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.