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London, two weeks in.
It was all a beautiful mess. From the top deck of a bus 35 -
Clapham Junction to Shorditch, via Camberwell - I could see the
cramped rows of discoloured housing blocks; terraces, 4 years
young, next to converted factories and Victorian freehouses. And
in front of them all, looking just as confused: black man next
to white man next to China-man next to Jew.
In the distance the Gherkin rose up from the concrete heap as if
it was ten years too soon; odd parts of the city below were
still clinging tightly enough to the past for the building not
to quite fit. The London eye and City hall, too (Please insert
romantic description of Parliament and Tower Bridge here).
Nothing seemed to match, and yet, when I looked on, it was
visual harmony.
But on the bus I couldn’t quite catch the sweet sweet scent of
carbon monoxide drifting through the air as the city do-gooders
pulled transparent recycle bags out of their four by four
Mitsubishis (No, not Smartcars. Yes, you can blame them). Nor
could I quite make out the languages hurtling from every
direction, hating the way each other sounded, in this, the city
that was supposedly the poster child for a better tomorrow - a
new and mixed world made up of every blood-line on earth - that
stood, now, a mere shit stain of the multicultural ideal.
The problem was no one understood each other. The city was in
conflict with its’ time period, its’ design, its’ stance on
greenhouse-gas solutions, and its’ people were in conflict with
anything going. They didn’t know what they wanted. They couldn’t
be European because that would be giving in, but they couldn’t
be TOO English because that was just plain wrong; save that for
the angry young white fellow who likes his hair low, low and low
- yes sir indeed!…at least, I think that’s right…I‘m not quite
sure…
I needed to know more, so I stopped off at a McDonalds. It only
ever took a trip to the local restaurants and public
houses-of-purchase to get a fairly reliable idea of an area’s
social situation. (Colchester’s McDonalds seemed to be run by
rough edged 15 year old school boys, thirsty eyed and full of
unreasonable hated, and Chippenham didn’t have a McDonalds, just
Victorian values and the best damn oriental Fish and Chip shop
south of the M14). This particular London branch was over
crowded and hostile. The manager wouldn’t close the door on
anyone - so’s not to appear inhumane - (which also increased his
chances of seducing cheap and desperate labour), but keeping the
place civil was slightly beyond him. - “This is a serious town
on serious earth, my friend. The blacks need to be pressed up
hard against the whites if they’re to be vindicated.”
“For what?”
“You know, all that stuff that’s in the past.”
“Hold on, who exactly are we talking about here?”
“Both sides, if I’m to tell you the truth. Yeah, there was the
slave thing, but forgive and forget for god’s sake, forgive and
forget. I haven’t the room or the patience to keep letting these
free riders in here - there’s only so much to go around, and I
can’t talk everyone into taking to the decorum. This is England,
you know, the Queen’s own - and we’re in London, the city of
honour and foul play - not a lot of people get that, chum.
There’s a lot of autonomy among the darker new comers, but I
haven’t the know-how to tell them to play ball! - We need to put
them next to each other, let them work things out.”
“Really?”
“Just sit back and relax, friend. You’ll see.”
I ordered a fillet O fish and medium fries.
“Wha?” the Polish guy behind the counter said. He spoke some
English, none of it good. I didn’t mind this (much), but when I
repeated my order more clearly he seemed to be offended by my
accent. The English one. He gave me a dirty look and left. I
thought I‘d remind myself that masturbating in burgers is just a
myth.
McDonalds has never lied. Things were bad. We were living in
desperately sensitive times, and any one of our footsteps could
have been on a politically incorrect eggshell. There was
togetherness, that much was certain, but it went about as far as
being in the same city. Beyond this, understanding each other
seemed to be a bit of a chore. The original Englishmen (whoever
they were) stuck to their end, and the home-wreckers (I could be
bold here and assume) stuck to theirs, you crossed the boarder
at your own risk. England didn’t want to talk races into
togetherness because it was afraid of making them angry, but the
less they understood each other the angrier they became. Burkas
confused England, so did Yoruba and apala music - all of which
were equally offended by too much in-your-face Englishness
(whatever the hell that was)…
The Polish guy came back and I had too much of England in me to
point out that he’d given me the wrong order. I hadn’t had a Big
Mac in a while anyway (And there were more terrible goings on
all over! On my way out I saw a guy standing by the door holding
a pistol! Was wearing a yellow and red loose rider jump-suit;
red and white stripy sleeves, starch white face, red curly hair.
Big red “M” on his chest. Whenever an obese person walked
towards the door he pointed the gun at them and said that he’d
kill their entire family if they didn’t keep coming back to eat
fast food day after day for the rest of their lives - I saw it
with my own two eyes, I did!)
But who was I to talk. I was a 2nd generation Nigerian
immigrant, and my mother hated England. “These stupid white
people,” I often heard her say. She lived here though, liked the
perks. Always ranted on about how much better Nigeria was.
Wanted to send me there whenever I was naughty as a kid. So my
black skin made me stand out, an easy target for the angry
nationalists. But take my good friend Jake Kinsmen: 27 years
old, blonde hair, blue eyes. No history of racial abuse,
directly or indirectly - and perfect English, taught to him by
his single mother, who was taught by her mother, who, being
fresh off the boat from Germany, learnt English from a factory
worker in Chelsea that had never once said a bad word about
anyone based on their skin colour or background, and swears it.
So why then and not now? Did Jake have more right to be English
because his family had been here longer? The truth was, as with
every other continent, England was a finders keepers nation. It
didn’t really belong to anyone. Englishness didn’t have a
specific background - it once saw a massive insurgence of the
Normanic culture, before that, the Danish, before that it had
been populated in the early 500s AD by German tribes (Long live
the Queen by the way). The country was just playing the same old
immigration game, only it was taking on a darker skin colour and
a more religiously ambiguous tone - and there wasn‘t much land
to spare either. Englishness was an idea, rather than a face,
and this is why it was so hard to find.
I was in HMV when I found out that relations between the black
and white folk still needed some work.
Wondering through the DVD floor I suddenly came across a ‘Black
Cinema Section.’
What actually constitutes black cinema exactly? This section
would have been fine if it was all in an African language (like
‘Asian cinema’ is in the Asian languages and ‘French Cinema’ in
French) but it wasn’t. Eddie Murphy, Cuba Gooding Jr, Denzel
Washington - these are all American, English speaking
superstars. Surely these films aren’t ‘black’, but simply
‘films…staring black people.’ And ‘8 Mile’!(?). Oh, the irony.
As a black person I was deeply offended, more so due to the fact
that it was a section enforced by black people as much as white.
This ‘black section’ was exactly what was wrong with London.
England. The damn world. People were so busy trying to
acknowledge differences they had overlooked that it was exactly
these differences that served to pull people apart. It wasn’t
empowering for the black race to have their very own section, it
was absurd. If you wanted equality, be equal. That went for DVDs
as well. Anything else suggested that black people acted a
certain way - or liked certain things. Well I’m black, and I
don’t like Avirex jackets (they suggest a hardness I don’t
possess), and I’m not overly fond of spicy foods (though I can
take it. I’m just more of a flavour person). ‘Rio Bravo’ isn’t a
‘white’ film, it’s just a ‘film’, as ‘Boyz in the Hood’ or ‘The
Harder They Come’ should just be ‘films’.
I sighed. Another public house-of-purchase had given me
disappointing insight.
I wandered aimlessly after that, head down, thinking of the
woes. Aimlessly down the streets, aimlessly into shops,
aimlessly onto the suffocating tube trains. But I was to be
saved!
When I looked up I found myself on Edgware road, the haven of
London spirit. Yes, it was dirty, and yes, there was a
possibility of running into a hardcore street gang, but if
London was the heart of England, it beat the hardest here. Lined
with Arabian corner-shops, African food outlets, Subways next to
Starbucks next to Kebab shops next to crummy faced whisky bars -
this place was alive! The people knew who they were here.
Iranian speaking Englishman, Ewe speaking Englishman, English
speaking Englishman - Outside of the Hookah cafes people smoked
shisha in business suits and Nigerian Kaftan outfits alike
(originally an Indian past time that fit so well against the
Albion backdrop). Here, England was no one thing, but a mesh of
culture that took on the history of a country - almost
unexplainable. Almost! These dirty pavements were England, these
cheap wine bottles, these angry young rude boys. And ahead of me
Marble Arch rose in the distance, behind that, Hyde Park, and
behind that, hope. This is London! I thought to myself. This is
England!
Yours truly,
The New-Wave Slave
p.s. “Can I Just Say…” apologises for any sentimentality
experienced during this read.
p.p.s “Can I Just Say…” does not condone using the words “just”
“a” and “film” in the same sentence, in that order, unless
completely necessary.
NEXT TIME: Boris Johnson is some sort of genius but has yet to
find his niche! (Get Ken Livingston back into the mayor‘s office
in the mean time perhaps?)
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- Presents
