An Anthropological Enema
"Are you taking over or are you taking orders? Are you going backwards or are you going forwards?"
It's been a long time since I was up at five in the morning for anything, never mind work. I've always made a point of believing that sunrises are wasted on those that have just woken up. Wednesday was no exception to this, so when my phone brought me to consciousness by very suddenly playing Ride Of The Valkyries after little more than four hours sleep, I was sorely tempted to throw it across the room and return to the womblike warmth beneath my blankets. Sadly, common sense and a desire to keep my job prevailed, and I was soon standing in unseasonably freezing conditions at the bus stop, where vandals had put paid to any chance of sheltering from the arctic wind by smashing all the windows for what must be the fifth or sixth time this year. I don't care about the long running battle between the wankers who have nothing better to do and the wankers we apparently elect to run the town, but I do care about having numb fingers. Mornings like Wednesday, I wish they'd stop merely replacing the broken windows and make anti-social behaviour a capital crime. That way, many monosyllabic fucking idiots in hoodies would be given the lethal injection before popular outrage turned to revolution and the council were overthrown to cries of, "What do we want? NO MORE SPEED-BUMPS! When do we want it? NOW!"
Many birds with a single stone.
Once on the mighty 107 to Barnet, I slumped into the first empty seat and glanced back at my travelling companions. These, clearly, were the Morning People. Defined by bad posture and bags beneath the eyes given definition by their ghostly pallor, they were slumped in symmetrical formation all the way to the back of the bus. If people can avoid sitting next to other people on public transport, they will, and I had chanced upon a vehicle where every double seat housed one person and nobody was left standing. It was as perfect a declaration of this pointless suburban existence as you're likely to find.
In the city, public transport is a convenience for everybody. At the best of times, a pedestrian can beat a car in a straight race from one point in the centre of London to another. At the worst, he or she would have time for coffee, a sandwich, and a browse through today's paper before their frustrated opponent showed up. The tube is dirty and crowded, but it's quick, and the buses have the advantage of using their own lanes. As the 107 made steady progress along the winding road through Arkley, I reflected that the inhabitants of the huge houses going by on either side, with their massive driveways and shiny sportscars, never use the buses. Here on the fringes, public transport is for the poor.
I took another look back towards the rear of the bus, staring at the commuters without making eye contact. Their clothes were as drab and rumpled as their faces. Sitting there in my old leather coat and my scuffed shoes, my eyes kept open only by the curiosities fuelling my internal monologue, I realised I was not an outsider.
The 107 is not, generally speaking, a good subject for anthropological study. But there are patterns and curiosities in any forced gathering of people, no matter how small. Take Borehamwood, my home town, as an example. I got an e-mail from Charlie Williams last night. He'd surfed his way here from Ray's page and wanted to mention that he'd once lived very near here and had spent time in the town. Without really thinking about it, I replied with my usual opinion on this particular part of Hertfordshire, to which Charlie responded by pointing out the fairly unique and interesting history of Borehamwood, particularly its ties to the TV and film industries. That got me thinking about how I have very little in the way of good things to say about where I live, and I suddenly felt like writing about why.
Yes, Borehamwood does have a storied history. At one time, it was known as The British Hollywood, and between the forties and the eighties, the studios here played host to a cavalcade of actors and directors that are now household names. However, that era peaked in the sixties and essentially died in the seventies, spiking again only for the original Star Wars trilogy and The Shining before the influence of the studios went into decline and finally faded altogether. Since then, the local council has purchased the properties concerned and they've been primarily used for television. These days, Borehamwood is famous for three things: Eastenders, Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, and Big Brother. Without wanting to be too much of a cultural snob, it's hardly Kubrick and Hitchcock, is it?
Borehamwood in 2005 is on the upswing in terms of the amount of money being invested in the area. But for the last ten years or so, it's been the victim of a kind of cultural drift. With prices rising in the city, the disenfranchised tend to migrate to the suburbs. Without the benefit of any learned texts or figures, the way I see it is as a kind of ring around London made up of communities in decline due to a rapid population growth made up mostly of immigrants and the working class. I'm aware that the latter is no longer a popular name, but it's not like that class has simply ceased to exist just because the terminology has become unfashionable. The presence of these groups causes a rise in crime and a drop in property prices, which serves to increase the influx of short-distance migrants and exacerbate the symptoms of the decline, and so on. Over time, the commercial make-up of the area changes to meet the needs of fresh demographics. In five or ten years, you have a town that looks very different to the way it used to.
Of course, these changes don't go unnoticed and without argument. Though some of the residents present when the migrants began to arrive will undoubtedly have moved on, a large percentage will still be living there, and they will not be happy. Furious of Borehamwood will be writing many letters to the local paper and the council, and issues of crime and particularly anti-social behaviour will top the local political agenda. The council will announce a programme of improvements, a heavier police presence will make itself felt, and things will begin to change. Like unwelcome visitors, the migrants (and at this point it's almost a new generation) will be forced further outward by the reversal of the very factors that brought them to the town. Urban renewal becomes more obvious, and certain businesses, sensing fresh gaps in the market, will begin to move in. For the town, the circle beings to close. For the migrants, it's a case of being pushed further and further out of the city, establishing new boundaries for suburban nowhere and essentially expanding London's borders yet further.
That may all be bollocks, but I hope it was at least an interesting read.
Now, a few things I need to clear up: I consider myself working class. I come from a broken home and grew up with my parents and money being the two notable absences from my life. When I was a kid, we fucking struggled. Just because I can string a sentence together and have a healthy level of disdain for some of the behaviour I see in the place where I live, doesn't mean I don't remember where I'm from. It means that I fail to see the point in celebrating moronic behaviour like it's something to be proud of. I don't care if you're from Sloane Square or the heart of Brixton, if it looks like a wanker and talks like a wanker, it's a wanker. My days of believing hope lay in the proles are long gone, and someone being from the same background as me does not necessarily make them one of mine. To pretend comradery with those you can't even begin to relate to is, for me, ridiculous.
So...I hate this town. I hate it for a wide variety of personal reasons I've mentioned many times before on this page. But I also hate it because I really don't enjoy walking down a high street that is wall to wall dickheads. I'm not going to jump on the 'chav' thing again, but the uniform of the local female is denim microskirt, tight top, ridiculous hoop earrings, and fucking burberry handbag. The mobile phone with some bastarding bleepy techno ringtone is a given. The male of the species drives an off-white L-reg Cavalier with a stereo system that cost more than the car and pumps out earth-shaking bass as though volume were an indication of status. He and his friends will almost certainly be wearing some form of hooded tracksuit along with a cap. As they drive down the high street with the windows wound down, they will undoubtedly be shouting really obvious and unfunny insults designed to make the kind of girl you pick up outside fucking McDonalds laugh.
As mentioned above, when the town you live in is largely made up of brain-shy fuckwits, the commercial sector caters accordingly. Thus, Borehamwood is made up of crap pubs, cut-price fried chicken outlets, kebab shops, 50p-£1 shops, and the kind of jewellers that frown when you want anything other than a big shiny chain.
If a tourist was to venture beyond the town centre, they would find a veritable army of grey, sixties tower blocks, in the shadows of which yet more betracksuited scum skulk, forever on the lookout for phone boxes to smash or passers-by to glare at. If said tourists did not have on their person some form of heavy weaponry, they would likely run like hell for the broken and graffiti'd "safety" of the train station, where they could hide in waiting rooms that stink of piss from teenagers drunk on cheap cider.
Yeah, you could say I dislike this town. In fact, were I to - anthropologically speaking - give England an enema, I'd stick the hose right here. Make of that what you will.
It's been a long time since I was up at five in the morning for anything, never mind work. I've always made a point of believing that sunrises are wasted on those that have just woken up. Wednesday was no exception to this, so when my phone brought me to consciousness by very suddenly playing Ride Of The Valkyries after little more than four hours sleep, I was sorely tempted to throw it across the room and return to the womblike warmth beneath my blankets. Sadly, common sense and a desire to keep my job prevailed, and I was soon standing in unseasonably freezing conditions at the bus stop, where vandals had put paid to any chance of sheltering from the arctic wind by smashing all the windows for what must be the fifth or sixth time this year. I don't care about the long running battle between the wankers who have nothing better to do and the wankers we apparently elect to run the town, but I do care about having numb fingers. Mornings like Wednesday, I wish they'd stop merely replacing the broken windows and make anti-social behaviour a capital crime. That way, many monosyllabic fucking idiots in hoodies would be given the lethal injection before popular outrage turned to revolution and the council were overthrown to cries of, "What do we want? NO MORE SPEED-BUMPS! When do we want it? NOW!"
Many birds with a single stone.
Once on the mighty 107 to Barnet, I slumped into the first empty seat and glanced back at my travelling companions. These, clearly, were the Morning People. Defined by bad posture and bags beneath the eyes given definition by their ghostly pallor, they were slumped in symmetrical formation all the way to the back of the bus. If people can avoid sitting next to other people on public transport, they will, and I had chanced upon a vehicle where every double seat housed one person and nobody was left standing. It was as perfect a declaration of this pointless suburban existence as you're likely to find.
In the city, public transport is a convenience for everybody. At the best of times, a pedestrian can beat a car in a straight race from one point in the centre of London to another. At the worst, he or she would have time for coffee, a sandwich, and a browse through today's paper before their frustrated opponent showed up. The tube is dirty and crowded, but it's quick, and the buses have the advantage of using their own lanes. As the 107 made steady progress along the winding road through Arkley, I reflected that the inhabitants of the huge houses going by on either side, with their massive driveways and shiny sportscars, never use the buses. Here on the fringes, public transport is for the poor.
I took another look back towards the rear of the bus, staring at the commuters without making eye contact. Their clothes were as drab and rumpled as their faces. Sitting there in my old leather coat and my scuffed shoes, my eyes kept open only by the curiosities fuelling my internal monologue, I realised I was not an outsider.
The 107 is not, generally speaking, a good subject for anthropological study. But there are patterns and curiosities in any forced gathering of people, no matter how small. Take Borehamwood, my home town, as an example. I got an e-mail from Charlie Williams last night. He'd surfed his way here from Ray's page and wanted to mention that he'd once lived very near here and had spent time in the town. Without really thinking about it, I replied with my usual opinion on this particular part of Hertfordshire, to which Charlie responded by pointing out the fairly unique and interesting history of Borehamwood, particularly its ties to the TV and film industries. That got me thinking about how I have very little in the way of good things to say about where I live, and I suddenly felt like writing about why.
Yes, Borehamwood does have a storied history. At one time, it was known as The British Hollywood, and between the forties and the eighties, the studios here played host to a cavalcade of actors and directors that are now household names. However, that era peaked in the sixties and essentially died in the seventies, spiking again only for the original Star Wars trilogy and The Shining before the influence of the studios went into decline and finally faded altogether. Since then, the local council has purchased the properties concerned and they've been primarily used for television. These days, Borehamwood is famous for three things: Eastenders, Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, and Big Brother. Without wanting to be too much of a cultural snob, it's hardly Kubrick and Hitchcock, is it?
Borehamwood in 2005 is on the upswing in terms of the amount of money being invested in the area. But for the last ten years or so, it's been the victim of a kind of cultural drift. With prices rising in the city, the disenfranchised tend to migrate to the suburbs. Without the benefit of any learned texts or figures, the way I see it is as a kind of ring around London made up of communities in decline due to a rapid population growth made up mostly of immigrants and the working class. I'm aware that the latter is no longer a popular name, but it's not like that class has simply ceased to exist just because the terminology has become unfashionable. The presence of these groups causes a rise in crime and a drop in property prices, which serves to increase the influx of short-distance migrants and exacerbate the symptoms of the decline, and so on. Over time, the commercial make-up of the area changes to meet the needs of fresh demographics. In five or ten years, you have a town that looks very different to the way it used to.
Of course, these changes don't go unnoticed and without argument. Though some of the residents present when the migrants began to arrive will undoubtedly have moved on, a large percentage will still be living there, and they will not be happy. Furious of Borehamwood will be writing many letters to the local paper and the council, and issues of crime and particularly anti-social behaviour will top the local political agenda. The council will announce a programme of improvements, a heavier police presence will make itself felt, and things will begin to change. Like unwelcome visitors, the migrants (and at this point it's almost a new generation) will be forced further outward by the reversal of the very factors that brought them to the town. Urban renewal becomes more obvious, and certain businesses, sensing fresh gaps in the market, will begin to move in. For the town, the circle beings to close. For the migrants, it's a case of being pushed further and further out of the city, establishing new boundaries for suburban nowhere and essentially expanding London's borders yet further.
That may all be bollocks, but I hope it was at least an interesting read.
Now, a few things I need to clear up: I consider myself working class. I come from a broken home and grew up with my parents and money being the two notable absences from my life. When I was a kid, we fucking struggled. Just because I can string a sentence together and have a healthy level of disdain for some of the behaviour I see in the place where I live, doesn't mean I don't remember where I'm from. It means that I fail to see the point in celebrating moronic behaviour like it's something to be proud of. I don't care if you're from Sloane Square or the heart of Brixton, if it looks like a wanker and talks like a wanker, it's a wanker. My days of believing hope lay in the proles are long gone, and someone being from the same background as me does not necessarily make them one of mine. To pretend comradery with those you can't even begin to relate to is, for me, ridiculous.
So...I hate this town. I hate it for a wide variety of personal reasons I've mentioned many times before on this page. But I also hate it because I really don't enjoy walking down a high street that is wall to wall dickheads. I'm not going to jump on the 'chav' thing again, but the uniform of the local female is denim microskirt, tight top, ridiculous hoop earrings, and fucking burberry handbag. The mobile phone with some bastarding bleepy techno ringtone is a given. The male of the species drives an off-white L-reg Cavalier with a stereo system that cost more than the car and pumps out earth-shaking bass as though volume were an indication of status. He and his friends will almost certainly be wearing some form of hooded tracksuit along with a cap. As they drive down the high street with the windows wound down, they will undoubtedly be shouting really obvious and unfunny insults designed to make the kind of girl you pick up outside fucking McDonalds laugh.
As mentioned above, when the town you live in is largely made up of brain-shy fuckwits, the commercial sector caters accordingly. Thus, Borehamwood is made up of crap pubs, cut-price fried chicken outlets, kebab shops, 50p-£1 shops, and the kind of jewellers that frown when you want anything other than a big shiny chain.
If a tourist was to venture beyond the town centre, they would find a veritable army of grey, sixties tower blocks, in the shadows of which yet more betracksuited scum skulk, forever on the lookout for phone boxes to smash or passers-by to glare at. If said tourists did not have on their person some form of heavy weaponry, they would likely run like hell for the broken and graffiti'd "safety" of the train station, where they could hide in waiting rooms that stink of piss from teenagers drunk on cheap cider.
Yeah, you could say I dislike this town. In fact, were I to - anthropologically speaking - give England an enema, I'd stick the hose right here. Make of that what you will.
posted by Michael at 9:31 PM
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