An Impotent Howl at the Universe

The view from my window at work ought to be inspiring. I look out onto the Thames, the Millennium Dome, and can see Crystal Palace tower if I crane my neck in just the right way. There laid out before me is all of East London, a patchwork of architectural styles from across the centuries, over-crowded with monuments that pay tribute to all Londoner’s dreams and frustrations.

I find myself drawn to the uglier parts. Those aberrations of grey concrete speak to me, the decrepit tower blocks, depressed industrial estates, and grubby over-crowded flats: that’s where you hear London’s true voice. There, among the social engineering gone wrong is the real world, where the neon lights speak of betrayed dreams instead of improbable fantasies.

A glorious past?

Until recently I was one of the bores who refused to hear a bad word about their darling city. I remember the annoying way I used to ask the miserablists, “What about the cosmopolitan culture? The entrepreneurial spirit? The history? The night-life? Surely you must agree there’s a unique buzz about the place, yeah?”

No. London stinks. The only buzz I ever heard was from the unwelcome fly in my over-crowded train carriage, which is now determined to find its way down the back of my shirt. I’d try to shake it off, except there’s no room to move my arms and I’ve been without satisfying human contact for so long that I prefer to close my eyes and imagine that the uncomfortable tickle is the hot breath of a beautiful girl making the hairs on my neck stand on end.

I did not take this photo myself

Pathetic? Absolutely. But what do you expect? From the day I was born I’ve been conditioned to ignore life’s stark realities, trained to obscure uncomfortable truths, and long for things that aren’t really there. I blame advertising. I blame videogames. I might as well blame the parents while I’m here.

In truth we’re all as guilty as each other in this, especially people like me who somehow think they’re helping to solve the problem by whining about it. We all buy into a convenient lie like “the bankers did it”, or rally behind a cause so as to shout “boo to capitalism/war/God [DELETE AS APPROPRIATE]”, or maybe write a couple of hundred words that say “hey, I can state the obvious. Now can you please pat me on the head and tell me I’m smart?”

Don't worry, I haven't flipped out, I'm taking deep breathes and there is no depression. I'm sure if I go back to managing my imaginary football team everything will feel OK again.

Yep. This is OK.