Well that's over... albeit prematurely! I am left with the memories of my many mistakes, as well as the pernicious doubt that I did not, in fact, manage to reverse the impression they built up of me in that office back in 2005, namely that I am careless, apathetic and one of life's natural botchers. Instead, I think I only confirmed it with yet more examples of heinous incompetence. In the end, frequent misordering of stationery, along with an inability to perform even basic mathematical calculations were my undoing; no doubt now compounded by leaving early and with little warning on the penultimate day. In my tortured psyche, by forgoing the last day I was cutting my losses but now I see that it might be sensible for me to lie low, at least where the Tories are concerned, for a fair while...
But what about the greasy pole? I hear you ask. Well, let me tell you, it needs a bloody good wipe! I may be twenty-one and almost a graduate but a literature graduate and a work-experience boy. I don't think it's too much of an admission of weakness to say therefore, that I am unable to calculate the expenditure of a government department in the late nineties (running into billions) at the drop of a hat. As I was explaining to somebody last night however, it is my fault for forcing my way back into a field of which I have only a partial understanding, derived, in the main, from erratic reading of Guardian columns while travelling on the train. The kind of competent, well-adjusted interns I rubbed shoulders with up at Westminster made me feel that I would be better off jumping in front of a train, rather than getting on one!
As I said at the beginning, it's over now and I have been beaten- although I'm not sure quite how or who by. In my defence, I'd say I do not flourish in an atmosphere where knowledge is assumed and it is impossible to ask questions but, again, I knew what I was getting into. Last night, I had one of those fitful sleeps, the kind you have when you have just been jilted or before a big exam; I guess I was expecting some sort of fallout from yesterday's wimpy, forlorn cancellation, today. Nothing has happened, even so I feel terrible but, as my primary school teacher said to me when I got caught calling someone 'a great big willy' when I was about 8: 'he's punished himself enough'.
I really have. I worked so hard these last two weeks- treading water, not swimming- and I've gone and fluffed it...
Friday, 30 January 2009
Thursday, 22 January 2009
Westminster Worrying
My third day in the Houses of Parliament and things, while not exactly going terribly, frequently totter along upon a tightrope suspended above tragedy. The major problem is that while I am absolutely in love with the place, I am also terrified of it in an equal measure- hardly a good recipe for an individual of naturally neurotic temperament and blundering, inept method.
A major incident today and an example of my deficiencies: I was charged with picking up four coffees from the bar four floors below. Well, not only did I confuse which required an 'extra shot' (the cappuccino) with the one which required 'extra milk' (the americano- a little strange, you must admit!) but I obviously spoke too slightly for the guy behind the counter who smilingly provided me with medium, instead of the requested large, size. I discovered this to my consternation on the way back up in the elevator so immediately had to head back down to the ground floor where I wrangled with the guy to place the original drinks in bigger cups which, to his credit, he eventually did. I hardly noticed the latter however, for now the chocolate powder in the cappuccino was everywhere and the four drinks were too heavy to take back upstairs...
...Things weren't looking so good in the lift so I crossed my fingers but, on my return to the office, I realised that not only had I, indeed, mixed up the order (as outlined) but that, furthermore, I had forgotten the crisps! Down I headed again, all the while conscious of what a ridiculous figure I cut, preparing to be gunned down by the anti-Terror police (Village Idiot Branch) at any moment. I had to go to the big restaurant this time and it was extremely busy but I pushed my way through and grabbed a packet of Walkers, concerned about the negative sentiments, no doubt spreading like wildfire upstairs. Well, you wouldn't credit it but as soon as I had lobbed them at the checkout assistant and taken my change, a little nagging voice began speaking up at the back of my brain telling me that I might have picked up the wrong packet...
Guess what? It was right!
Barging back through, I found the larger, sea-salt variety for 65p and instantly the voice of the guy who had given me the money flashed back across my brain:
"The big packet, Neil, yeah? Are you listening?'
Desperate now, I was back in the lift, shooting up to the fourth floor... Luckily the connecting door between the main part of the office and the place where I worked was closed and nobody was about so I dashed to the cupboard, got my own money out of my duffle-coat pocket and returned to wait for the elevator. It was about now as I recall, tapping my foot impatiently, I turned and was absolutely astounded by a marvellous view of the toppermost part of Big Ben just across the road. It was so close, like the moon at its largest, all its ornate, golden bits flashing in the light of the winter sun... but there was simply no time!
I finally sorted everything out but not without some damage to my already well-tarnished reputation in the office. Suffice to say, there were some twisted, unconvincing near-grimaces levelled at my person when I finally got to return to my desk with my own cup of coffee and continue to fudge the constituency mailing list.
How much longer I have in this exciting, stimulating, stressful environment is debatable...
A major incident today and an example of my deficiencies: I was charged with picking up four coffees from the bar four floors below. Well, not only did I confuse which required an 'extra shot' (the cappuccino) with the one which required 'extra milk' (the americano- a little strange, you must admit!) but I obviously spoke too slightly for the guy behind the counter who smilingly provided me with medium, instead of the requested large, size. I discovered this to my consternation on the way back up in the elevator so immediately had to head back down to the ground floor where I wrangled with the guy to place the original drinks in bigger cups which, to his credit, he eventually did. I hardly noticed the latter however, for now the chocolate powder in the cappuccino was everywhere and the four drinks were too heavy to take back upstairs...
...Things weren't looking so good in the lift so I crossed my fingers but, on my return to the office, I realised that not only had I, indeed, mixed up the order (as outlined) but that, furthermore, I had forgotten the crisps! Down I headed again, all the while conscious of what a ridiculous figure I cut, preparing to be gunned down by the anti-Terror police (Village Idiot Branch) at any moment. I had to go to the big restaurant this time and it was extremely busy but I pushed my way through and grabbed a packet of Walkers, concerned about the negative sentiments, no doubt spreading like wildfire upstairs. Well, you wouldn't credit it but as soon as I had lobbed them at the checkout assistant and taken my change, a little nagging voice began speaking up at the back of my brain telling me that I might have picked up the wrong packet...
Guess what? It was right!
Barging back through, I found the larger, sea-salt variety for 65p and instantly the voice of the guy who had given me the money flashed back across my brain:
"The big packet, Neil, yeah? Are you listening?'
Desperate now, I was back in the lift, shooting up to the fourth floor... Luckily the connecting door between the main part of the office and the place where I worked was closed and nobody was about so I dashed to the cupboard, got my own money out of my duffle-coat pocket and returned to wait for the elevator. It was about now as I recall, tapping my foot impatiently, I turned and was absolutely astounded by a marvellous view of the toppermost part of Big Ben just across the road. It was so close, like the moon at its largest, all its ornate, golden bits flashing in the light of the winter sun... but there was simply no time!
I finally sorted everything out but not without some damage to my already well-tarnished reputation in the office. Suffice to say, there were some twisted, unconvincing near-grimaces levelled at my person when I finally got to return to my desk with my own cup of coffee and continue to fudge the constituency mailing list.
How much longer I have in this exciting, stimulating, stressful environment is debatable...
Tuesday, 20 January 2009
Parliamentary Pondering
Well, day 1 is accomplished and I am enjoying an evening and a morning to myself before I waste the little bit of free time that I have been awarded this week on another day in London... Sometimes I go nowhere near the city for weeks on end and then, suddenly, I find I am there each and every day.
It all went well- I agonised over the wiring of fax machines and the filing of various constituency records and the making of teas and coffees in impossibly cramped, cupboard conditions. Although their office has both expanded and moved to the modern adjunct thing over (and under) the road, the numbers of people in it have also grown and space is at a premium. If ever a Tory government considered cutting office space as a tax relief initiative, the nation would grind to a halt...
One of the notable features of the day was when I mused about writing a story set in an old, gothic palace with a modern extension... but what would such a story be about? And how long before it got rejected (AGAIN!)? Dear readers, please note that, although I do not write about it so much, my creative work is still being turned down right, left and centre! Oh look, a political pun...
In the evening I began feeling like a proper twenty-something as I went out for cocktails in Covent Garden or somesuch (well one and a half plus a beer - Mother!) with my recently graduated friends. It is the second day of such mingling, as a subtly different selection of people, along with the core of my 'group' came out yesterday; strangely, there were a fair few Fins on both days!
Unfortunately, unlike my time in London in general, last night was the last of such meetings and- it's funny- I didn't expect to feel so sad when they were over! It was that specific variety of bittersweet melancholy reserved for the ends of holidays or your 'leaving do', when you realise how much you enjoy the company of people who, gradually, are slipping away from you. Although there are vague promptings from the Dylan Thomas inside, to rage against the dying of the light, usually, or, at least, in my case- you can never find the appropriate time for such an outburst. In my opinion, situations are often a lot more subtle than the poets give them credt for!
Two more things: as I was crossing Charing Cross road yet again, the old Dr. Johnson adage came into my mind: 'The man who is tired of London... yada yada yada'. Well, I already am, perhaps prematurely, and, for the record, I am a little tired of life, too... He obviously knew what he was talking about!
... Thinking about it, not really life- just life in and around these dirty Southern towns and cities (and London in particular). I better have another think about LSE- not that they'll accept me- before I commit myself to yet more urban drudgery...
Oh and the second thing was some half-remembered anecdote from the previous afternoon, about an oriental lady who would not give my friend a roll with his soup... but that has faded now and would probably have come across as mildly racist, anyway. She was a sweet person and I made her laugh a lot when I went up for my own bowl and she asked, mildly fearful: 'You wa- bread, too??' to which I indicated that I thought my friend was mental and that I had never heard of this bizarre custom!
Well, that's all for now...
It all went well- I agonised over the wiring of fax machines and the filing of various constituency records and the making of teas and coffees in impossibly cramped, cupboard conditions. Although their office has both expanded and moved to the modern adjunct thing over (and under) the road, the numbers of people in it have also grown and space is at a premium. If ever a Tory government considered cutting office space as a tax relief initiative, the nation would grind to a halt...
One of the notable features of the day was when I mused about writing a story set in an old, gothic palace with a modern extension... but what would such a story be about? And how long before it got rejected (AGAIN!)? Dear readers, please note that, although I do not write about it so much, my creative work is still being turned down right, left and centre! Oh look, a political pun...
In the evening I began feeling like a proper twenty-something as I went out for cocktails in Covent Garden or somesuch (well one and a half plus a beer - Mother!) with my recently graduated friends. It is the second day of such mingling, as a subtly different selection of people, along with the core of my 'group' came out yesterday; strangely, there were a fair few Fins on both days!
Unfortunately, unlike my time in London in general, last night was the last of such meetings and- it's funny- I didn't expect to feel so sad when they were over! It was that specific variety of bittersweet melancholy reserved for the ends of holidays or your 'leaving do', when you realise how much you enjoy the company of people who, gradually, are slipping away from you. Although there are vague promptings from the Dylan Thomas inside, to rage against the dying of the light, usually, or, at least, in my case- you can never find the appropriate time for such an outburst. In my opinion, situations are often a lot more subtle than the poets give them credt for!
Two more things: as I was crossing Charing Cross road yet again, the old Dr. Johnson adage came into my mind: 'The man who is tired of London... yada yada yada'. Well, I already am, perhaps prematurely, and, for the record, I am a little tired of life, too... He obviously knew what he was talking about!
... Thinking about it, not really life- just life in and around these dirty Southern towns and cities (and London in particular). I better have another think about LSE- not that they'll accept me- before I commit myself to yet more urban drudgery...
Oh and the second thing was some half-remembered anecdote from the previous afternoon, about an oriental lady who would not give my friend a roll with his soup... but that has faded now and would probably have come across as mildly racist, anyway. She was a sweet person and I made her laugh a lot when I went up for my own bowl and she asked, mildly fearful: 'You wa- bread, too??' to which I indicated that I thought my friend was mental and that I had never heard of this bizarre custom!
Well, that's all for now...
Saturday, 17 January 2009
Those whom the gods wish to annoy...
Next week I return to that palace where I spent a week or two once before, although, this time perhaps, a little more mature or, at least, a little more guarded with the most naive among my impressions. As I remember, it is a magical feeling walking across that bridge into what remains of the Victorian morning mists. I cannot wait. Whatever life brings me as I drag on toward obscurity, my memories of my work-experience at Westminster will, no doubt, stay with me forever!
A strange thing- although I purport to have changed, an incident from the last placement still sticks on the inside of my skull. I was walking through a courtyard with the Research Assistant assigned to look after me; on our way to lunch, I think. We were talking about the future. I don't know what he expected me to say- something about politics, maybe; business, perhaps, on the periphery. Instead, I told him that I wanted to be a poet. I don't know where it came from. I may have only been 18 but I had enough sense to comb my hair and keep stum on my unforgivably extreme political opinions so why didn't the brain's automatic 'Sense not Sensibility' mechanism kick in?
In all honesty, I cannot say. Blame can be laid at the door of Pugin's architecture, all the history, my own distorted sense of romanticised self-worth... I would be a little less perturbed had that particular juvenile impression just faded with time or less embarrassed, at least. It hasn't. Whether I'm walking beside the river or through the Bentalls Centre; in Kingston, Killarney or Aldershot town centre, I still feel that it would be preferable to leave this life a poet. What little of the transcendental touches upon the ordinary details of my existence seems to lift me higher than any career ambition or work placement to date (no matter how special)...
I would be lying if I didn't mention that these days I guess I want the other things, too- hence the LSE application, the renewed interest in politics, all the work I do on essays etc- but, were it to come down to a brutal choice, I would still go for poet (or, at least, Guardian columnist and poet) and end up with one published pamphlet, a cardboard box and a bottle of gin. I no longer have religion and, currently, nobody to love and lust after... without these things aren't careers mere totems, after all? I don't know.
In all honesty, the whole 'writer' thing has messed me about so long that it really doesn't deserve to stay on the crumpled, yellowing scrap which I jokingly call my agenda. It stays however, though I continue to mess about, too- just a little less conspicuously than in the past!
A strange thing- although I purport to have changed, an incident from the last placement still sticks on the inside of my skull. I was walking through a courtyard with the Research Assistant assigned to look after me; on our way to lunch, I think. We were talking about the future. I don't know what he expected me to say- something about politics, maybe; business, perhaps, on the periphery. Instead, I told him that I wanted to be a poet. I don't know where it came from. I may have only been 18 but I had enough sense to comb my hair and keep stum on my unforgivably extreme political opinions so why didn't the brain's automatic 'Sense not Sensibility' mechanism kick in?
In all honesty, I cannot say. Blame can be laid at the door of Pugin's architecture, all the history, my own distorted sense of romanticised self-worth... I would be a little less perturbed had that particular juvenile impression just faded with time or less embarrassed, at least. It hasn't. Whether I'm walking beside the river or through the Bentalls Centre; in Kingston, Killarney or Aldershot town centre, I still feel that it would be preferable to leave this life a poet. What little of the transcendental touches upon the ordinary details of my existence seems to lift me higher than any career ambition or work placement to date (no matter how special)...
I would be lying if I didn't mention that these days I guess I want the other things, too- hence the LSE application, the renewed interest in politics, all the work I do on essays etc- but, were it to come down to a brutal choice, I would still go for poet (or, at least, Guardian columnist and poet) and end up with one published pamphlet, a cardboard box and a bottle of gin. I no longer have religion and, currently, nobody to love and lust after... without these things aren't careers mere totems, after all? I don't know.
In all honesty, the whole 'writer' thing has messed me about so long that it really doesn't deserve to stay on the crumpled, yellowing scrap which I jokingly call my agenda. It stays however, though I continue to mess about, too- just a little less conspicuously than in the past!
Steerpike goes to auction
"Publication - is the Auction / Of the Mind of Man'
So said Emily Dickinson and, you know what, she was probably right... It's no doubt a good thing therefore that nature conspires to keep this sleazy little phenomenon at such a healthy distance from the purity of my art. In the meantime however, there are a few little spots of notoriety; for example, I popped up on this blog:
http://mervynpeake.blogspot.com/
on January 12th with a heavily derivative piece of poetry penned in a melancholy mood on New Year's eve. I'm afraid I cannot claim credit for the fantastic opening line, 'O love, O death, O ecstacy'- (in fact, it turns out I can't even spell it right and I've kept the heinous attempt at the last word here for dyslexic posterity); it's a shame though, really, as they are the verse's only redeeming feature. The wonderful apostrophe belongs to Peake himself, one of my greatest inspirations- remembered as a talented writer and an artist but also a good friend of Dylan Thomas and a poet in his own right. Mervyn Peake's poetic output falls somewhere between the liberating nonsense of Lewis Carroll and the practical existentialism of a war poet like Wilfred Owen! Notably, it is some of the only verse that I know by heart...
...In my defence, the blog in question is maintained by his son so I must have done something right. Perhaps, like Peake's own character, Steerpike, this is the first sign that my mundane apprenticeship will soon be over and I can head for the 'pinnacle of the itching fancy - some wild, invulnerable eyrie best known to [my]self; where [I] can watch the world spread out below [me], and shake exultantly [my] clotted wings'.
Perhaps. I doubt it.
Sometimes I wonder if the trials Peake elaborates upon in the kitchens of Gormenghast would be preferable to the sketchy drudgery of stolid, old Surbiton!
So said Emily Dickinson and, you know what, she was probably right... It's no doubt a good thing therefore that nature conspires to keep this sleazy little phenomenon at such a healthy distance from the purity of my art. In the meantime however, there are a few little spots of notoriety; for example, I popped up on this blog:
http://mervynpeake.blogspot.com/
on January 12th with a heavily derivative piece of poetry penned in a melancholy mood on New Year's eve. I'm afraid I cannot claim credit for the fantastic opening line, 'O love, O death, O ecstacy'- (in fact, it turns out I can't even spell it right and I've kept the heinous attempt at the last word here for dyslexic posterity); it's a shame though, really, as they are the verse's only redeeming feature. The wonderful apostrophe belongs to Peake himself, one of my greatest inspirations- remembered as a talented writer and an artist but also a good friend of Dylan Thomas and a poet in his own right. Mervyn Peake's poetic output falls somewhere between the liberating nonsense of Lewis Carroll and the practical existentialism of a war poet like Wilfred Owen! Notably, it is some of the only verse that I know by heart...
...In my defence, the blog in question is maintained by his son so I must have done something right. Perhaps, like Peake's own character, Steerpike, this is the first sign that my mundane apprenticeship will soon be over and I can head for the 'pinnacle of the itching fancy - some wild, invulnerable eyrie best known to [my]self; where [I] can watch the world spread out below [me], and shake exultantly [my] clotted wings'.
Perhaps. I doubt it.
Sometimes I wonder if the trials Peake elaborates upon in the kitchens of Gormenghast would be preferable to the sketchy drudgery of stolid, old Surbiton!
Tuesday, 13 January 2009
An academic discussion
My relationship with the University of London shares faint fibres of analogy with Derrida's dealings with the wider academy (and I say this as I undertake a paper in Lit Theory involving him which may kill me).
Like him, I am an ill-informed, ill-prepared, pseudo-intellectual chancer stuck out on the peripheries of knowledge and, like him, it is also unusual for me to get out of my bathrobe (well, dressing gown) unless I need to go down to Londis.
... then again, during his lifetime at least, everybody loved Derrida- he was cool, dangerous, a linguistic anarchist! I, on the other hand, have now been rejected from the University of London four times and, this year at least, have a mere four more chances. The closest I get to linguistic anarchism is when I do a joke at the back of a critics class in Kingston.
I'm a bright kid! Why don't they want me? (At least for philosophy-based courses). The furthest I got was the interview stage a couple of years ago, where they tested me for clarity of thinking and I, apparently, failed... Well, just judge the clarity of this rant about Deconstruction and make your own mind up.
Most importantly of all, why do I still crave acceptance there at any cost? I am about to be awarded a degree, give or take a couple of months, am I mental?
Ho hum. Well, I have to get back to work now...
Like him, I am an ill-informed, ill-prepared, pseudo-intellectual chancer stuck out on the peripheries of knowledge and, like him, it is also unusual for me to get out of my bathrobe (well, dressing gown) unless I need to go down to Londis.
... then again, during his lifetime at least, everybody loved Derrida- he was cool, dangerous, a linguistic anarchist! I, on the other hand, have now been rejected from the University of London four times and, this year at least, have a mere four more chances. The closest I get to linguistic anarchism is when I do a joke at the back of a critics class in Kingston.
I'm a bright kid! Why don't they want me? (At least for philosophy-based courses). The furthest I got was the interview stage a couple of years ago, where they tested me for clarity of thinking and I, apparently, failed... Well, just judge the clarity of this rant about Deconstruction and make your own mind up.
Most importantly of all, why do I still crave acceptance there at any cost? I am about to be awarded a degree, give or take a couple of months, am I mental?
Ho hum. Well, I have to get back to work now...
Friday, 9 January 2009
Countryfiles
I haven't written much recently, I keep wondering if my muse has been broken by all this time in Kingston... It was never meant to be like this! When I boarded that National Express bus at 18, I had some kind of notion I was never coming back. I got as far as Killarney in one direction and Inverness in the other before I realised that, for me at least, life wasn't going to work like that...
Owing to the peculiar circumstances of my existence, my social position at present involves being caught between graduates and soon-to-be-graduates. Unwittingly therefore, I am being drawn into parallel discourses in the realms of escapism and fantasy- those of the optimistic and those who have already had a few months experience getting their dreams trodden on mercilessly by the big, bad world.
The way I see it, there are two sorts of people. They are both drawn from those desperate to get out at any cost, be it away from whichever tinpot academic institution, or out of the menial conditions they've fallen into post-graduating...
The aim of the first group is that they spend any amount of time away and at any price: worthless jobs, loans, passionless volunteering. In a way, the aforementioned appears to me the more sensible course- especially for those who have never fully escaped their parents' sphere of influence (or their bankbook). As I say, I got out early but only for a short time- but I managed to go all the way across America in the process!
On the other side of this discussion however, are the people who are not just bored of suburban polytechnicdom (or, in the case of the graduates, sublondon menial labour) but fundamentally sick of it. These guys are full of fear and loathing, fed up with their present paltry existence- at odds with all their childish expectations. A few of these, I'm reliably informed, have already purchased a pair of wellingtons and are 'going back to the country'; not home I might add, as this might make a little sense, after all, especially during the recession. No, a friend was telling me of a mutual acquaintance who is actually thinking of upping and evacuating to North Yorkshire.
North Yorkshire??
If I have one piece of advice based on my very limited experience of life it is this: however badly you have been infected with the urban disease, it is not sensible to head for somewhere with no roots, no plan of campaign... nothing. These are the British Isles, not the Wild West. Ok, its slightly better when you have a car which is more than I had in Ireland but, let me tell you, when the rain is coming down heavily in some remote, semi-rural location, the wind-buffeting you and with the threads of intellectual companionship (or companionship of any sort, for that matter) wearing thin, the Thoreau / Wordsworth dream starts to pall; shrivelling, along with what little remains of your rational mind. Trust me, Tony Joe White was bang on with his song, 'A Rainy Night in Georgia'... stuck somewhere like that in a storm and you'll have the soul music on, feeling 'like it's raining all over the world'.
Say what you will about the suburbs- and I frequently do- but there's ample opportunity to work here, good transport links into the city etc. Furthermore, if you're yearning for a bit of countryside, you can move out to somewhere like Guildford for a bit, tire yourself out with the train journey and, inevitably, shift your personal items back in somewhere more central...
There is a recession on! Some kind of limited travel is probably ok if you can fund it but romantic dreams just don't cut the mustard anymore. Moving to the country is for grown-ups, not for twenty-somethings. Read some Hardy, Dickens, Bronte... all their characters were doing their damndest to get the heck out of those green and unpleasant pastures!
*
Ugh! I'm beginning to advocate the kind of dull conventionalism that I most abhor... perhaps my muse is, indeed, broken. I do know of one person who succeeded, after all. When I was out in Ireland- the cool odd-job man told me of how he had left Luton on a bus in the late 80s and had never looked back. He had an Irish wife, two kids and played acoustic folk-rock down in the town every Friday night...
... So, you see, I can't speak for everyone. If you think you can do it then try it but heed my warnings, for, if you're anything like me and you decide to undertake an ill-advised adventure like this sans planning, you'll end up very wet and very lonely- think of Withnail and I. Plus, you'll just have more ground to make up when you get back!
Owing to the peculiar circumstances of my existence, my social position at present involves being caught between graduates and soon-to-be-graduates. Unwittingly therefore, I am being drawn into parallel discourses in the realms of escapism and fantasy- those of the optimistic and those who have already had a few months experience getting their dreams trodden on mercilessly by the big, bad world.
The way I see it, there are two sorts of people. They are both drawn from those desperate to get out at any cost, be it away from whichever tinpot academic institution, or out of the menial conditions they've fallen into post-graduating...
The aim of the first group is that they spend any amount of time away and at any price: worthless jobs, loans, passionless volunteering. In a way, the aforementioned appears to me the more sensible course- especially for those who have never fully escaped their parents' sphere of influence (or their bankbook). As I say, I got out early but only for a short time- but I managed to go all the way across America in the process!
On the other side of this discussion however, are the people who are not just bored of suburban polytechnicdom (or, in the case of the graduates, sublondon menial labour) but fundamentally sick of it. These guys are full of fear and loathing, fed up with their present paltry existence- at odds with all their childish expectations. A few of these, I'm reliably informed, have already purchased a pair of wellingtons and are 'going back to the country'; not home I might add, as this might make a little sense, after all, especially during the recession. No, a friend was telling me of a mutual acquaintance who is actually thinking of upping and evacuating to North Yorkshire.
North Yorkshire??
If I have one piece of advice based on my very limited experience of life it is this: however badly you have been infected with the urban disease, it is not sensible to head for somewhere with no roots, no plan of campaign... nothing. These are the British Isles, not the Wild West. Ok, its slightly better when you have a car which is more than I had in Ireland but, let me tell you, when the rain is coming down heavily in some remote, semi-rural location, the wind-buffeting you and with the threads of intellectual companionship (or companionship of any sort, for that matter) wearing thin, the Thoreau / Wordsworth dream starts to pall; shrivelling, along with what little remains of your rational mind. Trust me, Tony Joe White was bang on with his song, 'A Rainy Night in Georgia'... stuck somewhere like that in a storm and you'll have the soul music on, feeling 'like it's raining all over the world'.
Say what you will about the suburbs- and I frequently do- but there's ample opportunity to work here, good transport links into the city etc. Furthermore, if you're yearning for a bit of countryside, you can move out to somewhere like Guildford for a bit, tire yourself out with the train journey and, inevitably, shift your personal items back in somewhere more central...
There is a recession on! Some kind of limited travel is probably ok if you can fund it but romantic dreams just don't cut the mustard anymore. Moving to the country is for grown-ups, not for twenty-somethings. Read some Hardy, Dickens, Bronte... all their characters were doing their damndest to get the heck out of those green and unpleasant pastures!
*
Ugh! I'm beginning to advocate the kind of dull conventionalism that I most abhor... perhaps my muse is, indeed, broken. I do know of one person who succeeded, after all. When I was out in Ireland- the cool odd-job man told me of how he had left Luton on a bus in the late 80s and had never looked back. He had an Irish wife, two kids and played acoustic folk-rock down in the town every Friday night...
... So, you see, I can't speak for everyone. If you think you can do it then try it but heed my warnings, for, if you're anything like me and you decide to undertake an ill-advised adventure like this sans planning, you'll end up very wet and very lonely- think of Withnail and I. Plus, you'll just have more ground to make up when you get back!
Thursday, 1 January 2009
Hangover music
New Year. Dreadful business! I'm overtired, understimulated and traumatised, listening to gentle music and trying to get over it. This always happens, I always convince myself I should be excited on the 'eve and then spend the following 24-hours rueing the day!
A tense and difficult night all round, we managed to squint and see a few crackles and pops (from what, admittedly, was a lovely spot in St. James' park) but a combination of low cloud and the recession meant that the- alleged- 12 minutes of licensed pyromania was more than a little anticlimactic. Furthermore, various fences and mounted police meant it took us over three hours to get back to Surbiton, most of which was just getting through the centre of the city to Waterloo. In the process, the atmosphere suddenly turned from jolly albeit cold, to jolly freezing and tense. After coming into sight of Waterloo we were forced to lap it- in my view, unnecessarily- three times and, in the process, were subjected to more spewy, shouty action from the various drunks and then the minor horror of somebody being bottled by a gang of louts a few feet away.
Short conclusion, no more New Years in Central London. Just like a renaissance play, the carnival atmosphere of transgression and broken boundaries soon gives way to violence and disorder! When you are in a crowd and hemmed in by police in the city you cannot feel more trapped and/or more pissed off with life in general!
***
Anyway, here are the songs I am mumbling along to today, all efficiently hyperlinked:
Bob Dylan: Things have changed ... the sentiments in these lyrics are mine exactly, today especially but most other days, too!
Silver Jews: Suffering Jukebox ... this guy is a poet (no really!) The New York Times or somesuch declared one of his books a work of genius... and his music isn't bad either, sort of Leonard Cohenish!
John Lennon: Jealous Guy ... well known and overplayed but still sublime!
Graham Parker: Protection ... catchy tune from a local boy; almost impossible to get out of your head once in!
Joe Jackson: A Slow Song... just what it says on the tin
***
Happy New Year!
A tense and difficult night all round, we managed to squint and see a few crackles and pops (from what, admittedly, was a lovely spot in St. James' park) but a combination of low cloud and the recession meant that the- alleged- 12 minutes of licensed pyromania was more than a little anticlimactic. Furthermore, various fences and mounted police meant it took us over three hours to get back to Surbiton, most of which was just getting through the centre of the city to Waterloo. In the process, the atmosphere suddenly turned from jolly albeit cold, to jolly freezing and tense. After coming into sight of Waterloo we were forced to lap it- in my view, unnecessarily- three times and, in the process, were subjected to more spewy, shouty action from the various drunks and then the minor horror of somebody being bottled by a gang of louts a few feet away.
Short conclusion, no more New Years in Central London. Just like a renaissance play, the carnival atmosphere of transgression and broken boundaries soon gives way to violence and disorder! When you are in a crowd and hemmed in by police in the city you cannot feel more trapped and/or more pissed off with life in general!
***
Anyway, here are the songs I am mumbling along to today, all efficiently hyperlinked:
Bob Dylan: Things have changed ... the sentiments in these lyrics are mine exactly, today especially but most other days, too!
Silver Jews: Suffering Jukebox ... this guy is a poet (no really!) The New York Times or somesuch declared one of his books a work of genius... and his music isn't bad either, sort of Leonard Cohenish!
John Lennon: Jealous Guy ... well known and overplayed but still sublime!
Graham Parker: Protection ... catchy tune from a local boy; almost impossible to get out of your head once in!
Joe Jackson: A Slow Song... just what it says on the tin
***
Happy New Year!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
About Me
- N.F. Hampton
- An aspiring writer trapped in the never-ending suburbs at the edge of G. London