A view of the park near the University of Westminster's Harrow Campus and Northwick Park hospital, as taken from the platform at Northwick Park Tube station.
Sunday 20 December 2009
Winter in Harrow.
A view of the park near the University of Westminster's Harrow Campus and Northwick Park hospital, as taken from the platform at Northwick Park Tube station.
Saturday 19 December 2009
Labouring The Point About The Tories.
The overall consensus is that the Conservative Party will win the next UK General Election, due to take place some time next year. What puzzles many pundits, however, is what the opinion polls say. The Tories are in the lead but only by a margin of around 10%, which will translate into either a workable Tory majority in parliament, a small majority for them or, possibly, a hung parliament, and this lead will fluctuate ever more as the election draws near.
Political commentator Peter Oborne believes this is because the Tory leader David Cameron is not inspiring enough of the electorate, that Team Cameron is not invoking the sort of passion that Tony Blair or Margaret Thatcher did. I believe however that the answer is more prosaic. We are delusional and ghastly, ghastly hypocrites.
Labour survives against the odds because we want it to be something it's not. There is an odd mix of nostalgia for a time that never was and a blind faith in the never-never that explains why Labour hasn't ceased to exist. Lots of its supporters, and indeed the rest of the public, murmur dewy-eyed epithets over Labour achievements: the Welfare State, the NHS, the People's Party, the minimum wage, increased public spending...
The other half to this is a vain, always disappointed belief that all it takes is one good Labour government, Goddammit, and we'll all be living in a paradise free of poverty, waiting lists, despair or fear. This mentality is akin to blighted peasants in the Middle Ages praying for a better life in the next - it all seems much more feasible than facing up to the now and how to remedy it with what we have. Gordon Brown is simply a modern version of the hypocritical, corrupt, whoring local priest that everyone feels sorry for because deep down they really want to believe he's a good man and that at least he means well.
But for some reason, while odious acts like ID Cards, the Iraq War, Labour Sleaze, John Prescott in his many manifestations and - not to mention - the Winter of Discontent, rationing carrying on into the early 50s, political militancy, betrayal of values, shrill lefty dogma, the Orwellian Ministry of Works, student top-up fees, an appalling record in government and punitive taxes all upset people, they don't seem to dominate the public imagination as examples of villainy as the Tories do.
For that matter, while everyone curses the Tories, they don't really factor in things like economic booms, rising home ownership, unions made to behave, higher living standards and so on. True, these are often double edged swords, but so are many of Labour's contributions, and it seems odd that we focus more on the Tories' failings despite benefiting from the good things they have done as well as Labour's own positive contributions.
It all comes down to guilt. We feel that we should be Good, and in a post-war British context that means Left of Centre, redistributive and nice and fluffy (many people seem to think these all go together). Which is what Labour represents, or at least what we'd like it to represent. But on the other hand, we feel like we have to be pragmatic, self-serving, ruthless and money grubbing, all of which the Tories represent in the popular imagination.
Hating the Tories helps us ignore the sneaking suspision that we might need them, that their 'nasty party' vibe is actually how the world works and, let's be honest, reflects a lot of the miserly, small-minded, shallow and vindictive elements of the British character. We're ashamed of this, so vote in or support a party that we believe reflects our less savoury urges and then spend the rest of the time hurling invective at it.
And this is why we remember Tory excesses more than Labour excesses, because they confirm comforting beliefs and prejudices and also let us pretend that that a Blakeian Jerusalem is just round the corner. Margaret Thatcher and Tony Blair didn't just vote themselves in - the electorate and its own dishonesty has much to answer for, which is probably why screaming 'TORY BASTARDS!!!' makes us feel so much better.
The ultimate example of this cognitive dissonance is how we've remembered the old Liberal Party. Which is to say, we broadly haven't. We've forgotten minor details like the extension of the franchise (without which Labour would be stuffed like a turkey), social reforms, an end to child labour, removal of power from the Crown, the aristocracy and the Church and, lest we forget, the earliest incarnation of the bless'd Welfare State. Why is this? In part, it was a long time ago and our memories are, naturally, self serving. Labour has become the forlorn hope of a 'better' future, as previously mentioned, so another reforming force in British politics just confuses many people, or it rather muddies an easy, convenient political narrative that people can buy into. It also rather gets in the way of the dualism we've come to rely on - evil Tories, goody Labour, but the Liberals..? This is why the Lib Dems will probably remain the 'third party' for the foreseeable future. We don't strictly speaking want a third choice, beyond a handy protest vote or a sop to politics we know will never be realised.
For what it matters, Labour will probably lose simply because enough of the country wants or needs a change and because they've upset just too many of those voters who would normally support them. The next step will be for Labour to elect a leader we can invest our vain hopes in, who can gleam in the purity of opposition and who can let us keep believing that the Promised Land is but an election away... And the Tories? Well, they say electorates get the governments they deserve.
Political commentator Peter Oborne believes this is because the Tory leader David Cameron is not inspiring enough of the electorate, that Team Cameron is not invoking the sort of passion that Tony Blair or Margaret Thatcher did. I believe however that the answer is more prosaic. We are delusional and ghastly, ghastly hypocrites.
Labour survives against the odds because we want it to be something it's not. There is an odd mix of nostalgia for a time that never was and a blind faith in the never-never that explains why Labour hasn't ceased to exist. Lots of its supporters, and indeed the rest of the public, murmur dewy-eyed epithets over Labour achievements: the Welfare State, the NHS, the People's Party, the minimum wage, increased public spending...
The other half to this is a vain, always disappointed belief that all it takes is one good Labour government, Goddammit, and we'll all be living in a paradise free of poverty, waiting lists, despair or fear. This mentality is akin to blighted peasants in the Middle Ages praying for a better life in the next - it all seems much more feasible than facing up to the now and how to remedy it with what we have. Gordon Brown is simply a modern version of the hypocritical, corrupt, whoring local priest that everyone feels sorry for because deep down they really want to believe he's a good man and that at least he means well.
But for some reason, while odious acts like ID Cards, the Iraq War, Labour Sleaze, John Prescott in his many manifestations and - not to mention - the Winter of Discontent, rationing carrying on into the early 50s, political militancy, betrayal of values, shrill lefty dogma, the Orwellian Ministry of Works, student top-up fees, an appalling record in government and punitive taxes all upset people, they don't seem to dominate the public imagination as examples of villainy as the Tories do.
For that matter, while everyone curses the Tories, they don't really factor in things like economic booms, rising home ownership, unions made to behave, higher living standards and so on. True, these are often double edged swords, but so are many of Labour's contributions, and it seems odd that we focus more on the Tories' failings despite benefiting from the good things they have done as well as Labour's own positive contributions.
It all comes down to guilt. We feel that we should be Good, and in a post-war British context that means Left of Centre, redistributive and nice and fluffy (many people seem to think these all go together). Which is what Labour represents, or at least what we'd like it to represent. But on the other hand, we feel like we have to be pragmatic, self-serving, ruthless and money grubbing, all of which the Tories represent in the popular imagination.
Hating the Tories helps us ignore the sneaking suspision that we might need them, that their 'nasty party' vibe is actually how the world works and, let's be honest, reflects a lot of the miserly, small-minded, shallow and vindictive elements of the British character. We're ashamed of this, so vote in or support a party that we believe reflects our less savoury urges and then spend the rest of the time hurling invective at it.
And this is why we remember Tory excesses more than Labour excesses, because they confirm comforting beliefs and prejudices and also let us pretend that that a Blakeian Jerusalem is just round the corner. Margaret Thatcher and Tony Blair didn't just vote themselves in - the electorate and its own dishonesty has much to answer for, which is probably why screaming 'TORY BASTARDS!!!' makes us feel so much better.
The ultimate example of this cognitive dissonance is how we've remembered the old Liberal Party. Which is to say, we broadly haven't. We've forgotten minor details like the extension of the franchise (without which Labour would be stuffed like a turkey), social reforms, an end to child labour, removal of power from the Crown, the aristocracy and the Church and, lest we forget, the earliest incarnation of the bless'd Welfare State. Why is this? In part, it was a long time ago and our memories are, naturally, self serving. Labour has become the forlorn hope of a 'better' future, as previously mentioned, so another reforming force in British politics just confuses many people, or it rather muddies an easy, convenient political narrative that people can buy into. It also rather gets in the way of the dualism we've come to rely on - evil Tories, goody Labour, but the Liberals..? This is why the Lib Dems will probably remain the 'third party' for the foreseeable future. We don't strictly speaking want a third choice, beyond a handy protest vote or a sop to politics we know will never be realised.
For what it matters, Labour will probably lose simply because enough of the country wants or needs a change and because they've upset just too many of those voters who would normally support them. The next step will be for Labour to elect a leader we can invest our vain hopes in, who can gleam in the purity of opposition and who can let us keep believing that the Promised Land is but an election away... And the Tories? Well, they say electorates get the governments they deserve.
Wednesday 16 December 2009
The Trouble with Jauss
I have studied the works of Hans Rudi Jauss at some depth, I even based a large section of my PhD thesis' arguments on his theories. I probably owe my doctorate in part to him. But I didn't really know what he did during World War Two until recently.
From 1939 to 1945 he was a member of the Waffen SS, declared a criminal organisation at Nuremberg. But what did Jauss have to say for himself in this matter? Just before his death in 1997, he gave an interview to Le Monde - far from an open and unambiguous acknowledgement of responsibility, it seems to be an attempt to blur the lines, and obfuscate or perhaps skip around the issue. This reached almost comical heights, as the following quoted paragraph demonstrates. All footnotes and emphases are mine:
Not putting too fine a point about it, the Waffen SS was notable for a whole swathe of war crimes against regular and irregular combatants, in addition to unarmed men, women and children. The blood of millions is on their hands. Not to mention it was home to outfits like the SS-Sturmbrigade Dirlewanger, as lead into battle by a paedophile and which included mass rape, mutilation, immolation and throwing and then bayoneting live babies on its list of extra-curricular activities.
Of course, Jauss himself was imprisoned and then subsequently released without charge. But it's telling that only those conscripted into the Waffen SS after 1943 (often literally at the point of a bayonet) recieve standard veterans' pensions and benefits from the German government. Before then, you were more likely than not a volunteer, like Jauss. He was perhaps keen to distance himself both mentally and ethically from this fact:
But he was that young man. They were not strangers because they were the same person. Another thing Jauss said in that interview was "my experience at the time was compartmentalized and my horizons limited", a state of affairs that arguably persisted to his death. It also applied to me, blinded but not absolved by the narrow focus of the doctoral process. Perhaps that is why Jauss found his home in academia so easily - scholarship, after all, is a selective act of remembering.
From 1939 to 1945 he was a member of the Waffen SS, declared a criminal organisation at Nuremberg. But what did Jauss have to say for himself in this matter? Just before his death in 1997, he gave an interview to Le Monde - far from an open and unambiguous acknowledgement of responsibility, it seems to be an attempt to blur the lines, and obfuscate or perhaps skip around the issue. This reached almost comical heights, as the following quoted paragraph demonstrates. All footnotes and emphases are mine:
Before I turn to the history of a young German who was seventeen years old when the war started [1], I would like to remind people that there are at least three ways of understanding history [2]: the history that unfolds in the present, in which one finds oneself engaged as an actor; the history into which one finds oneself passively propelled [3], as a witness so to speak; and finally, the history that has taken place and become an object of reflection. When one attempts to examine one’s own past, those three levels may overlap, but recomposition through memory prevails. [4] What persuaded me to enter the Waffen-SS was not really an adherence to Nazi ideology. [5] As the son of a teacher, member of the petty bourgeoisie, I was a young man who wanted to conform with the atmosphere of the time. [6] That said, I had read Spengler’s Decline of the West, written by an author banned by the Nazis, and it had made me skeptical of the Hitlerian empire. [7] But along with other future historians — I’m thinking of my friends Reinhart Koselleck and Arno Borst — what we had in common was the desire not to stand apart from current events. [8] One had to be present in the field, where history was being made, [9] by participating in the war. In our view, to do otherwise would have been to flee, to confine ourselves within an aesthetic attitude, while our comrades of the same age were risking their lives. [10]
[1] Still old enough to know better.
[2] As opposed to what really happened.
[3] Nothing just happens in uniform.
[4] How convenient.
[5] What?
[6] Why didn't you join the Wehrmacht instead?
[7] So skeptical, in fact, that you joined the Waffen SS.
[8] Why not?
[9] And people were being killed.
[10] There's a hell of a difference between a volunteer and a conscript.
Not putting too fine a point about it, the Waffen SS was notable for a whole swathe of war crimes against regular and irregular combatants, in addition to unarmed men, women and children. The blood of millions is on their hands. Not to mention it was home to outfits like the SS-Sturmbrigade Dirlewanger, as lead into battle by a paedophile and which included mass rape, mutilation, immolation and throwing and then bayoneting live babies on its list of extra-curricular activities.
Of course, Jauss himself was imprisoned and then subsequently released without charge. But it's telling that only those conscripted into the Waffen SS after 1943 (often literally at the point of a bayonet) recieve standard veterans' pensions and benefits from the German government. Before then, you were more likely than not a volunteer, like Jauss. He was perhaps keen to distance himself both mentally and ethically from this fact:
The letters from my youth, sent from the front— I couldn’t reread them for a long time. When I finally did reread them, I was caught off guard by a young man who had become a stranger, whom I could not recognize as myself.
But he was that young man. They were not strangers because they were the same person. Another thing Jauss said in that interview was "my experience at the time was compartmentalized and my horizons limited", a state of affairs that arguably persisted to his death. It also applied to me, blinded but not absolved by the narrow focus of the doctoral process. Perhaps that is why Jauss found his home in academia so easily - scholarship, after all, is a selective act of remembering.
Tuesday 1 December 2009
Language Use That Really Annoys Me #5 - Euphemisms.
The postman was let go after he upset a differently abled person and said rude things to a person of colour, asking if she wanted to discuss Uganda. He subsequently returned, tired and emotional, and proceeded to make his colleagues pass away in a hail of bullets. I immediately spent a penny in my unmentionables as he pointed the weapon of mass destruction at my head and asked me if I was in some distress. I said yes, at which point the local Police Service applied reasonable force by making him pass away via a major head trauma.
'This was an unfortunate incident!' the police officer said as he pondered the collateral damage inflicted in the process. 'To think I was about to request extraordinary rendition on this illegal combatant!' I agreed wholeheartedly.
Returning home, I decided to have a small tipple in the pub to celebrate and let my hair down. Unfortunately, I let my hair down just a tad too much and had a little accident when my car had a frank exchange of views with a brick wall. I then proceeded to discuss the matter further with the paramedics, accusing one of being vertically challenged and good with colours and the other one a big boned fan of comfortable shoes. See you next tuesday, the male parademic said, as the police service arrived. I was then detained at Her Majesty's Pleasure for a period until eventually I had to discuss the matter with the two naughty boys I shared my cell with.
"You need to expand your consciousness with the food of the Gods", one naughty boy said to me, handing over a jazz cigarette. "Yes, and facilitate alternative lifestyles through non-mainstream distribution channels" said the other, pulling some Columbian Marching Powder out of his chocolate starfish.
Eventually, however, I became unwell and had a nasty accident with some razor blades. Let off early so I could get some help, I found myself in hospital next to a woman with a fuller figure. "Are you in the family way?" I asked coyly. "Nah, dear, I've got f**king stomach cancer" she replied, somewhat tactlessly.
'This was an unfortunate incident!' the police officer said as he pondered the collateral damage inflicted in the process. 'To think I was about to request extraordinary rendition on this illegal combatant!' I agreed wholeheartedly.
Returning home, I decided to have a small tipple in the pub to celebrate and let my hair down. Unfortunately, I let my hair down just a tad too much and had a little accident when my car had a frank exchange of views with a brick wall. I then proceeded to discuss the matter further with the paramedics, accusing one of being vertically challenged and good with colours and the other one a big boned fan of comfortable shoes. See you next tuesday, the male parademic said, as the police service arrived. I was then detained at Her Majesty's Pleasure for a period until eventually I had to discuss the matter with the two naughty boys I shared my cell with.
"You need to expand your consciousness with the food of the Gods", one naughty boy said to me, handing over a jazz cigarette. "Yes, and facilitate alternative lifestyles through non-mainstream distribution channels" said the other, pulling some Columbian Marching Powder out of his chocolate starfish.
Eventually, however, I became unwell and had a nasty accident with some razor blades. Let off early so I could get some help, I found myself in hospital next to a woman with a fuller figure. "Are you in the family way?" I asked coyly. "Nah, dear, I've got f**king stomach cancer" she replied, somewhat tactlessly.
Language Use That Really Annoys Me #4 - The Definite Article.
Now before I start, let's note one thing: I am no climatologist, nor a climate change believer, nor a denier. I simply do not know enough about the matter and presently do not have the time nor the resources to look into the matter with any degree of thoroughness.* One thing I do believe, however, is that the debate has been tainted by politicisation on both sides, with smears, ad hominems and more effort spent on denouncing the other side than actually arguing for one's own view.
With that in mind though, I still think Jonathon Porritt is a t**t. Why? He is hooked on 'The Definite Article'. Now, the definite article is sometimes useful. 'The Queen' or 'The Prime Minister' or 'The Suspect' or 'The President' or 'The Winner' allows one to emphasise the point because an emphasis is needed. However, when you abuse the definite article, to provide a false emphasis that is not appropriate, then you are abusing language to meet your own ends rather than an objective statement of truth. (Which is a tricky thing at the best of times, as I will mention later on.)
The most egregious example of this is the use of the phrase, 'The Science'. Now, it either is or it isn't science, once one applies the proper scientific method, peer review, falsifiability and so on. Science is science is science unless or until you can demonstrate it's not. But giving it the honorific, 'The Science', is to invest in it a sort of divine writ that has no place in the discussion - unless it is being subordinated to a political end.
Enter Porritt. I once had to sit through a hysterical rant from this awful demagogue as part of an audience of upper middle class university employees and functionaries, who clapped blandly away despite him demanding we all start living like it's World War Two again. (His exact words were 'And we must learn to live under WARTIME conditions!!!') They then left the lecture theatre, drove home in their expensive cars, left all the lights on and didn't even stop to consider minor issues like 'cognitive dissonance'. After all, the real pain would be for poorer, less important people, amirite?
Poritt's eyes blazed and his voice almost shrieked as he mentioned those who dared disagree with him, like a trotskyite denouncing class traitors, or more to the point, a sort of museli-guzzling, ethically sourced Oswald Mosely, elevated to prominence because he talks and thinks like the present sawn-off jobsworth government does.
So no, I was not impressed by Porritt. But I realised how much I couldn't stand him when he started making crazed Tony Blair arm gestures, his eyes now practically leaping out of his sockets, as he proclaimed:
'Al Gore isn't a scientist - BUT HE KNOWS THE SCIENCE!!!'
F**king hell. Where does one begin? It's a bit like declaring that my brother's friend 'isn't a gynaecologist, but by golly, HE KNOWS THE FANNY!!!' It is ultimately meaningless as we all sort of know a bit about climate science, and so the statement is true in a vaguely clumsy and inarticulate way. But again, we see the abuse of the definite article to suggest an authority which is not actually there, except as a sort of implied bien pensant enlightenment.
But there is another danger. If, by using the definite article, you esteem 'the science' as a higher authority then you risk undermining science of any sort when 'the science' is called into question. Writing about the recent e-mail controversy at the Climatic Research Unit (CRU) at the University of East Anglia, George Monbiot said: "No one has been as badly let down by the revelations in these emails as those of us who have championed the science [emphasis mine]. We should be the first to demand that it is unimpeachable, not the last."
And here lies 'the problem': science isn't unimpeachable - unless you think that Gallileo, Copernicus and Darwin were right shits for ruining it for everyone. It was never 'impeachable' either. Rather, it is based on what can be observed and the gradual accumulation of knowledge. Put simply, we know more today than we knew yesterday, which doesn't automatically invalidate what we knew before.
Monbiot, to his credit, has always replied to his opponents rather than dismissing them in a torrent of bile, and he has also been direct in facing up to the UEA kerfuffle**. But his abuse of language weakens his cause in the long run. As said, science is a rational process whereby we explore and study our surroundings. It does not equate to 'truth', which is a very subjective and so difficult creature at the best of times. It tells you if something works, how it works and when it works, but it does not explain WHY it works, because you can't scientifically observe an abstract philosophical concept.
If in esteeming 'the science' as the core pillar of your ideology, you then find it compromised or challenged, then you risk not only being on the side of a 'false god' but also undermining science as a concept overall, especially in the eyes of a public that doesn't know the difference between science and 'the science' in the first place. They may be inclined to see the situation, and so any subsequent warning, as that of the environmentalist that cried wolf, regardless of whether you're right or not. The incorrect use of the definite article may therefore, in this case, prove to be very damaging to everyone's health.
* Having looked into it with that aforementioned thoroughness, I find myself fully in agreement with those who are sounding the alarm. Except Porritt and Gore for reasons given in this article which still stand.
** Which, in the long term, was a storm in a teacup whipped up by the usual suspect denialists.
With that in mind though, I still think Jonathon Porritt is a t**t. Why? He is hooked on 'The Definite Article'. Now, the definite article is sometimes useful. 'The Queen' or 'The Prime Minister' or 'The Suspect' or 'The President' or 'The Winner' allows one to emphasise the point because an emphasis is needed. However, when you abuse the definite article, to provide a false emphasis that is not appropriate, then you are abusing language to meet your own ends rather than an objective statement of truth. (Which is a tricky thing at the best of times, as I will mention later on.)
The most egregious example of this is the use of the phrase, 'The Science'. Now, it either is or it isn't science, once one applies the proper scientific method, peer review, falsifiability and so on. Science is science is science unless or until you can demonstrate it's not. But giving it the honorific, 'The Science', is to invest in it a sort of divine writ that has no place in the discussion - unless it is being subordinated to a political end.
Enter Porritt. I once had to sit through a hysterical rant from this awful demagogue as part of an audience of upper middle class university employees and functionaries, who clapped blandly away despite him demanding we all start living like it's World War Two again. (His exact words were 'And we must learn to live under WARTIME conditions!!!') They then left the lecture theatre, drove home in their expensive cars, left all the lights on and didn't even stop to consider minor issues like 'cognitive dissonance'. After all, the real pain would be for poorer, less important people, amirite?
Poritt's eyes blazed and his voice almost shrieked as he mentioned those who dared disagree with him, like a trotskyite denouncing class traitors, or more to the point, a sort of museli-guzzling, ethically sourced Oswald Mosely, elevated to prominence because he talks and thinks like the present sawn-off jobsworth government does.
So no, I was not impressed by Porritt. But I realised how much I couldn't stand him when he started making crazed Tony Blair arm gestures, his eyes now practically leaping out of his sockets, as he proclaimed:
'Al Gore isn't a scientist - BUT HE KNOWS THE SCIENCE!!!'
F**king hell. Where does one begin? It's a bit like declaring that my brother's friend 'isn't a gynaecologist, but by golly, HE KNOWS THE FANNY!!!' It is ultimately meaningless as we all sort of know a bit about climate science, and so the statement is true in a vaguely clumsy and inarticulate way. But again, we see the abuse of the definite article to suggest an authority which is not actually there, except as a sort of implied bien pensant enlightenment.
But there is another danger. If, by using the definite article, you esteem 'the science' as a higher authority then you risk undermining science of any sort when 'the science' is called into question. Writing about the recent e-mail controversy at the Climatic Research Unit (CRU) at the University of East Anglia, George Monbiot said: "No one has been as badly let down by the revelations in these emails as those of us who have championed the science [emphasis mine]. We should be the first to demand that it is unimpeachable, not the last."
And here lies 'the problem': science isn't unimpeachable - unless you think that Gallileo, Copernicus and Darwin were right shits for ruining it for everyone. It was never 'impeachable' either. Rather, it is based on what can be observed and the gradual accumulation of knowledge. Put simply, we know more today than we knew yesterday, which doesn't automatically invalidate what we knew before.
Monbiot, to his credit, has always replied to his opponents rather than dismissing them in a torrent of bile, and he has also been direct in facing up to the UEA kerfuffle**. But his abuse of language weakens his cause in the long run. As said, science is a rational process whereby we explore and study our surroundings. It does not equate to 'truth', which is a very subjective and so difficult creature at the best of times. It tells you if something works, how it works and when it works, but it does not explain WHY it works, because you can't scientifically observe an abstract philosophical concept.
If in esteeming 'the science' as the core pillar of your ideology, you then find it compromised or challenged, then you risk not only being on the side of a 'false god' but also undermining science as a concept overall, especially in the eyes of a public that doesn't know the difference between science and 'the science' in the first place. They may be inclined to see the situation, and so any subsequent warning, as that of the environmentalist that cried wolf, regardless of whether you're right or not. The incorrect use of the definite article may therefore, in this case, prove to be very damaging to everyone's health.
* Having looked into it with that aforementioned thoroughness, I find myself fully in agreement with those who are sounding the alarm. Except Porritt and Gore for reasons given in this article which still stand.
** Which, in the long term, was a storm in a teacup whipped up by the usual suspect denialists.
Monday 30 November 2009
Language Use That Really Annoys Me #3 - Teenage Girls.
I hate teenage girls. Not enough of them die in wars. Think of all the ickle fluffy bunnies we could save from agonising but necessary medical tests if we used teenage girls instead. They'd get free mascara and most of them like doing weird things to their hair and skin, so it's not exactly a one-sided transaction...
But have you ever been on a train with them? It's Dante's Inferno if he included cheap perfume, desperate attempts to look 'adult' despite still being at school and too much make up. God, they're irritating. So irritating that all of a sudden drinking bleach or being eaten alive by a swarm of ravenous sewer rats seems preferable.
It's how they speak that's really annoying, the excruciating squealing tone that comes from watching too much Hollyoakes or Neighbours or American Teen shlockfests. In this shrill pidgin, one does not go to 'university'. No, one goes to 'YOOOOO-NEEEEEE'. Every exclaimation is 'OH MY GOOOOOOOoooooooooDDDD!'* and their laughter is akin to a really cruel Greek chorus cackling as a cute puppy gets run over by a Deus et Machina Land Rover.
But it's how every f**king sentence has to be a question. 'Hi Emm-AHHHH?' 'Hiya, Denise?' 'We're on a train???' 'So are we?' 'We'll meet at the station?' 'That's a great idea?' 'Love ya, babe?' 'Love you, too, gor-juss?' It's like a gaggle of South Bank intellectuals arguing over whether they actually exist and whether the Jonas Bros. are, like, the cutest boys evvv-aaaaaar.
Everybody thinks that one's teenage years are about rebellion. But as these not-quite-women show, it's really about conformity. Not the beaten down, I've-learned-to-love-the-inland-revenue, oh-shit-I'm-married-and-got-three-kids type of conformity we normally associate with 'the squares', who lost their battle with the Beast long before they even knew they were fighting it.
No, teenage conformity is far worse - they choose to obey, to follow, to think and dress and speak exactly like the rest of whatever grubby little tribe they choose to belong to. 'Teenage Rebellion', that old cliche and crutch for one's own midlife crisis, is a misdiagnosis. The rejection of parental authority is not in favour of some Sodom 'n Gomorrah anarchy, but rather, a far more strident, focussed and vicious obedience to a much more powerful, competent authority. Those girls don't give two farts about what you think about them - because they BELONG, and that means infinitely more than any personal consideration or individual nuance.
And if you don't obey the hormonal Clone-God? You will be singled out. You will be despised. You will be tainted, and You Will Pay for not marching in tune. There is a reason why the Red Guards were mostly students, the Baader Meinhof gang was young and beautiful and why most suicide bombers are young men with their best years still ahead: Only the young can love their masters as much as they do, and HATE their foes with such passion. Piggy always gets lynched by good little tribals, and there is a reason why all those charming chavs and thugs**, of the kind that congregates in large numbers and frighten grown men, all wear the same cut and style of tracksuits and hooded tops and affect the same swagger and menacing, insolent air. They're in uniform and they're on parade.
And in the end, it all comes down to language. The language you use shapes your mind and your actions. It defines you and the company you keep. By definition, any limit you impose on your language is a limit you impose on your own mind, your own decisions and your ability to choose right from wrong. And that's what's really wrong with ghastly teenage girls. They WANT to be limited and hold in contempt any attempt to improve yourself or have your own thoughts.
But there's going to be a day when I get up, walk across the carriage, stand on the table they're sitting around, whip out my homemade morning star and, while waving it about, sing: "'Girl, You'll Be A Woman, SOOOOooo-ooon...', but only when you can string a sentence together, you foul pubescent wreckers of good syntax." And then, and only then, I will threaten them with certain death if they ever raise the pitch of their voices at the end of a sentence that isn't a question. And it will be a good day. If not for my sanity, or vapid girls in scrunchees and tracksuit bottoms with 'WHORE' printed over the buttocks, then at least for language.
* In this case, Sharnice, the infernal deity of backstabbing, hairdressers, eating disorders and crap taste in music. Alignment: Neutral Evil. Favoured Weapon: Fake Gucci stiletto heel, outside a pub in Central Cardiff on a Saturday night...
** At least teenage girls have an internal life, albeit a really stunted one. Teenage boys, as a rule, haven't quite got past the grunting and saying 'c**t' a lot phase. They seldom develop further, either.
But have you ever been on a train with them? It's Dante's Inferno if he included cheap perfume, desperate attempts to look 'adult' despite still being at school and too much make up. God, they're irritating. So irritating that all of a sudden drinking bleach or being eaten alive by a swarm of ravenous sewer rats seems preferable.
It's how they speak that's really annoying, the excruciating squealing tone that comes from watching too much Hollyoakes or Neighbours or American Teen shlockfests. In this shrill pidgin, one does not go to 'university'. No, one goes to 'YOOOOO-NEEEEEE'. Every exclaimation is 'OH MY GOOOOOOOoooooooooDDDD!'* and their laughter is akin to a really cruel Greek chorus cackling as a cute puppy gets run over by a Deus et Machina Land Rover.
But it's how every f**king sentence has to be a question. 'Hi Emm-AHHHH?' 'Hiya, Denise?' 'We're on a train???' 'So are we?' 'We'll meet at the station?' 'That's a great idea?' 'Love ya, babe?' 'Love you, too, gor-juss?' It's like a gaggle of South Bank intellectuals arguing over whether they actually exist and whether the Jonas Bros. are, like, the cutest boys evvv-aaaaaar.
Everybody thinks that one's teenage years are about rebellion. But as these not-quite-women show, it's really about conformity. Not the beaten down, I've-learned-to-love-the-inland-revenue, oh-shit-I'm-married-and-got-three-kids type of conformity we normally associate with 'the squares', who lost their battle with the Beast long before they even knew they were fighting it.
No, teenage conformity is far worse - they choose to obey, to follow, to think and dress and speak exactly like the rest of whatever grubby little tribe they choose to belong to. 'Teenage Rebellion', that old cliche and crutch for one's own midlife crisis, is a misdiagnosis. The rejection of parental authority is not in favour of some Sodom 'n Gomorrah anarchy, but rather, a far more strident, focussed and vicious obedience to a much more powerful, competent authority. Those girls don't give two farts about what you think about them - because they BELONG, and that means infinitely more than any personal consideration or individual nuance.
And if you don't obey the hormonal Clone-God? You will be singled out. You will be despised. You will be tainted, and You Will Pay for not marching in tune. There is a reason why the Red Guards were mostly students, the Baader Meinhof gang was young and beautiful and why most suicide bombers are young men with their best years still ahead: Only the young can love their masters as much as they do, and HATE their foes with such passion. Piggy always gets lynched by good little tribals, and there is a reason why all those charming chavs and thugs**, of the kind that congregates in large numbers and frighten grown men, all wear the same cut and style of tracksuits and hooded tops and affect the same swagger and menacing, insolent air. They're in uniform and they're on parade.
And in the end, it all comes down to language. The language you use shapes your mind and your actions. It defines you and the company you keep. By definition, any limit you impose on your language is a limit you impose on your own mind, your own decisions and your ability to choose right from wrong. And that's what's really wrong with ghastly teenage girls. They WANT to be limited and hold in contempt any attempt to improve yourself or have your own thoughts.
But there's going to be a day when I get up, walk across the carriage, stand on the table they're sitting around, whip out my homemade morning star and, while waving it about, sing: "'Girl, You'll Be A Woman, SOOOOooo-ooon...', but only when you can string a sentence together, you foul pubescent wreckers of good syntax." And then, and only then, I will threaten them with certain death if they ever raise the pitch of their voices at the end of a sentence that isn't a question. And it will be a good day. If not for my sanity, or vapid girls in scrunchees and tracksuit bottoms with 'WHORE' printed over the buttocks, then at least for language.
* In this case, Sharnice, the infernal deity of backstabbing, hairdressers, eating disorders and crap taste in music. Alignment: Neutral Evil. Favoured Weapon: Fake Gucci stiletto heel, outside a pub in Central Cardiff on a Saturday night...
** At least teenage girls have an internal life, albeit a really stunted one. Teenage boys, as a rule, haven't quite got past the grunting and saying 'c**t' a lot phase. They seldom develop further, either.
Language Use That Really Annoys Me #2 - Over-Used Cliches.
I hate spoken cliches. When someone says, 'well, y'know, at the end of the day, when all is said and done, and - I'm not being funny but - like, you what I mean?' I want to stab them. In the head, with a tent spike. Or possibly just shoot them. If America is to be hated for anything, it is for the hideous over-use of the term 'what-not'. But then, the French keep going 'alors' and Cheryl 'I sound like Sid The Sexist in Drag' Cole probably intersperses every four f**king words with 'like', so the tendency is universal.
Why? It suggests lazy thinking. People who keep using the same phrases, time and again, are not using that most-complex-structure-in-the-known-universe that occupies their cranium. Their brains are taking short cuts, they are running on autopilot and - worst of all - they're just speaking someone else's words. They are not functioning as people, but as automotons, or jukeboxes playing the greatest verbal hits of someone much more creative.
The worst ones are however created by the individual who then proceeds to overuse them so they never need structure an original sentence again. For example, I knew one idiot who kept using the word 'intransigence' to the point that you had to wonder if that was the first four syllable word they had ever said and their tiny minds couldn't cope with the stress. 'Negative' or 'negativity' is another overused one, as is 'solutions', but so too are potted ideological arguments for people too stupid for ideology, like 'political correctness gone mad!' or 'if you've got nothing to hide, you've got nothing to fear'. It even has a social cost - think of all those families ruined by 'my house, my rules!' or 'you're not going out dressed like that!'(and so on) vs. 'you don't understand me!' or 'I hate you!' or 'You're So Unfair!'. All too often, we venture into life as individuals with our own thoughts and viewpoints, and yet in the end we are reduced to stock phrases, archetypes and echoes of echoes of echoes, playing out prealloted roles with prealloted dialogue...
Lazy use of cliches is profoundly annoying, but it's also dehumanising too. But, y'know, it's like 'what-evvaaaaar', innit?
Why? It suggests lazy thinking. People who keep using the same phrases, time and again, are not using that most-complex-structure-in-the-known-universe that occupies their cranium. Their brains are taking short cuts, they are running on autopilot and - worst of all - they're just speaking someone else's words. They are not functioning as people, but as automotons, or jukeboxes playing the greatest verbal hits of someone much more creative.
The worst ones are however created by the individual who then proceeds to overuse them so they never need structure an original sentence again. For example, I knew one idiot who kept using the word 'intransigence' to the point that you had to wonder if that was the first four syllable word they had ever said and their tiny minds couldn't cope with the stress. 'Negative' or 'negativity' is another overused one, as is 'solutions', but so too are potted ideological arguments for people too stupid for ideology, like 'political correctness gone mad!' or 'if you've got nothing to hide, you've got nothing to fear'. It even has a social cost - think of all those families ruined by 'my house, my rules!' or 'you're not going out dressed like that!'(and so on) vs. 'you don't understand me!' or 'I hate you!' or 'You're So Unfair!'. All too often, we venture into life as individuals with our own thoughts and viewpoints, and yet in the end we are reduced to stock phrases, archetypes and echoes of echoes of echoes, playing out prealloted roles with prealloted dialogue...
Lazy use of cliches is profoundly annoying, but it's also dehumanising too. But, y'know, it's like 'what-evvaaaaar', innit?
Language Use That Really Annoys Me #1 - Bully Language.
I am an irritable ovine at heart, often getting into fights at barn dances with collies that look at my ewe funny. Also annoying are the many ghastly uses of the English language that remain both far too common and not nearly as violently put down as they should be.
For example, there's language that is offensive - for example, calling someone's mother a llama - and then there is language that is just begging for a fight. 'Bully Language' is a good example of the latter.
But what is 'bully language'? It is a phrase or cliche designed to shout down, bellitle or dismiss someone who feels aggrieved. It is often used by people who are insensitive, thuggish or who just like putting other people down.
Examples include 'live with it!', 'suck it up!' and the all-time twat classic, 'buck up your ideas!', usually applied to someone who's suicidal or severely clinically depressed. It is often used politically as well, as a way of rubbing it in and making yourself look like a cock at the same time, e.g., 'Hitler has just won the election. Live with it!' This allows you to appear masterful, no-nonsense and folksy and in control. Oh, and to be an arsehole to people you know won't hit you.
Some defenders of bully language claim it is both common and necessary in warzones. For example, 'get up and fight, you big poof! We'll find your leg later!!!' Somehow, though, it seems a bit disproportionate to invoke the sort of language used on a battlefield when talking to someone whose boyfriend has just dumped them.
But how best to counter bully language? Face punching is illegal, but it's your word against theirs. And when they're bleeding, you can then reply 'live with it!' while laughing at your own ironic wit. However, the old reliable response of 'Go f**K yourself!' is an acceptable substitute. And if they don't like it, they too will have to 'suck it up', 'buck up their ideas' etc.
For example, there's language that is offensive - for example, calling someone's mother a llama - and then there is language that is just begging for a fight. 'Bully Language' is a good example of the latter.
But what is 'bully language'? It is a phrase or cliche designed to shout down, bellitle or dismiss someone who feels aggrieved. It is often used by people who are insensitive, thuggish or who just like putting other people down.
Examples include 'live with it!', 'suck it up!' and the all-time twat classic, 'buck up your ideas!', usually applied to someone who's suicidal or severely clinically depressed. It is often used politically as well, as a way of rubbing it in and making yourself look like a cock at the same time, e.g., 'Hitler has just won the election. Live with it!' This allows you to appear masterful, no-nonsense and folksy and in control. Oh, and to be an arsehole to people you know won't hit you.
Some defenders of bully language claim it is both common and necessary in warzones. For example, 'get up and fight, you big poof! We'll find your leg later!!!' Somehow, though, it seems a bit disproportionate to invoke the sort of language used on a battlefield when talking to someone whose boyfriend has just dumped them.
But how best to counter bully language? Face punching is illegal, but it's your word against theirs. And when they're bleeding, you can then reply 'live with it!' while laughing at your own ironic wit. However, the old reliable response of 'Go f**K yourself!' is an acceptable substitute. And if they don't like it, they too will have to 'suck it up', 'buck up their ideas' etc.
Saturday 21 November 2009
True Blood vs. Twilight, or 'Cloth vs. Clobber Redux'
Back in days of yore, Loaded magazine (in its James Brown-edited incarnation) was actually worth reading. One article from this era that stood out for me was 'Cloth vs. Clobber', a grand unifying theory that sought to explain all events in history on whether the participants were 'cloth' (as in, affected, individualistic and possibly well-tailored or art student-esque) or 'clobber' (as in, JGB Sports, whatever your mum buys you at Primark, trainers, work clothes, etc.). Put simply, it's Noel Fielding vs. Noel Gallagher, or possibly Zoe Heriot vs. Rose Tyler.
This article has stayed with me ever since. Even now I view the world between these two poles. NATO vs. the Taliban, for example - our boys are obviously clobber because they're all in uniform, wear glorified Doc Martens and drink lots of lager. Whereas, 'The Scholars' are cloth because they all dress like Obi Wan Kenobi and have a thing for mascara and pederasty. You see? It all makes sense now.
Anyway, let's now talk about vampires, or rather, HBO's Deep South haemovore soap, True Blood, and the upcoming vamps 'n werewolves epic, Twilight: New Moon. Again, I refer you to 'Cloth vs. Clobber'. True Blood is plainly clobber, not least because it revolves around the nation's favourite hung up telepath waitress, Sookie Stackhouse, prancing around like a latter day Daisy Duke, right down to the tight but dead common t-shirts and matching shorts. The rest of the cast is also clad in that functional, naively gauche way of many Americans - all jeans, strappy tops, check shirts and Nascar baseball caps. Everyone shags like rabbits and most of the action takes place in the town bar where everyone eats burgers and drinks Budweiser. Even Bill, the in-house brooding vampire, is more akin to a dressed-down Southern Gent than a blood-hungry New Romantic. The fact that Bill's Clan Elder, Eric, looks like he's just been on tour with Opeth notwithstanding, True Blood and its characters are as said most assuredly clobber.
Meanwhile, the Twilight series has just got to be cloth. Wan, winsome teenage virgins listening to Muse and getting lovelorn over a wet prat of a vampire that can't even bring himself to bite/bonk them is proof enough. But if the trailer for the new sequel is anything to go by, we've also got suspiciously well-groomed Byronic Hero werewolves stripped to the waist and looking rather troubled, and a Vampire Court that makes the Borgias look rather understated. It's so cloth, it makes Hot Topic look like Footlocker.
But who prevails? In this case, it has to be clobber. True Blood just seems much more compelling, believable and nuanced, like a living world waiting to explore, whereas the Twilight Saga can only really be seen as a sort of sanitised, simplified romantic smut for tween and teenage girls who want all the vicarious thrills without the grot or nuance of the real thing. So chalk another one up then, clobber. Chavs, rejoice!
NEXT WEEK: Is Being Human the new Rising Damp? Log on next week for the answers!
This article has stayed with me ever since. Even now I view the world between these two poles. NATO vs. the Taliban, for example - our boys are obviously clobber because they're all in uniform, wear glorified Doc Martens and drink lots of lager. Whereas, 'The Scholars' are cloth because they all dress like Obi Wan Kenobi and have a thing for mascara and pederasty. You see? It all makes sense now.
Anyway, let's now talk about vampires, or rather, HBO's Deep South haemovore soap, True Blood, and the upcoming vamps 'n werewolves epic, Twilight: New Moon. Again, I refer you to 'Cloth vs. Clobber'. True Blood is plainly clobber, not least because it revolves around the nation's favourite hung up telepath waitress, Sookie Stackhouse, prancing around like a latter day Daisy Duke, right down to the tight but dead common t-shirts and matching shorts. The rest of the cast is also clad in that functional, naively gauche way of many Americans - all jeans, strappy tops, check shirts and Nascar baseball caps. Everyone shags like rabbits and most of the action takes place in the town bar where everyone eats burgers and drinks Budweiser. Even Bill, the in-house brooding vampire, is more akin to a dressed-down Southern Gent than a blood-hungry New Romantic. The fact that Bill's Clan Elder, Eric, looks like he's just been on tour with Opeth notwithstanding, True Blood and its characters are as said most assuredly clobber.
Meanwhile, the Twilight series has just got to be cloth. Wan, winsome teenage virgins listening to Muse and getting lovelorn over a wet prat of a vampire that can't even bring himself to bite/bonk them is proof enough. But if the trailer for the new sequel is anything to go by, we've also got suspiciously well-groomed Byronic Hero werewolves stripped to the waist and looking rather troubled, and a Vampire Court that makes the Borgias look rather understated. It's so cloth, it makes Hot Topic look like Footlocker.
But who prevails? In this case, it has to be clobber. True Blood just seems much more compelling, believable and nuanced, like a living world waiting to explore, whereas the Twilight Saga can only really be seen as a sort of sanitised, simplified romantic smut for tween and teenage girls who want all the vicarious thrills without the grot or nuance of the real thing. So chalk another one up then, clobber. Chavs, rejoice!
NEXT WEEK: Is Being Human the new Rising Damp? Log on next week for the answers!
2012 - A Spotter's Guide.
Do you like disaster films that are just like every other disaster film, give or take state of the art CGI effects? Then this checklist is for you! Remember, 2012 has all these cliches and more, including a bit where two silly old women die in a much deserved road accident! Go Emmerich, Go! How many can YOU spot?
MAIN SECTION
* Earnest black chap giving pious speech about shared humanity? CHECK!
* Billions dying but at least the dog makes it? CHECK!
* Gratuitous product placement? (Sony VAIO et al.) CHECK!
* Deep Impact-esque tear-jerker moments between doomed relatives? CHECK!
* Expendable second husband/stepfather? CHECK!
* Panto villain politician who won't listen to the earnest black chap? CHECK!
* Professor in a bow tie? CHECK!
* Romance blossoming despite monumental carnage? CHECK!
* Various improbable last minute escapes from certain death? CHECK!
* Token foreign family thrown in as a handy Deus Et Machina? CHECK!
* Token foreign family thrown in to emphasise tragedy of situation by dying horribly? CHECK!
* Tibetan Lama sounding rather profound yet somewhat abstract? CHECK!
* Desperate sucking up to the Chinese as this means good box office in the PRC? CHECK!
BONUS SECTION
* Woody Harrelson playing a weirdo? CHECK!
* John Cusack deciding now's the time to cash the fuck in? CHECK!
* Complete disregard for probability or scientific feasibility? CHECK!
* Danny Glover looking rather startled? CHECK!
* Clumsy attempt to spice up a tired genre with unconvincing political subtext and spot-it-a-mile-away Biblical/Classical allusions? CHECK!
MAIN SECTION
* Earnest black chap giving pious speech about shared humanity? CHECK!
* Billions dying but at least the dog makes it? CHECK!
* Gratuitous product placement? (Sony VAIO et al.) CHECK!
* Deep Impact-esque tear-jerker moments between doomed relatives? CHECK!
* Expendable second husband/stepfather? CHECK!
* Panto villain politician who won't listen to the earnest black chap? CHECK!
* Professor in a bow tie? CHECK!
* Romance blossoming despite monumental carnage? CHECK!
* Various improbable last minute escapes from certain death? CHECK!
* Token foreign family thrown in as a handy Deus Et Machina? CHECK!
* Token foreign family thrown in to emphasise tragedy of situation by dying horribly? CHECK!
* Tibetan Lama sounding rather profound yet somewhat abstract? CHECK!
* Desperate sucking up to the Chinese as this means good box office in the PRC? CHECK!
BONUS SECTION
* Woody Harrelson playing a weirdo? CHECK!
* John Cusack deciding now's the time to cash the fuck in? CHECK!
* Complete disregard for probability or scientific feasibility? CHECK!
* Danny Glover looking rather startled? CHECK!
* Clumsy attempt to spice up a tired genre with unconvincing political subtext and spot-it-a-mile-away Biblical/Classical allusions? CHECK!
Tuesday 10 November 2009
Dangling On A Thread - The Execution of Gary Glitter.
Last night's Channel 4 docudrama, "The Execution of Gary Glitter", has certainly divided opinion. A quick Google search reveals many who think it is pro- or anti- death penalty, and many others who claim it soberly provides us with both sides of the argument.* I'd argue, though, that it was less about the debate and more about the people who argue over it.
I shan't bore you too much with the details... Real life rock star/nonce Gary Glitter (nee Paul Gadd) is tried for child rape committed in South East Asia, but the twist is that this is in an alternate timeline where the UK has reintroduced hanging for murder and child abuse... (And presumably crimes committed in other countries.) After a vulgar trial and an intentionally short 30-day wait, he then goes to the gallows... And that's it.
But what stands out, as said, are the characters. None of them are savoury. Glitter is arrogant and stupid, his paedophilia (if not his conviction for rape) obvious in terms of his delusional, self-pitying behaviour. True, the real Glitter would probably flounce to the gallows like a latter-day Jack Shepherd, eager for one last bout of attention whoring, if - that is - they really ever did get to hang him. But there's little to engage us with the pig-headed sobbing wretch we are presented with here, even though what is most disturbing about the real Gadd was how easily he won the public over before he was exposed, and still probably could if these events were real.
The rest of the cast is not likeable either, again deliberately. Real life Journos Gary Bushell and Miranda Sawyer send up their respective grubby rabble rousing and lazy broadsheet vapidity with the same glee that drove Davina McCall to be turned into a zombie in Dead Set. Whereas, right wing politician Ann Widdecombe, media hound that she is, doesn't seem to be in on the joke. But it's the solipsistic barristers, pompous judges, dubious witnesses, the jury that tries Gadd not just for rape but what his popular image has come to represent, the whining and mewling and ultimately hypocritical antis, the hysterical and bloodthirsty bully-boy pros and of course a public that seems hell-bent on turning the first execution on British soil in decades into a circus and freakshow, that stand out as monsters. Not the child-abusing kind, mind you, but the kind of monster that finds vicarious delight through the horror of child abuse and feeds off the hate it engenders or which derives a perverse thrill in shedding tears for a pervert. The drama makes one point clear: the society that hangs Gary Glitter is in its own way every bit as depraved and fucked up.
Not all the characters are unlikeable however. The American death row chaplain, flown over to administer to Glitter's final 30 days, is sympathetic and kind, and perhaps the only truly moral figure in the show due to his compassion and honest intentions. While the hangman himself is an interesting figure - impartial and professional, without agenda and motivated only by duty. He stands in stark contrast to the howling mob outside and the shrill, sanctimonious home secretary he ultimately takes order from, who may either be an insincere hack playing to the mob or who is genuinely intoxicated by the fumes of her hellfire sermons, or perhaps a mixture of both.
So far, so good. But ultimately, "The Execution of Gary Glitter" is undermined by its lack of real merit. Whilst the writers may argue that they are simply trying to engender debate, the faint sleaziness of the premise rather does in any claims of serious docudrama making. What one is left with as the trap is pulled and Gadd finally swings is not a sense of outrage or elation, but a cold, bleak and dirty emptiness, like staring into a pit of total despair and degradation for 90 minutes. Apart from lazily fitting into a British tradition of overwrought pessimism-for-pessimism's-sake in drama, literature and media, the show also chickens out by putting Gadd's neck on the line rather than its own. For in the end what really stands out is the script's own cowardice, its own unwillingness to pick a side and stand up for it, come what may.
* And lots of other people who think it is lurid, exploitative trash.
I shan't bore you too much with the details... Real life rock star/nonce Gary Glitter (nee Paul Gadd) is tried for child rape committed in South East Asia, but the twist is that this is in an alternate timeline where the UK has reintroduced hanging for murder and child abuse... (And presumably crimes committed in other countries.) After a vulgar trial and an intentionally short 30-day wait, he then goes to the gallows... And that's it.
But what stands out, as said, are the characters. None of them are savoury. Glitter is arrogant and stupid, his paedophilia (if not his conviction for rape) obvious in terms of his delusional, self-pitying behaviour. True, the real Glitter would probably flounce to the gallows like a latter-day Jack Shepherd, eager for one last bout of attention whoring, if - that is - they really ever did get to hang him. But there's little to engage us with the pig-headed sobbing wretch we are presented with here, even though what is most disturbing about the real Gadd was how easily he won the public over before he was exposed, and still probably could if these events were real.
The rest of the cast is not likeable either, again deliberately. Real life Journos Gary Bushell and Miranda Sawyer send up their respective grubby rabble rousing and lazy broadsheet vapidity with the same glee that drove Davina McCall to be turned into a zombie in Dead Set. Whereas, right wing politician Ann Widdecombe, media hound that she is, doesn't seem to be in on the joke. But it's the solipsistic barristers, pompous judges, dubious witnesses, the jury that tries Gadd not just for rape but what his popular image has come to represent, the whining and mewling and ultimately hypocritical antis, the hysterical and bloodthirsty bully-boy pros and of course a public that seems hell-bent on turning the first execution on British soil in decades into a circus and freakshow, that stand out as monsters. Not the child-abusing kind, mind you, but the kind of monster that finds vicarious delight through the horror of child abuse and feeds off the hate it engenders or which derives a perverse thrill in shedding tears for a pervert. The drama makes one point clear: the society that hangs Gary Glitter is in its own way every bit as depraved and fucked up.
Not all the characters are unlikeable however. The American death row chaplain, flown over to administer to Glitter's final 30 days, is sympathetic and kind, and perhaps the only truly moral figure in the show due to his compassion and honest intentions. While the hangman himself is an interesting figure - impartial and professional, without agenda and motivated only by duty. He stands in stark contrast to the howling mob outside and the shrill, sanctimonious home secretary he ultimately takes order from, who may either be an insincere hack playing to the mob or who is genuinely intoxicated by the fumes of her hellfire sermons, or perhaps a mixture of both.
So far, so good. But ultimately, "The Execution of Gary Glitter" is undermined by its lack of real merit. Whilst the writers may argue that they are simply trying to engender debate, the faint sleaziness of the premise rather does in any claims of serious docudrama making. What one is left with as the trap is pulled and Gadd finally swings is not a sense of outrage or elation, but a cold, bleak and dirty emptiness, like staring into a pit of total despair and degradation for 90 minutes. Apart from lazily fitting into a British tradition of overwrought pessimism-for-pessimism's-sake in drama, literature and media, the show also chickens out by putting Gadd's neck on the line rather than its own. For in the end what really stands out is the script's own cowardice, its own unwillingness to pick a side and stand up for it, come what may.
* And lots of other people who think it is lurid, exploitative trash.
Monday 20 July 2009
Rabbit, Rabbit and Rabbits At The Town Show.
The Dagenham Town Show was a good experience, despite the gale force winds and the looming threat of rain. There were lots of stalls in the community and society tents, there was a fun fair and you could even get a ride on a helicopter (if you had the money).
Click Here to Read More!
Click Here to Read More!
Thursday 16 July 2009
The Friday Short Story: Derelict
It's dusk. I never come out by day, only at dusk.
I'm hiding in a filthy, piss-yellow skip off Oxford Street, in Ramillies Place. I lift the top out and slink out. Flies blow out in my wake. I seem to be sleeping with every louse in town. I can feel the itch of their bites as they scab over.
There is dried blood on my chin.
Click Here to Read More!
I'm hiding in a filthy, piss-yellow skip off Oxford Street, in Ramillies Place. I lift the top out and slink out. Flies blow out in my wake. I seem to be sleeping with every louse in town. I can feel the itch of their bites as they scab over.
There is dried blood on my chin.
Click Here to Read More!
Thursday 2 July 2009
The Newsagent's Lament.
I bought a copy of The London Evening Standard today. Mainly it was for jobs, so it was annoying to then remember that the vacancies are in the Tuesday edition.
But this wasn't the unusual thing. That was the huge number of porn mags the newsagent was selling. The shop's two sets of magazine racks both had titles like 'Readers' Wives', 'Asian Babes', 'Teen Nymphos' and 'Razzle' (and many more, err, 'obscure' publications) from the top shelf right down to the middle row.
Then on the row below that there was a range of tattoo and motorcycle magazines with even more scantily clad or naked women on the front. It was only the lower shelves that reverted to the traditional newsagent range of puzzle magazines, celeb rags, computer mags and children's comics.
I doubt the owner was a particular porn fiend, any more than he was a fan of the Pernod on the spirit shelf behind him as he manned the counter. It was just that he seemed to have a huge market of porn consumers to appease and they no doubt spent more money on magazines than the other customers. Pecunia non olet, as they say, and the newsagent had long since given up on shame or embarrassment in favour of making a reasonable living.
But this wasn't the unusual thing. That was the huge number of porn mags the newsagent was selling. The shop's two sets of magazine racks both had titles like 'Readers' Wives', 'Asian Babes', 'Teen Nymphos' and 'Razzle' (and many more, err, 'obscure' publications) from the top shelf right down to the middle row.
Then on the row below that there was a range of tattoo and motorcycle magazines with even more scantily clad or naked women on the front. It was only the lower shelves that reverted to the traditional newsagent range of puzzle magazines, celeb rags, computer mags and children's comics.
I doubt the owner was a particular porn fiend, any more than he was a fan of the Pernod on the spirit shelf behind him as he manned the counter. It was just that he seemed to have a huge market of porn consumers to appease and they no doubt spent more money on magazines than the other customers. Pecunia non olet, as they say, and the newsagent had long since given up on shame or embarrassment in favour of making a reasonable living.
Tuesday 30 June 2009
Seeing Dessicated Withered Corpses At The British Museum (And Also Some Mummies).
As I walked towards the British Museum, I saw a huge teddy bear. It was wearing a Beefeaters’ uniform and was stationed outside one of the many naff souvenir shops that ply their trade in central London. No doubt you could buy one inside, but how do you get a giant cuddly toy through customs? The bear looked depressed. It was sagging and leaning against the shop’s windowsill. The stitching in its groin had come apart and the stuffing was poking through. It seemed to say something, but I chose not to ponder it too deeply.
The British Museum is a sight to behold. It’s a huge building that pulls in huge crowds and one day is just not enough to see everything. I started with a look at the Gamelan. This is a Javanese assembly of musical instruments, which produces those ethereal chimes that most of us associate with Indonesia. They piped in sampled music that was clear and soothing. There were few visitors there though. They all seemed to be in the main atrium outside, talking loudly and photographing themselves.
This was in fact a major annoyance. It wasn’t that they took a single photo. No, they kept taking pictures of themselves and each other, non-stop, with camera phones, digital cameras, video cameras… It wasn’t so much a trip to the museum as an exercise in vanity. ‘LOOK AT ME! I’M STANDING IN THE WAY OF THE ASSYRIAN WALL CARVINGS!!!’, they all seemed to be saying. They kept doing this, the museum just a setting for the ongoing adventures of people who needed to be photographed to prove they still exist.
A hawk-headed, four-winged door guardian grinned down from the walls, like it was in on the joke.
I mainly focussed on Egyptian artefacts. I just didn't feel like looking at the Greek gallery for some reason, and I had barely enough time for the Indian collection either. I soaked up Egyptian knowledge like a sponge, troubled by the nagging thought that I was still only having a second hand experience. The real thing had passed a long time ago. I also had to stop myself humming Nile's back catalogue. That would have been embarrassing.
Suddenly, I felt a strange urge to smack a young American tourist. ‘MMMMM-OOOOOOOHHHH-M!!!’ he droned, with ugly broad vowels. ‘There were ROMAN mummies too!’ In fact, they were still Egyptian mummies. It was just that the Romans who lived there styled theirs in a Latin fashion, much like the Greek Diaspora had Hellenic stylings on their own mummies. They’d gone native, integrated if not assimilated. There were no Roman mummies, just Egyptian mummies with a Roman theme.
Then again, maybe it wasn’t the kid’s fault. No one had bothered to explain the truth to him, and tourism is hardly a good way to find out anything. And besides, American children aren’t half as slappable as their Italian or British counterparts as I was only too painfully aware of.
I wandered into the Chinese ceramics gallery. The only pictures being taken were of the ceramics themselves. It wasn’t the place for screaming tourists to regard themselves via a camera lense. It was serene and beautiful, the visitors moving through it with grace and quiet admiration. I had one last look at the Gamelan on my way out. It was still a wonderful sight but also still curiously ignored. Then I turned back and headed into the loud, swelling, sweating crowd outside.
The British Museum is a sight to behold. It’s a huge building that pulls in huge crowds and one day is just not enough to see everything. I started with a look at the Gamelan. This is a Javanese assembly of musical instruments, which produces those ethereal chimes that most of us associate with Indonesia. They piped in sampled music that was clear and soothing. There were few visitors there though. They all seemed to be in the main atrium outside, talking loudly and photographing themselves.
This was in fact a major annoyance. It wasn’t that they took a single photo. No, they kept taking pictures of themselves and each other, non-stop, with camera phones, digital cameras, video cameras… It wasn’t so much a trip to the museum as an exercise in vanity. ‘LOOK AT ME! I’M STANDING IN THE WAY OF THE ASSYRIAN WALL CARVINGS!!!’, they all seemed to be saying. They kept doing this, the museum just a setting for the ongoing adventures of people who needed to be photographed to prove they still exist.
A hawk-headed, four-winged door guardian grinned down from the walls, like it was in on the joke.
I mainly focussed on Egyptian artefacts. I just didn't feel like looking at the Greek gallery for some reason, and I had barely enough time for the Indian collection either. I soaked up Egyptian knowledge like a sponge, troubled by the nagging thought that I was still only having a second hand experience. The real thing had passed a long time ago. I also had to stop myself humming Nile's back catalogue. That would have been embarrassing.
Suddenly, I felt a strange urge to smack a young American tourist. ‘MMMMM-OOOOOOOHHHH-M!!!’ he droned, with ugly broad vowels. ‘There were ROMAN mummies too!’ In fact, they were still Egyptian mummies. It was just that the Romans who lived there styled theirs in a Latin fashion, much like the Greek Diaspora had Hellenic stylings on their own mummies. They’d gone native, integrated if not assimilated. There were no Roman mummies, just Egyptian mummies with a Roman theme.
Then again, maybe it wasn’t the kid’s fault. No one had bothered to explain the truth to him, and tourism is hardly a good way to find out anything. And besides, American children aren’t half as slappable as their Italian or British counterparts as I was only too painfully aware of.
I wandered into the Chinese ceramics gallery. The only pictures being taken were of the ceramics themselves. It wasn’t the place for screaming tourists to regard themselves via a camera lense. It was serene and beautiful, the visitors moving through it with grace and quiet admiration. I had one last look at the Gamelan on my way out. It was still a wonderful sight but also still curiously ignored. Then I turned back and headed into the loud, swelling, sweating crowd outside.
Sunday 28 June 2009
Tottenham & Upper Edmonton: Old Haunts Revisited
The Tottenham and Upper Edmonton area of London is an odd mix of buildings. While much of it is made up of faintly shabby early 20th century tenenments, now serving as shops, closed and empty buildings boarded over for demolition, grotty tower blocks from the 50s, 60s and 70s or bland modern architecture with tinted glass, yellow bricks and steel, there is a surprisingly large number of quality Georgian, Victorian and Edwardian architecture.
One example is this old sunday school and adjoining church.
Nearby, the famous Old Well.
Other buildings include the Tottenham and Edmonton Dispensary, the Tottenham Palace Cinema, and the Old Swimming Baths. But there are also many large townhouses and civic buildings, like the Tottenham Community Sports Centre and the Council Office. There is also the famous Gilpin Bell, a concrete memorial (and nearby Wetherspoon's pub with the same name) to a possibly fictional character from the 18th Century, who got carried away by his horse from an Edmonton inn (the eponymous Bell) and found himself in Hertfordshire. As you do. [For more on Tottenham in particular, go HERE.]
The last time I was in Edmonton was almost 12 years ago. Some things have changed. Most of the fish 'n chip shops run by Greeks have been taken over by Turks, who now focus on kebabs as well as Lahmacun, the enigmatic Turkish Pizza. Afro Carribean and African restaurants are now common too: the cuisine and the people have been here for a long time, but it seems only now that they feel confident enough to share it with everyone else.
A lot of the shops in Edmonton have changed as well. The old Kwik Save is now a discount clothes shop, the old Safeways site now a Lidl's, while Blockbuster video has been replaced by, of all things, a new library.
One thing that had not changed was the casual stupidity of the locals. One idiot decided to cartwheel across the road, missing several cars by only a second. Once he was over the road, he walked off like nothing had happened. As I went to cross another busy main road - The Angel - some idiot cycled across without looking and got knocked over by two angry-looking policemen en route to an emergency. I turned away and walked on. There was no need to see what would happen, but the cyclist's girlfriend, following up on foot, was shrieking with dismay. Earlier, in Tottenham itself, I saw police on foot walk up to resolve a row between a driver and the cyclist HE had knocked over. They dragged him out the car as he swore incoherently.
The last time I was here, I was staying at my Uncle's flat. I went to look at it again. He'd sold it on and it might have changed hands several times since. I crept up the stairs to the level where the flat was. It felt familiar, but also like an intrusion. They'd painted the door and reinforced it at points with steel plates. But it still felt odd, like there should have been a welcome where there was not. The pub around the corner - one of those small ones in residential areas that are no bigger than a large living room - had been knocked down and in its place they'd built ugly, flimsy new flats made of pine and metal girders. They looked like they would be knocked down in less than thirty years. Nothing lasts anymore.
As I went off to get the bus back to London Bridge, I saw the old community centre near my Uncle's flat. It used to play music on Saturday nights that was so loud I could listen to it as I lay in bed. The playlist meant it was more fun than you might think. But it was soon taken over by yet another Money Church, of the kind that are pretty much ubiquitous throughout Greater London. A banner outside claimed it was run by 'Endtime Ministries'. Somehow it all seemed very fitting.
One example is this old sunday school and adjoining church.
Nearby, the famous Old Well.
Other buildings include the Tottenham and Edmonton Dispensary, the Tottenham Palace Cinema, and the Old Swimming Baths. But there are also many large townhouses and civic buildings, like the Tottenham Community Sports Centre and the Council Office. There is also the famous Gilpin Bell, a concrete memorial (and nearby Wetherspoon's pub with the same name) to a possibly fictional character from the 18th Century, who got carried away by his horse from an Edmonton inn (the eponymous Bell) and found himself in Hertfordshire. As you do. [For more on Tottenham in particular, go HERE.]
The last time I was in Edmonton was almost 12 years ago. Some things have changed. Most of the fish 'n chip shops run by Greeks have been taken over by Turks, who now focus on kebabs as well as Lahmacun, the enigmatic Turkish Pizza. Afro Carribean and African restaurants are now common too: the cuisine and the people have been here for a long time, but it seems only now that they feel confident enough to share it with everyone else.
A lot of the shops in Edmonton have changed as well. The old Kwik Save is now a discount clothes shop, the old Safeways site now a Lidl's, while Blockbuster video has been replaced by, of all things, a new library.
One thing that had not changed was the casual stupidity of the locals. One idiot decided to cartwheel across the road, missing several cars by only a second. Once he was over the road, he walked off like nothing had happened. As I went to cross another busy main road - The Angel - some idiot cycled across without looking and got knocked over by two angry-looking policemen en route to an emergency. I turned away and walked on. There was no need to see what would happen, but the cyclist's girlfriend, following up on foot, was shrieking with dismay. Earlier, in Tottenham itself, I saw police on foot walk up to resolve a row between a driver and the cyclist HE had knocked over. They dragged him out the car as he swore incoherently.
The last time I was here, I was staying at my Uncle's flat. I went to look at it again. He'd sold it on and it might have changed hands several times since. I crept up the stairs to the level where the flat was. It felt familiar, but also like an intrusion. They'd painted the door and reinforced it at points with steel plates. But it still felt odd, like there should have been a welcome where there was not. The pub around the corner - one of those small ones in residential areas that are no bigger than a large living room - had been knocked down and in its place they'd built ugly, flimsy new flats made of pine and metal girders. They looked like they would be knocked down in less than thirty years. Nothing lasts anymore.
As I went off to get the bus back to London Bridge, I saw the old community centre near my Uncle's flat. It used to play music on Saturday nights that was so loud I could listen to it as I lay in bed. The playlist meant it was more fun than you might think. But it was soon taken over by yet another Money Church, of the kind that are pretty much ubiquitous throughout Greater London. A banner outside claimed it was run by 'Endtime Ministries'. Somehow it all seemed very fitting.
Friday 26 June 2009
The Mourning After.
A disfigured man died last night. Online they squabbled over when he died. Some even posted pictures of him being wheeled into hospital and of his family coming in soon afterwards. Right now on the television they are showing pictures of his body being carried off a helicopter. They're talking about the painkillers that could have killed him. He spent much of his life in pain.
His friends flicker on the screen, spilling their guts as eulogy. Everyone has a quote.
The media is pretending it never said a bad word about him. TV channels that showed mocking documentaries about his mutilated face now show it on tributes to a 'King of the Popular'. They praise him for things they neglected to mention for much of his life. They mention all the bad things and the ugly rumours out of duty, but the crowds outside the hospital where he died have called it: he's now a fallen hero, fawned over by weeping fans, cherubim and hypocrites.
A pro to the last, he died in time to make it into the early editions of all the UK newspapers. Good timing. All that was left for him was to die at a dramatic moment.
His friends flicker on the screen, spilling their guts as eulogy. Everyone has a quote.
The media is pretending it never said a bad word about him. TV channels that showed mocking documentaries about his mutilated face now show it on tributes to a 'King of the Popular'. They praise him for things they neglected to mention for much of his life. They mention all the bad things and the ugly rumours out of duty, but the crowds outside the hospital where he died have called it: he's now a fallen hero, fawned over by weeping fans, cherubim and hypocrites.
A pro to the last, he died in time to make it into the early editions of all the UK newspapers. Good timing. All that was left for him was to die at a dramatic moment.
Wednesday 27 May 2009
Picture of the Day (27/05/2009)
This is the long-empty Green Man pub at the south end of Coldharbour Lane, Brixton. It looks like the most recent layer of paint has been scraped off, revealing the original sign beneath. Note the now-extinct beer brands advertised, such as Reid's Stout but also Watney's, makers of the infamous Red Barrel.
Tuesday 26 May 2009
Picture of the Day (26/05/2009)
This is St Michael Paternoster Royal on College Hill, a church near Bank and Cannon Street Stations. It's also the headquarters for the Church of England's Mission To Seafarers. It's next to a nice mini-park with seating and is very leafy in May.
Sunday 24 May 2009
The Last Day In Brixton
I had to get off at another underground station than the one I was meant to yesterday: someone had fallen in front of a tube train. The train I was one simply drove slowly through the station where it had happened. I could glimpse the train involved in the accident on the adjacent platform as I went past. Its doors were open but the lights were off. It had not entirely pulled into the platform, so the accident must have happened midway on the tracks. I saw a policeman talking matter-of-factly with two maintenance workers in dirty orange overalls. On the platform my train was going through, meanwhile, a sign had been put out for the train drivers to remind them not to stop, while a station attendant sat next to it, apathetically.
Within an hour the station was back on line and no one seemed aware that it had even happened.
Brixton Road was full of people trying to sell salvation. It was either charismatic Christian groups tied in with the many black churches nearby or any number of Socialist groups, either screaming for bent MPs' blood or promising an altogether more secular promised land.
As I sat down in St. Matthews' Churchyard to eat lunch, an open decked double decker covered in Christian Party regalia and full of supporters roared past. They're making a special effort in Brixton, if all the campaign posters are anything to go by. (Meanwhile, UKIP's 'NO To Uncontrolled Immigration' posters, with Winston Churchill thrown in for good measure, are nowhere to be seen for some reason, being more common in the more conflicted East End of London.)
I doubt the Christian Party will do well in next month's European Elections though. The public doesn't want principles or idealism nowadays. They want parties that are bitter and suspicious, that rage and self-pity in equal measure. Politics and religion don't mix anyway, but only in the same way that politics doesn't quite mix with anything.
As I drank my tea, a big mongrel (part-Alsatian, part-Labrador) trotted up to me. With dogs I don't know, it's always a good idea to be friendly and say 'hello'. They seem to calm down if they're growling, or stop finding you so interesting. This was the case with the dog too, which turned away, but stared instead into the Churchyard and at the other humans in the distance, sitting on benches. He seemed to be looking for something. A while later, I saw him walking past nonchalantly, now on a lead and with his mistress.
I then went to Brixton Library. As usual, there were a gaggle of drunks, dossers and generally dodgy looking regulars congregating in the square in front of the building. It's often the place to see the local constabulary, sometimes on bikes, drawing up to resolve a pointless squabble.
Brixton Library was careworn, but reassuringly serene. Outside, the city growled, screeched, shouted and boomed without end.
Within an hour the station was back on line and no one seemed aware that it had even happened.
Brixton Road was full of people trying to sell salvation. It was either charismatic Christian groups tied in with the many black churches nearby or any number of Socialist groups, either screaming for bent MPs' blood or promising an altogether more secular promised land.
As I sat down in St. Matthews' Churchyard to eat lunch, an open decked double decker covered in Christian Party regalia and full of supporters roared past. They're making a special effort in Brixton, if all the campaign posters are anything to go by. (Meanwhile, UKIP's 'NO To Uncontrolled Immigration' posters, with Winston Churchill thrown in for good measure, are nowhere to be seen for some reason, being more common in the more conflicted East End of London.)
I doubt the Christian Party will do well in next month's European Elections though. The public doesn't want principles or idealism nowadays. They want parties that are bitter and suspicious, that rage and self-pity in equal measure. Politics and religion don't mix anyway, but only in the same way that politics doesn't quite mix with anything.
As I drank my tea, a big mongrel (part-Alsatian, part-Labrador) trotted up to me. With dogs I don't know, it's always a good idea to be friendly and say 'hello'. They seem to calm down if they're growling, or stop finding you so interesting. This was the case with the dog too, which turned away, but stared instead into the Churchyard and at the other humans in the distance, sitting on benches. He seemed to be looking for something. A while later, I saw him walking past nonchalantly, now on a lead and with his mistress.
I then went to Brixton Library. As usual, there were a gaggle of drunks, dossers and generally dodgy looking regulars congregating in the square in front of the building. It's often the place to see the local constabulary, sometimes on bikes, drawing up to resolve a pointless squabble.
Brixton Library was careworn, but reassuringly serene. Outside, the city growled, screeched, shouted and boomed without end.
Friday 1 May 2009
Tragedy as nuisance.
We were caught up in a delay just outside the train station. It had been over five minutes now. Suddenly the driver's voice resonated over the tannoy:
"I'm sorry for the delay, Ladies and Gentlemen, but we are currently delayed owing to a member of the public going under a train at the station. We hope to get moving soon and..."
An ugly, angry voice drowned the announcement out.
"WHY DON'T THEY JUST SCRAPE 'IM OFF AND STICK 'IM IN A BAG? I'M GONNA BE LATE!!!"
The train got moving again a few minutes later. None of us knew what had exactly happened. The passengers swarmed out of the carriage in a hurry, like nothing happened.
"I'm sorry for the delay, Ladies and Gentlemen, but we are currently delayed owing to a member of the public going under a train at the station. We hope to get moving soon and..."
An ugly, angry voice drowned the announcement out.
"WHY DON'T THEY JUST SCRAPE 'IM OFF AND STICK 'IM IN A BAG? I'M GONNA BE LATE!!!"
The train got moving again a few minutes later. None of us knew what had exactly happened. The passengers swarmed out of the carriage in a hurry, like nothing happened.
Living In A Sh*t Hole
It's always interesting to go out walking where I live. Not nice, but always interesting.
For example, I was out today and walked past a house where a mother was shouting at her daughter. The monologue went like so:
NAAAH! YA NOT GAAAAAARRRRN TA THE FACKING FAIR NAAAA! YA CAN FACK OFF! STOP FACKING CRYING! GET IN THE FACKING HAAAAAARRRRSE NAAAAA!
The little girl looked like she was five or six.
For example, I was out today and walked past a house where a mother was shouting at her daughter. The monologue went like so:
NAAAH! YA NOT GAAAAAARRRRN TA THE FACKING FAIR NAAAA! YA CAN FACK OFF! STOP FACKING CRYING! GET IN THE FACKING HAAAAAARRRRSE NAAAAA!
The little girl looked like she was five or six.
Wednesday 22 April 2009
Romping In Romford
(Above: A mural on the pavement of Romford's market area. In case you were wondering.)
A memo to myself: don't sit at the back of a bus. They're magnets for arseholes, idiots and the banal. Like the trio of very loud, lurid girls who walled us in as they got on and went straight to the back where we were sitting. They all had absurdly bleached hair of a tone normally only associated with albinos and Boris Johnson. Their clothes were gaudy and sparkling, like they were going out to a nightclub, even though it wasn't even noon. And they wore lots of junk jewellery, which clanked and changged like chainmail. They weren't chavettes or your common or garden toerag though. Just young and silly and thoroughbred in their Essex Girlishness. My only real complaint was that they kept putting their feet on the seats, which really ought to be grounds for exile to South Georgia.
It was hard to keep up with their stacatto wittering, but some snippets stay in the mind:
"Yeah, oo's that gel? Ain't she gaar'n to th' Sickth Form? Stoopid Cahh!"
"I've never bin ta Sarrfend before. Is it true the sea gets bigga if it gets rained on? I've goht sicktee paahnd so I'll get really smashed there!"
"Y'knaa, if someone stole flaaars off my family's graves, I'd faaaaking kill 'em!"
"Stop takin' photahs of me, Shell, ya bitch!"
And so on. Halfway through our trip, we drove past a white plaster-coated house with the legend 'Pixy Cottage' written on it. You'd have to wonder what kind of fae folk would live in the Dagenham-Romford wastes, as it's hardly the sort of place where fairy dust flows freely.
Later we were sitting down for a coffee at an outside burger bar in Romford Market. The day was gloriously sunny. Suddenly I saw a strange bearded man in dark clothes and sunglasses in the distance. He slouched down and started running towards us, around the back of the burger van and then around the seating area, past the corner and into the market once more. He was holding a pair of numchucks, but whether he was the local ninja assasain, I couldn't really tell.
At the end of the day, while queueing for an ice cream in McDonalds, we heard the following pearls of wisdom from two lads behind us - young enough to still be living with their parents, old enough to ponder the meaning of romance:
"Yeah, like, she's sooo immature, y'know-what-I-mean?"
"Mate, at their age they're just too young to know what love is."
"Tell me abaaht it, mate, tell me abaaht it..."
It sounded rather silly and yet profound, like the sort of wisdom that could only come from a broken heart.
Tuesday 21 April 2009
Monday 20 April 2009
Sunday Paranoia
Trains on a Sunday can be frightening places... Not too many people there... Just scary ones... You stand on the platform, looking over your shoulder... They're sitting on the seats, looking rough... Don't look back... Don't let them hear you on the phone - your accent's too different... They hate difference...
The train's coming... You get on... There's a family of leering ugly chavs with a pitbull sitting over there... Get to the other end of the carriage... Sit amongst the old and the gentle-looking and the female... Stack the odds in your favour...
A young man gets on a few stops later... He's wearing sports gear... Laughing loud into a mobile... He's standing close to you... But wait, his voice is cheerful and moderate and his face looks friendly... He's talking to his girlfriend about dinner: chicken with salad... You're safe... He sounds like he's been off doing Sunday sports... Yes, very respectable... Your train leaves the station - there's graffiti on the archway - 'YOU'RE BEING WATCHED'...
It seems safer now... Just a few more stops... Past Stratford now... Chavs have got off... In the home straits... Liverpool Street the terminus is next... Get off quick... Don't tempt fate... Will the tube be safe? Will the tube be safe?
You stand up, ready to get off straight away and look at the passenger who's still sitting down on the next seat... He's reading a book with a lurid cover of a fascist looking policeman in riot gear firing a gun on a turquoise background... The book's called - 'Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said'... It seems scary for some reason...
The train pulls in... You get off... There's a reassuringly large number of people at the station... A hooded youth stomps past you as you near the ticket gates... You show no fear, but there's a sense of relief he didn't start anything... Get on the tube... Next stop Clapham... Then Brixton... Fearsome, unpredictable Brixton... Keep on going... You can make it...
As cities go, London is pretty safe. Just blend into a crowd, avoid lonely dangerous places and do your thing by day and you'll have no problems. Still, some areas are better than others. Paranoia about what could go wrong (loons with trainers and knives, loons with beards and bombs, loons with football colours and broken bottles) makes one choose where one lives quite carefully. If one can afford it.
The end result is the gentrified neighbourhood, that most maligned of places, at least by those who haven't the money to move there. Here the well-off go to breed, force up house prices and swamp the gastropubs with their kids, who turn the local state schools into de facto grammars or preps. Their names are infamous: Hoxton, Notting Hill, Islington, Clapham, and, ironically enough, bits of Brixton... Can you feel the bile rising yet? Yes, some people are more successful than others - and so the UK's national sport of envy and spite is engaged for yet another outing.
And yet what all these places have in common is a serene, empty calm. Even if the enclave is in relatively wild parts of town like West Kensington, these places bring such a sudden surge of placidity and lack of threat or CCTV, it hits you almost as hard as some of the rougher locals might. For the neo-yuppies at least know what anyone who's lived in a particularly godforsaken neighbourhood knows: sane, rational neighbours who don't have criminal records come at a premium. Being free from fear is a luxury item.
After doing what I had to in Clapham (again) I then headed off to Brixton. I had to change at Stockwell to get there, but the Victoria Line was down so I needed to get a bus. I walked past the shrine-memorial for Jean Charles De Menezes that's just outside the station's main entrance/exit. It's a permanent fixture now, a reminder of grievances that are far from resolved. And police who panicked and shot to death an innocent Brazilian electrician. Even armed men in kevlar get paranoid. You never know when danger may strike...
At the bus stop, I found myself being stared at by a black kid. He looked 15, but a bit short for his age, in dark street clothes and a white imitation New York Yankees cap. But maybe I was staring at him too? Or maybe we were staring at each other? Maybe, just maybe, we were sure the other was staring at us so felt justified in staring back. Or maybe he looked away just as I did. Paranoia is a funny thing. At times it's synchronised.
I got off at Brixton. The upmarket pubs are closing down and house prices are falling. Maybe it's time for the degentrification to begin and for the urban grot to reclaim parts of its realm once more like the jungle gobbles up old Mayan cities. It certainly seemed scarier than last time, but then again, I live in Dagenham and like to cast the first stone.
Nonetheless, Brixton still had its way with me. I was walking down Coldharbour Road. It was loud and rowdy like it's always been with my visits. Suddenly a man on a bike screeched past me. He stopped and looked back: he was a middle aged West Indian man, thin and wiry.
"Glasses, mate! GLASSES!"
He was looking rather smug, like he'd scored a moral victory by doing this. How dare I get in the way of his bicycle on the pavement? Bloody pedestrians.
"Sorry" I mumbled, and crossed the road. No point in picking a fight with a man who thinks you should be able to see behind you via some strange ESP ability or weird physical mutation. Who knows what he might do? Attack me with a plucked chicken or strip naked and smear himself with jam while screaming his father's name, perhaps. For there's always been a latent weirdness about Brixton. It's the Twilight Zone of South London, or maybe its answer to Wales.
Or maybe I was being paranoid.
Seeing a bus, I got on and sped away, if not from my fears then certainly from any encouragement.
The train's coming... You get on... There's a family of leering ugly chavs with a pitbull sitting over there... Get to the other end of the carriage... Sit amongst the old and the gentle-looking and the female... Stack the odds in your favour...
A young man gets on a few stops later... He's wearing sports gear... Laughing loud into a mobile... He's standing close to you... But wait, his voice is cheerful and moderate and his face looks friendly... He's talking to his girlfriend about dinner: chicken with salad... You're safe... He sounds like he's been off doing Sunday sports... Yes, very respectable... Your train leaves the station - there's graffiti on the archway - 'YOU'RE BEING WATCHED'...
It seems safer now... Just a few more stops... Past Stratford now... Chavs have got off... In the home straits... Liverpool Street the terminus is next... Get off quick... Don't tempt fate... Will the tube be safe? Will the tube be safe?
You stand up, ready to get off straight away and look at the passenger who's still sitting down on the next seat... He's reading a book with a lurid cover of a fascist looking policeman in riot gear firing a gun on a turquoise background... The book's called - 'Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said'... It seems scary for some reason...
The train pulls in... You get off... There's a reassuringly large number of people at the station... A hooded youth stomps past you as you near the ticket gates... You show no fear, but there's a sense of relief he didn't start anything... Get on the tube... Next stop Clapham... Then Brixton... Fearsome, unpredictable Brixton... Keep on going... You can make it...
As cities go, London is pretty safe. Just blend into a crowd, avoid lonely dangerous places and do your thing by day and you'll have no problems. Still, some areas are better than others. Paranoia about what could go wrong (loons with trainers and knives, loons with beards and bombs, loons with football colours and broken bottles) makes one choose where one lives quite carefully. If one can afford it.
The end result is the gentrified neighbourhood, that most maligned of places, at least by those who haven't the money to move there. Here the well-off go to breed, force up house prices and swamp the gastropubs with their kids, who turn the local state schools into de facto grammars or preps. Their names are infamous: Hoxton, Notting Hill, Islington, Clapham, and, ironically enough, bits of Brixton... Can you feel the bile rising yet? Yes, some people are more successful than others - and so the UK's national sport of envy and spite is engaged for yet another outing.
And yet what all these places have in common is a serene, empty calm. Even if the enclave is in relatively wild parts of town like West Kensington, these places bring such a sudden surge of placidity and lack of threat or CCTV, it hits you almost as hard as some of the rougher locals might. For the neo-yuppies at least know what anyone who's lived in a particularly godforsaken neighbourhood knows: sane, rational neighbours who don't have criminal records come at a premium. Being free from fear is a luxury item.
After doing what I had to in Clapham (again) I then headed off to Brixton. I had to change at Stockwell to get there, but the Victoria Line was down so I needed to get a bus. I walked past the shrine-memorial for Jean Charles De Menezes that's just outside the station's main entrance/exit. It's a permanent fixture now, a reminder of grievances that are far from resolved. And police who panicked and shot to death an innocent Brazilian electrician. Even armed men in kevlar get paranoid. You never know when danger may strike...
At the bus stop, I found myself being stared at by a black kid. He looked 15, but a bit short for his age, in dark street clothes and a white imitation New York Yankees cap. But maybe I was staring at him too? Or maybe we were staring at each other? Maybe, just maybe, we were sure the other was staring at us so felt justified in staring back. Or maybe he looked away just as I did. Paranoia is a funny thing. At times it's synchronised.
I got off at Brixton. The upmarket pubs are closing down and house prices are falling. Maybe it's time for the degentrification to begin and for the urban grot to reclaim parts of its realm once more like the jungle gobbles up old Mayan cities. It certainly seemed scarier than last time, but then again, I live in Dagenham and like to cast the first stone.
Nonetheless, Brixton still had its way with me. I was walking down Coldharbour Road. It was loud and rowdy like it's always been with my visits. Suddenly a man on a bike screeched past me. He stopped and looked back: he was a middle aged West Indian man, thin and wiry.
"Glasses, mate! GLASSES!"
He was looking rather smug, like he'd scored a moral victory by doing this. How dare I get in the way of his bicycle on the pavement? Bloody pedestrians.
"Sorry" I mumbled, and crossed the road. No point in picking a fight with a man who thinks you should be able to see behind you via some strange ESP ability or weird physical mutation. Who knows what he might do? Attack me with a plucked chicken or strip naked and smear himself with jam while screaming his father's name, perhaps. For there's always been a latent weirdness about Brixton. It's the Twilight Zone of South London, or maybe its answer to Wales.
Or maybe I was being paranoid.
Seeing a bus, I got on and sped away, if not from my fears then certainly from any encouragement.
Clapham Strangeness
A strangely bulbous and distorted tree on Clapham Common.
And we all thought black cats were meant to be lucky...
And we all thought black cats were meant to be lucky...
Friday 17 April 2009
High Misanthropy in Old London Town
As I went to get a bus at Holborn, I heard what seemed like a choir of banshees slitting their own throats. It turned out to be a gaggle of young teenage girls, middle class, and reeking of hormones and cheap perfume, all shrieking as some pigeons flew low over them. Partly they were doing it out of genuine girly fear of the yucky. But they were also doing it as a way of bonding, a shared experience of being annoying. Being a twit is a great unifying force.
A stout Asian security guard came out of a shop to see whether the screams were rape, theft or murder. But a rather aloof young women in a green coat told him, as she walked past, that it was just "some silly girls". She then nearly barged into me as I was on my phone and not paying attention. I got a dirty look.
Once on the bus, I went past the girls again. They were still running wild and had now started fencing each other with rolled up free newspapers while moving down the street at a pace. The Easter Holidays are hell.
I got on the tube some time later. At London Bridge, a tramp boarded. He was reasonably tall, had a short beard and a black woolly hat. He smelt of booze and stale sweat and wore grubby dark clothes, with a large empty-looking black sports bag over his shoulder. He could have been anywhere between 20 and 30. The tramp was swaying slightly and not just from the motion of the train. He took out a piece of folded cardboard and opened it up. Written in black marker was the legend:
Hungry
Please give generously
I need food.
Thank you very much
He then gave a long rambling slurred sales pitch about sleeping rough on the streets and how he needed to buy a sandwich and perhaps some other food, and then he asked politely for any money from the "ladies and gentlemen" in the carriage.
Almost no one, including me, gave him a penny. But a man sitting next to me - bald, with glasses and wearing a DPM combat jacket - gave him a few quid and gently asked him to only spend it on food. The tramp thanked the man and then everyone else (who gave him nothing), and got off at Borough. He walked unsteadily onto the platform.
The rest of us, and me too, barely even looked at him. We were either too embarrassed (shamed even) or callous to care. True, he would no doubt have spent the money on alcohol or drugs or both. But that did not stop us being just a few amongst millions of sour, stone-faced, surly commuters, neither caring nor cared for. All we really worried about was not looking at the next person in case they thought we were weird or wanted to have sex with them.
After some business that had to be done, I found myself walking down Clapham High Street, past the now abandoned local branch of Woolworths. An Estate Agent's had put up a sign that said the site had been 'secured' for 'interested parties'. It was dark and empty inside. The security cameras at the doors were still on though. The monitor showed a blurry monochrome view of the world, with me and the other passers-by appearing as vague grey ghosts as we walked by in turn. Soon all memory of the place will be gone, and with it, any trace that we walked by that day.
A stout Asian security guard came out of a shop to see whether the screams were rape, theft or murder. But a rather aloof young women in a green coat told him, as she walked past, that it was just "some silly girls". She then nearly barged into me as I was on my phone and not paying attention. I got a dirty look.
Once on the bus, I went past the girls again. They were still running wild and had now started fencing each other with rolled up free newspapers while moving down the street at a pace. The Easter Holidays are hell.
I got on the tube some time later. At London Bridge, a tramp boarded. He was reasonably tall, had a short beard and a black woolly hat. He smelt of booze and stale sweat and wore grubby dark clothes, with a large empty-looking black sports bag over his shoulder. He could have been anywhere between 20 and 30. The tramp was swaying slightly and not just from the motion of the train. He took out a piece of folded cardboard and opened it up. Written in black marker was the legend:
Please give generously
I need food.
Thank you very much
He then gave a long rambling slurred sales pitch about sleeping rough on the streets and how he needed to buy a sandwich and perhaps some other food, and then he asked politely for any money from the "ladies and gentlemen" in the carriage.
Almost no one, including me, gave him a penny. But a man sitting next to me - bald, with glasses and wearing a DPM combat jacket - gave him a few quid and gently asked him to only spend it on food. The tramp thanked the man and then everyone else (who gave him nothing), and got off at Borough. He walked unsteadily onto the platform.
The rest of us, and me too, barely even looked at him. We were either too embarrassed (shamed even) or callous to care. True, he would no doubt have spent the money on alcohol or drugs or both. But that did not stop us being just a few amongst millions of sour, stone-faced, surly commuters, neither caring nor cared for. All we really worried about was not looking at the next person in case they thought we were weird or wanted to have sex with them.
After some business that had to be done, I found myself walking down Clapham High Street, past the now abandoned local branch of Woolworths. An Estate Agent's had put up a sign that said the site had been 'secured' for 'interested parties'. It was dark and empty inside. The security cameras at the doors were still on though. The monitor showed a blurry monochrome view of the world, with me and the other passers-by appearing as vague grey ghosts as we walked by in turn. Soon all memory of the place will be gone, and with it, any trace that we walked by that day.
Wednesday 15 April 2009
Fun & Frolics In Exotic Dagenham
It was late at night. I couldn't sleep, so I got up and went into the next room to surf the web and generally kill time. Then I heard a loud cry outside:
"ARMED POLICE!!!"
And two loud bangs. For a brief moment I thought they were gunshots. But then I guessed they were the noises made by a door being pounded in. My pulse went up for a moment, in part through fear, but also excitement.
Cautiously, I turned out the light and opened the window to see outside. Nothing. All was still and no signs of life could be seen, not even the two or so urban foxes that are usually making a racket this time of night. It must have been in a street nearby.
I felt disappointed, but also afraid. I realised how thin the glass in the windows was, and how little I knew of whether the walls could stop something getting in. I realised how exposed I was. So I sat down and wrote a blog about it instead. Did I tell you about how charming it is living in Dagenham?
"ARMED POLICE!!!"
And two loud bangs. For a brief moment I thought they were gunshots. But then I guessed they were the noises made by a door being pounded in. My pulse went up for a moment, in part through fear, but also excitement.
Cautiously, I turned out the light and opened the window to see outside. Nothing. All was still and no signs of life could be seen, not even the two or so urban foxes that are usually making a racket this time of night. It must have been in a street nearby.
I felt disappointed, but also afraid. I realised how thin the glass in the windows was, and how little I knew of whether the walls could stop something getting in. I realised how exposed I was. So I sat down and wrote a blog about it instead. Did I tell you about how charming it is living in Dagenham?
Saturday 11 April 2009
Tales From The Shop Window
Living in the blasted wastes of Dagenham has its advantages. For example, you're never short of things to blog about, even though the end result is seldom life-affirming or joyful.
For example, most newsagents around here have ads in their windows. These are put up by the newsagent in exhange for a small fee, and are usually there to sell second hand goods or offer services. This is pretty common throughout the country, but the ones in London and the South East are particularly revealing...
***
BOOTYLICIOUS!
EXCLUSIVE BLACK MASSAGE
AVAILABLE WEEKDAYS
CALL 0XXXXXXXXX
****
FOR SALE
STAFF PUPPIES (GIRLS AND BOYS)
MUST SEE £250 EACH
NO TIME WASTERS
CALL 0XXXXXXXXXX
****
TO RENT
SINGLE BEDROOM £75.00
DOUBLE BEDROOM £110.00
NO DHSS
CALL 0XXXXXXXXXX
****
LADY GARDENER
WILL MOW LAWNS
HEDGES, TRIMMING, PLANTING
EXCELLENT RATES
CALL 0XXXXXXXXXX
****
And so on. There is a sort of class system in shop window ads though. An ad by a mother with young children who wants to flog an old pram is lucky if she gets to plug it for a week on a plain white postcard in exchange for £10-£20. The local franchise operations, established firms and comunity groups will have bigger ads - A4 bare minimum, and often in full colour, simply because they can afford it.
But at the top of the pile are the events posters. No travelling circus worth its salt would forget to give all the shops in the area a big colourful poster in exchange for some free tickets. And for the most part, it's these travelling shows that do most of the advertising on this level: all that garish imagery featuring Clowns, Lions, Monster Trucks and Dancing Horses. But there are others.
For example, most ethnic food shops and Indian restaurants will feature large posters plugging Bollywood and Bhangra music gigs, often in major venues like Wembley Arena. Unheard of outside the Indian community, these gigs are still big business as are the musical events for other minorities in London. I've heard of these a few times before, like that Astoria gig back in 2001 by the Bulgarian metal band APC: the place was packed out with Bulgars, but barely anyone else knew it had happened. Or those one-off shows where a big Japanese or Taiwanese band will turn up, play a big venue and vanish again, with nary a mention in Time Out before or after.
Boxing and Pro Wrestling ads are often put up in windows too. You may not have heard of these promotions, but they're always there, always plugging away and making a lot of money. A lot of young boxing talent is honed in these local events, while many a burnt-out ex-wrestling superstar will ply his trade in town halls and small theatres inbetween jobbing with the indy promotions back home.
A new addition to this top rank of shop window ads is in the form of posters promoting Cage Fighting/MMA. Fans of the noble art of bald men in shorts rolling on the ground with other bald men in shorts will be glad to know that the number of events where this happens are waxing by the day, at least if the number of big posters are anything to go by. These feature dark, menacing designs, often with barbed wire or wire mesh in the background and a dozen or so young men with identical bald heads, stripped to the waist and posing with their fists.
But for the most part, the shop window ad is dominated by those small white cards with shabby writing and badly used apostrophes. After all, if you want a prostitute, a dangerous dog or a lady gardener with reasonable rates, where else could you find them all in one place?
For example, most newsagents around here have ads in their windows. These are put up by the newsagent in exhange for a small fee, and are usually there to sell second hand goods or offer services. This is pretty common throughout the country, but the ones in London and the South East are particularly revealing...
***
BOOTYLICIOUS!
EXCLUSIVE BLACK MASSAGE
AVAILABLE WEEKDAYS
CALL 0XXXXXXXXX
****
FOR SALE
STAFF PUPPIES (GIRLS AND BOYS)
MUST SEE £250 EACH
NO TIME WASTERS
CALL 0XXXXXXXXXX
****
TO RENT
SINGLE BEDROOM £75.00
DOUBLE BEDROOM £110.00
NO DHSS
CALL 0XXXXXXXXXX
****
LADY GARDENER
WILL MOW LAWNS
HEDGES, TRIMMING, PLANTING
EXCELLENT RATES
CALL 0XXXXXXXXXX
****
And so on. There is a sort of class system in shop window ads though. An ad by a mother with young children who wants to flog an old pram is lucky if she gets to plug it for a week on a plain white postcard in exchange for £10-£20. The local franchise operations, established firms and comunity groups will have bigger ads - A4 bare minimum, and often in full colour, simply because they can afford it.
But at the top of the pile are the events posters. No travelling circus worth its salt would forget to give all the shops in the area a big colourful poster in exchange for some free tickets. And for the most part, it's these travelling shows that do most of the advertising on this level: all that garish imagery featuring Clowns, Lions, Monster Trucks and Dancing Horses. But there are others.
For example, most ethnic food shops and Indian restaurants will feature large posters plugging Bollywood and Bhangra music gigs, often in major venues like Wembley Arena. Unheard of outside the Indian community, these gigs are still big business as are the musical events for other minorities in London. I've heard of these a few times before, like that Astoria gig back in 2001 by the Bulgarian metal band APC: the place was packed out with Bulgars, but barely anyone else knew it had happened. Or those one-off shows where a big Japanese or Taiwanese band will turn up, play a big venue and vanish again, with nary a mention in Time Out before or after.
Boxing and Pro Wrestling ads are often put up in windows too. You may not have heard of these promotions, but they're always there, always plugging away and making a lot of money. A lot of young boxing talent is honed in these local events, while many a burnt-out ex-wrestling superstar will ply his trade in town halls and small theatres inbetween jobbing with the indy promotions back home.
A new addition to this top rank of shop window ads is in the form of posters promoting Cage Fighting/MMA. Fans of the noble art of bald men in shorts rolling on the ground with other bald men in shorts will be glad to know that the number of events where this happens are waxing by the day, at least if the number of big posters are anything to go by. These feature dark, menacing designs, often with barbed wire or wire mesh in the background and a dozen or so young men with identical bald heads, stripped to the waist and posing with their fists.
But for the most part, the shop window ad is dominated by those small white cards with shabby writing and badly used apostrophes. After all, if you want a prostitute, a dangerous dog or a lady gardener with reasonable rates, where else could you find them all in one place?
Friday 10 April 2009
Clapham South Shelter (And Disused Bogs)
As described in Wikipedia, this deep level shelter was built in WW2 to accomodate those seeking cover from the Blitz. It's very near to Clapham South Tube Station and is, of course, on Clapham Common itself.
Nearby are these striking if rather eery looking public toilets, abandoned and left to rot like most bogs in London. A sour sight indeed if you need to spend a penny.
Nearby are these striking if rather eery looking public toilets, abandoned and left to rot like most bogs in London. A sour sight indeed if you need to spend a penny.
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