Thursday, 9 April 2009
I should be looking forward to summer. I live in the middle of
England in a beautiful little town where elegant streets of gracious Georgian
buildings cuddle-up with immaculately preserved mediaeval architecture, and all
sweeps down to the Thames. On sunlit days, you can take an ice-cream and watch
ducks float by, listen to the drone of a light aircraft overhead, and the
jingle of Morris Men as they walk to the pub after a hard morning’s
stick-whacking.
By night, however, it becomes a cruel parody of itself. Weekends particularly bring fear to the residents of its narrow streets. As the sun sets on summer nights, we quake behind our walls as, fuelled by booze and kebabs, aggressive young females with two-tone hair come out of the dark to screech and vomit, dressed like dockside hookers in a uniform of plunging tops, high heels, and bum-skimming skirts, whilst their men follow them making whooping jungle noises like a bunch of macaques who've spotted a bunch of bananas.
Every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night just after 3am, drunks start to wend their way home from the local nightclub, yelling, whooping, banging on our windows, and kicking our bins down the street. We all dread opening our doors in the morning for fear of what we’re going to find. Only the other day I was greeted by the sight of my elderly neighbour, a widower, resignedly sweeping up the terracotta fragments of what, only the day before, had been a large and rather beautiful fuchsia in his neat little front garden. The knuckle-draggers responsible had gone to some trouble to destroy it, letting themselves in through his front gate to heave the heavy pot over the fence and into the road. The satisfaction of smashing it must have rounded off their evening nicely.
Wearily and repeatedly we have called the Police and begged the Council for help in getting this nightclub to do something about the behaviour of its clientele, or the taxi rank outside it where it is rumoured these single-cells get their marching powder. Yet shop windows continue to be smashed in the town centre, and locals terrorised. If we really hassle, we might just get a little more “Police presence” for a couple of weeks, but inevitably, due to “other priorities”, it tails off and we’re on our own again.
Poor little town. Poor England. Poor British Isles, for it seems that nowhere can one escape the self-righteously antisocial, those whose idea of what adds up to a good night’s 'fun' seems to hinge almost entirely on the amount of misery they can inflict upon others.
Every generation has its yobs of course. In my teens, it was Punks. They looked scary, but under the leadership of one Johnny Rotten who set the tone with his blistering one-liners, sharp wit, and oft-expressed lack of tolerance for 'stupidity', more often than not, they were smart with it. Indeed, it would seem the essential difference between the angry, spike-haired safety-pinned malcontents of my youth and the shopping precinct gangs of this modern age is that back in 1977 it was cool to be clever. Getting a string of 'O' levels in spite of a lousy state education whilst on suspension and wearing bondage was cool.
Today however, it seems it’s only cool to be ignorant - and to wear it like a badge of honour. Whatever you’ve got, these feral pack creatures in their uniform of sportswear and spots reckon they deserve it more, and their volatile resentment suffocates every town centre along with their globules of spit and pools of puke. With every person they intimidate, with every can of lager they tip down their necks, with every kebab they stuff and chip carton they drop to the ground, they want the world to know that they don’t know what they want but they want it now... or else. Spoon-fed from birth with massive plasma screen televisions, microwave chips, satellite sports, MP3 players, the internet, video games, fatty fried chicken, Red Bull and crisps, they exude righteous entitlement mixed with the constantly seething threat of physical violence at the trip of a switch.
Far from being simple high spirits, the early-hours rioting down the quiet streets of my own particular town is actually quite deliberate. Obviously deeming anyone who lives in the “listed” part of town to be a member of the undeserving rich, not only have I heard loud voices outside my house sarcastically enquiring as to whether we’re all having a “nice sleep”, more sinisterly, I have had also heard a young male bellowing to his companions that he felt like “smashing all their f***ing windows”. If one was to ask someone like this exactly what anyone had done to deserve his hatred, it’s doubtful he would be able to answer. With ten pints of lager in his belly and acting entirely on a basic instinct to destroy anything he covets, he wouldn’t be able to formulate a coherent response.
Last week, a group of youths gave my front door an almighty kick en passant, causing me to drop a full kettle and reach for my father’s old dress sword. By the time I had unlocked the door and gone outside, they had of course fled, baying as they went. Like all cowards, they had the courage to attack, but not to face their victim.
Born in London and having lived in the East End, hunkered down among the drive-by shootings, stabbings, bloodied pavements and discarded needles on “Crack Alley”, I had rather hoped that by moving to a country town, I would finally be able to leave such ugliness behind. Fat chance. If anything, it seems that provincial youths reckon they have to act just that little bit tougher to make up for NOT being born in the big bad city.
Recently, I took my life in my hands on the bus to ask a group of young boys to turn their mobile ‘phones down so I could read my book and zone out after a hard day’s work. Even though there were four of them and only one of me, I am fairly sure I only escaped with my life because they were no more than about 11 and probably still quite scared of Mummy, truth be told. However, I was still sullenly asked if I had another book to give them to read if they weren’t allowed to entertain us all with their gallery of irritating ring-tones. “Why do you have to be amused?” I asked. “Try looking out of the window.” You could tell the idea had simply never occurred, because, bless, they actually gave it a shot. I taught them my favourite game of deciding what people’s names were judging just by their appearance. “There goes Gary”, said one pointing out of the window. “No it ain’t, that’s Dave!” chortled another. They left the bus still laughing and happily waving to me. They had probably decided I was called Ermintrude.
Successive governments wring their hands wondering what they can offer the young to stop them hanging about in town centres at night frightening old people. What more in the way of leisure facilities, floodlit football pitches and “Youth Centres” they can build to entertain them and thus make them “nicer” towards everyone else. The fact is however, they have all the entertainment they need. They have television, football, email, Twitter, Facebook, Bebo, mobile ‘phones, MP3 players, Playstation, mountain bikes, glow-in-the-dark trainers and alcopops; - they need less, not more. They have been given dummy after dummy in the shape of gadgets and entertainment to shut them up and keep them from bothering mummy, and they know it.
When Sandi Thom wistfully sings of wishing she could go back to a time when “the only way to stay in touch was a letter in the mail”, I wonder for how many others she may be speaking? Young people who somehow sense that in having been given so much, they have in fact, been diddled out of so much more.
Like the simple stuff.
©Emma Blake 2009
By night, however, it becomes a cruel parody of itself. Weekends particularly bring fear to the residents of its narrow streets. As the sun sets on summer nights, we quake behind our walls as, fuelled by booze and kebabs, aggressive young females with two-tone hair come out of the dark to screech and vomit, dressed like dockside hookers in a uniform of plunging tops, high heels, and bum-skimming skirts, whilst their men follow them making whooping jungle noises like a bunch of macaques who've spotted a bunch of bananas.
Every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night just after 3am, drunks start to wend their way home from the local nightclub, yelling, whooping, banging on our windows, and kicking our bins down the street. We all dread opening our doors in the morning for fear of what we’re going to find. Only the other day I was greeted by the sight of my elderly neighbour, a widower, resignedly sweeping up the terracotta fragments of what, only the day before, had been a large and rather beautiful fuchsia in his neat little front garden. The knuckle-draggers responsible had gone to some trouble to destroy it, letting themselves in through his front gate to heave the heavy pot over the fence and into the road. The satisfaction of smashing it must have rounded off their evening nicely.
Wearily and repeatedly we have called the Police and begged the Council for help in getting this nightclub to do something about the behaviour of its clientele, or the taxi rank outside it where it is rumoured these single-cells get their marching powder. Yet shop windows continue to be smashed in the town centre, and locals terrorised. If we really hassle, we might just get a little more “Police presence” for a couple of weeks, but inevitably, due to “other priorities”, it tails off and we’re on our own again.
Poor little town. Poor England. Poor British Isles, for it seems that nowhere can one escape the self-righteously antisocial, those whose idea of what adds up to a good night’s 'fun' seems to hinge almost entirely on the amount of misery they can inflict upon others.
Every generation has its yobs of course. In my teens, it was Punks. They looked scary, but under the leadership of one Johnny Rotten who set the tone with his blistering one-liners, sharp wit, and oft-expressed lack of tolerance for 'stupidity', more often than not, they were smart with it. Indeed, it would seem the essential difference between the angry, spike-haired safety-pinned malcontents of my youth and the shopping precinct gangs of this modern age is that back in 1977 it was cool to be clever. Getting a string of 'O' levels in spite of a lousy state education whilst on suspension and wearing bondage was cool.
Today however, it seems it’s only cool to be ignorant - and to wear it like a badge of honour. Whatever you’ve got, these feral pack creatures in their uniform of sportswear and spots reckon they deserve it more, and their volatile resentment suffocates every town centre along with their globules of spit and pools of puke. With every person they intimidate, with every can of lager they tip down their necks, with every kebab they stuff and chip carton they drop to the ground, they want the world to know that they don’t know what they want but they want it now... or else. Spoon-fed from birth with massive plasma screen televisions, microwave chips, satellite sports, MP3 players, the internet, video games, fatty fried chicken, Red Bull and crisps, they exude righteous entitlement mixed with the constantly seething threat of physical violence at the trip of a switch.
Far from being simple high spirits, the early-hours rioting down the quiet streets of my own particular town is actually quite deliberate. Obviously deeming anyone who lives in the “listed” part of town to be a member of the undeserving rich, not only have I heard loud voices outside my house sarcastically enquiring as to whether we’re all having a “nice sleep”, more sinisterly, I have had also heard a young male bellowing to his companions that he felt like “smashing all their f***ing windows”. If one was to ask someone like this exactly what anyone had done to deserve his hatred, it’s doubtful he would be able to answer. With ten pints of lager in his belly and acting entirely on a basic instinct to destroy anything he covets, he wouldn’t be able to formulate a coherent response.
Last week, a group of youths gave my front door an almighty kick en passant, causing me to drop a full kettle and reach for my father’s old dress sword. By the time I had unlocked the door and gone outside, they had of course fled, baying as they went. Like all cowards, they had the courage to attack, but not to face their victim.
Born in London and having lived in the East End, hunkered down among the drive-by shootings, stabbings, bloodied pavements and discarded needles on “Crack Alley”, I had rather hoped that by moving to a country town, I would finally be able to leave such ugliness behind. Fat chance. If anything, it seems that provincial youths reckon they have to act just that little bit tougher to make up for NOT being born in the big bad city.
Recently, I took my life in my hands on the bus to ask a group of young boys to turn their mobile ‘phones down so I could read my book and zone out after a hard day’s work. Even though there were four of them and only one of me, I am fairly sure I only escaped with my life because they were no more than about 11 and probably still quite scared of Mummy, truth be told. However, I was still sullenly asked if I had another book to give them to read if they weren’t allowed to entertain us all with their gallery of irritating ring-tones. “Why do you have to be amused?” I asked. “Try looking out of the window.” You could tell the idea had simply never occurred, because, bless, they actually gave it a shot. I taught them my favourite game of deciding what people’s names were judging just by their appearance. “There goes Gary”, said one pointing out of the window. “No it ain’t, that’s Dave!” chortled another. They left the bus still laughing and happily waving to me. They had probably decided I was called Ermintrude.
Successive governments wring their hands wondering what they can offer the young to stop them hanging about in town centres at night frightening old people. What more in the way of leisure facilities, floodlit football pitches and “Youth Centres” they can build to entertain them and thus make them “nicer” towards everyone else. The fact is however, they have all the entertainment they need. They have television, football, email, Twitter, Facebook, Bebo, mobile ‘phones, MP3 players, Playstation, mountain bikes, glow-in-the-dark trainers and alcopops; - they need less, not more. They have been given dummy after dummy in the shape of gadgets and entertainment to shut them up and keep them from bothering mummy, and they know it.
When Sandi Thom wistfully sings of wishing she could go back to a time when “the only way to stay in touch was a letter in the mail”, I wonder for how many others she may be speaking? Young people who somehow sense that in having been given so much, they have in fact, been diddled out of so much more.
Like the simple stuff.
©Emma Blake 2009
