Before entering the 13th Gate of the Latitude Festival (it’s more than just a music festival), our group had the usual debate on whether we should take the red pill or the blue pill. We all plumped for the red one, and prepared ourselves for an obscene, mind-blowing, dimension-changing ride.
We sat at one of the picnic tables, studying the guide in a foolish attempt to plan the day. Suddenly I realised we were surrounded by strange, garish signs covered in warped writing that I could only just make out. “Does that say vegan burgers?” I asked our Driver. “Don’t tell me that! I don’t want to know about these things,” he replied in a panic-stricken voice. But I couldn’t help but stare. Call it morbid fascination, like when cars slow down on the motorway to check out a car crash.
The area was teeming with bright pink people holding the hands of dwarves who kept trying to break free of their grasp. They were obviously holding these dwarves against their will, but no one seemed to care. I was about to shout out “KIDNAP!” when the patchy-pink faces distracted me by starting to swell and pulsate. Perhaps they knew I was on to them. But they didn’t come over; instead they just kept on chewing and shoving this crazy stuff into their mouths. What looked like a pizza with spinach and chorizo, and…and, what was that? Was it really an oyster? One almost smothered itself with a 4-foot long baguette filled with grilled diplodocus, which had been smothered itself, in mint sauce.
We eventually managed to peel ourselves off the picnic table, leaving the map and the guide behind, as we realised it was designed to confuse and get you lost anyway, so why bother to carry it around all day? After all, getting lost is the prime objective for going to a festival in the first place, surely?
Just then a gang of geriatric fluorescent fairies flew straight into our group, as they marched forcefully towards the stage, leaving behind a broken pair of glittery deely boppers. Our Driver excitedly fished them out of the grass. “Yeah, I’ll be able to hear the music better now. At the moment it’s like I’m listening to it through a bog roll!” He then plonked them on his head and immediately began to dance with the energy of 10,000 Bombay Bad Boy Pot Noodles, while his hands created shapes, swirls and hypotrochoids. It was like he was a human spirograph. The band hadn’t even started yet.
So as not to attract too much unwanted attention, we decided it would be safer to venture further into the crowd. We passed 7 feet tall children, their faces covered in camouflage, which made them really stand out. We needed to get as far away from them as possible. Our group’s Tracker discovered a good spot deep into the throng. We stood there waiting, staring at the back of the heads in front of the stage, while the human spirograph made friends with an etch-a-sketch.
The Pet Shop Boys came on and started to perform on the tops of the people’s heads in front. Then suddenly the sight of a man’s naked arse flashed into view. Naked except for a fluorescent thong. A thong in the throng. The cheeks appeared to have a life of their own, as they wobbled, clenched and wiggled. At one point I could’ve sworn they were trying to communicate something to me, something that seemed important, perhaps the meaning of it all. Who are we? Why are we here? What does Pet Shop Boys actually mean? And I almost bent over to get a closer look.
But luckily the Jibber-jabberer of the group stopped me just in time to point out the amazing dancers to the right of the stage. They turned out to be the flags that indicate where the toilets are, fluttering in the breeze. But who’s to say they weren’t dancers? And are we human, or are we flags? I thought about that for a long while as I gazed at the human dancing flags, and then when I turned back to look at the stage, it hit me that the whole crowd was wearing tutus.
“’Ere guys, I can’t wait anymore for West End Girls, les go to the forest,” whined the human spirograph, who was now down to just his vest, even though it was spitting with rain. Then I realised that it wasn’t rain, it was his sweat. Acid sweat.
The human spirograph turned us into a human chain, so we at least had a chance of getting out of there. We stumbled, bounced and fell our way out of the pack of rodents, who were now foaming at the mouth at the thought of East End Boys. We’d got out just in time. They were about to go mad.
The forest was friendlier and calmer with just the distant sound of a DJ messing up a mix from Abba to Jay-Z. It was quieter as there was far less movement. I began to feel a lot more relaxed, when I noticed that the forest floor across from the path we were walking on was swarming with little furry animals. Mice, hamsters, ferrets, I couldn’t quite tell. I squinted further into the darkness of the trees, and saw silhouettes of people sitting and standing and bending over amongst the hamsters. One of these silhouettes, yet another fairy, beckoned us over.
But by that time our Driver had put his mac on and was ready to go back to the tent. We decided that the pills hadn’t worked, as we weren’t getting any effect from them. I mean, it was just your average festival experience. We realised that we should’ve taken the blue pill. Tomorrow, we decided, yawning, tomorrow we’ll take the blue one.
Friday, 31 July 2009
Friday, 3 July 2009
Friday, July 3rd, 2009
another tale of ordinary madness…
you’d better come with me.
He flashed a portentous smile, and I wondered whether I should be worried or amazed.
I followed Him down the stairs and across the next floor. heads were out, eyes staring, as if everybody knew.
then the eternal colleague’s voice: oh thank fuck it’s not me.
He marched into His office, pointing at the hard, low chair opposite His high desk.
KEEP ONE HAND ON EACH KNEE AND DON’T MOVE YOUR HANDS!
He sat there staring down at me. I didn’t know what He expected me to say so I didn’t say anything. but I knew the war had begun. my eye began to itch and I reached up to rub it.
WATCH THAT HAND!!
He continued staring right through me until I had the weird sensation that I’d turned invisible. He then dialled a short number on his phone.
MARTA GET ME A DOUBLE ESPRESSO, A DARK BERRY MOCHA FRAPPUCCINO, A STEAK AND CHEESE PANINI, TOASTED, A BLT AND A MARSHMALLOW TWIZZLE.
He slammed the receiver down, then sat there staring again for a while. I heard the hydrochloric acid eating away at His stomach lining.
DO YOU KNOW WHY YOU’RE HERE?
yes and no.
DON’T GET SMART WITH ME. IT WON’T DO YOU ANY FAVOURS.
I know about the redundancies. but why am I up for it?
NEVER ASK THAT QUESTION.
why?
BECAUSE YOU’LL NEVER GET A SATISFACTORY ANSWER.
but why?
the door opened and the new girl behind the desk came in with legs. long legs. her face was covered up by the big Starbuck’s paper bag she was carrying on top of a tray of drinks.
WE’VE HAD TO CUT COSTS DUE TO THE ECONOMIC DOWNTURN.
the new girl behind the desk took half the Starbuck’s menu out of the bag, and arranged it neatly on His desk.
but why me exactly?
LOOK, JUST TAKE YOUR LETTER AND DO AS YOU’RE TOLD OK? THAT WAY, NO ONE GETS HURT.
as He shouted, a piece of fatty bacon from Starbuck’s BLT swung about on one of His canines. He continued staring at me while taking chunks out of His sandwich. I figured it was time to leave, before He did the same to me.
my part of the office turned into the grey cell it had always looked like. it was a Friday afternoon and across the room I could see colleagues gassing by the photocopier. others laughed as they stuck coins into the coke machine. how lucky they were! everything seemed so free and easy over there. the letter had already made its way to my desk. I sat there trying to figure out what I had done. I felt like crying but nothing came out. it was just a sort of sad sickness, sick sad. the kind that only sickos can cause.
Mad Watson, the IT guy, came over to speak to me. he was a freak. we were all freaks. he scratched the psoriasis on his elbows erratically as he spoke. flakes of shed, diseased skin floated in the air, waiting to be breathed in.
so are you going down then?
yeah.
no way.
how long they give you?
a month.
that’s harsh.
yeah.
you know, He terminated 10 guys last week and then right away terminated another. screwed them all right in the ass. two are now trying to claim incapacity benefit.
HEY, BREAK IT UP!
the lines had been drawn and the managers made sure that the two sides were kept apart. the managers were stupid and scared. I felt sorry for them. they really believed that I was the enemy. although there were benefits to being on the weaker side. my line manager stopped talking to me and left a room whenever I entered, as if I was full of pathogenic bacteria. I didn’t need a microscope to know what he was full of. honour among shareholders. keep the company strong so you can rob it.
I was allowed to talk to Bubba though, the big guy in accounts, as he was on the same side as me. he was always up for redundancy, but kept getting saved. he had his fingers in too many pies and bookkeeping pies are the sweetest ones to have your fingers in. that made him corporate enemy No. 1.
I caught up with him in the toilets. he was rocking back and forth on the pot laughing, with the door wide-open and his trousers round his ankles, saying, eat my shit, eat my shit, over and over. it was the best advice I’d had all day.
by the time the day of the final meeting came, I was almost beaten.
the putty-voiced woman from HR did most of the talking. He was busying himself with something on His computer. it appeared to be extremely fascinating, as His eyes were glued to the screen.
do you understand why you’ve been made redundant?
yeah.
and you agree that we’ve tried to find you other positions within the company, yet you turned down our proposals of relocating you to our growing offices in Minsk, Belarus, or moving you over to the successful incontinence pads account?
yeah.
HA, JUST LOOK AT THAT SCORE!
I figured He was busying himself with playing an important computer game.
ok well good luck, because it’s tough out there. but you know, the company will be hiring again in a few months, so you’re welcome to apply for your old job again then.
GOT YOU, YOU SON OF A BITCH!
I didn’t re-apply for my old job. I walked straight out of there and never looked back. that’s how I won the war.
you’d better come with me.
He flashed a portentous smile, and I wondered whether I should be worried or amazed.
I followed Him down the stairs and across the next floor. heads were out, eyes staring, as if everybody knew.
then the eternal colleague’s voice: oh thank fuck it’s not me.
He marched into His office, pointing at the hard, low chair opposite His high desk.
KEEP ONE HAND ON EACH KNEE AND DON’T MOVE YOUR HANDS!
He sat there staring down at me. I didn’t know what He expected me to say so I didn’t say anything. but I knew the war had begun. my eye began to itch and I reached up to rub it.
WATCH THAT HAND!!
He continued staring right through me until I had the weird sensation that I’d turned invisible. He then dialled a short number on his phone.
MARTA GET ME A DOUBLE ESPRESSO, A DARK BERRY MOCHA FRAPPUCCINO, A STEAK AND CHEESE PANINI, TOASTED, A BLT AND A MARSHMALLOW TWIZZLE.
He slammed the receiver down, then sat there staring again for a while. I heard the hydrochloric acid eating away at His stomach lining.
DO YOU KNOW WHY YOU’RE HERE?
yes and no.
DON’T GET SMART WITH ME. IT WON’T DO YOU ANY FAVOURS.
I know about the redundancies. but why am I up for it?
NEVER ASK THAT QUESTION.
why?
BECAUSE YOU’LL NEVER GET A SATISFACTORY ANSWER.
but why?
the door opened and the new girl behind the desk came in with legs. long legs. her face was covered up by the big Starbuck’s paper bag she was carrying on top of a tray of drinks.
WE’VE HAD TO CUT COSTS DUE TO THE ECONOMIC DOWNTURN.
the new girl behind the desk took half the Starbuck’s menu out of the bag, and arranged it neatly on His desk.
but why me exactly?
LOOK, JUST TAKE YOUR LETTER AND DO AS YOU’RE TOLD OK? THAT WAY, NO ONE GETS HURT.
as He shouted, a piece of fatty bacon from Starbuck’s BLT swung about on one of His canines. He continued staring at me while taking chunks out of His sandwich. I figured it was time to leave, before He did the same to me.
my part of the office turned into the grey cell it had always looked like. it was a Friday afternoon and across the room I could see colleagues gassing by the photocopier. others laughed as they stuck coins into the coke machine. how lucky they were! everything seemed so free and easy over there. the letter had already made its way to my desk. I sat there trying to figure out what I had done. I felt like crying but nothing came out. it was just a sort of sad sickness, sick sad. the kind that only sickos can cause.
Mad Watson, the IT guy, came over to speak to me. he was a freak. we were all freaks. he scratched the psoriasis on his elbows erratically as he spoke. flakes of shed, diseased skin floated in the air, waiting to be breathed in.
so are you going down then?
yeah.
no way.
how long they give you?
a month.
that’s harsh.
yeah.
you know, He terminated 10 guys last week and then right away terminated another. screwed them all right in the ass. two are now trying to claim incapacity benefit.
HEY, BREAK IT UP!
the lines had been drawn and the managers made sure that the two sides were kept apart. the managers were stupid and scared. I felt sorry for them. they really believed that I was the enemy. although there were benefits to being on the weaker side. my line manager stopped talking to me and left a room whenever I entered, as if I was full of pathogenic bacteria. I didn’t need a microscope to know what he was full of. honour among shareholders. keep the company strong so you can rob it.
I was allowed to talk to Bubba though, the big guy in accounts, as he was on the same side as me. he was always up for redundancy, but kept getting saved. he had his fingers in too many pies and bookkeeping pies are the sweetest ones to have your fingers in. that made him corporate enemy No. 1.
I caught up with him in the toilets. he was rocking back and forth on the pot laughing, with the door wide-open and his trousers round his ankles, saying, eat my shit, eat my shit, over and over. it was the best advice I’d had all day.
by the time the day of the final meeting came, I was almost beaten.
the putty-voiced woman from HR did most of the talking. He was busying himself with something on His computer. it appeared to be extremely fascinating, as His eyes were glued to the screen.
do you understand why you’ve been made redundant?
yeah.
and you agree that we’ve tried to find you other positions within the company, yet you turned down our proposals of relocating you to our growing offices in Minsk, Belarus, or moving you over to the successful incontinence pads account?
yeah.
HA, JUST LOOK AT THAT SCORE!
I figured He was busying himself with playing an important computer game.
ok well good luck, because it’s tough out there. but you know, the company will be hiring again in a few months, so you’re welcome to apply for your old job again then.
GOT YOU, YOU SON OF A BITCH!
I didn’t re-apply for my old job. I walked straight out of there and never looked back. that’s how I won the war.
Saturday, 27 June 2009
Thursday, June 18th, 2009
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).
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).
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.
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