simplysorro

This was the title of the piece I wrote on Tuesday. I still believe that it IS a wonderful world but last night’s events have shaken me.

I was standing on Sutton station at 7.30am. Destination? Croydon. Problem? The RMT workers on Southern Trains were on strike. My Thameslink train seemed OK. I checked my diary. The last 15 journeys with Thameslink had been delayed (5 mins or more) or cancelled. Naturally the Chief Executive got a huge pay-hike recently. I had a meeting to go to but time for a Costa coffee.

I sat outside in the sun with my double-shot Americano, downwind of those in need of both caffeine and nicotine. I was about to shift upwind when two youths joined my table and started a rapid conversation in Polish (I think). One lad was a smart, blazered sixth former, I judged on his way to an exam. The other was a little older, in working clothes, manual. I was caught between smoke and incomprehension. By and by a couple more blazered lads came along, saw my Polish schoolboy and shouted, “Yo Johnny. Y’alright!”

Johnny’s response was to wave and slip effortlessly into Croydonion. “Cheers Jez. Got Economics. Shit scared.” He took another sip of an expresso and continued his impenetrable chatter with his overalled buddy. I mused on the yoof of today and thought that things were OK.

Meeting over and back on the train to London. Only 5 minutes late. Southern doing OK even if the commuters coming up from Brighton were spitting feathers. My copy of the Metro showed just how much the capital’s main commuter rag was backing Remain. Unfortunately almost all other tabloids had the Brexit bug. It could be ‘Gotcha’ all over again in the Sun if the Leavers get their way.

I overheard two conversations. There was a group of two women and a man – all over 70 I guessed – discussing how many Nectar points would get you a Flymo. This was followed by a long critique of the film Mama Mia which the ladies had watched, with wine, the night before. The man said little throughout save for, “Make sure you get a Flymo with wheels.” Being a Flymo man myself, I silently agreed with him.

My attention turned to the guy opposite who had taken a call. Now I have, more or less, got over the fact that train travellers don’t give a toss about who they disturb with their ‘devices’; nor are they remotely concerned with privacy. If this chap had spoken a tad more loudly, they would have heard him in the next carriage. I noted the following:

“Des, we’re on the same bloody page mate. I don’t see the fucking issue. The projections allow us to move rapido. Don’t need the say-so of bossman. Get along to Andy’s office and kick himinto fucking gear.” Pause. Then:” Don’t fucking worry about her. She’s a pussy. I’ll deal with her if you won’t.”

Thereafter there was a mixture of silence and laughter and macho ‘Yeah, Rights’. I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about but the table vibrated with his vibrato. I found myself wanting to know if I had enough Nectar points for a little Flymo.

On the walk from Waterloo to Charing Cross I happened upon a large number of frocked, suited and booted students. Gowns and mortar boards filled the walkways outside the Festival Hall. Clearly yet another degree ceremony with lovely excited youth-chatter and champagne corks primed to pop. I strolled through feeling good for them all. Hope and fun was in the air. I had almost left the throng when I saw a slim, fragile, heavily tattooed girl standing in her finery holding her Mortar Board sheepishly at her side. She was with a small, elderly couple. Were they parents or grandparents? As I neared I heard the new graduate in classic, authentic, cockney opine,” I dunno what the fuck I’m doin’ ‘ere, I really don’t.” She said it with a sweet smile but through a grid of lip-rings.

I was a yard or two past the group when the little lady rejoined, ” You do look , lovely, Em.”

*     *     *     *     *     *

I would normally end my little blog there. After the events of last night I wonder how many of our young people will be wondering what the fuck they’re really doing here. I am resolved, henceforth, not to bang on about the dreadful position in which we have placed ourselves,. Division and complaint become habits that do no one much good at all.

Dear Dave,

You have done the honourable thing by resigning but have you been too hasty? Honour has been little in evidence throughout the tawdry campaign. Now that the markets are in free-fall and Nigel Farridge has admitted that the Leave financial argument was a mistake (aka a con, a lie, a deception); now that the Irish are set against the Welsh, the English against the Scots, London against the Brummies, town v country and families infighting; now that recession looms and Boris the spider appears to be in position to Trump you as leader; now that politicians have reached a nadir in the public esteem – save for the tragic and recently departed Jo Cox; now that the young realise that the greybeards have outvoted them and they wish that more of the under 25s had left the boozer in time to vote; now that Great Britain has metamorphosed into Little Britain; now that the mini-Sturge woman will trigger another independence vote for the Kilties; now that the IRA are flexing their own trigger fingers; now that we have no say at all about what goes on in Europe and yet must toe the line for the next two years anyway…

NOW why don’t you wait a few days, have a little rest, reflect on things while the country realises its mistake and…call for another referendum! I guarantee a few things: 1. There would be a greater turnout, particularly among the younger voters; 2. A significant number of Leavers (I voted Leave just to see what would happen, types) would jump ship; 3. REMAIN would win.

Of course the people have spoken but we made a mistake (like Mr Fridge) and so we’d like to do it again. Leavers might think that I am being patronising. Not at all. When pupils in my class gave a wrong answer I always invited them to think again, more carefully and come up with a different response. I’m sure that it would work on a national scale. A week from today would be convenient.

I fear that you are already out of the back door of Number 10, thinking about your property portfolio and the fees you can charge for after-dinner speaking, book deals and the like. Meanwhile Boris the Spider and pouty Gove are marching down Downing Street with a misplaced Churchillian swagger (just a hint of jackboot) while secretly thinking ‘what the fuck do we do now?’ First things first for them – get to the top of the greasy pole – become PM by October. Armageddon or what?

Don’t let it happen Dave. Keep the memoirs under wraps; retract your resignation and call for a re-vote. We got it wrong first time for all sorts of reasons. As with most exams, can we do a retake? We let our kids do it, why not the whole nation?

With little hope but lots of heart,

Simply Sorro

I couldn’t quite credit what unfolded before my little eyes in the early hours of this morning. What on earth were the English and Welsh thinking? My own little corner of England voted to leave. My age group across the country, largely, voted to leave. What future have we given the young who voted, largely, to remain?

Mad? Farage went on national TV this morning and told the leave voters that it had been a mistake to suggest that our EU contribution was £350mill and that this figure would be pumped into the NHS.

Bad? The vision of integration and working together for a better and more united Europe has been replaced by the rise of a nationalistic, divisive and, possibly, neo-fascist faction in both the major parties – and others.

Sad? That we have set ourselves against eachother. The Scots and the Northern Irish wanted remain. What now for the UK? What now for the fragile peace of N.I.? Honourable men and women will step aside and the opportunists will take over. What mess have we dumped upon the next generation?

Money

Yesterday

Click on the link and read my thoughts on a day of travel and culture and musings on things great and small.

Thanks to many friends for reading suggestions which I followed with pleasure. Here’s my list from the last 12 months. Scores of 3 and above shouldn’t embarrass me.

Books 2015

On another of my visits to the Tate Modern to see what new and expensive nonsense has filled the Turbine Hall, I took time out to check the toilet facilities which had provided so much fun the last time I popped  in(Strangers at the Tate Modern – May 2014).

My initial surprise and mild delight at the toilet ‘makeover’ soon gave way to misgivings. The place has been Tate Modernised. Black mosaic-style tiling shimmers in the sodium lighting; Armitage Shanks porcelain urinals have been replaced by a manufacturer I can’t remember. And even the Dyson Airblade has gone. Two sparkling patent-busting lookalikes called Jetfly have replaced the single Dyson blaster. The place was spotless. Jed had cleaned it ten minutes earlier. The wall-chart listed the hourly hygiene checks. There were flickering gadgets on the ceiling which might have been smoke detectors but more likely big brother surveillance. The mass of mirrors encouraged the thought of a surreal theme park. Worst of all, no sign of graffiti.

On my last visit I had delighted in the scrawled messages in my cubicle and the problems of scalding water and a sad, lonely single hand-drier. This time, nothing to report, so the Turbine exhibition had to lift my spirits. And so it did. Araham Cruzvillegas – a name that is bannered in neon-orange outside the gallery – has produced triangular wooden soil-filled boxes on scaffolding gantries all over the vast Turbine floor. A few feet in length and shaped like a wedge of brie, the receptacles house earth from three parks in Enfield. This preposterous idea is made even better by the ‘living sculpture’ being the Mexican artist’s attempt at ‘guerilla gardening’. In other words Abe hopes that visitors might toss seeds on to the hundreds of soilbeds – or that whatever organic matter is already there might flourish under the powerful arc lights. He links the cultivation of unloved plots in the teeming suburbs of Mexico City, with our allotment and park culture.

After several moments of feeling the ludicrousness of the whole thing, I started to smile. Apart from anything else I like triangles. Then, why Enfield? Then I saw a small girl tipping an envelope of seeds over the balcony. A few weeds have already appeared but, like graffiti, even they look quite good. Indeed it’s nice to see a bit of incipient green while brown mud dominates. The Hyundai Corporation commissioned the installation, hoping, perhaps, that artistic altruism might help sales of their diesel range. I’m being cynical – at least they are making a contribution. I look forward to Nike doing the same next year. Back to graffiti.

The street art of Pompeii reminds us of the timeless art of graffiti. Man seems to have scratched messages or pictures on trees, in caves and on walls since we had trees and caves and walls. My desk in the first form at secondary school (1962) had the compass gougings of previous generations preserved by annual coats of varnish. As custodian of the contraption for the year I delighted in adding my own clever witticism: Sorro wuz here, ’62.

Desks were chucked onto skips years ago. Laminate tables and plastic seats are the unimaginative order of the day. Woe betide the youngster who gets out his felt tip or sharp instrument  – compasses having been banned as lethal weapons by health and safety/risk assessors some time ago – to leave his mark, his genius. Of course defacement, vandalism, eyesore and criminal damage are terms central to the vocabulary of detractors. There is a time and a place ..and intention. There is also expression, freedom of speech, story-telling, art. God alone knows what the balance is.

Banksy and his like have reignited debates about acceptability and appropriateness. We love the anti-establishmentarianism of it all. Google Graffiti and you’ll find that the Wikipedia page on it is really interesting – and extensive. I learnt a lot! See the picture that I took on the station at Herculaneum. Lovers with graffiti and wet washing backdrop.  Somehow it works, doesn’t it?

We moved on from the Tate and ended up watching skateboarders at the South Bank, where the graffiti/street art is inimical and strangely equal to the more formal culture of the area – National Theatre, Hayward Gallery, Festival Hall and all that.

I still moan about senseless scrawling on newly painted walls but witticisms on pub toilet walls, Tate Modern toilets and the brothels of Pompeii make me titter.

Sorro wuz here, 2015.