Why the hell did they do it? Why the hell did I go? Curiosity? Perhaps. Or perhaps I knew what I would find and wanted to witness the depths for myself.
Yesterday in East London a new cultural centre was opened. I was there. I nearly died.
Rich Mix Cultural Foundation – ooh ain’t that a lovely concept? All these wonderful cultures in East London coming together to create – what? Time will tell, but I have some ideas, and they aren’t fucking pretty.
What kind of soiree do you get for £50000 in the world of urban regeneration these days? Well the waitresses circulated with the wine and quails eggs, the artists muttered incoherently to themselves as they stood by their half-assed subsidised works, the 700 suits chatted to each other about new ways to improve the local communities and their own CVs. But where were the kids? Where were the locals? Where were the people they were here to ‘help’? Eighty percent white on Bethnal Green Road? How improbable. What the hell was this game they were playing? If you’ve got that kind of money to spend on a party, why not *have* a fucking party? Get some good DJs, invite the locals, give the kids what they want. Throw a party to remember. Do something, anything, but not this lame rip-off of a high-society back-scratching fest for the parasites of ‘regeneration’. How long can they pretend this patronising bullshit is the future?
Yes, the future, apparently that’s what all this is about. The speeches start and the politicians gush. Diarrhoea flows from the platform while the vultures and jackals stand in the shadows at the back and rub their hands in glee. Who’s that jackal dressed in black? Why is there blood running from his fangs? What am I doing here? What’s that? This project cost £16 million? Jesus. I wonder if anyone asked the local people if they could think of a better use for the money.
My attention wanders form the speeches to the view outside the window. What’s that? Is that spire looking at me? It’s Hawksmoor’s strange and disproportioned church. No-one understood it except him – there is no style to compare. It has a disturbing grandeur all of its own and right now it seems to stare right into the room and curse our parasitic presence.
I tear my attention away and look back to the stage. Good God. Who is that tired and dull-eyed old man? It’s Red Ken! The star of the show! Look! He’s going to speak! 700 people simultaneously began to masturbate to the sound of his voice and throughout the rest of the speech he is constantly interrupted by the sound of orgasm. This is the future! He says. This is an example to the world! He says. This is our answer to Le Pen! He says.
Help me! I’m drowning! The diarrhoea! It’s rising! It’s at my chest now and soon I’ll have to swim. What if it reaches the ceiling? We are doomed! Doomed.
But wait! What is that noise at the back of the room? Was that life? Have my friends the trolls arrived to save me? But no, the noise is crushed – perhaps it was the trolls and they are all dead now. My attention returns to the fight for survival. It’s up to my neck now and I don’t think I can take much more. The smell is making me gag. Why did I come? What am I doing here?
I lived only because the speeches were short. Any more and I would have died an unspeakably sordid death. Yes the 700 would have gone with me, but I was glad to be alive.
And now, of course, the man of the people act. Ken circulates among the commoners, escorted by the jackal in black with blood on his fangs. How good of him.
The free alcohol is beginning to take effect. What is this? Insanity takes hold of me and as though impelled by a greater will I position myself in the path of Ken himself!
“Mr Livingtone?” I always get over-polite when I want to lay into someone. “Can I ask you a quick question?”
“Yes of course.” The man has deigned to stop. For me!
“Can I ask why you supported the anti-capitalists after J18 but as soon as you got elected you began to condemn them?”
“It was the violence,” he said with a heavy smile, leaning towards me as though imparting some confidential gem. “There’s no excuse for violence.”
“It’s not that simple and you should know that,” I burst out.
“Oh but it is.” The politico’s smile again. “I’ve been in politics thirty years and never once resorted to violence.”
“But the police act for certain kinds of people and against others,” I muttered.
But the jackal had become impatient.
“There are five artists waiting to meet him,” he said.
“Fuck the ‘artists’,” I wanted to say, but I didn’t, and instead slunk away to contemplate what I could have said if I had not been speaking through an alcoholic haze.
Did you start believing the reports that landed on your desk Ken?
Don’t you think the police violence should be dealt with Ken?
What terrible results of this protestor ‘violence’ has there been Ken? A few broken windows?
And above all:
What changed Ken? That was my point. What changed? Because there was ‘violence’ at J18 and it didn’t seem to bother you so much then. What changed?
But it was too late. I succumbed to my better instincts and fled the building.
My friends the trolls were outside! They had survived! We reeled drunkenly down the street together, singing songs and shouting, dodging the cars and giving them the finger.
Dumb bastard, I thought. Here I am with the good guys, and he has to spend his time in the company of vultures.