Wednesday, June 29, 2011
And so with Blue Peter’s final transmission from Television Centre our national broadcasting organisation makes a defining emotional break from its London hub. TVC will thus shortly join Alexandra Palace, Lime Grove, Woodlands, Television Theatre and Windmill Road in the civil service history books.
The Blue Peter garden shall be concreted over to prevent a second desecration from unfriendly locals, the tea bars locked up forever like high category prisons turned into living museums while the grave of Sir Basil Brush will be disinterred from the “The Ring” prior to reburial in Media City Salford. Famous producers Piers Parsnips and Bunty Braithwaite await their first Jobclub interview on Monday morning in lifestyle interfaces they did not even know existed on this side of the Iron Curtain while never again will the West London catchment area of employment be rewarded with such rich pickings from a local business.
A Northern bard once acerbically noted “When you want to live - how do you start, where do you go, who do you need to know?” The glory days of industrial lifering may now be capped by internships, contract work and plummeting deference from the Great British post-working class to any terrestrial television output from our learned betters. Yet rest assured the power of nepotism, background and political correctness is unlikely to be undermined by any publicly-spirited or indeed publicly-funded geographical relocation in this instance.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
During the initial few months of the current Conservative-Lib Dem coalition here in the United Kingdom there was a considerable amount of analysis in the media harking back to the Edward Heath government of the early Seventies. This by way of comparisons to the ghastly circumstances leading to the arrival of Selsdon Man at the Palace of Westminster in 1970 or the equally appalling state of industrial relations at the time of his or its electoral defeat four years later.
Two of the greatest of all British social commentators - Albert and Harold Steptoe - reflected upon the state of the nation in depth in the 1974 Back in Fashion episode of Steptoe and Son. In the useless shite-enclosed yard at Oil Drum Lane Harold pretends to be a po-faced BBC newsreader while reflecting upon the surety of a right-wing government to come alongside the introduction of curfew restrictions, the showtrial of Harold Wilson, the "disappearance" of Tony Benn, Barbara Castle's suicide while in private hospital and the military defeat of the TUC at the hands of the Royal Navy. Another commentary in this segment of the episode was as politically correct as giving a modern-day seven-year-old a Sven Hassel paperback for his or her birthday. Or indeed my old work colleague's dismissive commentary upon the corporate mindset underpinning semi-compulsory after-hours workplace team bonding - "Softball is for bisexuals".
Still, for all the plebian horror of mid-Seventies Shepherd's Bush, Brook Green and Hammersmith it was nice to see a glimpse in the programme of a society where people had at least one other interest apart from the value of their property or the secure status of their elderly parents' Dignitas booking. Even if that was just football and smoking - or of course sectarianism in Belfast and Glasgow.
The Seventies, for all the myriad problems of the time, are so halcyon in contrast to today's national meltdown that they may as well consist of a decade-long loop of Mike Batt dancing with Pans People to Summertime City.
Earlier this week I was reading and listening to some of Alan Watt's Zen reflections. Alongside incredibly moving commentary on death and the philosophical limitations of the "I" identity he managed to capture in three mere minutes the rank lunacy of not living for the moment. In modern London in contrast I know not a single soul who is living for the moment, is in a position to live for the moment or even knows anybody else pulling this magical trick off.
The growing degree of user generated content on news websites that suggest that at least a considerable percentage of the British population has completely sussed out the lunacy of property hyperinflation - as relating to future societal stability for everybody who is not an estate agent - does not override the fact that current lifestyle imbalances are firmly rooted in a bed of national selective amnesia and unselective idiocy alike. A fortnight ago a close friend - who works in what 100% of the country would consider a middle class profession - noted to me how the highlight of his weekend had consisted of a Sunday afternoon stroll down to public plastic recycling facilities in the knowledge that he could not even afford a pint of ale in transit. And also that while about to emark on such a journey he heard some cunt on Radio 4 reflecting on the demise or otherwise of the British food renaissance.
This of course is similar to the property features in weekend newspaper supplements singing the praises of some filthy outer London suburban griefhole that is without doubt awaiting cast-iron guaranteed medium-term gentrification along the lines of Notting Hill and Shoreditch. The only current selling point in the meantime being its ten minute proximity by bus to another larger urban warzone that happens to have some train or tube connection.
I could of course go on and on about this into inifinity but in conclusion I still pinpoint the breaking point for this country's historic shift into utter madness to the period when male grown ups starting reading fucking Harry Potter books on public transport without fear of ridicule or verbal abuse.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
I watched a television programme last night that had originally transmitted on BBC Northern Ireland on the opening day of the now almost forgotten Ulster 71 festival at Stranmillis Embankment in Belfast. In part it was redolent of Telly Savalas' infamous travelogues for Birmingham, Portsmouth and Aberdeen and in regard to one of the most ill-timed public events in history after the 1940 Tokyo Olympics.
Half the population of Northern Ireland attended between May and September 1971 - including the author - but of course it was a controversial decision to go ahead with the exhibition in light of how the security situation at the time was devolving. It was essentially a celebration of Ulster history and its industrial heritage on the fiftieth anniversary of the Northern Ireland state and was the biggest of its ilk in scale since The Festival of Britain. There were demonstrations against its opening by Republican supporters, the introduction of internment without trial took place during August 1971 and Stormont itself was prorogued six months after the exhibition closed.
The theme of the festival was "By Our Skills We Live" and the promotional programme incorporated some of the entertainment on hand such as James Young, Gloria Hunniford and some go-go dancers. A "Tunnel of Hate" section attempted to invert the wall sloganeering of the time with the use of graffiti against sectarianism, poverty and racism and as alongside other positive empowerments such as "Remember The Pensioners". Noises of street conflict and riot provided the soundtrack in the background.
I have seen three other pieces of online footage in the past few days that emphasise the extraordinary scale of social change in Ulster. There was a heartbreaking Northern Ireland Tourist Board clip from the turn of the Fifties into the Sixties which essentially displayed a completely and utterly extinguished cultural and physical landscape. Then an overview of Belfast cinemas of yesteryear that have likewise disappeared in their entirety. The clip showed the long gone ABC and New Vic in Great Victoria Street – once the Hippodrome and the Ritz. In one of these I saw my very first X-rated movie – George A Romero’s Dawn of the Dead twinned with The Great British Striptease in support. The latter feature had Bernard Manning as compere. Dear God.
Finally there was cine-footage from the 1974 Twelfth of July Orange Order marches in East and South Belfast. All the usual political qualifications aside it was fascinating by way of the sheer folk spectacle of so many participants and spectators alike -which indeed would be latterly noted by Irish writer Dervla Murphy in her A Place Apart travelogue - and seeing the now extinguished historical fusion of Orange culture and Ulster Protestant identity across the class divide. One public comment attached to the clip would underscore the distance of time itself by noting: "just looking through and seeing some of the faces...dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead...1976 was a long time ago.”
From the perspective of early summer 2011 in turn - and what with the revival of Republican and Loyalist youth intifada in Belfast interface areas this very week - Ulster 71 may seem an awful long time ago too but the echoes from the "Tunnel of Hate" have certainly proved more durable than anything those terribly clever civil servants, PR and marketing men or designers could ever have then imagined.
From the time that I was old enough to read true classics of British children's literature such as the Oor Wullie and The Broons Christmas annuals my mother told me that "faraway fields are green". Alike later advice to my sneering and wankerish adolescent self to think about "getting a job in a bank" she was unequivocally and utterly correct in hindsight. London may throw up a world of creative and aesthetic possibilities for those with time and money to spare but the quality of life now is truly questionable in the extreme for everybody else.
At my first job at the end of the Eighties here I met a young Englishman who I will call Roger because that was his name. He was an English language teacher in Spain but decided to return to the capital for one last go at making it "work". He was highly intelligent, upper middle-class, well read, humorous, affable and attuned to a raft of New Age alternatives from vegetarianism to Gurdjieff to yoga. Roger's spiritual immolation at the brutal hands of prototype-New London in the 13 week period leading up to Christmas 1987 was very tangible to observe though in that period he did make interesting comments on the future shock ahead for this city. None moreso than when he looked at the first edition of the London Evening Standard's glossy supplement for the ueber-rich and dismissively hurled it across the office as if he had picked up a chilled used condom.
Roger also quoted Van Morrison lyrics to me that I subsequently can source to three particulary magnificent songs - Astral Weeks, You Don't Pull No Punches But You Don't Push The River and Alan Watt's Blues. Shortly before his re-emigration to Madrid on Christmas Eve of that very year, Roger told me that one December morning he was waiting at a bus stop in South London daydreaming to himself when the ubiquitous white van passenger pulled alongside and commented directly into his face "What are you looking at ...you stupid fuck". This being the quality of indigenous British citizen we have allowed to walk away - unequivocally forever - in recent decades.
That in turn reminds me of a midnight moment some years back when going along Camden High Street in New London looking for a cash dispenser. It was like walking through the Battle of Stalingrad except back then the very dogs of that city used to swim the Volga to safety overnight. In traversing the scumscape of rubbish, spunk, phlegm, minicabs, drugs, grime, dog's dirt, piss, nightbuses, miniskirts, rain, threat, cardboard, hamburgers, VD, vomit and hordes upon hordes of Euroteens and twentysomethings "living the dream" I do clearly remember observing to my partner that "At least in Belfast when I was growing up we KNEW it was shit".
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
One Ulster Television advertisement from the very early Seventies sticks in my mind every bit as much as George Best's plug for Cookstown family sausages or the recommendation to drink Nambarrie Tea. It centred around a call for membership of the Ulster Defence Regiment - the locally recruited branch of the British Army that replaced the Ulster Special Constabulary in 1970 and would be merged with the Royal Irish Rangers as the Royal Irish Regiment in 1992 after over two controversial decades of active military service.
If I can remember correctly the advertisement showed a random motorist being stopped by a UDR patrol and asked for identifiation and access to the vehicle for searching. The understandably peeved driver squirms with annoyance at this ridiculous delay - while muttering such asides as "Could you not be out catching some terrorists for a change?" etc - before a stentorian voice from the rear proclaims "Sarge, we've found a weapon".
The resolution of the Ulster Troubles by way of the Good Friday Agreement was of course flawed in many respects. In the same way the acceptance of the broad framework of peace by the Northern Irish and Irish public would be of much more historical note than the ingenuity of the political construct itself. However it does seem that certain matters still stubbornly fall outside the remit of post-conflict re-analysis and this none moreso than the role of the UDR.
This week a memorial statue to the regiment was erected in Lisburn and, alike many people who were direct victims of terrorist violence in Ulster, I also am inclined to agree that their positive role within the limitation of Troubles violence is extremely overlooked.
The Irish writer Kevin Myers described the Ulster Troubles as "a seventeenth-century religious conflict bottled in a late twentieth-century industrial decline". I personally feel that the outbreak of conflict was gauged upon positive social change and negative economic retraction alike interfacing with appalling political misjudgements. And that in a society where religion was not the overarching cause of conflict but essentially a mark of ethnic identity. The resultant mess was the equivalent of throwing a bucket of hot goose fat over a burning chip pan.
The State therefore would cease to exist for the Catholic community in 1969 and for the Protestant community in turn three years later. Within that vaccuum paramilitarism would flourish across the religious divide and many ordinary citizens feel compelled to volunteer for part-time military and policing duties. Unparallelled political reappraisals took place during this period too from Connor Cruise O'Brien's clinical dissection of Irish nationalism to William Craig's violent political rhetoric as the head of the Ulster Vanguard movement.
The reason why the tensions and divisions of Seventies Ulster did not terminate in open civil war and repartition was, in my opinion, due in largest measure to the blessed fact that the small geographical size of Northern Ireland allowed the country to be literally swamped with security forces.
Those people who joined the UDR - overwhelmingly from the Protestant community because of Republican paramilitary intimidation of potential Catholic recruits - put themselves at incredible risk during their off-duty civilian life. The deaths of all the 260 serving or former UDR soldiers who were murdered during the conflict are related in David McKittrick's Lost Lives and make for grim reading. Around 500 other members were seriously injured in terrorist attacks.
As the main focus of Republican criticism of British security policy in Ulster, the UDR did indeed have an image problem as related to the activities of a minority of its membership. However the sheer scale of individuals who served in the regiment during its existence make blanket condemnation ludicrous in consideration of other civic, religious, political, military, paramilitary and financial organisations in modern British and Irish history which could provide similar qualitative examples of deeply immoral behaviour but easily surpass that in terms of numbers involved.
During the unveiling of the statue, showing a male and female member on duty at a checkpoint, the Trust chairman noted: "It was unfortunate that there were members who did bad things and we're not trying to hide that....but what we would say is that there's almost 50,000 people who didn't do bad things - who did good things, who were ordinary decent people who wanted to do the best they could for their country."
In turn a poster on a Belfast newspaper website this week stressed how in hindsight, even as a liberal critic of the regiment at the time and as somebody fiercely against paramilitarism, that the UDR's role in peacekeeping has been criminally undervalued. He would also note in turn how the choreography of the conflict's endgame mirrored radical changes in paramilitary, policing and military structures whereas the earlier phasing out of the UDR prior to 1994 has left its reputation in some form of historical limbo.
I have always understood that the Irish peace process is inclusive of all parties to conflict and hence must be similarly cognisant of the raw dynamics which underpinned service in the UDR by the vast majority of its law abiding membership. Within a demographic as politically aware, astute and sophisticated as Nationalist Ireland - and with the British monarch having recently having paid homage to Republican icons such as James Connolly, Padraig Pearse and Liam Lynch - then reconsideration of the UDR's role is surely not a bridge too far in terms of final closure upon the Ulster Troubles.
As for most British people on the mainland, the UDR is nothing more than a forgotten part of a forgotten conflict that warranted little engagement at the time provided it remained on the other side of the murky and radioactive Irish Sea. However that still does not negate the fact that the British people will certainly not see the like of the men and women of the Ulster Defence Regiment ever again. That as a body forged from citizen volunteers and in terms of pure loyalty, bravery and selflessness.
They represent in no small measure another closing chapter in the history of the United Kingdom.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
The first volume of Dominic Sandbrook's social history of Britain in the Sixties references a July 1963 collection of essays on British society entitled Suicide of a Nation. Hungarian-born editor Arthur Koestler - who would in fact commit suicide with his wife in the early Eighties - noted in the introduction that "the cult of amateurishness and the contempt in which proficiency and expertise are held, breed mediocrats by natural selection: the too-keen, the too-clever-by-half, are unfit for survival and eliminated from the race to which the last to pass the post is the winner."
Nearly 20 years later, in April 1982, the Alan Clark diaries include the following observation with regard to the approaching conflict in the South Atlantic: "If we are going to go, I feel let us go out in a blaze - then we can all sit back and comfortably become a nation of pimps and ponces, a sort of Macao to the European continent". Most Britons over the age of forty will no doubt feel the burning acidic pain of both statements keenly with regard to all that has come to pass and the lack of any organic balance remaining in our country.
I recently have seen pictures of conurbations in the English home counties that were stunningly picturesque up to the late Sixties but now resemble the remains of a visitation from fleets of aggressive Martian town planners. Armed with blockbuster bombs of hellfire and shit. Yesterday in London I walked through an area studded with the blue plaques of intellectual giants of global reknown such as Plath, Yeats and Engels but where the uniquely British Class War has now descended to local hostelries to the extent that ordering a pint feels like begging for a scrap of gristle from his Lordship's table.
We have a world of work now where most employment websites contain nothing but internships and the only natural way to circumvent this madness would apparently be by becoming an internship co-ordinator. We live in a country where upper middle class broadsheet commentators endlessly discuss the way the word "chav" denigrates the working class whereas the entire construct of working class identity has actually been beyond classification for well over a decade in the United Kingdom anyway. As any person born in a British working class community from the Forties to the Seventies knows full well. Today too we have under-13-year-old females being pampered in an Essex beauty salon specifically geared to this demographic whereas when I was in primary school in the mid-Seventies the wee girls were still singing skipping songs about Diana Dors whose cinematic career had peaked two decades previously.
And then last week we had Germaine Greer reflecting from her academic Shangri La on the fact that the last solitary and residual piece of national pride we have left - our armed forces - are constituted of course by thousands of potential rapists.
I wonder if anybody is in Brussels, Bruges or Antwerp tonight pondering over similar kinds of downright lunatic reflections about post-war Belgium?
Thursday, June 9, 2011
The Smithfield Market and Gresham Street area of central Belfast is now a mere sex shop-pockmarked shell of the shell it already was when I was growing up in the late Seventies and early Eighties. The apparently fantastic market itself had been destroyed in a terrorist bombing at an early stage of the Troubles.
I do remember though going into the pet shop back then and seeing an elderly and thoroughly uncuddly simian creature huddled up in the fireplace behind the counter. On one occasion it was possibly smoking a roll-up but this could be my memory playing tricks on me. Further on up the street was the brilliant Harry Hall's second hand book shop with a wide range of volumes for sale including a particularly good Irish history selection I recall - many of antiquarian note. There was also a well-thumbed pile of second hand jazz mags for purchase by any interested gentleman peruser. Around the corner in turn was the alternative Just Books with a notice displayed prominently in the window stating that it reserved the right to refuse to serve anybody in uniform. I honestly wonder how your typically posh style or culture journalist could spin this kind of street life for modern day weekend supplements?
On one Belfast forum a while back somebody was recalling his days working in the area in the Seventies as a delivery driver. He remembered once having to park his goods vehicle into a particularly awkward space. When hailing a passing old age pensioner for assistance with the plea “Watch me reverse?” he was met with the reply “Why…do you think you’re good at it?”
In recent posts I have mentioned both George Best and James Young. When Best was on ITV's 1982 World Cup panel there was one moment during the programming when they showed a video of one of the Northern Ireland campaign songs for the tournament in Spain – Yer Man by Sammy Mackie. This entertainer – who performed in the guise of a typical fan and behaved like a plebian imbecile - made Ally’s Tartan Army singer Andy Cameron sound like a particularly young, fragile and wistful Nick Drake. On completion of the atrocity, and on returning to the studio, presenter Brian Moore awaited Best’s feedback. With not a solitary indication of cultural discomfort Best casually replied “Sure they’re all like that over there”.
As for James Young, I remember being told once how he absolutely loved to embarrass latecomers to his Group Theatre shows. One night while in full flow during the opening monologue a couple entered the auditorium and made their way to their seats. Young, on spotting the new arrivals and the fact that the gentleman was balding, joked “How are you doin’ Curly?” to be met with the witty rejoinder “Go and fuck yourself”.
Life is never easy on an ethnic frontier but rain and bigotry and everything aside….it wasn’t the worst place in the world.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
I was lucky enough to catch a few of the major punk and New Wave groups live in concert at the time though deeply regret missing the only Belfast concert by The Skids in October 1980. The impenetrable vocals may have had the same esoteric quality that required subtitling on Peter Mullan’s extraordinary Neds movie but they produced a mighty and utterly original sound all the same. Their particular legend will essentially grow and grow.
In comparison the musical output of guitarist Stuart Adamson’s subsequent Big Country has been qualified in hindsight both by the questionable fashion styling of the Eighties and some terribly mis-produced material in their mid-career period. Nevertheless their two original albums The Crossing and Steeltown incorporated genuinely universal themes of maintaining self-respect and hope in the middle of struggle and deflation. Likewise Big Country produced a vital, worthy and contemporary commentary on the violent and brutal death of industrial Britain - surely the single most important historical factor underpinning the self-perpetuating social meltdown of today and the staggering disconnectivity with the recent past we can sense nowhere moreso than in our national capital. Having seen them live on five occasions across the British Isles I feel to this day that they were also the greatest live act of the Eighties.
Adamson’s December 2001 suicide has unequivocally cast an unbearably sad shadow across some of his later songs such as You Dreamer, Alone, Dive Into Me and particularly My Only Crime. Still the first overview of his career last year from Allan Glen, despite causing some considerable ructions within the residual fanbase, is a long overdue study of a hugely important figure in British popular music and an artist whose work truly deserves reappraisal.
Stuart Adamson certainly had huge pride in his own roots within both the Celtic littoral of the United Kingdom and industrial Britain alike. Hence when The Skids were asked by a record company at one point for the title for a forthcoming compilation he replied “There's no argument over what it's called. It'll be called Dunfermline - or it won't be released “.
Such words of faith, passion and a true belonging have all but disappeared now from our British folk memory.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Great Chalkie Davies picture here of Doctor Feelgood at the Crescent Bar in Sandy Row in the late Seventies - the Wee Wullie Younger's Tartan Ale sign complementing the breeze block and steel cage composition beautifully.
Sandy Row is the second most famous Loyalist area in Belfast – King William III travelled down the nearby Lisburn Road in 1690 on the way to fight the Pope at the Battle of the Boyne while in the other direction the first intercommunal rioting took place in 1857 between the Protestant locals and the Catholics of The Pound district. Van Morrison references a trip from Dublin to Sandy Row – by way of the soon-to-be frequently bombed Great Victoria Street station – in Madame George. The nearby Donegall Road district gave the world Ruby Murray, Alex “Hurricane” Higgins and the setting for Graham Reid's magnificent "Billy" television plays of the Eighties while ten minutes away in turn is Windsor Park football stadium where George Best played 18 times for Northern Ireland between 1964 and 1977.
The tower in the background is the rear of the City Hospital where the author was born on the same day The Who played at the New Barn Club in Brighton in December 1965. The Who would perform three times in Ulster - the Top Hat Ballroom in Lisburn on 6th May 1966 and in 1967 at the Ulster Hall in Belfast and Magilligan's Golden Slipper Ballroom on the 8th and 9th June. The 1966 Irish dates included the National Stadium in Dublin and the Arcadia Ballroom in Cork. The following year's visit to Northern Ireland was without Keith Moon who was recovering from a hernia operation. His replacement on drums was Chris Townson from Surrey group John's Children for both concerts and a third at the Palace Ballroom in Douglas on the Isle of Man - home town of Happy Jack.
This 1978 Doctor Feelgood lineup we see here are not the original members I believe. The early footage of the group performing All Through The City at the Southend Kursaal in Julien Temple’s 2009 Oil City Confidential documentary is absolutely jawdropping. Vocalist Lee Brilleaux, guitarist Wilko Johnson and bassist John B Sparks look like the kind of guys you would see drinking schnapps by the bucketload at a wedding disco in Northern Finland in 1975. And then stabbing you to death in the forest afterwards. Or worse. It would take a literal battalion of stylists to replicate this kind of effortless cool again in modern times.
Likewise for the mighty Small Faces and the point during the run through of the Ogdens Nut Gun Flake album on the June 1968 Colour Me Pop TV special when they are performing Son of the Baker and Steve Marriott violently wipes the spit from his mouth with the back of his hand. A later mimed performance on the French Surprise Partie has three of them arriving late for the start and Marriott stopping to fix his hair in the middle of the guitar solo.
Sure beats having pop stars who model their body language on Norman Wisdom and need testosterone shots - something that Norman himself certainly didn't need for the extraordinary love scenes with an ultra-nubile Sally Geeson in his final What's Good For The Goose movie.
The sheer brilliance of our British and Irish rock and pop heritage of the Sixties and Seventies is utterly monumental in scale and orginality.