On the Steps of St Paul's

The last time I sat here, I laughed as my aunt did an awful impression of the homeless woman from Mary Poppins, singing Feed the Birds in a croaky Cockney accent.

Years later and I'm back, sitting on those same steps, the same incredible building. I wish I was sitting here listening to my aunt sing songs from Mary Poppins. Instead it's a man with a guitar singing about soldiers dying, the people suffering in silence and a ruling elite that doesn't listen. The same place, but a different world. For those of you not from London or the UK, the pavement around St Paul's has been taken over by tents, the site of Ocuppy LSX's first camp in the city. And here I am, surrounded by Guy Fawkes masks, signs lamenting the state of the economy, a man playing a penny whistle and several people, like me, who have just come for a look.

Yes, just a look. But this is the second time I've come here in as many days. I feel like I can relate to the people sleeping here day in, day out. Do I understand the ins and outs of global economics? No. Can I suggest an alternative? No. But I do feel angry. I am confused, exasperated and generally fucking miserable with today's society, where little seems to make sense. At least to me. And it's these feelings, I think, that I share with those who have taken up residence in the shadows of the cathedral.

I wish I had a voice. I wish I had somebody to represent me. A government that cared for something other than credit ratings and bankers. A government which tries to protect the nation as a group of people, rather than an economy.

I know it's all interlinked. I know that a booming economy would remove the necessity for many of the austerity measures taken in the name of removing the evil deficit. I understand that. I'm just fucking fed up of it.

And that, my friends, is my deep and meaningful take on Britain in a time of austerity. The best, most perfect words I can find to describe what I feel when I read the news. Fucking. Fed. Up.

On Protest

I'm not sure you'll remember my post about possibly becoming more politically-minded. Well, I did mean what I said, and as such I've been devoting no small amount of time to my political education. It hasn't been easy - I'm still trying to suppress the rage that seems to form as soon as I open a newspaper for long enough to enable the formation of an intelligent, considered and balanced opinion of current affairs. This intelligence, careful consideration and balance went right out of the window on the day of the student protests. The more I read, the more I saw; the more I became a monster. Twitter and news websites combined forces to work me into a righteous anger I've seldom felt before. And so, after work, I trotted down to Trafalgar Square for a look.

When I arrived there were very few people about. A few tourists were taking photos. A group of old ladies wearing sashes bearing the name of a children's charity were taking their positions for an evening of carol singing. It was all...lovely. I thought I'd missed the show, and was about to head back to the station when I saw it, in the distance. A huge crowd moving its way slowly up Whitehall. The chants grew louder. The writing on the placards grew clearer. The hoard of Britain's 'Feedom Fighters' grew closer and closer.

Then, all of a sudden, they were everywhere. Traffic cones flew through the air into the fountains, metal barriers crashed to the floor, the carol singers fled. A silent line of riot police stood unmoving on the steps of the National Gallery. And then a horrible thing happened. They started to pull the lights from the Christmas Tree. I looked on, AGHAST. I could hardly watch - but luckily the lights held their own. They are evidently very well secured. So the masked youths (how old does that make me sound?) tried a different tactic; they started a fire, and threw burning objects into the Christmas tree's branches. At this point I was beside myself and my Christmas Spirit lay crushed, on the floor, like a broken fairy light. In a daze, I turned my back and made my way home. I am so very far from hardcore.

However, apart from the attempted destruction of the Christmas tree (which survived mostly unharmed, by the way!) I'm all for the student protests - I back them, completely. I think. But it has to be one of the oddest moments of my life. The next day, any column inches the papers hadn't devoted to Charles & Camilla, told of the dangerous anarchist groups that managed to infiltrate the students' peaceful protest. I'm sure that's true to an extent - but I think part of the reason it spiralled so spectacularly out-of-control is that for the first time in ages, it's the young who are angry. Most of the protesters I saw were so bloody young. I applaud their engagement, but with all those hormones flying around and so few responsible adults, it was only a matter of time before things got messy. It's probably a sign of my age that my main reaction to what I saw was 'WHERE ARE YOUR PARENTS?!'

But, in a way, that's the point - isn't it? Who should they look up to? How else can they really make themselves heard? Who can they trust to keep their best interests at heart? The politicians they voted for lied to them in a way that's far more obvious than is usually acceptable. Graduates and people already in employment turn away, glad that they were lucky enough to sail the sea of Higher Education in calmer, happier climes. Many this new legislation will affect are still not old enough to vote - silent victims of a government they didn't vote for. It's no wonder they lashed out - it's no wonder they feel abandoned, frustrated and angry.

And part of me thinks it's just the beginning. As high street shops are forced to close their doors on the busiest Saturday of the year by people disgusted by legal tax evasion, I can't help but think there's something different in the air. A winter of discontent it may be - but the past couple haven't exactly been joyous. It's almost as if somebody has woken a monster, it's yawning and grumbling and stretching for the first time after a long hibernation. British people are, perhaps, learning from their continental cousins. Or perhaps they are just rediscovering a forgotten art that fell by the wayside in the boom years. Where's the stiff upper lip? Where's 'Keep Calm and Carry On'? I think maybe they've been left behind, for now. Maybe I'm just being dramatic. Time will tell, I suppose. In the meantime, though, it's refreshing to see someone standing up for themselves.

On Breaking the Monotony

Lately the world around me has become somewhat grey and dull. As I sit here on the train, opposite a huge man who is taking up two whole seats [how many tickets has he bought do you think? Fare dodger], I find myself yearning for something exciting, something anarchically fun and completely unexpected.

This was prompted in part by last weeks' student protests, which I observed (via news feeds and twitter) from my cluttered desk at work. How I wished I'd booked the day off and joined them in their insurrection. How I envied their passion and their anger. I toyed with the idea of joining them, but decided that a picture of me scaling Millbank in the paper would do my credibility no favours.

The feeling grew deeper as I wrote my TASG post on what I wanted to be when I grew up - dragging up memories of how magical the world once seemed. But don't worry - this isn't one of my usual woe-filled posts. In fact, it marks a new beginning. I stand at a crossroads; on each side a road that leads to an alleviation of the gloom in which I'm currently lost. I will not sit idly by while my life is taken over by bad news, bad prospects and austerity cuts. I will take action.

To my left (for that's the direction to which I'd lean) is a road that leads to the land of political involvement, home of last week's Feedom Fighters. Perhaps, instead of moaning or silently fearing the future, I should get off my arse and shout about it. However, as Rachel tweeted last week, it's incredibly annoying to hear ordinary people talk about topics they don't really understand. To be politically involved, without sounding like a complete pillock, I need to know about stuff. Really know about it, inside out, or else I won't feel comfortable shouting about it. At the moment, I don't know anything about...anything. This will need to be rectified.

So to the path to my right, directly inspired by the memory of trying to jump into a photograph in a book when I was young. I shall stop viewing things with these adult eyes. I'll stop looking at price tags and newspaper headlines and retreat into a world of make-believe. No, that's incorrect. I won't retreat into it, I'll just do what I used to do when I was little, and imagine that there's more to the world than meets the eye. I have dubbed this option my Imagifesto. From now on, I'll imagine that there actually are castles on clouds, the tube is pulled by a team of invisible Harry Potter horses (top marks for anyone who remembers what they were actually called) and that the man opposite isn't just dangerously overweight - he's actually a giant, and therefore it's fine that he only has one ticket for two seats - it would be completely unfair to charge one species more than another. Already, my reality seems a little bit more colourful, and I seem a little bit more insane, I suppose.

I think it's a form of mid-life crisis or something; only where most people revert to how they were in their hedonistic twenties, I've reverted to being six.

On Die Welle

I have recently fallen head over heels in love with http://www.lovefilm.co.uk/. It's bloody brilliant. At first I did wonder whether it was really worth the money - I can only have two DVDs at home at any one time and, though I watch them soon after they arrive, I'm piss-poor at remembering to post them back. Then I realised, months into my subscription, that I can actually watch hundreds of films ONLINE. This amazed me and I dived headfirst into an ocean of highbrow foreign film. I've nothing against Hollywood; sometimes it's just what I want to see. At other times, however, the snob in me demands cultural sustenance so that I can sound cultured in front of people who don't know me [people that do know me will not be fooled into believing I am cultured by any amount of obscure cinematic knowledge].

Last night I chose Die Welle (The Wave). [See, that was snobbish in itself; I patronised you by putting the translation in brackets as if to say "LOOK AT ME AND MY GERMAN LANGUAGE SKILLS" when in reality I don't speak any German. None at all. You watch, soon I'll be littering my posts with ever so impressive continental and cultural phrases like zeitgeist, milieu and...and...champignon]. So, I chose this film, and I saw that it was good.


In brief, it's about a teacher attempts to liven up a week long project on the dangers of autocratic government with some unusual teaching methods. Apparently this is something that is taught fairly often in German schools and, rather than force his students to sit through another recap of the Third Reich, he moulds the class into a miniature autocratic society. It soon spirals out of control, with tragic results.


This got me thinking. I am, of course, not going to pursue world domination [so you can calm down, Gnetch] and I'm fully aware that autocratic government is a very bad thing. However, it's summer and it's hot, and the heat shortens my temper. It's as if the sun forces all the people that annoy me onto the streets, ready to inconvenience me as I make my way through an already difficult day - suddenly a society with me at the helm seems a little more tempting. As I was between books today, I dedicated this morning's train journey to the development of my manifesto.


My first act would provide a long overdue upgrade to the London Underground network. Fact: it needs air conditioning. Second fact: it irritates me when I see livestock transported along motorways in lorries with more ventilation than I have during my daily commute.


My second act would remove all this economy malarkey which confuses me so. Currencies, exchange rates, inflation, recession...there's simply no need. We'll trade in pebbles, and all pebbles will be equal, and all will then be well.


My third would ban slow walkers from the streets during rush hour. I don't expect everyone to walk at speed at all times, but people should appreciate that when I need to be somewhere, I don't want to match their dawdling pace. The same goes for suitcases and, I'm afraid to say, pushchairs.


My fourth; a nationwide ban on whistling in the workplace and in public spaces. Whistling irritates me, especially when it is tuneless. I'd rather people sang a song as they walked (quickly) down the road - in fact I would reward them for this.


At this point I realised that my policies had begun to infringe on people's civil liberties. Oddly enough, some people actually like whistling. Plus, I suppose it could be considered unfair to keep the dawdlers, mothers with young children and travellers with suitcases cooped up indoors. Who am I to decide these things? Despite having no actual power at all, the slightest, smallest idea of it went straight to my head. Within hours of watching a film detailing the ever-present dangers of autocracy, I had become a tyrant. Stay away from politics T - it's not for you.


Put. The. Manifesto. Down.

On Political Apathy

A Political Pile-up

Firstly, I promise I will never write about politics ever again - it's not something I fully understand but humour me, just this once...

I'm going to admit something. Something I'm ashamed of. I've never voted, despite being eligible for nearly ten years. Elections - general, local and European - have passed by without me batting an eyelid.

I think this is partly because I've never taken the time to read about politics, or to really think about it for that matter, and assumed that no vote is better than a misinformed one. Had I familiarised myself with the parties and their arguments, I may have been able to motivate myself to vote. In truth, I suppose it was laziness.

My laziness was caused, in part, by a belief that one single vote can't really make a difference. When the press and media are throwing their weight behind the various candidates, flinging sleaze and scandal at one another like a giant political food fight, who's going to hear me over that? That's who the political parties want on side - I'm just a drop in the ocean compared to that.

I have also read (another) very interesting article today which mentions a group of politically engaged women, actively and successfully campaigning against the slave trade in the 1830s, who had little interest in acquiring the vote for themselves. "They took it for granted that politics was a game played by prosperous men for their own interests". I cannot stress how relevant I think this is today. I think this is the principal cause of my political apathy. I've considered politicians a class unto themselves - they've recently demonstrated how ridiculously out of touch they are with the rest of the population, and how fantastically good they are looking after themselves. In my opinion, it's not surprising that so many people feel completely detached from politics, as insular and behind-closed-doors as the British system is. It's like walking past a party you're not invited to - you can see people having fun, but you can't join in.

However, this isn't a rant about the system - this time round I actually feel slightly optimistic. I do plan to vote this year, and I do sense things changing. Perhaps I'm being naive. Perhaps this is what most people feel when they turn 18 and vote for the first time, but for the first time in my life I find myself interested in politics. It's taken a recession, the expenses scandal and a cloud of volcanic ash but the political animal inside me has finally woken up. I don't believe I'll make a difference, but I'm going to give it a shot - at least then I'll have a right to moan, even if it doesn't go my way.