbish yells turned the arena’s architecture ugly. Pulsing veins popped up on necks and temples. I half expected the stripy shirts to rip open causing gold buttons to fly off all around the arena. Beast against beast. But decorum held firm and buttons were kept in place. The matador had the sword in his hand, poised for what is called the ‘moment of truth’, when he plunges the sword into the bull’s neck and cuts the aorta. It does take courage to do, because it’s when he’s head on to the bull, and the bull is at its most wary. But he’s been highly trained, like a slaughterer who knows exactly where to put his knife.
This time though, the matador’s aim is off. It’s not the promised quick, clean kill. So it’s more a ‘moment of half-truths’. A River of Brave Blood gushed from the bull’s head and a wave of delightedness passed over the Sea of Sartorial Politeness. The bull turned away from the matador, its head bowed, and walked into the wall that surrounds the ring. It stayed in the quiet corner for a few minutes, its back to the waiting matador. Apparently its last wish was to die in peace. It then collapsed hard onto the River of Brave Blood’s sandy bed. The audience erupted into aggressive applause, giving the matador a standing ovation. The gentleman next to me turned quickly and asked if I’d enjoyed it. His eyes were consumed by the thrill, mesmerised, as if he was in a trance. He didn’t even wait for my answer, and just assumed that I was as enthralled as him. I realised then that while the bulls are bred to fight, the spectators are bred to cheer the kill. Neither bull nor man can help themselves. Generations of careful breeding has made sure of that.
The same time as the matador had his ‘moment of truth’, I had mine. The reason I was there in the first place was because I wanted to see for myself what some call a ‘barbaric sport’ and others call ‘art’. The fact that a civilised country like Spain still condones bullfighting intrigued me. And you can’t just dismiss hundreds of years of a country’s cultural institution without trying to understand it first. A ritual that’s captivated many writers and artists over the years, from Hemingway to Picasso and more recently the director Almodovar. So in the end, did I understand it, did I connect with it, was I part of this barbaric civility?
Absolutamente no. I just wanted to be sick. My moment of truth was realising that I’ve been bred to abhor killing. Although I did put my feet on the seats in front of me. And I didn’t give a damn if my head was blocking anyone’s view. But I’m proud of that. And I’m proud of my shabby t-shirt and jeans.
Saturday, April 11th, 2009
Experiment: Can a Londoner give up the booze but still keep up their primary existence in the economic system of burning the candle from both ends?
Intro:
When Londoners abstain from alcohol, a strange reaction occurs. They listen more, say ‘fuck’ and ‘I love you’ less and stay in to watch Simon Schama’s Power of Art on BBC4. They’re diurnal, so they’re active in the day, even at the weekend and sleep during the best clubbing nights of the week. The point of going out in the cold, dark and rain is lost on them. However, paying extortionate prices to visit overcrowded galleries is not. Everything is done earlier, from getting up to going to bed via the washing up. They never go to the toilet in the street or in their pants, but they do go to the gym more than 4 times in a year for the first time in their membership.
Method:
I didn’t drink for three months, but still attempted to go to the planned nights out that I would have gone to if I’d been drinking. Obviously, the impulsive, ‘alright, I’ll go for just the one’ nights are irrelevant, as you never want to go for even just one diet coke if you can help it.
Results:
Attended:
2 binge drinking friends' birthdays
Mum’s 60th birthday weekend with plenty of champagne bought by parents.
2 work colleagues' birthdays with a tab behind the bar
1 x clubbing night
2 x gigs
Livery Company dinner in the city with 5 courses of alcohol.
Production company screening of Free Agents, with free wine.
1 x comedy night
1 x dinner and a show
3 x nights out with the girls
3 x pub lunches
1 x speed flat mate finding night with free glass of wine
Conclusion:
I managed to drag myself to all the nights out that I was asked to, but didn’t plan any myself or invite anyone out. I did in fact turn into my Mum, being more than happy to just stay in and watch Jonathan Ross on a Friday.
The hardest part was the thought of a night ahead in a bar with sweaty people, where the horrendous house music is so loud that the only things you can do is dance, make faces at people, stick your tongue down someone’s throat. Or drink. Those nights involved so much diet cola that I would lay awake in bed until the early hours chewing the insides of my mouth.
The worst bits were before everyone was drunk, because contrary to popular belief, people who are out of their boxes are generally a lot more fun to be with, even when you’re sober. This is especially true when it comes to work colleagues, because before they get tipsy, you might as well be in the office sharing a bit of banter over a desk top lunch. Also, if someone is going to corner you and talk at you for hours on end, it’s a lot more interesting when they’re smashed, as then they’ll divulge more secrets and say increasingly outlandish statements, with your encouragement of course.
The bonus is that you make sure you avoid the night bus of hell when you can. This means that if you find yourself in a crap bar, you know it’s rubbish, and no amount of diet coke will stop it from being so. Therefore you don’t waste your night and the next day trying to make it good, and call it a night before the last tube has gone.
Yet when the music, company and atmosphere are good, you enjoy the night far more than if you were drunk. For one, you can dance around like a maniac to The Prodigy’s 'Out Of Space' without a care, because people are drunk and won’t notice plus you’re able to keep your balance, therefore don’t end up flat on the floor, unlike them. Also, your senses are still with you, so you can see and hear everything around you, picking up the subtleties in the DJ’s mixing while keeping up with the intricacies of the five different conversations and situations that are going on in your group alone.
So you can burn the candle at both ends when you’re sober, but it needs to be a decent candle, that doesn’t get on your wick. And as there aren’t enough decent candles available, a life of sobriety does mean that a Londoner looses their identity, becoming more like someone from the suburbs, happy to spend nights in with thoughts of allotments and craft markets taking the place of the latest hip hop, fidget prog, freakbeat, janglecore, electro-sleaze, breaking, crumpin’ ‘n’ crimpin’ meltdown.
Intro:
When Londoners abstain from alcohol, a strange reaction occurs. They listen more, say ‘fuck’ and ‘I love you’ less and stay in to watch Simon Schama’s Power of Art on BBC4. They’re diurnal, so they’re active in the day, even at the weekend and sleep during the best clubbing nights of the week. The point of going out in the cold, dark and rain is lost on them. However, paying extortionate prices to visit overcrowded galleries is not. Everything is done earlier, from getting up to going to bed via the washing up. They never go to the toilet in the street or in their pants, but they do go to the gym more than 4 times in a year for the first time in their membership.
Method:
I didn’t drink for three months, but still attempted to go to the planned nights out that I would have gone to if I’d been drinking. Obviously, the impulsive, ‘alright, I’ll go for just the one’ nights are irrelevant, as you never want to go for even just one diet coke if you can help it.
Results:
Attended:
2 binge drinking friends' birthdays
Mum’s 60th birthday weekend with plenty of champagne bought by parents.
2 work colleagues' birthdays with a tab behind the bar
1 x clubbing night
2 x gigs
Livery Company dinner in the city with 5 courses of alcohol.
Production company screening of Free Agents, with free wine.
1 x comedy night
1 x dinner and a show
3 x nights out with the girls
3 x pub lunches
1 x speed flat mate finding night with free glass of wine
Conclusion:
I managed to drag myself to all the nights out that I was asked to, but didn’t plan any myself or invite anyone out. I did in fact turn into my Mum, being more than happy to just stay in and watch Jonathan Ross on a Friday.
The hardest part was the thought of a night ahead in a bar with sweaty people, where the horrendous house music is so loud that the only things you can do is dance, make faces at people, stick your tongue down someone’s throat. Or drink. Those nights involved so much diet cola that I would lay awake in bed until the early hours chewing the insides of my mouth.
The worst bits were before everyone was drunk, because contrary to popular belief, people who are out of their boxes are generally a lot more fun to be with, even when you’re sober. This is especially true when it comes to work colleagues, because before they get tipsy, you might as well be in the office sharing a bit of banter over a desk top lunch. Also, if someone is going to corner you and talk at you for hours on end, it’s a lot more interesting when they’re smashed, as then they’ll divulge more secrets and say increasingly outlandish statements, with your encouragement of course.
The bonus is that you make sure you avoid the night bus of hell when you can. This means that if you find yourself in a crap bar, you know it’s rubbish, and no amount of diet coke will stop it from being so. Therefore you don’t waste your night and the next day trying to make it good, and call it a night before the last tube has gone.
Yet when the music, company and atmosphere are good, you enjoy the night far more than if you were drunk. For one, you can dance around like a maniac to The Prodigy’s 'Out Of Space' without a care, because people are drunk and won’t notice plus you’re able to keep your balance, therefore don’t end up flat on the floor, unlike them. Also, your senses are still with you, so you can see and hear everything around you, picking up the subtleties in the DJ’s mixing while keeping up with the intricacies of the five different conversations and situations that are going on in your group alone.
So you can burn the candle at both ends when you’re sober, but it needs to be a decent candle, that doesn’t get on your wick. And as there aren’t enough decent candles available, a life of sobriety does mean that a Londoner looses their identity, becoming more like someone from the suburbs, happy to spend nights in with thoughts of allotments and craft markets taking the place of the latest hip hop, fidget prog, freakbeat, janglecore, electro-sleaze, breaking, crumpin’ ‘n’ crimpin’ meltdown.
Sunday, April 5th, 2009
Workers and skinheads unite.
Profit, profit, profit! The enemy is profit!
Bankers. Not real people, but real wankers.
Whose streets? Our streets!
Bring Brown down!
This is what democracy looks like. This is what democracy feels like.
Actually, that is what 35,000 middle-class Londoners sound like when they all forgo their weekend morning watching Saturday Kitchen on the tele or reading the Guardian Guide in a suburban café over brunch, to protest. People who usually keep their heads down and just get on with it, albeit with a slight tut, and would rather have a quiet life.
But this time was different. They weren’t going to be appeased by interest rate cuts or a new series of The Apprentice. This time even they’d been affected, and were moved enough to get out there and stand up for themselves under the guise of ‘putting people first’, humanity before profit. Against the unfair economy where bankers are allowed to gamble with their money, the rich can evade paying taxes, while poor people and workers across the world are exploited.
This was the march on Saturday to coincide with the G20 summit, not the later marches on Wednesday and Thursday which were more hardcore and involved anarchist groups and a heavy-handed police approach, with snipers and machine guns. On Saturday, all that was needed from the police was an authoritative look, or a firm hand on the arm. No this march on the Saturday was for the less die-hard, the more soft-core, the people who hadn’t yet lost their jobs due to the economic crisis, so they had to go to work during the other marches in the week. And they didn’t want to use any days off to protest. They cared, but they wouldn’t go as far as losing their holiday for the cause.
Of course there were the more passionate of the soft-core, who came out in their groups, waving their flags, banging their drums and chanting through megaphones. Religious groups, environmentalists and trade unions, including the RMT and the Militant Workers Bloc, who were slightly scary, yet you were glad they were on your side, as they shouted out powerfully against redundancies and repossessions. Then there were the Socialists, holding up their ‘We won’t pay for their crisis’ banners, who ranged from the fiery Europeans chanting, ‘Viva Palestina!’ to the quieter, more civilised ladies-who-lunch-types, reading passages softly, yet fervently from their Socialist handbooks.
Also the anti-capitalists, with the best banner of the day, ‘Capitalism isn’t working. Another world is possible’, an ironic twist on the Conservatives’ election winning poster campaign in 1979, ‘Labour isn’t working’. Another group out in force were the Goth and Vampire Kids, with their ‘rent-a-placards’ emblazoned with generic anti-war messages, mumbling indecipherable mantras, blowing their hair out of their eyes every few seconds, and their minds with soft-core weed.
Scattered amongst these were the individual characters, protesting in their own unique way. The ones the media and bankers would refer to as the ‘nutters’, but who actually brought theatre and laughter to the proceedings. One looked the spitting image of the British serial killer Charles Bronson. All bald-head, moustache and violent moves. Luckily they were just dance moves to the beat of the drums up ahead. He made it clear to everyone around him that he was a vegetarian, and then let out a blood-curdling cry. Yaaaarrrrrrrrhoooooooooooaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhheeeeeeeeeoooo!
An English Che complete with beret, tweed jacket and umbrella-cum-walking-stick kept bellowing to the fluorescent yellow lines of police, ‘Don’t police us, police them!’ waving aforementioned umbrella in the direction of the Houses of Parliament. Here, here! Then a guy cycled past on his bike with a carrot on a stick dangling from the handlebars, shouting ‘I need it, I need it!’
But the ones who made up the numbers, made the difference. The unexpected mass of the middle-classes, mixing in with the organised groups and strolling along with flasks of tea or cans of beer. Having more of a meander than a march, chatting about what they got up to last night, bouncing up and down to the drumbeats, blowing whistles and holding up their handcrafted placards.
Forget the worthy cause for one minute, it was worth going on the march just to see these placards. Stationer Ryman’s profits must have taken a leap this week due to the sales of fat, black marker pens alone. Countless pieces of cardboard had been scrawled on with ingenious statements. ‘Asbos 4 Bankers’ got second place, with first place going to ‘What is going on?’. This homemade gem held aloft above a sea of middle-class protestors including a vegetarian Charles Bronson, jumping up and down and blowing whistles in the middle of Piccadilly Circus, should have been the march’s overall slogan.
You see, some of the marchers making up the numbers didn’t really know the full story. They weren’t socialists or against capitalism, for a start a few opted for Selfridges over the rally when the march was over. Yet that’s what made Saturday’s march interesting, meaningful and matter more. Today most people haven’t got a clear idea about what they believe in, but a mixture of contradictory opinions that don’t lead them in any obvious direction. Nothing’s black and white, it’s all grey, and that’s why we’re all unsure as to which way to go now. But Saturday’s march proved that a great number of people with differing viewpoints are united about something. We’ve had enough of wanker bankers and an unjust, unregulated economy.
So although some didn’t understand the full story, it didn’t matter, as they were there to represent their own particular chapter. Be it the threat of redundancy at their workplace, their pay-freeze or the loss of their pension. And it gave you a buzz to chat, laugh and share disgruntlement with a cross-section of the middle-classes, who you wouldn’t usually talk to.
This is what democracy looks like. This is what democracy feels like.
If this is what it feels like, then we need a whole lot more of it, because it feels pretty good. Much better than anything you can buy.
Profit, profit, profit! The enemy is profit!
Bankers. Not real people, but real wankers.
Whose streets? Our streets!
Bring Brown down!
This is what democracy looks like. This is what democracy feels like.
Actually, that is what 35,000 middle-class Londoners sound like when they all forgo their weekend morning watching Saturday Kitchen on the tele or reading the Guardian Guide in a suburban café over brunch, to protest. People who usually keep their heads down and just get on with it, albeit with a slight tut, and would rather have a quiet life.
But this time was different. They weren’t going to be appeased by interest rate cuts or a new series of The Apprentice. This time even they’d been affected, and were moved enough to get out there and stand up for themselves under the guise of ‘putting people first’, humanity before profit. Against the unfair economy where bankers are allowed to gamble with their money, the rich can evade paying taxes, while poor people and workers across the world are exploited.
This was the march on Saturday to coincide with the G20 summit, not the later marches on Wednesday and Thursday which were more hardcore and involved anarchist groups and a heavy-handed police approach, with snipers and machine guns. On Saturday, all that was needed from the police was an authoritative look, or a firm hand on the arm. No this march on the Saturday was for the less die-hard, the more soft-core, the people who hadn’t yet lost their jobs due to the economic crisis, so they had to go to work during the other marches in the week. And they didn’t want to use any days off to protest. They cared, but they wouldn’t go as far as losing their holiday for the cause.
Of course there were the more passionate of the soft-core, who came out in their groups, waving their flags, banging their drums and chanting through megaphones. Religious groups, environmentalists and trade unions, including the RMT and the Militant Workers Bloc, who were slightly scary, yet you were glad they were on your side, as they shouted out powerfully against redundancies and repossessions. Then there were the Socialists, holding up their ‘We won’t pay for their crisis’ banners, who ranged from the fiery Europeans chanting, ‘Viva Palestina!’ to the quieter, more civilised ladies-who-lunch-types, reading passages softly, yet fervently from their Socialist handbooks.
Also the anti-capitalists, with the best banner of the day, ‘Capitalism isn’t working. Another world is possible’, an ironic twist on the Conservatives’ election winning poster campaign in 1979, ‘Labour isn’t working’. Another group out in force were the Goth and Vampire Kids, with their ‘rent-a-placards’ emblazoned with generic anti-war messages, mumbling indecipherable mantras, blowing their hair out of their eyes every few seconds, and their minds with soft-core weed.
Scattered amongst these were the individual characters, protesting in their own unique way. The ones the media and bankers would refer to as the ‘nutters’, but who actually brought theatre and laughter to the proceedings. One looked the spitting image of the British serial killer Charles Bronson. All bald-head, moustache and violent moves. Luckily they were just dance moves to the beat of the drums up ahead. He made it clear to everyone around him that he was a vegetarian, and then let out a blood-curdling cry. Yaaaarrrrrrrrhoooooooooooaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhheeeeeeeeeoooo!
An English Che complete with beret, tweed jacket and umbrella-cum-walking-stick kept bellowing to the fluorescent yellow lines of police, ‘Don’t police us, police them!’ waving aforementioned umbrella in the direction of the Houses of Parliament. Here, here! Then a guy cycled past on his bike with a carrot on a stick dangling from the handlebars, shouting ‘I need it, I need it!’
But the ones who made up the numbers, made the difference. The unexpected mass of the middle-classes, mixing in with the organised groups and strolling along with flasks of tea or cans of beer. Having more of a meander than a march, chatting about what they got up to last night, bouncing up and down to the drumbeats, blowing whistles and holding up their handcrafted placards.
Forget the worthy cause for one minute, it was worth going on the march just to see these placards. Stationer Ryman’s profits must have taken a leap this week due to the sales of fat, black marker pens alone. Countless pieces of cardboard had been scrawled on with ingenious statements. ‘Asbos 4 Bankers’ got second place, with first place going to ‘What is going on?’. This homemade gem held aloft above a sea of middle-class protestors including a vegetarian Charles Bronson, jumping up and down and blowing whistles in the middle of Piccadilly Circus, should have been the march’s overall slogan.
You see, some of the marchers making up the numbers didn’t really know the full story. They weren’t socialists or against capitalism, for a start a few opted for Selfridges over the rally when the march was over. Yet that’s what made Saturday’s march interesting, meaningful and matter more. Today most people haven’t got a clear idea about what they believe in, but a mixture of contradictory opinions that don’t lead them in any obvious direction. Nothing’s black and white, it’s all grey, and that’s why we’re all unsure as to which way to go now. But Saturday’s march proved that a great number of people with differing viewpoints are united about something. We’ve had enough of wanker bankers and an unjust, unregulated economy.
So although some didn’t understand the full story, it didn’t matter, as they were there to represent their own particular chapter. Be it the threat of redundancy at their workplace, their pay-freeze or the loss of their pension. And it gave you a buzz to chat, laugh and share disgruntlement with a cross-section of the middle-classes, who you wouldn’t usually talk to.
This is what democracy looks like. This is what democracy feels like.
If this is what it feels like, then we need a whole lot more of it, because it feels pretty good. Much better than anything you can buy.
Sunday, March 29th, 2009
It is thought that the first chain coffee shops arrived in London about 11 years ago. Some were native, yet others invaded from the USA and conquered. Now ubiquitous on London’s streets (there’s approximately one every five shops), they’ve taken over from the ancient ‘greasy spoon cafes’, infamous for their builder’s tea and bacon butties.
And although they’re not bad for people watching, there’s no better place for eavesdropping than in these chain coffee shops. Such a cross-section of Londoners frequent them that if you visit at the right time, you can get a real insight into London life. So they’re a must-listen for all English-speaking tourists, unlike the archaic greasy spoons, which possess a unique atmosphere of gritty authenticity, yet no one talks and generally you just see old people nursing cups of tea and staring into space or The Sun. The coffee shop though, is all about chatting incessantly while wired on caffeine and you can hear Londoners talking about anything from business deals to favourite sexual positions.
The best spots to experience eavesdropping are Starbucks, Café Nero or Coffee Republic in and around Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road, and the best time is early to mid-morning during the week. Because they’re big franchise coffee shops, you can buy just one coffee, then sit and listen for hours at a time, without feeling the guilt you would in an independent one. So make sure you set enough time aside to spend at least a morning in one. After all, no trip to London is complete without a visit.
Itinerary
Estimated Time – one morning.
6.45am. Rise with the sun and the commuters’ alarms, then head down to one of the main chain coffee shops and catch the spectacle that is the morning takeout rush. Here you get to experience an intense shot of the London business world. Business people tend to have loud voices and are more than happy for others to overhear their conversations, especially if they’re on mobile phones discussing very, very important, highly confidential deals. They usually shout out a load of bollocks into the steamed milk atmosphere. If you’re at the Starbucks on Tottenham Court Road, you might be lucky and get syphilis, AIDS and gonorrhoea added to the bollocks. Because then you’ll be enjoying Alan, the legendary field manager from a biotechnology company that’s bringing out a new Rapid AIDS and STD test in May 2009, apparently. Just what Londoners need?
Arriving this early also means you have the choice of all the tables, so you can find the prime position for eavesdropping. These are generally the sofas near to other tables, where you can lean your head back naturally at lots of different angles and listen in without attracting any attention.
10.03am. Take a trip into the world of the archetypal Londoner. Although genuine east enders such as builders and market stall holders hardly ever go into coffee shops, preferring the under-priced PG Tips in an authentically chipped mug from a greasy spoon to the rip-off price of an Americano. Yet as this is central London, you get the stereotypical Londoners in the form of actresses from the BBC soap EastEnders who are ‘inbetween jobs’, such as Natalie Cassady who played Sonia. Now tourists won’t know who they are, but that doesn’t matter, because most of them are exactly the same off-screen as on, meaning that they really do have those cockney accents and Sonia, for example, talks about clubbin’, Ibiza and goin’ daan the ‘airdresser in real-life too. Basically they play themselves, so for the tourist, they provide a thick, tasty slice of London life with all its kitchen sink dramas.
10.17am. Not usually a favourite with the tourists, yet not to be overlooked, are the tramps. Don’t let their poor appearance put you off, for as a source of true London life, you can’t get richer than someone who lives on its streets. Just after 10.15 on a weekday is the perfect time to catch them. They usually have a break at the weekend, but during the week, they can be seen in Starbucks, spending most of the morning drinking the leftover coffee out of cups on the tables, until the pubs open. To guarantee an encounter with them, gather up cups with a little coffee leftover in the bottom from other tables, and place them on yours (making sure you don’t then mistake them for your own). The tramp will make a wonky beeline for your table.
Here’s where the itinerary splits as you have two options:
(a) This is the more adventurous route and takes a day and a half instead of just the one morning. If you’re exploring it, you need to look the tramp directly in the eye when he approaches your table and starts chatting to you. He’ll then settle down quite happily, describing the beautiful sunrise over Waterloo Bridge and how the dew sparkles like tinsel on the grass in Victoria Embankment Gardens, but some of it can be hard to decipher through all the spit and phlegm. From here, you can follow him to the traditional London pubs when they open, and spend the whole day with him as your guide through the story of his life via England’s ales. Be warned that it’ll be at your expense, although it’s a journey you’ll never forget, full of plenty of stories to go back home with. You then have the choice of returning to the coffee shop the next day to continue the itinerary from route (b). You could bump into the same tramp, but it doesn’t matter, as he won’t remember you from Adam.
(b) This option suits the tourist who’s less well-travelled. Don’t look in the direction of the tramp as he approaches, then he won’t ever talk directly to you, but will just mutter loudly to himself about the sunrise and dew, staring into the middle distance, until he’s finished all the leftover dregs of coffee. From here you continue with the rest of the itinerary.
10.56 am. Time to head on over to adland. You haven’t really visited London until you’ve had a taste of the media world. And mid-morning is the time you’ll find advertising creatives with hangovers attempting to ‘brainstorm’ with the aid of a caffeine drip. They go everywhere in pairs, and will probably give you a dirty look on entering, as you’ll be sitting on ‘their’ sofa. They’ll try and get a seat next to you because they’ll be waiting for you to leave so they can have the sofa for themselves.
Don’t be intimidated though as they’ll soon forget you when they remember they’ve got a deadline in an hour. As they try and come up with their wacky ideas, they occasionally divulge interesting insights about British life. For instance, Britain’s eating habits. According to two creatives overheard recently, Colman’s English Mustard has a recommended age of enjoyment of around 22.5 years. If you eat it before then, you are in danger of growing a huge fat tongue or having hair that permanently stands on end.
Creatives also provide a huge dollop of creamy London office gossip. Media companies throw the most outrageous parties, and by listening to their anecdotes, you’ll have the opportunity to get the inside track on just how loose Londoners’ morals can be, when they go off on caffeine-induced tangents about which married person slept with the receptionist and newly engaged account executive. (After hearing all this, legendary field manager Alan’s new Rapid AIDS and STD test product becomes highly relevant.)
With your head full of a fascinating brew of real insights into London life, you’re now free to go to the nearest shop selling tourist tat and buy as many postcards of the Queen and punks plus those little Beefeater dolls in plastic boxes as you can.
And although they’re not bad for people watching, there’s no better place for eavesdropping than in these chain coffee shops. Such a cross-section of Londoners frequent them that if you visit at the right time, you can get a real insight into London life. So they’re a must-listen for all English-speaking tourists, unlike the archaic greasy spoons, which possess a unique atmosphere of gritty authenticity, yet no one talks and generally you just see old people nursing cups of tea and staring into space or The Sun. The coffee shop though, is all about chatting incessantly while wired on caffeine and you can hear Londoners talking about anything from business deals to favourite sexual positions.
The best spots to experience eavesdropping are Starbucks, Café Nero or Coffee Republic in and around Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road, and the best time is early to mid-morning during the week. Because they’re big franchise coffee shops, you can buy just one coffee, then sit and listen for hours at a time, without feeling the guilt you would in an independent one. So make sure you set enough time aside to spend at least a morning in one. After all, no trip to London is complete without a visit.
Itinerary
Estimated Time – one morning.
6.45am. Rise with the sun and the commuters’ alarms, then head down to one of the main chain coffee shops and catch the spectacle that is the morning takeout rush. Here you get to experience an intense shot of the London business world. Business people tend to have loud voices and are more than happy for others to overhear their conversations, especially if they’re on mobile phones discussing very, very important, highly confidential deals. They usually shout out a load of bollocks into the steamed milk atmosphere. If you’re at the Starbucks on Tottenham Court Road, you might be lucky and get syphilis, AIDS and gonorrhoea added to the bollocks. Because then you’ll be enjoying Alan, the legendary field manager from a biotechnology company that’s bringing out a new Rapid AIDS and STD test in May 2009, apparently. Just what Londoners need?
Arriving this early also means you have the choice of all the tables, so you can find the prime position for eavesdropping. These are generally the sofas near to other tables, where you can lean your head back naturally at lots of different angles and listen in without attracting any attention.
10.03am. Take a trip into the world of the archetypal Londoner. Although genuine east enders such as builders and market stall holders hardly ever go into coffee shops, preferring the under-priced PG Tips in an authentically chipped mug from a greasy spoon to the rip-off price of an Americano. Yet as this is central London, you get the stereotypical Londoners in the form of actresses from the BBC soap EastEnders who are ‘inbetween jobs’, such as Natalie Cassady who played Sonia. Now tourists won’t know who they are, but that doesn’t matter, because most of them are exactly the same off-screen as on, meaning that they really do have those cockney accents and Sonia, for example, talks about clubbin’, Ibiza and goin’ daan the ‘airdresser in real-life too. Basically they play themselves, so for the tourist, they provide a thick, tasty slice of London life with all its kitchen sink dramas.
10.17am. Not usually a favourite with the tourists, yet not to be overlooked, are the tramps. Don’t let their poor appearance put you off, for as a source of true London life, you can’t get richer than someone who lives on its streets. Just after 10.15 on a weekday is the perfect time to catch them. They usually have a break at the weekend, but during the week, they can be seen in Starbucks, spending most of the morning drinking the leftover coffee out of cups on the tables, until the pubs open. To guarantee an encounter with them, gather up cups with a little coffee leftover in the bottom from other tables, and place them on yours (making sure you don’t then mistake them for your own). The tramp will make a wonky beeline for your table.
Here’s where the itinerary splits as you have two options:
(a) This is the more adventurous route and takes a day and a half instead of just the one morning. If you’re exploring it, you need to look the tramp directly in the eye when he approaches your table and starts chatting to you. He’ll then settle down quite happily, describing the beautiful sunrise over Waterloo Bridge and how the dew sparkles like tinsel on the grass in Victoria Embankment Gardens, but some of it can be hard to decipher through all the spit and phlegm. From here, you can follow him to the traditional London pubs when they open, and spend the whole day with him as your guide through the story of his life via England’s ales. Be warned that it’ll be at your expense, although it’s a journey you’ll never forget, full of plenty of stories to go back home with. You then have the choice of returning to the coffee shop the next day to continue the itinerary from route (b). You could bump into the same tramp, but it doesn’t matter, as he won’t remember you from Adam.
(b) This option suits the tourist who’s less well-travelled. Don’t look in the direction of the tramp as he approaches, then he won’t ever talk directly to you, but will just mutter loudly to himself about the sunrise and dew, staring into the middle distance, until he’s finished all the leftover dregs of coffee. From here you continue with the rest of the itinerary.
10.56 am. Time to head on over to adland. You haven’t really visited London until you’ve had a taste of the media world. And mid-morning is the time you’ll find advertising creatives with hangovers attempting to ‘brainstorm’ with the aid of a caffeine drip. They go everywhere in pairs, and will probably give you a dirty look on entering, as you’ll be sitting on ‘their’ sofa. They’ll try and get a seat next to you because they’ll be waiting for you to leave so they can have the sofa for themselves.
Don’t be intimidated though as they’ll soon forget you when they remember they’ve got a deadline in an hour. As they try and come up with their wacky ideas, they occasionally divulge interesting insights about British life. For instance, Britain’s eating habits. According to two creatives overheard recently, Colman’s English Mustard has a recommended age of enjoyment of around 22.5 years. If you eat it before then, you are in danger of growing a huge fat tongue or having hair that permanently stands on end.
Creatives also provide a huge dollop of creamy London office gossip. Media companies throw the most outrageous parties, and by listening to their anecdotes, you’ll have the opportunity to get the inside track on just how loose Londoners’ morals can be, when they go off on caffeine-induced tangents about which married person slept with the receptionist and newly engaged account executive. (After hearing all this, legendary field manager Alan’s new Rapid AIDS and STD test product becomes highly relevant.)
With your head full of a fascinating brew of real insights into London life, you’re now free to go to the nearest shop selling tourist tat and buy as many postcards of the Queen and punks plus those little Beefeater dolls in plastic boxes as you can.
Sunday, March 15th, 2009
If I was going to tell the story of the first decade of the 21st Century (aka the noughties) to a distant future generation, I’d use South Park. It’s a neat, concise DVD collection of our recent history, perfectly packaged to fit into any time capsule. Hang on, you say, it’s not history it’s a cartoon! Well, consider this. Politicians, dictators, historians, religious prophets and the media have always tried to skew history in their favour or rewrite it, and a recent trip to see the British Museum’s Babylon: Myth and Reality exhibition proved that they’ve been doing this for centuries.
Most of us think of Babylon as this evil place or a ‘city of sin’, which eventually suffered an apocalyptic downfall, as portrayed in fantastic stories and awe-inspiring images in paintings, such as those of the Tower of Babel. We’ve got most of these porkie pies about Babylon from the Old Testament, which was humankind’s history book up until fairly recently. The main reason for all the lies is because the Jews were pretty ticked off with the Babylonians and particularly King Neduchadnezzar, because he captured Jerusalem, destroyed it and deported its elite to Babylon. So the religious prophets had an axe to grind, and painted the city as this evil, downright dirty place, representing the antichrist and despicable side of all humanity. And this we accepted as the truth until archaeologists dug up the reality and discovered that Babylon was a centre of learning from which we inherited the division of time into minutes and hours, the zodiac and useful knowledge of constellations. But a large percentage of people still believe the myths of the Old Testament.
So what’s South Park got to do with all this, I hear you ask? Well, let’s start by comparing its stories to those of the Old Testament. Both use over-the-top, dramatic narratives that are crude and surreal to capture the audience’s attention and to get their point across. They both criticize society. Yet South Park does it through satire, ridiculing the vices and follies of the whole of humankind. Whereas the Old Testament slanders and maligns to bring certain groups into disrepute, those which don’t tow the Christian line. Although isn’t history about learning from all our mistakes, not just a chosen few?
The Old Testament has its tale of the Whore of Babylon, a figure who’s unmistakably cast as the evil bitch of the earth. She’s described as having a golden cup in her hand that’s full of abominations and the filthiness of her fornication. Well I never. And on her forehead is written, ‘Babylon the Great, the Mother of Harlots and Abominations of the Earth.’ She also gets drunk on the blood of saints. Meanwhile, South Park has the ‘Stupid Spoiled Whore Video Playset’ episode, where Paris Hilton represents the overt sexualisation of society. Her cartoon character wears lewd clothing and constantly coughs up semen, while her new shop, ‘Stupid Spoiled Whore’ encourages the young girls of South Park to emulate their role model, by wearing skimpy outfits and throwing sex parties.
The Whore of Babylon never existed, and is just a Christian allegory of evil, representing the sins of the world. The Stupid Spoiled Whore of South Park on the other hand, although exaggerated for comic effect, it can be argued that she does actually exist.
Then there’s the Old Testament’s story of one of its most hated figures, King Neduchadnezzar, the geezer who captured Jerusalem and deported its elite to Babylon. This conqueror of Jerusalem, according to the religious prophets, got his comeuppance by going mad, becoming a crazed and terrified man, who spent his last days crawling on all fours like an animal and eating grass. In the South Park episode ‘Trapped in the Closet’, the former King of Hollywood Blockbusters, Tom Cruise, is depicted as a fanatical follower of the Church of Scientology and is seen exhibiting insane behaviour, for instance, he locks himself in the toilet when Stan (who he considers to be the reincarnation of L. Ron Hubbard) says his acting’s not really that great.
The Old Testament created a slanderous myth against the reputation of King Neduchadnezzar, as archaeologists have found that it wasn’t him who went mad at all, but the more insignificant King Nabonidus. But again, it can’t be said that South Park’s portrayal of the erstwhile King of Hollywood and Paramount Pictures is entirely inaccurate.
Of course, it’s not just the Old Testament that has attempted to create myths of the past for its own ends. Many leaders have too. Take Saddam Hussein in our recent history. The British Museum’s exhibition shows how he attempted to create an image of himself as the modern day successor to the Babylon Kings, as Babylon was where Iraq is today. He had a painting commissioned in which he’s illustrated as this huge Colossus of Rhodes, standing tall above Babylon’s famous Ishtar Gate. In another, he’s transformed into a heroic warrior, riding a chariot into battle.
In contrast, South Park portrayed him as a whiny-voiced homosexual, who had a love relationship with Satan. Again, you can decide for yourself whether you think that South Park’s interpretation of events is a great deal closer to the truth than Saddam Hussein’s.
The point is (and there is one), that these days it’s harder to tell myth from reality, what with all the media spin, conspiracy theories and political propaganda. We don’t know the truth now about certain events in our recent history, let alone in over two thousand years. So why not have the noughties’ history represented by South Park? Every episode is based on the truth, albeit occasionally a small grain, and its creators Matt Stone and Trey Parker are ‘equal opportunity offenders’. This means they don’t just represent one view, but lampoon all sides of a contentious issue, so in that way it’s pretty objective as far as historical accounts go, and it doesn’t preach. And yes it illustrates the sins of humanity, but also its virtues, as every episode ends with the identification of one of society’s morals in the form of an important lesson from which the young of South Park, that is Stan, Kyle and Butters, are seen to have learnt from.
The reality might never be separated from the myths of our times, but I for one would much rather have South Park as our historical document than, say, Sky News reports or any religion’s interpretation. For one, it’s likely to be more honest, and most importantly, a hell of a lot funnier.
Most of us think of Babylon as this evil place or a ‘city of sin’, which eventually suffered an apocalyptic downfall, as portrayed in fantastic stories and awe-inspiring images in paintings, such as those of the Tower of Babel. We’ve got most of these porkie pies about Babylon from the Old Testament, which was humankind’s history book up until fairly recently. The main reason for all the lies is because the Jews were pretty ticked off with the Babylonians and particularly King Neduchadnezzar, because he captured Jerusalem, destroyed it and deported its elite to Babylon. So the religious prophets had an axe to grind, and painted the city as this evil, downright dirty place, representing the antichrist and despicable side of all humanity. And this we accepted as the truth until archaeologists dug up the reality and discovered that Babylon was a centre of learning from which we inherited the division of time into minutes and hours, the zodiac and useful knowledge of constellations. But a large percentage of people still believe the myths of the Old Testament.
So what’s South Park got to do with all this, I hear you ask? Well, let’s start by comparing its stories to those of the Old Testament. Both use over-the-top, dramatic narratives that are crude and surreal to capture the audience’s attention and to get their point across. They both criticize society. Yet South Park does it through satire, ridiculing the vices and follies of the whole of humankind. Whereas the Old Testament slanders and maligns to bring certain groups into disrepute, those which don’t tow the Christian line. Although isn’t history about learning from all our mistakes, not just a chosen few?
The Old Testament has its tale of the Whore of Babylon, a figure who’s unmistakably cast as the evil bitch of the earth. She’s described as having a golden cup in her hand that’s full of abominations and the filthiness of her fornication. Well I never. And on her forehead is written, ‘Babylon the Great, the Mother of Harlots and Abominations of the Earth.’ She also gets drunk on the blood of saints. Meanwhile, South Park has the ‘Stupid Spoiled Whore Video Playset’ episode, where Paris Hilton represents the overt sexualisation of society. Her cartoon character wears lewd clothing and constantly coughs up semen, while her new shop, ‘Stupid Spoiled Whore’ encourages the young girls of South Park to emulate their role model, by wearing skimpy outfits and throwing sex parties.
The Whore of Babylon never existed, and is just a Christian allegory of evil, representing the sins of the world. The Stupid Spoiled Whore of South Park on the other hand, although exaggerated for comic effect, it can be argued that she does actually exist.
Then there’s the Old Testament’s story of one of its most hated figures, King Neduchadnezzar, the geezer who captured Jerusalem and deported its elite to Babylon. This conqueror of Jerusalem, according to the religious prophets, got his comeuppance by going mad, becoming a crazed and terrified man, who spent his last days crawling on all fours like an animal and eating grass. In the South Park episode ‘Trapped in the Closet’, the former King of Hollywood Blockbusters, Tom Cruise, is depicted as a fanatical follower of the Church of Scientology and is seen exhibiting insane behaviour, for instance, he locks himself in the toilet when Stan (who he considers to be the reincarnation of L. Ron Hubbard) says his acting’s not really that great.
The Old Testament created a slanderous myth against the reputation of King Neduchadnezzar, as archaeologists have found that it wasn’t him who went mad at all, but the more insignificant King Nabonidus. But again, it can’t be said that South Park’s portrayal of the erstwhile King of Hollywood and Paramount Pictures is entirely inaccurate.
Of course, it’s not just the Old Testament that has attempted to create myths of the past for its own ends. Many leaders have too. Take Saddam Hussein in our recent history. The British Museum’s exhibition shows how he attempted to create an image of himself as the modern day successor to the Babylon Kings, as Babylon was where Iraq is today. He had a painting commissioned in which he’s illustrated as this huge Colossus of Rhodes, standing tall above Babylon’s famous Ishtar Gate. In another, he’s transformed into a heroic warrior, riding a chariot into battle.
In contrast, South Park portrayed him as a whiny-voiced homosexual, who had a love relationship with Satan. Again, you can decide for yourself whether you think that South Park’s interpretation of events is a great deal closer to the truth than Saddam Hussein’s.
The point is (and there is one), that these days it’s harder to tell myth from reality, what with all the media spin, conspiracy theories and political propaganda. We don’t know the truth now about certain events in our recent history, let alone in over two thousand years. So why not have the noughties’ history represented by South Park? Every episode is based on the truth, albeit occasionally a small grain, and its creators Matt Stone and Trey Parker are ‘equal opportunity offenders’. This means they don’t just represent one view, but lampoon all sides of a contentious issue, so in that way it’s pretty objective as far as historical accounts go, and it doesn’t preach. And yes it illustrates the sins of humanity, but also its virtues, as every episode ends with the identification of one of society’s morals in the form of an important lesson from which the young of South Park, that is Stan, Kyle and Butters, are seen to have learnt from.
The reality might never be separated from the myths of our times, but I for one would much rather have South Park as our historical document than, say, Sky News reports or any religion’s interpretation. For one, it’s likely to be more honest, and most importantly, a hell of a lot funnier.
Saturday, March 7th, 2009
There is a place in London for overweight smokers. The new denizens of our society, who are cast out from pubs and forced to stand outside. Some clubs have even tried to ban these plump puffers altogether. That place is the opera. On stage in the Albert Hall last Thursday during a performance of Carmen, a mass of overweight smokers chuffed away like chimneys to rapturous applause. Here, they went from being the underdogs to the lead part. For 3 hours they were adored. Of course, a lot was down to the fact that they could sing too, dance a bit, and also eat a lot of bread in between arias. A multitude of superior dramatic skills, you must agree. So the stars of opera at least, are chosen for their talents rather than their looks.
Although while Carmen hadn’t exactly hit all the branches in a fall from the ugly tree, she was more ‘voluptuous’ than the average singer-cum-actress-cum-model-cum-presenter-who-cums-on-the-producer of today. Yet all the male characters fall in love with Carmen. Her, the one with the big bum and wobbly bits, not the other super skinny, size 6 gypsies. And the guy she chooses to fall in love with out of all the men on offer to her is the hapless soldier Don Jose, who looked just like any other fat guy from the office who Ricky Gervais would tell to ‘go for a fucking run and stop eating burgers.’ (Actually, comedy seems to be the only other performing art that welcomes the overweight smoker with such open arms.)
On that operatic stage, the ones who ate all the pies were captivating heroes, transporting you effortlessly to 19th century Spain, pulling you into the intense turmoil of their lives with a vice-like grip on your throat, leaving you choking back emotions with embarrassment when the lights come up at the end.
Apparently Carmen was the first Realistic opera, what the Italians refer to as Verismo, meaning the truth. Instead of taking its characters from the aristocracy, they came from proletarian life. Contemporary, everyday life was depicted, which would have been a bit of a shock to audiences back in late 19th century Europe. Today, although it’s not exactly shocking, Carmen can still surprise its 21st century audience for different reasons. These days, due to our unhealthy obsession with health and weight, we’re not used to seeing larger people in sexy and beguiling roles. They’re almost regarded as a turn-off. But in Carmen, the large leads are very sexual, with much seduction and many throes of passion being played out on the stage floor.
So Carmen is as refreshing as it ever was, staying true to its original Verismo style. Yet now it’s not a question of representing the proletariat but the inferior class of today, that is, the fat person. And the truth is, by 2012, 1 in 3 Londoners will be obese. Therefore we can’t go on hiding fat people from the limelight and constantly vilifying them. They are a part of our society, and have the right to be celebrated too. I mean, who put stick-thin, talentless air-heads such as Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan in charge anyway? It’s time they were overthrown. I know who’d win in a fight between them and Carmen. And actually, I mean because of her ‘interior security, strength of temperament and personality’, not just the fact that all she has to do is sit on them till they cry like babies for mercy.
Although while Carmen hadn’t exactly hit all the branches in a fall from the ugly tree, she was more ‘voluptuous’ than the average singer-cum-actress-cum-model-cum-presenter-who-cums-on-the-producer of today. Yet all the male characters fall in love with Carmen. Her, the one with the big bum and wobbly bits, not the other super skinny, size 6 gypsies. And the guy she chooses to fall in love with out of all the men on offer to her is the hapless soldier Don Jose, who looked just like any other fat guy from the office who Ricky Gervais would tell to ‘go for a fucking run and stop eating burgers.’ (Actually, comedy seems to be the only other performing art that welcomes the overweight smoker with such open arms.)
On that operatic stage, the ones who ate all the pies were captivating heroes, transporting you effortlessly to 19th century Spain, pulling you into the intense turmoil of their lives with a vice-like grip on your throat, leaving you choking back emotions with embarrassment when the lights come up at the end.
Apparently Carmen was the first Realistic opera, what the Italians refer to as Verismo, meaning the truth. Instead of taking its characters from the aristocracy, they came from proletarian life. Contemporary, everyday life was depicted, which would have been a bit of a shock to audiences back in late 19th century Europe. Today, although it’s not exactly shocking, Carmen can still surprise its 21st century audience for different reasons. These days, due to our unhealthy obsession with health and weight, we’re not used to seeing larger people in sexy and beguiling roles. They’re almost regarded as a turn-off. But in Carmen, the large leads are very sexual, with much seduction and many throes of passion being played out on the stage floor.
So Carmen is as refreshing as it ever was, staying true to its original Verismo style. Yet now it’s not a question of representing the proletariat but the inferior class of today, that is, the fat person. And the truth is, by 2012, 1 in 3 Londoners will be obese. Therefore we can’t go on hiding fat people from the limelight and constantly vilifying them. They are a part of our society, and have the right to be celebrated too. I mean, who put stick-thin, talentless air-heads such as Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan in charge anyway? It’s time they were overthrown. I know who’d win in a fight between them and Carmen. And actually, I mean because of her ‘interior security, strength of temperament and personality’, not just the fact that all she has to do is sit on them till they cry like babies for mercy.
Sunday, March 1st, 2009
Dusk falls but all the lights hold it up. A siren screams in the distance when the flock is shepherded out of the station by a ‘Keep to the left hand side please.’ Heads are down and eyes stare blankly at feet in front, as they stay in line at the correct distance apart from those ahead. A silent command is given, and the rows turn ninety degrees to the right. Heads turn ninety degrees to the right again, and they all stand still.
Five minutes pass and the flock becomes restless. One falls out of line to move closer to the front. Others follow. Most remain in their positions, heads still turned to the right, eyes transfixed. Then suddenly they see a flash of red up ahead. Feet stamp, and hot breath streams fiercely from nostrils. Fire fills vacant eyes. They come alive. The vision of red is now upon them and they charge forward. Old, young, barely born are pushed, knocked, crushed in the stampede. A youngster’s pitiful wail can be heard through the clip clopping of feet, forsaken by its mother for the thrill of the fight. The broken tension is intoxicating.
They’re now a mass of irrepressible bodies all battling to get to the front. Heads on heads, feet on toes, forearms on backs, pushing and shoving. Whites of eyes and teeth are on show when the dark side takes over. A foot kicks a leg in front, tempers flare and one rears up in anger. The downtrodden are now treading on. They barge their way into the red and it consumes them one by one. No one listens to the ‘No standing on the stairs please.’ The transformation is complete as the No. 2 heaves its way up the hill, home.
Five minutes pass and the flock becomes restless. One falls out of line to move closer to the front. Others follow. Most remain in their positions, heads still turned to the right, eyes transfixed. Then suddenly they see a flash of red up ahead. Feet stamp, and hot breath streams fiercely from nostrils. Fire fills vacant eyes. They come alive. The vision of red is now upon them and they charge forward. Old, young, barely born are pushed, knocked, crushed in the stampede. A youngster’s pitiful wail can be heard through the clip clopping of feet, forsaken by its mother for the thrill of the fight. The broken tension is intoxicating.
They’re now a mass of irrepressible bodies all battling to get to the front. Heads on heads, feet on toes, forearms on backs, pushing and shoving. Whites of eyes and teeth are on show when the dark side takes over. A foot kicks a leg in front, tempers flare and one rears up in anger. The downtrodden are now treading on. They barge their way into the red and it consumes them one by one. No one listens to the ‘No standing on the stairs please.’ The transformation is complete as the No. 2 heaves its way up the hill, home.
Saturday, February 21st, 2009
You think you’re quite a hard, cynical capital city-type person and then something happens to make you realise that you’re actually softer than an Andrex puppy sitting atop a mountain of quadruple velvet toilet rolls. On Tuesday I nipped into my Sainsbury’s Local by the station to grab the essential item I always go into a shop to buy, yet usually come out with everything but, namely the aforementioned toilet roll, and discovered that all the tills except three had gone. In their place are those self-service checkouts with the cold, disembodied robotic voice (definitely no cute Wall E inspiration there) that’s deceptively soothing, as it belies the less discernible patronising and sinister tone with which it directs shoppers on how to scan their goods correctly. It’s alarmingly reminiscent of Nurse Ratched's voice from the 1970s film One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest.
Not surprisingly, a shiver went down my spine. And then a feeling of sadness swamped me and my purchases-to-be. Even Uncle Ben’s eternally cheery face staring at me from the jar of Hickory Smoke Barbecue sauce in my basket, suddenly looked gloomy. If those 7 tills had been replaced by a robotic voice, what had happened to the 7 humans? Those helpful souls with warm smiles and a friendly, "Hi, how are you today?" the sincerity of which never fails to jolt you out of your comfortable detachment. They force you into a smile before you can stop yourself, and by the end of the transaction you’re divulging all sorts of secrets that usually us city-types protectively keep to our clique of friends, for fear of a personal space invasion. You know, top-secret stuff like how our day’s been or what we’re doing that evening. Mad really.
I began to worry about the Jamaican lady with the long painted fingernails, Vincent, the diligent Indonesian chap, who always reminds you of the current offers, “You know this is buy one get one free, don’t you?” and lets you run back down the aisles, Supermarket Sweep-style to pick up the free tin of soup before returning red-faced and out of breath to the till. Did they all lose their jobs to Nurse Ratched’s voice? How would Joyce keep up those fantastic nails? Don’t they know that acrylics aren’t cheap?
Worse still, what about my favourite cashier, Hassan? The sweet old man who’s like your granddad, who packs my bags without hesitation and even lets me off the odd 10p here and there if I don’t have it, with an unmistakeable twinkle in his eye at my polite protestations as he adds that it’ll be ok as long as I bring the money with me the next time, knowing that I never will. I remember blushing like a teenager when I had to ask him for condoms, and shamefully bottled out at the last minute with a request for some Rennies from behind the counter instead. He was the nearest you can get these days to the old-fashioned local shopkeeper, who saw his customers regularly and built up a relationship with them, knowing not only his, but his customer’s onions too. A community figure who people would visit (under the guise of buying toilet roll) to have a gossip or a debate about the front-page story of the newspaper, not just to make a cold transaction.
As these shopkeepers and their local independent shops have almost been completely wiped out by the Supermarket, Pound Shop and Cost-Cutter franchises, us city dwellers at least have become incapable of developing more than a ‘hi and bye’ relationship with our cashiers. But now it seems that even this is being taken away from us. The human contact with people from different walks of life, which drags us out of the trap of our protective bubbles, which are actually the cause of our paranoia and fear. Mental really, aren’t we? Yes after the mysterious disappearance of the cashiers, Nurse Ratched’s voice has taken over the asylum, and now there’s only one way out. Find the nearest Red Indian called Chief and get him to lob a drinking fountain threw the window of your local Sainsbury’s or Tesco, then run like the wind and escape to a hippy commune where they grow their own food.
Not surprisingly, a shiver went down my spine. And then a feeling of sadness swamped me and my purchases-to-be. Even Uncle Ben’s eternally cheery face staring at me from the jar of Hickory Smoke Barbecue sauce in my basket, suddenly looked gloomy. If those 7 tills had been replaced by a robotic voice, what had happened to the 7 humans? Those helpful souls with warm smiles and a friendly, "Hi, how are you today?" the sincerity of which never fails to jolt you out of your comfortable detachment. They force you into a smile before you can stop yourself, and by the end of the transaction you’re divulging all sorts of secrets that usually us city-types protectively keep to our clique of friends, for fear of a personal space invasion. You know, top-secret stuff like how our day’s been or what we’re doing that evening. Mad really.
I began to worry about the Jamaican lady with the long painted fingernails, Vincent, the diligent Indonesian chap, who always reminds you of the current offers, “You know this is buy one get one free, don’t you?” and lets you run back down the aisles, Supermarket Sweep-style to pick up the free tin of soup before returning red-faced and out of breath to the till. Did they all lose their jobs to Nurse Ratched’s voice? How would Joyce keep up those fantastic nails? Don’t they know that acrylics aren’t cheap?
Worse still, what about my favourite cashier, Hassan? The sweet old man who’s like your granddad, who packs my bags without hesitation and even lets me off the odd 10p here and there if I don’t have it, with an unmistakeable twinkle in his eye at my polite protestations as he adds that it’ll be ok as long as I bring the money with me the next time, knowing that I never will. I remember blushing like a teenager when I had to ask him for condoms, and shamefully bottled out at the last minute with a request for some Rennies from behind the counter instead. He was the nearest you can get these days to the old-fashioned local shopkeeper, who saw his customers regularly and built up a relationship with them, knowing not only his, but his customer’s onions too. A community figure who people would visit (under the guise of buying toilet roll) to have a gossip or a debate about the front-page story of the newspaper, not just to make a cold transaction.
As these shopkeepers and their local independent shops have almost been completely wiped out by the Supermarket, Pound Shop and Cost-Cutter franchises, us city dwellers at least have become incapable of developing more than a ‘hi and bye’ relationship with our cashiers. But now it seems that even this is being taken away from us. The human contact with people from different walks of life, which drags us out of the trap of our protective bubbles, which are actually the cause of our paranoia and fear. Mental really, aren’t we? Yes after the mysterious disappearance of the cashiers, Nurse Ratched’s voice has taken over the asylum, and now there’s only one way out. Find the nearest Red Indian called Chief and get him to lob a drinking fountain threw the window of your local Sainsbury’s or Tesco, then run like the wind and escape to a hippy commune where they grow their own food.
Saturday, February 14th, 2009
To escape from this gloomy recession I went time travelling on the cheap. Basically I visited my Nan so I could listen to her recalling a chapter from the story of her life in vivid detail, without pausing for breath. Well it’s pretty inexpensive compared to a trip to the cinema or buying a book, plus I get an unlimited buffet of Cherry Bakewells and Blue Riband chocolate wafers thrown in for free.
But great, just my luck. She was on Chapter 6, The Great Depression of 1929. A time when 20% of the British workforce was unemployed, 25% of the UK’s population existed on a subsistence diet, and my Nan had to move from London to the rather less glamorous Stanwell, Middlesex. She also had to leave behind her beloved job as a quality controller at a luxury goods manufacturer, where at 15 years old she got to look at and touch real leather handbags, silk scarves and bejewelled necklaces - objects that working class people like her would never usually get to hold - to become a stock assistant at Woolworths.
To my Nan at 96 years old, the Great Depression of 80 years ago is more lucid than what she did yesterday, because apparently it’s the short-term memory that goes first, whereas the long-term one decays much later. As she spoke, with her profile in silhouette against the harsh light of the February sun, she kept staring straight ahead, as if it was all being played out right in front of her. She was back in the 1930s, reliving the steel tub baths with ice cold water, hauling heavy stock down steep stairs and scraping together enough money for the bus fare.
Yet her story of everyday poverty and hardship made me feel much better about today’s economic situation. It doesn’t even come close when you try and compare the two. And then it made me think about the book I’m reading at the moment, White Tiger by Aravind Adiga, that’s set in India in the present day. Although you could be mistaken for thinking that it was actually Britain in the 1930s because of all the alarming similarities. The poverty, corruption, illiteracy, huge divide between rich and poor, exploitation of the underprivileged, child labour, outside toilets, large families sharing cramped spaces, servants and handful of moneyed landlords owning all the property, to whom you have to pay extortionate amounts of rent.
It shows that in Britain at least, we have come a long way in a relatively short space of time, and although they say this recession will be the worst this country has seen since the 1930s, we won’t have to go back to scrabbling in the mud for coal to heat our homes. It’s better to look on this recession as just a minor setback that we can all gain something from. Like appreciating the small things in life, living within our means and realising what’s important. All the stuff that, let’s face it, we don’t really do unless we’re forced to.
During the 96 years my Nan has lived through, depressions and recessions have come and gone, as life is all about cycles. Only once in a generation do we get the chance to break out of the cycle we're in, and move into another one where we're better off than before. According to the IMF, India, after all those years of exploitation by the West, will have one of the only expanding economies in 2009 and 2010 - China’s will be the other. They're both taking their chance. And we should take ours, by learning to live with less and caring about communities rather than companies.
So yes, life’s all about cycles and what goes around, comes around. Or what the Indians call Karma. It gives me hope that the big bosses who've caused this latest recession will get what’s coming to them. In White Tiger, the Indian servant protagonist slits his boss’s throat. Perhaps one day all the fat cats’ heads will roll too – metaphorically speaking, of course.
But great, just my luck. She was on Chapter 6, The Great Depression of 1929. A time when 20% of the British workforce was unemployed, 25% of the UK’s population existed on a subsistence diet, and my Nan had to move from London to the rather less glamorous Stanwell, Middlesex. She also had to leave behind her beloved job as a quality controller at a luxury goods manufacturer, where at 15 years old she got to look at and touch real leather handbags, silk scarves and bejewelled necklaces - objects that working class people like her would never usually get to hold - to become a stock assistant at Woolworths.
To my Nan at 96 years old, the Great Depression of 80 years ago is more lucid than what she did yesterday, because apparently it’s the short-term memory that goes first, whereas the long-term one decays much later. As she spoke, with her profile in silhouette against the harsh light of the February sun, she kept staring straight ahead, as if it was all being played out right in front of her. She was back in the 1930s, reliving the steel tub baths with ice cold water, hauling heavy stock down steep stairs and scraping together enough money for the bus fare.
Yet her story of everyday poverty and hardship made me feel much better about today’s economic situation. It doesn’t even come close when you try and compare the two. And then it made me think about the book I’m reading at the moment, White Tiger by Aravind Adiga, that’s set in India in the present day. Although you could be mistaken for thinking that it was actually Britain in the 1930s because of all the alarming similarities. The poverty, corruption, illiteracy, huge divide between rich and poor, exploitation of the underprivileged, child labour, outside toilets, large families sharing cramped spaces, servants and handful of moneyed landlords owning all the property, to whom you have to pay extortionate amounts of rent.
It shows that in Britain at least, we have come a long way in a relatively short space of time, and although they say this recession will be the worst this country has seen since the 1930s, we won’t have to go back to scrabbling in the mud for coal to heat our homes. It’s better to look on this recession as just a minor setback that we can all gain something from. Like appreciating the small things in life, living within our means and realising what’s important. All the stuff that, let’s face it, we don’t really do unless we’re forced to.
During the 96 years my Nan has lived through, depressions and recessions have come and gone, as life is all about cycles. Only once in a generation do we get the chance to break out of the cycle we're in, and move into another one where we're better off than before. According to the IMF, India, after all those years of exploitation by the West, will have one of the only expanding economies in 2009 and 2010 - China’s will be the other. They're both taking their chance. And we should take ours, by learning to live with less and caring about communities rather than companies.
So yes, life’s all about cycles and what goes around, comes around. Or what the Indians call Karma. It gives me hope that the big bosses who've caused this latest recession will get what’s coming to them. In White Tiger, the Indian servant protagonist slits his boss’s throat. Perhaps one day all the fat cats’ heads will roll too – metaphorically speaking, of course.
Sunday, February 8th, 2009
London’s on edge. There’s tension in the air. It’s as if a fight’s going to break out at any minute. It can be seen on the grim faces in the streets and heard in the aggressive tone of the conversations in pubs. You see, the economic downturn has exasperated the ‘us and them’ situation, us being the employees, and them, the big bosses. And the rumour among us workers is that our masters are taking advantage of this recession, making redundancies (the euphemism for being fired) under the guise of essential cost cutting, so they can get rid of the people they don’t like. The rebels, or clock-watchers as ‘they’ call them, you know, the ones who stand up for themselves and have a life.
The powers that be have also introduced the pay freeze, which is forecast to last for at least the next 6 months. And this, along with the firings, has meant that us workers have had to take on more work for the same money, without the hope of a bonus or pay rise. We can’t move jobs, as the big bosses have worked together to come up with a cunning plan in the form of the no hiring mandate, which orders that there can’t be any hirings after a firing for, yes you’ve guessed it, at least the next 6 months. So we’re trapped into doing more work for the same wage, and made to think that we’re just lucky to still have a job.
And through it all we’ve kept our heads down without saying a word like the good little workers we’re supposed to be, for fear of being put in the firing line ourselves and having a black mark against our names, turning us into ‘untouchables’ or outcasts, meaning it’d be hard to get another decent job. But now we’ve had enough, and last Monday signalled the beginning of the uprising. Yes, we’ve begun to play them at their own game. If they’ve been taking advantage of the worst recession in 30 years, then we were going to use the worst snowfall in London for 20 years as an excuse to have a day off work to spend with family and friends.
And what a great day it was. We all reverted back to being kids, naughtily skiving off school, while every street and park became a playground as communities made snowmen and throw snowballs at each other. One of the best things about it was that us workers did it together. There was solidarity. It was a day where we all stood up against ‘them’. Many of us stayed at home to have fun in the snow, even those who could have made it in, as their commute wasn’t really disrupted. And the strength in numbers weakened the big bosses’ power, as they couldn’t penalise scores of the workforce – apparently a fifth of Britain’s workers didn’t make it into the office.
Yes it’s the worst recession for 30 years and the worst snowfall in 20, but we’ve also just had the best Monday in living memory. So they can keep their Black Monday, because we’ll always have our white one.
The powers that be have also introduced the pay freeze, which is forecast to last for at least the next 6 months. And this, along with the firings, has meant that us workers have had to take on more work for the same money, without the hope of a bonus or pay rise. We can’t move jobs, as the big bosses have worked together to come up with a cunning plan in the form of the no hiring mandate, which orders that there can’t be any hirings after a firing for, yes you’ve guessed it, at least the next 6 months. So we’re trapped into doing more work for the same wage, and made to think that we’re just lucky to still have a job.
And through it all we’ve kept our heads down without saying a word like the good little workers we’re supposed to be, for fear of being put in the firing line ourselves and having a black mark against our names, turning us into ‘untouchables’ or outcasts, meaning it’d be hard to get another decent job. But now we’ve had enough, and last Monday signalled the beginning of the uprising. Yes, we’ve begun to play them at their own game. If they’ve been taking advantage of the worst recession in 30 years, then we were going to use the worst snowfall in London for 20 years as an excuse to have a day off work to spend with family and friends.
And what a great day it was. We all reverted back to being kids, naughtily skiving off school, while every street and park became a playground as communities made snowmen and throw snowballs at each other. One of the best things about it was that us workers did it together. There was solidarity. It was a day where we all stood up against ‘them’. Many of us stayed at home to have fun in the snow, even those who could have made it in, as their commute wasn’t really disrupted. And the strength in numbers weakened the big bosses’ power, as they couldn’t penalise scores of the workforce – apparently a fifth of Britain’s workers didn’t make it into the office.
Yes it’s the worst recession for 30 years and the worst snowfall in 20, but we’ve also just had the best Monday in living memory. So they can keep their Black Monday, because we’ll always have our white one.
Saturday, January 31st, 2009
This week the powers that be announced unrelentingly that we are, after all, deep in the 'thing-that-must-not-be-named'. The 'thing' that until now has had the euphemism, 'credit crunch' applied to it from the Ministry of For The Public's Own Good. But we weren’t fooled. We knew all along what they were trying to cover up, didn't we? Well, it's now been made official. We are in a recession. Hoorah! Whoop, whoop! Get those party poppers out. Please excuse me while I take this opportunity to congratulate all our wonderful economists, analysts and bankers for doing such a great job. Yeah, how about a great big fat bonus on us?
It was greed and selfishness that caused this latest recession. And we shouldn't be surprised at that, ay? Because greed and selfishness are what caused the material wealth in the first place. In fact, in our capitalist system, they're virtues. After all, it's all dog eat dog in the rat race. And whoever got rewarded for being nice in business? But what about that nice Richard Branson, you say? Oh dear. You really have been brain washed and are quite delusional.
So what great timing it was to hear about a far less reported story from a bygone era that's a world away from recessions. Because just as the words 'worst recession for 30 years' were echoing through offices across the globe, an architect who renovates buildings in eastern Germany unlocked a door and found himself instantly transported back to the Socialist state of the GDR. The flat had been apparently untouched since 1989, before the Berlin wall came down. They found documents that indicated that the guy who lived there had left in a hurry as he was in trouble with the East German authorities.
They found East German goods such as a bottle of Vita Cola, Juwel cigarettes and a bottle of Kristall vodka. No US junk, like Coca-cola, McDonald's or Marlboro. Anyone who's seen the 2003 film Goodbye Lenin!, directed by Wolfgang Becker, will understand the feelings of nostalgia and affection that these products can create in former East Germans. And what the Germans call 'Ostalgia' doesn't stop at consumer goods they can't get anymore. You see, not all of them thought that the socialist system was bad. Just like not everyone today thinks our capitalist system is good. Of course, they don't want the Stasi police back or their dictators who pocket a lot of the wealth for themselves, just like we don't want a return to the disproportional fat bonuses for the city boys or their directors. But they have this Ostalgia for their more secure past, the welfare state that existed under the GDR. Everyone had work, housing and a good health service free of charge. So although freedom, efficiency and the thrill of success were sacrificed, at least they didn’t have money pressures, which would seem like a relief to us all now.
The GDR might have been a bureaucratic workers' state, but it was more egalitarian than our capitalist system. It wasn't based on competition or the dog eat dog mentality, which meant people didn't see each other as competition or the enemy, and the collective lifestyle enforced by the socialist system created a sense of solidarity and a focus on the family, which the capitalist system is sadly lacking.
We all know that the rosy future promised for the East Germans before the vote for reunification under the capitalist system never happened, and that they ended up being far worse off than before. And it's ironic that today we're moving away from capitalist ideals and towards the much maligned socialist system, as governments have had to resort to bailing out the financial industries in an attempt to control the economy – albeit temporarily.
So it's becoming clearer and clearer that the capitalist system that the west has tried its hardest to replicate around the world at the expense of any other country's ideals, doesn't work as well as we all once thought. The trouble is, it is still the best system that we’ve thought up so far, but as this latest recession and world poverty suggests, it's time for an alternative. And in finding that, economists and academics have to take into account the positives of other systems, such as the GDR's socialist one, and not dismiss it entirely as a failure. We need to recognise not only the mistakes, but the successes too, without prejudice, so we can learn from it all and move on. That seems to be what humans always need to do, move on. It's kind of what gives us hope. And a reason to get those party poppers out.
As the GDR's poet and playwright Bertolt Brecht wrote in a 1953 poem, Der Radwechsel:
"I am sitting beside the road
The driver is changing a wheel
I don't like where I am
I don't like where I am going
Why do I watch the changing of the wheel
With impatience?"
It was greed and selfishness that caused this latest recession. And we shouldn't be surprised at that, ay? Because greed and selfishness are what caused the material wealth in the first place. In fact, in our capitalist system, they're virtues. After all, it's all dog eat dog in the rat race. And whoever got rewarded for being nice in business? But what about that nice Richard Branson, you say? Oh dear. You really have been brain washed and are quite delusional.
So what great timing it was to hear about a far less reported story from a bygone era that's a world away from recessions. Because just as the words 'worst recession for 30 years' were echoing through offices across the globe, an architect who renovates buildings in eastern Germany unlocked a door and found himself instantly transported back to the Socialist state of the GDR. The flat had been apparently untouched since 1989, before the Berlin wall came down. They found documents that indicated that the guy who lived there had left in a hurry as he was in trouble with the East German authorities.
They found East German goods such as a bottle of Vita Cola, Juwel cigarettes and a bottle of Kristall vodka. No US junk, like Coca-cola, McDonald's or Marlboro. Anyone who's seen the 2003 film Goodbye Lenin!, directed by Wolfgang Becker, will understand the feelings of nostalgia and affection that these products can create in former East Germans. And what the Germans call 'Ostalgia' doesn't stop at consumer goods they can't get anymore. You see, not all of them thought that the socialist system was bad. Just like not everyone today thinks our capitalist system is good. Of course, they don't want the Stasi police back or their dictators who pocket a lot of the wealth for themselves, just like we don't want a return to the disproportional fat bonuses for the city boys or their directors. But they have this Ostalgia for their more secure past, the welfare state that existed under the GDR. Everyone had work, housing and a good health service free of charge. So although freedom, efficiency and the thrill of success were sacrificed, at least they didn’t have money pressures, which would seem like a relief to us all now.
The GDR might have been a bureaucratic workers' state, but it was more egalitarian than our capitalist system. It wasn't based on competition or the dog eat dog mentality, which meant people didn't see each other as competition or the enemy, and the collective lifestyle enforced by the socialist system created a sense of solidarity and a focus on the family, which the capitalist system is sadly lacking.
We all know that the rosy future promised for the East Germans before the vote for reunification under the capitalist system never happened, and that they ended up being far worse off than before. And it's ironic that today we're moving away from capitalist ideals and towards the much maligned socialist system, as governments have had to resort to bailing out the financial industries in an attempt to control the economy – albeit temporarily.
So it's becoming clearer and clearer that the capitalist system that the west has tried its hardest to replicate around the world at the expense of any other country's ideals, doesn't work as well as we all once thought. The trouble is, it is still the best system that we’ve thought up so far, but as this latest recession and world poverty suggests, it's time for an alternative. And in finding that, economists and academics have to take into account the positives of other systems, such as the GDR's socialist one, and not dismiss it entirely as a failure. We need to recognise not only the mistakes, but the successes too, without prejudice, so we can learn from it all and move on. That seems to be what humans always need to do, move on. It's kind of what gives us hope. And a reason to get those party poppers out.
As the GDR's poet and playwright Bertolt Brecht wrote in a 1953 poem, Der Radwechsel:
"I am sitting beside the road
The driver is changing a wheel
I don't like where I am
I don't like where I am going
Why do I watch the changing of the wheel
With impatience?"
Saturday, January 24th, 2009
I haven’t had an alcohol-free week since I was 16. And that’s how it should be. But this year, I’ve gone against the traditional January retox and have replaced it with a new idea. A detox. Have I gone insane? Well no, not quite yet. You see, I just got bored with Alcohol and decided to take a break from her for a month at least. (I drank white wine mostly and with its bitchiness and bite, it’s definitely a ‘she’). I became fed up with her control over my life and my need to be with her every weekend. I was losing my identity and turning into a psychotic she-devil at midnight every Saturday. (At least I hoped it was her fault.) And I felt she’d just let me down too many times, what with her empty promises of a great time. The night always started off well but then quickly descended into bitter disappointment, leaving me with a headache and a bad taste in my mouth. As if a camel had shat in it. So I decided, ‘Damn bitch, I’ve had enough of you nagging me from the fridge, I need a clean break.’
It’s now been two weeks since she passed my lips. And I feel, sober. Very, sober. Not in the serious, sombre way, just alcohol-free. I mean, a vampire could drink my blood and drive pretty confidently past a porker of police vans. It’s the cleanest I’ve been for 18 years and it’s been a little scary being so detoxicated. I’ve had nothing to blame my behaviour on, the mood I’ve woken up with is more than likely the one I’ve gone to bed with, I’ve had to find out whether me or my friends are as interesting and witty as I think we are, and I’ve remembered everything.
Yet after the initial shock to the system, I’ve got used to my sobriety, and can now take about 3 glasses of sparkling water a night. The biggest surprise has been how easy it is to be myself without Alcohol. I used to think that, to quote Tom Cruise in Jerry Maguire, that she completed me, and that I needed her after work to be the relaxed, fun me. But I didn’t after all. In fact, without her I can be the relaxed, fun me for a hell of a lot longer than with her. And I don’t turn into the psychotic she-devil at midnight.
And one of the best things about not drinking when everyone else around you is, is that you’re the only one who remains sharp, so eventually everyone’s laughing hysterically at everything you say and hanging onto your every word. A buzz that’s on a par with anything she’s ever given me.
By not drinking, I’ve managed to reach the pleasurable and happy state I used to hope every next glass would bring. And in that way, not drinking has made me feel drunker than I’ve ever felt in my life. So now I’m scared to go back to her. But I’ll have to one day. Because all of this is probably just novelty and soon I’ll be as bored of not drinking as I was of drinking. Also not only that, but despite everything, I just miss the bitch too much.
It’s now been two weeks since she passed my lips. And I feel, sober. Very, sober. Not in the serious, sombre way, just alcohol-free. I mean, a vampire could drink my blood and drive pretty confidently past a porker of police vans. It’s the cleanest I’ve been for 18 years and it’s been a little scary being so detoxicated. I’ve had nothing to blame my behaviour on, the mood I’ve woken up with is more than likely the one I’ve gone to bed with, I’ve had to find out whether me or my friends are as interesting and witty as I think we are, and I’ve remembered everything.
Yet after the initial shock to the system, I’ve got used to my sobriety, and can now take about 3 glasses of sparkling water a night. The biggest surprise has been how easy it is to be myself without Alcohol. I used to think that, to quote Tom Cruise in Jerry Maguire, that she completed me, and that I needed her after work to be the relaxed, fun me. But I didn’t after all. In fact, without her I can be the relaxed, fun me for a hell of a lot longer than with her. And I don’t turn into the psychotic she-devil at midnight.
And one of the best things about not drinking when everyone else around you is, is that you’re the only one who remains sharp, so eventually everyone’s laughing hysterically at everything you say and hanging onto your every word. A buzz that’s on a par with anything she’s ever given me.
By not drinking, I’ve managed to reach the pleasurable and happy state I used to hope every next glass would bring. And in that way, not drinking has made me feel drunker than I’ve ever felt in my life. So now I’m scared to go back to her. But I’ll have to one day. Because all of this is probably just novelty and soon I’ll be as bored of not drinking as I was of drinking. Also not only that, but despite everything, I just miss the bitch too much.
Friday, January 16th, 2009
“And yeah, I'd love to tell you all my problems, You're not from New York City, you're from Rotherham, So get off the bandwagon and put down the handbook”, sing The Arctic Monkeys. And we know who they mean. All the Ali G’s still finger flicking about, the half-arsed adolescent wannabe terrorists who live at home with Mum and eat turkey drumsticks for tea, as in the docu-drama Monkey Dust, or the aspiring white Yardies of East London.
Now this last group don’t actually come from the impoverished government-built shantytown or ‘yards’ of Kingston, Jamaica, where poverty sucked the souls out of the inhabitants and turned many into violent criminals. No, they’re from the government-built cosy maisonettes of E14, where apathy has sucked the souls out of the inhabitants and turned many into bored, lazy teenagers.
A teacher friend of mine was telling me about this particular sub-group of society the other day. He said it’s funny because they put on their ‘Yardie’ accent to look cool in front of their mates and to fit in, but whenever he’s pulled one of them aside after class for messing about, they’ve immediately dropped their affectations and have said in a polite, East London accent, ‘Yeah, sorry sir.’ Just like in a sketch show. I think the funniest comedy twist on this British cultural insight is with the Little Britain character Anne, who’s a psychiatric patient. She acts mental so she doesn’t have to fit into society. Whenever her mobile rings she stops her fake incoherent screeching and answers it in a polite, slightly posh voice.
Apparently the white Yardies of East London, probably like all these sub-subcultures, practice their feigned mannerisms and accents at home, more than likely in front of the mirror. Now this got me thinking. The Arctic Monkeys sing in ‘Fake Tales of San Francisco’, “So get off the bandwagon and put down the handbook”, and it does seem to me that these kids do all indeed have these handbooks, these guides. Different manuals for each group on how to survive in the urban playground. Well how else would they convincingly pull off their posturing in front of the bullies? And how else would they all know when one of them says in a thick Jamaican East London patois, ‘Mi a go Smithy’s yard’, that it means, ‘I’m off to Smithy’s Mum’s house’? It must be all there for them in their ‘Yardie’, ‘Jamaican hip hop’ or ‘Mental Patient’ handbook.
Then I wondered why I hadn’t had one of these handbooks to help me through my growing years. I mean the only handbook I’ve ever owned is a Brownie Guide one. Hmmm. Perhaps that does answer a lot.
Now this last group don’t actually come from the impoverished government-built shantytown or ‘yards’ of Kingston, Jamaica, where poverty sucked the souls out of the inhabitants and turned many into violent criminals. No, they’re from the government-built cosy maisonettes of E14, where apathy has sucked the souls out of the inhabitants and turned many into bored, lazy teenagers.
A teacher friend of mine was telling me about this particular sub-group of society the other day. He said it’s funny because they put on their ‘Yardie’ accent to look cool in front of their mates and to fit in, but whenever he’s pulled one of them aside after class for messing about, they’ve immediately dropped their affectations and have said in a polite, East London accent, ‘Yeah, sorry sir.’ Just like in a sketch show. I think the funniest comedy twist on this British cultural insight is with the Little Britain character Anne, who’s a psychiatric patient. She acts mental so she doesn’t have to fit into society. Whenever her mobile rings she stops her fake incoherent screeching and answers it in a polite, slightly posh voice.
Apparently the white Yardies of East London, probably like all these sub-subcultures, practice their feigned mannerisms and accents at home, more than likely in front of the mirror. Now this got me thinking. The Arctic Monkeys sing in ‘Fake Tales of San Francisco’, “So get off the bandwagon and put down the handbook”, and it does seem to me that these kids do all indeed have these handbooks, these guides. Different manuals for each group on how to survive in the urban playground. Well how else would they convincingly pull off their posturing in front of the bullies? And how else would they all know when one of them says in a thick Jamaican East London patois, ‘Mi a go Smithy’s yard’, that it means, ‘I’m off to Smithy’s Mum’s house’? It must be all there for them in their ‘Yardie’, ‘Jamaican hip hop’ or ‘Mental Patient’ handbook.
Then I wondered why I hadn’t had one of these handbooks to help me through my growing years. I mean the only handbook I’ve ever owned is a Brownie Guide one. Hmmm. Perhaps that does answer a lot.
Saturday, January 10th, 2008
Last weekend while out clothes shopping with the boy, I was waiting by the changing rooms in Topman for what seemed like eons in the midst of rails and rails and galaxies of different jeans, which somehow all managed to look the same, when I spotted this t-shirt over on the back wall. At first I noticed it for its David Shrigley-esque illustration style, and was alarmed to think that after selling his artworks to Paperchase, now he was selling out to the Arcadia group. What next, Dorothy Perkins shopping bags with the ‘What were you thinking whilst you were having your brain sucked out’ illustration printed on them? Actually, that’d be really cool. Go sell out Shrigley! Propagate your ponderings for the masses to see.
But on closer inspection I realised it wasn’t David Shrigley at all, but another witty and mordant social commentator, who unfortunately remains anonymous. On the t-shirt was an illustration of a giant octopus-like monster with teeth rampaging through a city, destroying buildings with its huge tentacles. Huge flames were in the background and helicopters buzzed around like flies for it to swat. And there in the foreground, two figures in silhouette were standing on top of a building watching this scene unfold. And above one of these figures was a speech bubble that read, ‘I’m bored.’ It couldn’t have been a more fitting statement for me, standing as I was in Topman, left to watch guys with styled, self-conscious hair painfully pick jeans.
Yet when I thought about it a little longer, as I did have time to think, I realised it actually summed up modern life in general. It’s not actually rubbish as Blur claimed, it’s just boring. These days nothing’s new and you can get anything you want, anytime of day thanks to the internet. Films, TV programmes, porn. But instant gratification always leaves you unfulfilled and, well, bored. Then the next thing has to be bigger, dirtier or more violent to interest you, until you reach the point where watching a giant octopus destroy the city is just dull.
Still, trilby hats off to Topman for putting a decent illustration on a t-shirt for once, instead of the usual slogans like ‘I just moved you to the top of my to do list’, ‘You never forget your first pig’ or ‘I just came on Eileen’ (although that one is pretty funny). Topman selling t-shirts with biting social commentary – did I say nothing’s new? Clearly I was mistaken.
But on closer inspection I realised it wasn’t David Shrigley at all, but another witty and mordant social commentator, who unfortunately remains anonymous. On the t-shirt was an illustration of a giant octopus-like monster with teeth rampaging through a city, destroying buildings with its huge tentacles. Huge flames were in the background and helicopters buzzed around like flies for it to swat. And there in the foreground, two figures in silhouette were standing on top of a building watching this scene unfold. And above one of these figures was a speech bubble that read, ‘I’m bored.’ It couldn’t have been a more fitting statement for me, standing as I was in Topman, left to watch guys with styled, self-conscious hair painfully pick jeans.
Yet when I thought about it a little longer, as I did have time to think, I realised it actually summed up modern life in general. It’s not actually rubbish as Blur claimed, it’s just boring. These days nothing’s new and you can get anything you want, anytime of day thanks to the internet. Films, TV programmes, porn. But instant gratification always leaves you unfulfilled and, well, bored. Then the next thing has to be bigger, dirtier or more violent to interest you, until you reach the point where watching a giant octopus destroy the city is just dull.
Still, trilby hats off to Topman for putting a decent illustration on a t-shirt for once, instead of the usual slogans like ‘I just moved you to the top of my to do list’, ‘You never forget your first pig’ or ‘I just came on Eileen’ (although that one is pretty funny). Topman selling t-shirts with biting social commentary – did I say nothing’s new? Clearly I was mistaken.
Saturday, December 6th, 2008
So now that we can't booze on the underground, smoke inside or snort cocaine on buses, where can we go for that deserved high, the promise of which helps us to get up in the morning? The snuff box, that's where. Yes snuff - or powdered tobacco to any snuff virgins - should be the new drug of choice. Which other drug is brought out at the end of a lavish dinner under chandeliers, in an ornate, silver box on top of a highly polished ram's horn? This is how I experienced it, at a Livery Hall in the city of London. They have it after every dinner, ones that the Lord Mayor of London attends, so he probably has a little snuff too. And we're not talking Boris Johnson here, he's more into crack.
So if you can whip out a few lines of snuff and sniff them up your nostrils at a dinner table with candles, table decorations and a portrait of the Queen overlooking proceedings, then basically, you can sniff snuff anywhere you like. Off your desk at work, a children's slide or perhaps a church pew? Unlike cocaine, which most people take, bent double, off the toilet seat of a posh restaurant, nightclub or old man's pub. Amy Winehouse, Doherty, Moss, Johnson et al should really try it instead. It doesn't make your nose bleed, you don't have to invite unsavoury characters round your house to buy it, and cute little dogs aren't cut open to smuggle it into the country.
It's also cheaper than even cigarettes, as it's tax exempt, which is good to know in these credit crunching times. Not forgetting that it comes in a variety of flavours, the most popular being menthol. I guess coke does too, but you can't usually taste those flavours, and drug dealers don't generally advertise them. Well, rat poison, Nurofen or talcum powder flavours haven't really got that much appeal.
The downside is, it's brown. The song 'White Lines' or in fact any song that refers to the legendary 'white line' just wouldn't be the same with 'brown' replacing the 'white'. '(Ooh brown lines) Vision dreams of passion' or in Oasis's Cigarettes and Alcohol it'd be, 'you might as well do the brown line'. Can you imagine Liam singing that? And if you don't sniff hard enough, you can be left with brown nostrils. Those photos of celebrities coming out of clubs would be funnier though. And it'd give a whole new meaning to the phrase, 'brown nosing.'
So if you can whip out a few lines of snuff and sniff them up your nostrils at a dinner table with candles, table decorations and a portrait of the Queen overlooking proceedings, then basically, you can sniff snuff anywhere you like. Off your desk at work, a children's slide or perhaps a church pew? Unlike cocaine, which most people take, bent double, off the toilet seat of a posh restaurant, nightclub or old man's pub. Amy Winehouse, Doherty, Moss, Johnson et al should really try it instead. It doesn't make your nose bleed, you don't have to invite unsavoury characters round your house to buy it, and cute little dogs aren't cut open to smuggle it into the country.
It's also cheaper than even cigarettes, as it's tax exempt, which is good to know in these credit crunching times. Not forgetting that it comes in a variety of flavours, the most popular being menthol. I guess coke does too, but you can't usually taste those flavours, and drug dealers don't generally advertise them. Well, rat poison, Nurofen or talcum powder flavours haven't really got that much appeal.
The downside is, it's brown. The song 'White Lines' or in fact any song that refers to the legendary 'white line' just wouldn't be the same with 'brown' replacing the 'white'. '(Ooh brown lines) Vision dreams of passion' or in Oasis's Cigarettes and Alcohol it'd be, 'you might as well do the brown line'. Can you imagine Liam singing that? And if you don't sniff hard enough, you can be left with brown nostrils. Those photos of celebrities coming out of clubs would be funnier though. And it'd give a whole new meaning to the phrase, 'brown nosing.'
Sunday, November 30th, 2008
Last weekend I discovered it was possible to fall in love in just 30 seconds. In that moment my order at the bar and need for a pee was instantly forgotten, and I was left at the mercy of my new love. Like a useless puppet under their control, my arms and legs moved only at their whim, while my glazed eyes were fixed firmly in their direction and a gormless smile was painted on my face.
Yes I fell in love in 30 seconds, with a ukulele. And not just one. There was a whole orgy of ukuleles titillating the ears of everyone in the Prince Albert. Ok, so maybe it was more like lust. You see, contrary to what you might have previously thought, ukuleles are actually pretty sexy. As far as musical instruments go, it's normally the electric guitar that gets all the groupies, but that's because it doesn't usually share the stage with a ukulele.
The band's called The Dulwich Ukulele Club, so the latent raw sex and energy they unleash comes as a bit of a surprise. But this makes the experience all the more stimulating, and you find yourself stamping your feet and jumping up and down in wild abandonment, as the strings pluck faster and faster, building to an electrifying climax that leaves your body trembling.
They're like Gogol Bordello would have been if they'd grown up in a middle-class area of South East London, shared knitting patterns and practised in their local parish hall. But if you close your eyes, they're like Gogol Bordello on crack. So I found out it was best to see them through closed eyes. Well after all, like the old saying goes, you don't look at the mantlepiece while you're poking the fire.
Yes I fell in love in 30 seconds, with a ukulele. And not just one. There was a whole orgy of ukuleles titillating the ears of everyone in the Prince Albert. Ok, so maybe it was more like lust. You see, contrary to what you might have previously thought, ukuleles are actually pretty sexy. As far as musical instruments go, it's normally the electric guitar that gets all the groupies, but that's because it doesn't usually share the stage with a ukulele.
The band's called The Dulwich Ukulele Club, so the latent raw sex and energy they unleash comes as a bit of a surprise. But this makes the experience all the more stimulating, and you find yourself stamping your feet and jumping up and down in wild abandonment, as the strings pluck faster and faster, building to an electrifying climax that leaves your body trembling.
They're like Gogol Bordello would have been if they'd grown up in a middle-class area of South East London, shared knitting patterns and practised in their local parish hall. But if you close your eyes, they're like Gogol Bordello on crack. So I found out it was best to see them through closed eyes. Well after all, like the old saying goes, you don't look at the mantlepiece while you're poking the fire.
Friday, November 21st, 2008
Hola! Buenos dias/tardes/noches! Como estas? Bebes vino? Bebo muchos, muchos vino. Spanish is great isn't it? Ok, I've only been to two lessons so I can't watch Almodovar films without the subtitles just yet (actually I think even the Spanish need subtitles for his films. I mean have you seen Talk To Her??), but so far I've found it fairly easy to pick up. Because the Spanish keep it simple. None of this le, la and les rubbish you get from the French. And they hardly even bother with an I, you, him, her, it or they, either. So 'Do you drink wine?' becomes just, 'Bebes vino?' How cool is that?
That's about all we've learnt at the moment though, which makes for limited conversation in class, as we are only allowed to speak in Spanish. So after asking what our names are, Como te llamas?, what our surnames are 'Y de apellido?', how they are spelt, 'Como se escribe?' and if we eat meat and write letters, 'Comes carne? Escribes cartas?', we're left to just practice rolling our rs – apparently it's not genetic and everyone can do it. Except me.
And pronunciation is where the Spanish lose it and go all silly on us foreigners. I mean why roll the r? It just makes me think I've got an unfit tongue. It used to be the one muscle in my body that I thought was just fine and dandy, but then the Spanish have to come along and put theirs in all sorts of places, rendering my enunciation the equivalent of the missionary position to their karma sutra. Add to that the nonsense of pronouncing 2 ll's as a 'j', c as 'the', z as 'the' and v as 'b' and you understand the true meaning of 'tongue-tied'. And because pronunciation is one of the key elements of speaking a language and being understood, it looks like I'm going to have to give my tongue a bit of a work out. I only hope that you can't 'pull a tongue' or get cramp in it. I'm sure if it's possible, then I'll be the first to find out.
But the worst was yet to come. The hardest word to pronounce that I've come across so far, is the one I'll probably be using the most. It's got a whole lot of thethethethes in it. It's cerveza, and it means beer. Those bastardos.
That's about all we've learnt at the moment though, which makes for limited conversation in class, as we are only allowed to speak in Spanish. So after asking what our names are, Como te llamas?, what our surnames are 'Y de apellido?', how they are spelt, 'Como se escribe?' and if we eat meat and write letters, 'Comes carne? Escribes cartas?', we're left to just practice rolling our rs – apparently it's not genetic and everyone can do it. Except me.
And pronunciation is where the Spanish lose it and go all silly on us foreigners. I mean why roll the r? It just makes me think I've got an unfit tongue. It used to be the one muscle in my body that I thought was just fine and dandy, but then the Spanish have to come along and put theirs in all sorts of places, rendering my enunciation the equivalent of the missionary position to their karma sutra. Add to that the nonsense of pronouncing 2 ll's as a 'j', c as 'the', z as 'the' and v as 'b' and you understand the true meaning of 'tongue-tied'. And because pronunciation is one of the key elements of speaking a language and being understood, it looks like I'm going to have to give my tongue a bit of a work out. I only hope that you can't 'pull a tongue' or get cramp in it. I'm sure if it's possible, then I'll be the first to find out.
But the worst was yet to come. The hardest word to pronounce that I've come across so far, is the one I'll probably be using the most. It's got a whole lot of thethethethes in it. It's cerveza, and it means beer. Those bastardos.
Saturday, November 15th, 2008
I'm a celebrity now. Every time I go out I have people coming up to me, wanting to shake my hand and have their photo taken with me. And some even ask for my autograph. Girls, women, men, Mums and politicians. They look at me with wide, eager eyes, saying what a lovely face I have and talk about how excited they are to meet me. I'm invited into people's homes and hotel rooms. I go somewhere to take a look at a beautiful view or an amazing piece of architecture, and I have more people gazing at me. Families include me in their holiday photos for the mantelpiece. I smile and I get a hundred smiles back.
I'm like, but do you know who I am? I'm Carolyn Evans goddammit! I'm just a middle-class gal from the suburbs. But that doesn't seem to faze them, and they just ask for another photo, this time with the 10th friend in the group. Oh yes, I'm a celebrity. Well, in India at least. And now that I'm back in London, I miss those glamorous, heady days when southern Asia was my oyster and Bollywood beckoned. I'm filled with nostalgia for those afternoons of tea drinking with the Chief Minister, and when it was only a matter of time before I'd be fronting Laboratoires Garnier's campaign for 'Light', a skin lightening cream that prevents 'dark spots'– take a look at the India folder in 'my pics' to see the poster I spotted in Delhi. Strange to us, but then fake tan is probably a bizarre idea to Indians.
So it's been tough, but I'm slowly acclimatising to obscurity. I felt like last year's X Factor winner when I first came back, and thought one of those charity workers with a clipboard and pen on the street outside work wanted my autograph, but I think I'm over the worst now. I've become accustomed to being ignored on the tube and barely glanced at in the street (with the exception of the guy on the 7th till at Sainsbury's, who always gives me the eye). Actually I have my freedom back now, and can go to any restaurant I choose without some stranger sitting down opposite me, begging to take my photo.
In fact, I think the Indian tourist board should use this celeb-factor to market parts of the country to X Factor auditionees. Something along the lines of: 'You don't need the X Factor to have the Celeb-factor. Just visit India.' They could have posters outside the audition room. I'd suggest that they specifically mention the state of Bihar. It's the poorest area in India, so it could do with the money. And it's also bandit country.
I'm like, but do you know who I am? I'm Carolyn Evans goddammit! I'm just a middle-class gal from the suburbs. But that doesn't seem to faze them, and they just ask for another photo, this time with the 10th friend in the group. Oh yes, I'm a celebrity. Well, in India at least. And now that I'm back in London, I miss those glamorous, heady days when southern Asia was my oyster and Bollywood beckoned. I'm filled with nostalgia for those afternoons of tea drinking with the Chief Minister, and when it was only a matter of time before I'd be fronting Laboratoires Garnier's campaign for 'Light', a skin lightening cream that prevents 'dark spots'– take a look at the India folder in 'my pics' to see the poster I spotted in Delhi. Strange to us, but then fake tan is probably a bizarre idea to Indians.
So it's been tough, but I'm slowly acclimatising to obscurity. I felt like last year's X Factor winner when I first came back, and thought one of those charity workers with a clipboard and pen on the street outside work wanted my autograph, but I think I'm over the worst now. I've become accustomed to being ignored on the tube and barely glanced at in the street (with the exception of the guy on the 7th till at Sainsbury's, who always gives me the eye). Actually I have my freedom back now, and can go to any restaurant I choose without some stranger sitting down opposite me, begging to take my photo.
In fact, I think the Indian tourist board should use this celeb-factor to market parts of the country to X Factor auditionees. Something along the lines of: 'You don't need the X Factor to have the Celeb-factor. Just visit India.' They could have posters outside the audition room. I'd suggest that they specifically mention the state of Bihar. It's the poorest area in India, so it could do with the money. And it's also bandit country.
Sunday, October 12th, 2008
I go clothes shopping once a year. Or twice if there's a special occasion. And this Friday there was indeed one of those as I was throwing a party in a former Victorian toilet (but that's another story). So I thought I'd better buy a skirt or a dress, as a pair of jeans or the same dress I'd worn to the last two Christmas parties wouldn't really be making enough of an effort for my own party.
And in my own true style, I'd left it all to the last minute, so it was that I found myself flushed out of the tube on Thursday evening and straight into surfing the crowds on Oxford Street. The surf was strong and aggressive that evening, but I didn't mind as I'd already decided that I was only going to one shop. The one-stop shop, Topshop, and its flagship store. The Titanic of Oxford Street, with floor upon floor of gaudy sequins, folk deluxe, scratchy lace, mini tartan, military jackets and black ankle boots. You didn't need to risk losing your humour and shopping ambitions in the sea of people on the streets when you had it all there in that one building.
Yet as I headed towards it, I saw what looked like a fire through one of the windows on the first floor. But everyone else was just going about their business, so I thought it must have been some kind of early Christmas decoration. A glowing light in the window or some such nonsense. Even though when I crossed the road and looked at it a little closer, I could have sworn I saw a flicker of a flame, but as no-one else appeared to have seen it, I just pretended to myself that I hadn't either, and headed for the doors.
Just as I was at the entrance and closer to my chosen skirt, so nearer to getting home and putting my feet up, the sulphuric stench of burning hit my nostrils, but I decided to ignore it, and attempted to carry on walking in. Then the firm hand of the security man at the door pushed me back and looked me in the eyes with an incredulous expression and said, 'You can't come in, we're evacuating the building!' The smell seemed far stronger all of a sudden and I saw the women inside with slight panic on their faces, heading for the exit. Outside, the crowd on the street had calmed, as all the people had stopped to watch and take photos of Topshop on fire. I couldn't believe it. I'd actually walked into a building I knew was on fire, just to buy a skirt. I probably wouldn't even do that to rescue a dog, or a teddy bear. And I don't even care about clothes.
In fact, it was my hatred for shopping that had led me to do it. I could stand the smell of burning mannequins and sequins, the choking smoke and deadly heat. But not walking the streets wearing a hole in my foot going to shop after shop of ridiculous clothes, the hideous lighting in the changing rooms, the nubile 14 year olds wearing the clothes you were about to try on and the mind numbing queuing at the end.
I gave up and got something to eat, and was only gone about three quarters of an hour when I walked back to the tube at Oxford Circus and saw that Topshop had reopened. Well it was late night shopping, probably one of the most profitable days of the week. And I realised that this Titanic at least, never sinks.
And in my own true style, I'd left it all to the last minute, so it was that I found myself flushed out of the tube on Thursday evening and straight into surfing the crowds on Oxford Street. The surf was strong and aggressive that evening, but I didn't mind as I'd already decided that I was only going to one shop. The one-stop shop, Topshop, and its flagship store. The Titanic of Oxford Street, with floor upon floor of gaudy sequins, folk deluxe, scratchy lace, mini tartan, military jackets and black ankle boots. You didn't need to risk losing your humour and shopping ambitions in the sea of people on the streets when you had it all there in that one building.
Yet as I headed towards it, I saw what looked like a fire through one of the windows on the first floor. But everyone else was just going about their business, so I thought it must have been some kind of early Christmas decoration. A glowing light in the window or some such nonsense. Even though when I crossed the road and looked at it a little closer, I could have sworn I saw a flicker of a flame, but as no-one else appeared to have seen it, I just pretended to myself that I hadn't either, and headed for the doors.
Just as I was at the entrance and closer to my chosen skirt, so nearer to getting home and putting my feet up, the sulphuric stench of burning hit my nostrils, but I decided to ignore it, and attempted to carry on walking in. Then the firm hand of the security man at the door pushed me back and looked me in the eyes with an incredulous expression and said, 'You can't come in, we're evacuating the building!' The smell seemed far stronger all of a sudden and I saw the women inside with slight panic on their faces, heading for the exit. Outside, the crowd on the street had calmed, as all the people had stopped to watch and take photos of Topshop on fire. I couldn't believe it. I'd actually walked into a building I knew was on fire, just to buy a skirt. I probably wouldn't even do that to rescue a dog, or a teddy bear. And I don't even care about clothes.
In fact, it was my hatred for shopping that had led me to do it. I could stand the smell of burning mannequins and sequins, the choking smoke and deadly heat. But not walking the streets wearing a hole in my foot going to shop after shop of ridiculous clothes, the hideous lighting in the changing rooms, the nubile 14 year olds wearing the clothes you were about to try on and the mind numbing queuing at the end.
I gave up and got something to eat, and was only gone about three quarters of an hour when I walked back to the tube at Oxford Circus and saw that Topshop had reopened. Well it was late night shopping, probably one of the most profitable days of the week. And I realised that this Titanic at least, never sinks.
Friday, October 3rd, 2008
We don't get to wonder where the kids we were at school with ended up anymore. We're in the era of Facebook and Friends Reunited, and that means we have to know. Which just isn't as fun as imagining that Helen the weirdo ended up as a quantum physicist or in the loony bin. Now we find out that she's working in the finance department of a shipping company with offices in glamorous Staines. What a let down. But then sometimes the reality is, literally, beyond our wildest imaginings.
This week while doing research for a project at work, I was looking through a website at all the stars who attended Edinburgh's Film Festival this year (yes it does have one, and don't ask), when I came across the name Georgina Chapman. Hey, I thought to myself, I knew a Georgina Chapman at school, and I clicked on the link to her photo. She was in the year below me. A nice, pretty girl, bit of a jolly hockey sticks, Malory Towers-type rather than St Trinian's, you know, she was a good sort who didn't really stand out too much but at the same time you still noticed her. That's all that went through my mind in the seconds that it took for the photo to come on screen. And, oh! It's Georgina Chapman from my school with make-up on! Now what's she doing at a Film Festival? So of course I just had to investigate further. And where's the first place a contemporary Angela Lansbury would look? Good old wikipedia. And guess what? Georgina Chapman from my school has a page on wikipedia! Well, in my eyes that was enough in itself. But there's more.
Turns out she's an actress and a fashion designer with her own label, Marchesa. Well I never. I do remember though that she was good at art. She painted this huge portrait of an old geezer for her end of year exam, which she was very pleased with, and then some jealous person went and painted all over it in thick, black strokes. I don't remember ever finding out who that was, but it was the big scandal of the year. Now you may think that the revelations end there, but oh no. The biggie is yet to come. Wait for it.
So I look further down the page, past the words 'finalist' and 'Vogue', to the name Harvey Weinstein. The Harvey Weinstein who co-founded Miramax, the HUGE film production company which made Pulp Fiction and Shakespeare in Love. And she's married to him. Apparently they "split their time between a West Village townhouse, a seafront home in Westport, Connecticut and a mansion in Los Angeles". Don't think little Georgie has to worry too much about the credit crunch then. The girl who tried to go 6 months without washing her hair for an experiment (I'll always remember that smell) has come a long way. Good for her. But for all that money and luxury, I still wouldn't want to have to go to bed with Harvey Weinstein every night. Or any night.
I reread the page again, to take in all the details, and discovered that Georgina Chapman from my school is the daughter of Brian Chapman, millionaire businessman. Now my school was a private girl's one, but it was in Ashford, Middlesex near Staines, not London or Windsor, and although most of the girls were well spoken, the majority had working class Dads who'd done well for themselves, not posh, rich Daddies. And all these years I never knew she was a rich kid. Funny that. I'm still toying with the idea of whether I should say 'Hi, how's it going?' to her on Facebook. I mean I reckon we've got so much in common after all, and I bet she's dying to find out what happened to me.
This week while doing research for a project at work, I was looking through a website at all the stars who attended Edinburgh's Film Festival this year (yes it does have one, and don't ask), when I came across the name Georgina Chapman. Hey, I thought to myself, I knew a Georgina Chapman at school, and I clicked on the link to her photo. She was in the year below me. A nice, pretty girl, bit of a jolly hockey sticks, Malory Towers-type rather than St Trinian's, you know, she was a good sort who didn't really stand out too much but at the same time you still noticed her. That's all that went through my mind in the seconds that it took for the photo to come on screen. And, oh! It's Georgina Chapman from my school with make-up on! Now what's she doing at a Film Festival? So of course I just had to investigate further. And where's the first place a contemporary Angela Lansbury would look? Good old wikipedia. And guess what? Georgina Chapman from my school has a page on wikipedia! Well, in my eyes that was enough in itself. But there's more.
Turns out she's an actress and a fashion designer with her own label, Marchesa. Well I never. I do remember though that she was good at art. She painted this huge portrait of an old geezer for her end of year exam, which she was very pleased with, and then some jealous person went and painted all over it in thick, black strokes. I don't remember ever finding out who that was, but it was the big scandal of the year. Now you may think that the revelations end there, but oh no. The biggie is yet to come. Wait for it.
So I look further down the page, past the words 'finalist' and 'Vogue', to the name Harvey Weinstein. The Harvey Weinstein who co-founded Miramax, the HUGE film production company which made Pulp Fiction and Shakespeare in Love. And she's married to him. Apparently they "split their time between a West Village townhouse, a seafront home in Westport, Connecticut and a mansion in Los Angeles". Don't think little Georgie has to worry too much about the credit crunch then. The girl who tried to go 6 months without washing her hair for an experiment (I'll always remember that smell) has come a long way. Good for her. But for all that money and luxury, I still wouldn't want to have to go to bed with Harvey Weinstein every night. Or any night.
I reread the page again, to take in all the details, and discovered that Georgina Chapman from my school is the daughter of Brian Chapman, millionaire businessman. Now my school was a private girl's one, but it was in Ashford, Middlesex near Staines, not London or Windsor, and although most of the girls were well spoken, the majority had working class Dads who'd done well for themselves, not posh, rich Daddies. And all these years I never knew she was a rich kid. Funny that. I'm still toying with the idea of whether I should say 'Hi, how's it going?' to her on Facebook. I mean I reckon we've got so much in common after all, and I bet she's dying to find out what happened to me.
Sunday, September 28th, 2008
Londoners seem to be in search of a film. Wherever you go in the streets, there are performers creating theatre, waiting for their script and director. Now they were all a bit more noticeable to us than usual yesterday, as we'd just come out of the Gielgud theatre on Shaftesbury Avenue where we'd had our minds teased open, played with and not properly tidied away by, well, a mind-altering production of 6 Characters In Search of An Author.
In brief, a play about the blurred boundary between reality and unreality when it comes to writing, performing, filming and everyday 'real' lives. Why do we view characters in a play or a film as less real than us, when they can exist forever, whereas we only exist for a moment in time? Who's to say that we're not all just characters in a film? Also, what's more real and closer to the truth; a documentary or a drama about the same story with actors playing the parts the real people play in the documentary? As when a camera is put in front of a person telling their story, they begin to act. Unlike an actor, who's trying not to act, but portray that person convincingly.
And who's really watching who? It's not just the actors who're being watched, but the people behind the cameras, the big production studios, the audience, and 'real' people's lives.
As we stepped out of the theatre we saw all the Londoners looking for their film, play or story. A young woman looking lost with tears in her eyes, a man holding a sign for an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet and two young guys having a heated debate in the shadows of a backstreet. And then I realised that London's film was already rolling. At that moment, an old bloke with a face not dissimilar to Charles Manson the serial killer's, complete with long, straggly hair, piercing man-on-a-mission eyes, and no joke, Texas Chainsaw Massacre t-shirt underneath his leather jacket. I couldn't believe that he was one of the normal characters in London's film. He was too contrived and out of place. He belonged in a dodgy action thriller playing the obvious baddie who no-one suspects, except the audience.
So we watched him some more to see where he fitted into it all. He then stopped dead in the street, as if he could sense us watching him, turned and looked up towards the top windows of the building across the street. He put his hand inside his jacket, and we thought, oh my god, he's about to pull out a gun. He then began to pace back and forth, his hand still inside his jacket, his piercing eyes penetrating the windows of the building. We quickly decided not to stick around for the ending of this particular film, and fled the scene.
We headed towards Covent Garden to meet some friends at a restaurant. They were sat outside, enjoying the last and first day of London's summer. We'd only been sat there for about 15 minutes, narrating the scenes of our day so far, including our unwitting cameo in a dodgy action thriller, when, and this is completely true, a group of people came over to the little alley we were sat in opposite the Royal Opera House, and began to set up a camera. We all watched in disbelief as they filmed a woman who began to cry as she tore pages from a book, then stuffed them into her bra before throwing the novel down hard on the ground. About 9 times. When the camera stopped rolling, she went from crying her eyes out to bursting into fits of laughter. It made me wonder what'd happen if the cameras for London's film stopped.
In brief, a play about the blurred boundary between reality and unreality when it comes to writing, performing, filming and everyday 'real' lives. Why do we view characters in a play or a film as less real than us, when they can exist forever, whereas we only exist for a moment in time? Who's to say that we're not all just characters in a film? Also, what's more real and closer to the truth; a documentary or a drama about the same story with actors playing the parts the real people play in the documentary? As when a camera is put in front of a person telling their story, they begin to act. Unlike an actor, who's trying not to act, but portray that person convincingly.
And who's really watching who? It's not just the actors who're being watched, but the people behind the cameras, the big production studios, the audience, and 'real' people's lives.
As we stepped out of the theatre we saw all the Londoners looking for their film, play or story. A young woman looking lost with tears in her eyes, a man holding a sign for an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet and two young guys having a heated debate in the shadows of a backstreet. And then I realised that London's film was already rolling. At that moment, an old bloke with a face not dissimilar to Charles Manson the serial killer's, complete with long, straggly hair, piercing man-on-a-mission eyes, and no joke, Texas Chainsaw Massacre t-shirt underneath his leather jacket. I couldn't believe that he was one of the normal characters in London's film. He was too contrived and out of place. He belonged in a dodgy action thriller playing the obvious baddie who no-one suspects, except the audience.
So we watched him some more to see where he fitted into it all. He then stopped dead in the street, as if he could sense us watching him, turned and looked up towards the top windows of the building across the street. He put his hand inside his jacket, and we thought, oh my god, he's about to pull out a gun. He then began to pace back and forth, his hand still inside his jacket, his piercing eyes penetrating the windows of the building. We quickly decided not to stick around for the ending of this particular film, and fled the scene.
We headed towards Covent Garden to meet some friends at a restaurant. They were sat outside, enjoying the last and first day of London's summer. We'd only been sat there for about 15 minutes, narrating the scenes of our day so far, including our unwitting cameo in a dodgy action thriller, when, and this is completely true, a group of people came over to the little alley we were sat in opposite the Royal Opera House, and began to set up a camera. We all watched in disbelief as they filmed a woman who began to cry as she tore pages from a book, then stuffed them into her bra before throwing the novel down hard on the ground. About 9 times. When the camera stopped rolling, she went from crying her eyes out to bursting into fits of laughter. It made me wonder what'd happen if the cameras for London's film stopped.
Saturday, September 20th, 2008
Dexter is the only thing I watch on TV these days. So I split my spare time between my friends and a serial killer. And you know what, I want this serial killer as my friend. Because he's witty, clever and we share similar issues. Not the urge to kill of course, but the need to wear a mask around certain people. Like work colleagues or those tediously boring friends of friends who you get stuck sitting next to in the pub. He's got faking social skills down to a fine art, and I could do with a few lessons from him. If he can fool people into thinking he's an average middle-class Joe instead of a cold-blooded murderer, then surely he could help me to act like I'm really interested in knowing what my colleagues did at the weekend or what they've got in their sandwiches. It'd make life so much easier.
The way he deals with his girlfriend's irritating mother and nosey colleagues is really something. Not forgetting how he single-handedly rids society of the evil people by killing them. Well, the police are pretty useless now aren't they? I mean you could say he's my hero. Gone are the days when heroes were goody two shoe-types in tights (how terribly dull). Society has moved on; developed; progressed. We now want something more from our heroes. We want blood. And intensity and rawness to wake us up from our terminal apathy. In the recent Batman film we all know the Joker was the preferred hero. Partly to do with the fact that Heath Ledger played him, but also because he spoke the truth and made some pretty good points, carried out his dastardly plans majestically and was really rather witty. I know which one I'd pick to sit next to me down the pub. Batman would be that tediously boring friend of a friend.
The logical progression for our base, Hello and Heat-riddled, Paris Hilton-infested capitalist society is for it to have a serial killer as its hero. Seems quite appropriate. After all, we enjoy murdering our minds with air-headed celebrity's opinions and gossip. In fact, Dexter's far too good for us. He's got principles that he sticks by. And I've never seen a copy of the National Enquirer in his hands. Although that means that he probably wouldn't recognise Paris Hilton if she came up and slapped lipstick on his face. Shame, because that means she's safe.
The way he deals with his girlfriend's irritating mother and nosey colleagues is really something. Not forgetting how he single-handedly rids society of the evil people by killing them. Well, the police are pretty useless now aren't they? I mean you could say he's my hero. Gone are the days when heroes were goody two shoe-types in tights (how terribly dull). Society has moved on; developed; progressed. We now want something more from our heroes. We want blood. And intensity and rawness to wake us up from our terminal apathy. In the recent Batman film we all know the Joker was the preferred hero. Partly to do with the fact that Heath Ledger played him, but also because he spoke the truth and made some pretty good points, carried out his dastardly plans majestically and was really rather witty. I know which one I'd pick to sit next to me down the pub. Batman would be that tediously boring friend of a friend.
The logical progression for our base, Hello and Heat-riddled, Paris Hilton-infested capitalist society is for it to have a serial killer as its hero. Seems quite appropriate. After all, we enjoy murdering our minds with air-headed celebrity's opinions and gossip. In fact, Dexter's far too good for us. He's got principles that he sticks by. And I've never seen a copy of the National Enquirer in his hands. Although that means that he probably wouldn't recognise Paris Hilton if she came up and slapped lipstick on his face. Shame, because that means she's safe.
Sunday, September 14th, 2008
Teeth whitening has now become really popular in the non-celeb world. It's pretty inevitable though really. Because when we compare our naturally whitish gnashers to the bleached Hampsted Heath's of any celeb, they're going to look as yellow as a piss in snow. As we've learnt from washing powders over the years, the thing with white is, there's always a whiter white just round the corner that'll make white look, well, off-white.
Also, like you get a gateway drug, teeth whitening could be considered as the gateway treatment to other forms of plastic surgery. You go in to bleach that smile one day, and the next you're getting a face lift, nose job or a man-boob reduction. Because new white teeth make every other part of your face and body look pretty old. It's like if you just renovated one part of a building, it'd age the rest by about 10 years. So then it all has to be changed.
I know someone who's in the middle of a 2 week teeth whitening treatment, where she has to put this gel with bleach in it on her teeth every night. I'll check out next time I see her whether she's suddenly developed huge massive hooters or not. Although actually, she's not taking the whole thing too seriously. We got drunk on red wine during her treatment, which is possibly not particularly advised, and when she woke up the next day she said her new white teeth had turned an interesting shade of pink. She could start a trend.
My way of keeping my teeth white is much simpler, and cheaper. Just live somewhere like Brixton where people haven't got the money or inclination to bleach their teeth. They have somewhat different priorities. And compared to a lot of the 'colourful characters' on the streets of Brixton, my teeth are like a Vogue cover girl's after she's been 'Photoshopped'. Basically, forget the colour. If they've still got a couple of teeth left, they're doing well.
On second thoughts though, if teeth whitening means you can cane coffee, red wine and the odd spliff and never look like Albert Steptoe, then it is a little tempting.
Also, like you get a gateway drug, teeth whitening could be considered as the gateway treatment to other forms of plastic surgery. You go in to bleach that smile one day, and the next you're getting a face lift, nose job or a man-boob reduction. Because new white teeth make every other part of your face and body look pretty old. It's like if you just renovated one part of a building, it'd age the rest by about 10 years. So then it all has to be changed.
I know someone who's in the middle of a 2 week teeth whitening treatment, where she has to put this gel with bleach in it on her teeth every night. I'll check out next time I see her whether she's suddenly developed huge massive hooters or not. Although actually, she's not taking the whole thing too seriously. We got drunk on red wine during her treatment, which is possibly not particularly advised, and when she woke up the next day she said her new white teeth had turned an interesting shade of pink. She could start a trend.
My way of keeping my teeth white is much simpler, and cheaper. Just live somewhere like Brixton where people haven't got the money or inclination to bleach their teeth. They have somewhat different priorities. And compared to a lot of the 'colourful characters' on the streets of Brixton, my teeth are like a Vogue cover girl's after she's been 'Photoshopped'. Basically, forget the colour. If they've still got a couple of teeth left, they're doing well.
On second thoughts though, if teeth whitening means you can cane coffee, red wine and the odd spliff and never look like Albert Steptoe, then it is a little tempting.
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