Come On Up To The House

You can see what I thought of Mr Nick Cave at the newly-improved, and I have to see pretty exciting again No Ripcord. David, if you’re reading this, sorry I screwed up the picture.

As you may gather, I wasn’t too impressed. Less the scintillating, gorgeous sound of his records, more an aging man trying to regain his youth. Sad. Glimmers of wonder there were, but the band were woefully underused, and even Mr Cave himself didn’t seem too happy.

Today, the heat continues, the workrate diminishes rapidly, and tonight I’m spring cleaning. The joy!

Men’s stiff collars wilted by nine in the morning. Ladies bathed before noon, after their three-o’clock naps, and by nightfall were like soft teacakes with frostings of sweat and sweet talcum

In a rare outbreak of good taste, a regular contender in Facebook’s Top Five London Books is Harper Lee’s wonderfully evocative To Kill A Mockingbird. And no moment of the book is more evocative than this depiction of the Deep Southern heat.

As I write, London is baking in its fifth successive day of sunshine, cloudless skies and mid 20’s heat. While the debate will rage over whether this is BoJo’s doing, or whether the weather is playing a cruel trick at our expense, it’s unseasonably hot here, and collars are indeed melting. I’ve become accustomed to a certain degree of stickiness in every bit of me, and in everything I touch. Unusually, it has more to do with the heat than with residue of belgian buns.

So I’m in the comparative cool of the office, not relishing leaving for once. I’ve been drinking all day (water, you understand) and I feel ready to face the world but… everything’s so much effort, isn’t it? Work’s too much effort, not working is too much effort. Accursed lethargy.

So is this to do with global warming? I like to run with a sensationalist over-dramatisation every now and then, so I’m going to assume: yes. I have to confess, there are times when global warming seems a little bit distant to my life, and easily pretendable that it’s just not there. But I can’t deny that the summers are hotter these days, the winters are milder, the bananas are growing in Tottenham, soon cactus will be outdoor plants… It’s inevitable, and all our fault. It’s also easy to pass climate change off as a little irrelevant - I live on high ground, I’m not going to suffer - but in actual fact, living in this western, affluent apathy is probably going to ruin the lives of the world’s most vulnerable: those in Bangladesh, Norfolk, etc.

So I have my compost bin, I have the recycling box, I don’t use the ‘extra spin’ button on the washing machine… But surely there’s more I can do? Could I give up my car? Could I offset my carbon emissions (whatever that means)? Do I have to be vegetarian? I hope not. I’m sure I can do something though - if this keeps up I’m going to have to don the Colonel’s white suit and start mopping my brow out of habit.

So Nick Cave was… alright. More on that another time. What is really on my mind is the fact that I don’t really go to gigs very much these days. Why not? Is it the bands that play? Is it that I’m too old to stand up for two hours? Of course not. It’s a family tradition that’s creeping into my own life. It’s other people.

For as long as I can remember my dad has parked as far away from other people as possible, and as a family unit we have shunned the social scene in favour of splendid, bucolic isolation. And that appears to be affecting me in my old age also, just like gardening, and the looming threat of high cholesterol. Rock’n'roll concerts have lost their tang, their flavour for me, based on the horrors and the hideousness of Other People and their lack of respect for the conventions of civility and social etiquette.

The Hammersmith Apollo is a nice theatre. If you went to see a play there, or perhaps a comedy gig, you wouldn’t expect to find people climbing over three rows of seats to get out. Nor would you expect to find drunk, hairy men finishing the comedians’ jokes for them, a little out of time and in a distinctly ineloquent fashion, while bouncing off the people around them. A little social skill would go a long way in a venue such as this, but such is the rock’n'roll show, for some reason: you have every reason to be loud, lairy and annoying to others around, y’know, cos it rocks and it’s fun. Right?

WRONG.

Tonight I’m going to see Nick Cave. I’m looking forward to it: I haven’t been to a gig in ooh, an age, and it’s in Hammersmith Apollo, which is meant to be a nice venue. I’m not half getting old these days though. There’s a large part of me which would be happy to stay home, and I’m wondering if this review, by the always reliable Coxon, of an angry-sounding Cave is representative of the whole tour.

We’ll see.

I’m currently reassessing my options in the light of the cancellation of my Polish classes. Because while I was sad for that, for a while, maybe it’s a sign I should be looking a little larger scale in my endeavours. I was told, by my careers advisor-cum-flatmate, that I should do a second degree, in Geography. Interesting, I thought. So I’m researching my options, and no doubt (as I’m sure you avid readers of this blog will be hanging on my every word) I’ll get back to you.

I blame this wonderful book.

The sun appears to have bamboozled the populace of London town today. The first day back at work and all you can see for miles on end is a sea of pasty legs, pink, shining pates, and sweating people drinking more than they usually would. The potent combination of a rare, fine bank holiday, the warmest days of the year, and general mania in London as it is, gives a mildly crazed atmosphere to the air around.

For we’re now living in Greater Tory-land, fiefdom of Boris, province of Cameronia. For me, it’s a little bit scary - though I rarely dabble in actual politics, my underlying view has always been, and continues to be that the Conservative party is one that promotes self and the freedom that that entails, thereby offering little hope to those who are unable to get out of certain holes without a helping hand. I’m of the opinion that the right thing to do is to help others in every situation, wisely certainly, but still even it means some self-sacrifice. Communism is not the answer, nor is anything else so extreme, but a bit of sharing helps everybody out.

So I could probably never bring myself to vote Conservative. To be honest, I don’t really need any convincing not to vote for someone to whom most people’s best recommendation is that he ‘might surprise you.’ I prefer to pin my hopes on someone who gets things done for sure, not someone who might, but it seems the entirety of out London disagrees with me. I’m proud to say Enfield & Haringey voted for Ken; but although he actually got more votes this time than when he won in 2004, London’s still a Tory annex now, and we wait with baited breath to see if BJ will screw things up royally.

I was interested to read this post by the ever-reliable and good Ben Locker - unusually for his Hackney home, an active Conservative. I tend to be surprised when I meet those whose age is not dissimilar to my own that vote Tory, and am curious to find out more.

So the votes are all in, the die is cast, as it were, and London awaits with bated breath. Can the weary-looking incumbent hold on, or can the bumbling oaf take control, only to wash all the good away? It’s been kind of interesting, to see how the battle (as in almost all elections - see the States for instance) starts of in a genteel, non-abusive manner, but so quickly descends into out and out name-calling. And so it was here.

An interesting night in local elections also, as Labour slipped to third. For all the LibDem’s non-entityness of late, they’ve at least pulled something out of the night. Let’s hope Clegg can pop that cork out and sort out the general election. Yuck. Conservatives.

Depressingly, the BNP have gotten a grip in Thurrock, alongside their council seats in Barking & Dagenham from last time round. It’s truly depressing that people who vote for the BNP are classified as sane and unimprisonable, and are therefore allowed a vote. Filthy.

I was talked at by a girl in the queue last night at Shropshire Hall. She was looking at the instructions poster on the wall and said to me, “I don’t know what any of these mean, I don’t know what London assembly is. My cross is just going to mean nothing.” Everyone received a booklet telling you what to do and what everything meant. If you can’t be bothered to read or to pay a little bit of attention, what on earth do you think you’re doing voting on important things? The world is populated by idiots.

Jolly nice chap that he is, I can reveal that Ken Livingstone donated a whole Two English Pounds to charidee today. At least, the price of a plant for a college in Tottenham. Environment and education? Beat that Boris. the incident occurred in Tottenham as students were on a hunt for good will, and the plant was bought with two pounds and the promise of two parents’ votes, which may or may not be delivered.

Today is London election day! It’s all pretty exciting. It’s no general election - there’s no Peter Snow staying up all night with a swingometer, no hyper-caffeinated, immediately-post-birth Fiona Bruce popping her eyeballs out, no swinging chads. But it’s an interesting opportunity to view how the politics are swinging in the country as a whole.

Or is it? I’ve been thinking along those lines generally, but actually it’s probably not the case. London is to the rest of the country like New York is to small-town America. If you go into the country you’ll see it’s a quite different demographic to here - no 15% strong ethnic minorities, that’s for sure. And though British politics is certainly heading down the US-style presidential celebrity route (also fascinating), London takes that to the next level. So there’s bating, there’s debates, there’s PR set-ups, all to convince a savvy populace that each candidate is not a complete joke.

Which is why the sane voter will not be voting for Boris Johnson, and the eventual result will document just how insane London is. The sane voter will be the one that sits down and evaluates which of the candidates best suit his or her opinions and will vote first choice for them. He/she will then choose between Boris and Ken in the second choice vote (Ken, obviously, and only if he wasn’t first choice).

For instance, I’ll be voting for the lovely Sian Berry as my first choice. Her positions best suit mine, and it’s a good opportunity to give a boost to a party traditionally a long way in fourth, but that have a lot to say. Sian seems to be a viable mayor, whereas your scary nutjobs don’t expect a thing.

However, I’m a sensible fellow, and I realise that the chances are extremely high that the race is going to be between your man Ken and your man Boris. So I use my second choice vote for Ken, which will only come into play if someone is not elected with 50% or more of the first choice vote. Second choice votes are then added to those of the first choice, and we have our elected man.

You see? Not difficult at all. Good luck Sian, good luck Red Ken.

I’m ok now, thanks for asking. A wee bit damp, but coffee’d and Belgian bunned up, which suits.

I’m going for a leaving lunch shortly at Rosemary Lane. Jealous? You should be. It marks the start of a hilarious period in which I am covering an administrative project involving Kazakhstan, something unknown to me before yesterday. I’ll have roughly no-one to ask if I need help, and a pile of random things to do, but hey! I’m adaptable.

I have a headache. I hate finances.