Pigeon Square.

Sitting in the murky late-afternoon hustle of Marble Arch square, the blistering English sun shines down upon all and sundry. To call Marble Arch dirty would be an understatement; it is filthy. Much as I love London, I find this small portion of the city to be something of a shit-pit. But as I sit here contemplating everything and nothing, while hundreds of passers-by go to wherever hundreds of passers-by go to. Two interesting thoughts arise from a few simple observations. As usual, instead of focusing on boobies, babies, and business people, all I see are my favourite kind of Homo-Sapien; weirdos! In this case, a couple of strangers; both as strange as the other. 

The first is a middle-aged male, with a greying beard so long he could qualify for a ZZ Top tribute act. He is a trampish looking fella, who relishes in feeding armies of rampant, hungry pigeons; much to the annoyance of those around the bench he sits on. The other is a curious bag lady, who claps her hands as she dances with said pigeons; I say dancing, the pigeons don’t give a shit about the clapping. Make no mistake; these two are hardly the full ticket. As soon as beardy runs out of bread, his bird friends soon bugger off to munch on the bread of a disabled boy, across from him; pigeons are not prejudiced, the just want to eat. 

My assumption is the majority of passers by are too wrapped up in their own business, to give these two any more than a passing momentary notice; the same attention afforded to a morbidly obsess person, or a midget. They are just loons, oddballs. A few local weirdos in a city loaded with the obscene and the obscure. Maybe in the centre of a new town, either would cause a scene. But in London? This is the big leagues. In this city, if you are gonna be a prime weirdo, you have some serious competition; and they pail in comparison to the Oxford Circus bible basher.

Other sights fly across my range of vision. A Megabus. Teenagers. Germans. Camp looking posh boys dressed exactly the same as the last. Cyclists using bicycles. Runners using their legs. A black guy chewing on a Big Mac, and a whole host of random shit, I will have forgotten about come sunset.

When I arrive home, out of the couple of thousand or so people who pass this Marble Arch square as I write, only pigeon man and bag lady shall linger in the memory. In a world where human beings carry a never ending search to be both noticed and accepted, these two have figured out how to achieve the former; while inadvertently sacrificing number two in the process - which is really internal anyway. So perhaps they are subtle heroes, who have beaten the game of life - and act like crazy just to get some odd form of internal validation from doing so. Or maybe they are just mental cases.

Sometimes you can be interesting without trying. Other times - like with this blog, you can create a load of stuff, and not actually create anything interesting at all. I guess, much like with pigeon man and bag lady, it is all relative...

Lee.

The Price Of London.

"See Big Ben. Tenner per blink!"

I am a half mile of walking somewhere between Holloway and Highbury, bursting to take a piss. It’s humid, I’m hungry, my jeans are too tight, and the free internet at the Finsbury Park Costa, was as useless as the Barista who assured me it worked; it didn’t. To top it all off, I am out of change. As I grow evermore pissed-off at not being able to get my piss out, I arrive at a small park in Highbury, where before me sits the wonder of a solitary public toilet. Living in naive hope, I walk to the booth, and then scream a loud “Oh fuck off!”, as I look at the inevitable sign before me, posted on every public toilet within a mile of a tube station - “Insert 20p”. This is London. And I am starting to think, we are being conned…

Everything in London is more expensive, compacted, and static in comparison to any other city, town, village, or inbred outpost in the United Kingdom. Everything. Parking, housing, bicycles, gym memberships, magazines, medical operations, event tickets, clothing, ice-creams (A Thorntons double scoop in Birmingham costs £2.50, In Harrow it is £4.00), chewing gum - you name it, I guarantee it will cost more here. The general consensus to this is simple; rent costs more, prices go higher, and expenses are greater, because people in London are wealthier than the rest of our island.

Of course, there is some grain of truth in this. London is a national and global melting-pot of all things ambitious. It is the city where anybody who dreams of fame, finance, prestige, or power, gravitates to. Governments operate and live here, as do most British arms of financial institutions. The London media control national perception, the Royal Family reside in its centre, and it remains the number one choice for every foreign national who land on these shores; both illegal and accepted. With the exception of the illegals, all the other aforementioned types can easily afford the multitude of facets London life has to offer.

And yet, those of privilege in London are a thread-bare minority. In reality, this city’s masses live a daily grind of pressure from the cost of surviving the smoke. They rent or live in council properties. Work longer hours for an often minimum wage, no different to any other area in Britain; London Weighting never stretches beyond teachers, civil servants, or other government associated industries, which carry a small measure of power over their rulers. They work under greater levels of stress, find themselves at the mercy of ever-expanding laws designed by the rich, for the rich; congestion zones and fixed-penalty notices, as examples of this. All the while, having to pay the same overpriced costs as anyone else within the parameters of the M25.  

For the poor young of London, there is added frustration around their daily lives. They live under a force of living within a stones throw, from families where kids the same age are travelling across the world in jets, across London in Jaguars, and all the while doing it in designer clothes, and seemingly without a care in the world. Every penny the average kid who starts at the financial bottom earns, is needed to spend on the basics; just for the “luxury”, of living in a world renowned city.

While it is true London is Britain’s beacon of prosperity; and many people indeed choose to live here. There are millions living the daily roughness of this city, purely because it is where they were born. It’s not a bad place by any means, and – much like New Yorkers, Londoners are a resolute, tough breed. It’s just the ruthless nature of such an ambitious land, tends to disturb the peace of those who merely desire a quiet life; yet are lost somewhere amongst the rubble of organized chaos and smog-filled air. It is not London its inhabitants grow tired of; as opposed to the sheer price of living here…

Eventually, I sneak into a local leisure centre; where I take the third most pleasurable piss I have ever experienced, (the other two, stories in their own right). Ten minutes later, I find myself in the Starbucks of Highbury Corner. It is like most of London; friendly, crammed, noisy, and everything moving five times faster than it needs to. The Barista here will be paid no more per hour, then his colleagues in Birmingham, Bristol, Aberdeen, or anywhere in Britain. Yet his car will cost more to run, his roof more to live under, and his food bills higher to remain fed; all the while, while Starbucks avoids paying its taxes. 

London is a dream – if you are wealthy enough. Otherwise, it is quite often a beautiful nightmare.

Lee.

Weird And Gay Windows.

"Photo One: 30/06/12"

There's a middle-aged pan-handler, who pops up in random places in my life. She is hard to miss; with her withered gurnable face, wearing clothes unfashionable ten years ago. She carries a bag full of empty bags, and – like all good weirdos, loads herself with bizarre comments mixed in with bouts of manic street preaching; my favourite so far, the time in Edgware Starbucks I overheard her say to herself – after an unsuccessful begging attempt “I hate asking people with glasses”. Over the last three years, I have seen her in places such as Harrow, Edgware, Uxbridge, and Tottenham Court Road. She always asks me for money, I always turn her down; I am charitable by choice, not any force of social responsibility. That and she fucking stinks.

The trouble is, I am a believer that every person we meet on our solitary journey of life, we are meant to come into contact with. And any two souls whose seemingly random paths crossover – over and over, are part of a rich tapestry, far too advanced to be understood by our primitive human minds. Allow me to explain…

On June 30^th, 2012, I took part in The Great Drag Race; a male only 10k run around Highbury Park - in drag, to raise funds and awareness for prostate cancer. It was a good day, and made me realise life as a woman is hard; that and the knowledge I am such an ugly woman, I make the average twelve-pinter look like Nicole Scherzinger. One odd lingering memory of the day, was the guy in photo one; an overweight, ginger spice wannabe who never even ran the race, yet who took great satisfaction in the attention he received – quite an achievement, when you consider the amount of Queens in the park that afternoon. I don’t know why, but he stood out. Even more so a week later, when I strolled past this same guy - wearing the exact same get up, engaged in some quality mincing through Euston. 

This past Saturday, June 29^th2013, I was in Central London with my girlfriend, having one of those general days out couple have. Unbeknownst to us, it was the afternoon of the annual Pride festival. In which gays and lesbians worldwide, celebrate their preference for having physical and emotional relationships with members of the same sex. As I waited outside Topshop while my girlfriend searched for a skirt, the parade happened to pass Oxford Circus; where - from a distance, I got to view passing high raised parade signs, carrying banners such as “Gay Jews in London”, “ITV Benders”, and my clear favourite, “Queer Quakers”; which I wasn't even aware is possible - I guess it is. 

"Photo Two; 29/06/13"

Watching from a distance, and hearing a party atmosphere nobody creates with such energy like the gay community, I had to get a closer look at a parade stretching a good five miles long. As soon as my girlfriend arrived outside, we decided to walk to Marble Arch and catch a front row glimpse of the tail end of the proceedings. We only saw around 1% of the overall floats up close, but one of them was being led by this fella; photo two. Yep, of all the thousands of prancers my eyes could witness, old Ginger Spice pops up, again! Same dress, same style, on almost the exact anniversary of last year. I don't think he remembered me.

  

Maybe I am meant to give old stinky lady money. I almost gave her a tenner once, just to see her reaction. Then my rational mind took over and decided she could go fuck herself; and would probably blow it on Special Brew anyway - or a stronger bag to carry her empty bags. But if that were true, surely I would feel like it was an error not to help her – which I don’t. Maybe the overweight Ginger Spice is meant to teach me some kind of tolerance to homosexuality. But again, I’ve never had issue with gender-benders; I prefer to define humans on how they treat living beings, not where their knobs go on an average evening. I guess there is the possibility of the two being reincarnations I once knew in a past life – where I need to fulfil some issue from the past. Or maybe, it is all just a huge coincidence. I don’t believe it is, but am always open to all probabilities.

In the end, I believe they are here to simply remind me how all human paths are interconnected. A conversation with either would likely prove fruitless; though crazy lady may contain funky viewpoints on social communication, or how the imminent apocalypse will happen - they always believe in Armageddon. I am glad to be aware they exist, even those these two oddballs have no idea I do. Now I think about it a little more, this work both ways…

There are always going to be people who pop into our lives throughout its course, seemingly without reason or rhyme. And if anybody has any similar stories of this, I would love to hear them. And if anyone from the gay community knows who Ginger Spice is? I would love to hear from them too.

Lee.

The Colour Of Life.

"Quality album, quality actor"

According to accepted human wisdom, I am a “white” man. According to accepted human logic, white is also a colour used to paint halls, houses, and pejorative graffiti over the brickwork of major cities. Knowing this, it should mean when I stand before a freshly painted white wall, I vanish from view; being as so me and the wall, are one and the same colour. But I don’t. I remain clear as crystal, for all to see. My skin is not actually “white”, it’s more a pale olive shade; which doesn’t have a name. If I was pure white, I’d resemble Casper the Ghost; which I don’t.

According to accepted human wisdom, the actor Will Smith is a “black” man. According to accepted human logic, black is also a colour used to adorn Death Metal guitars, decorate Metallica albums, and paint the bedrooms of angst ridden teenagers. Knowing this, it should mean if the actor Will Smith sticks a 12inch vinyl copy of Metallica’s Black album over his face, it would make him appear to have a square, 12inch head attached to his body; as well as having a Snake tattoo on his lower right chin. But he doesn’t. He’d simply look like a guy holding up a copy of a classic album, to cover his face; which would be silly, as Will Smith is a good-looking dude, and probably buys CD’s. Naturally, these same principals apply to the “brown” and “yellow” people of this world; and their respective colours.

Every living human is defined on the outset by skin-colour. Even after billions of Homo Sapien evolutionary years, the tone of a basic protective shell; developed by nothing more than generations of variation in climate, is still given such an important place in life, regardless of shade. This doesn't mean Will Smith should not be proud of the shade which forms a part of who he is - much less myself or anyone, for that matter. It is just that as a whole, our skin-tone just isn't important, as much as it isn't even accurate.

Forms of art, music, politics, sports, culture, class, morality, ethics, shit, even intelligence, are all in their own ways broken by ideas of incorporating racial issues, born from false stereotypes created around it; when it shouldn’t even be an issue in the first place. It makes me wonder if the whole world went blind, how long till we created vocalism? Separation born from tones of speech. I guess a lot of it is the result of tribal fears from years gone by, slowly catching up on a now more civilized society. But it’s still ridiculous. We have this incredible, powerful gift called a brain, yet still fail to grow beyond an outdated mode of survival; believing anything 'different' is a threat to our existence. Much like the decent folk in life, wankers comes in all colours, shapes, and sizes. It would actually be much simpler if all “Whities” were good, and all “Blacks” were bad. But that shit aint the truth… it is far, far from the truth.

No other species on Earth creates modes of separation, based solely on the tone of a person’s skin. You don’t see ceiling Cats creating gangs of Apartheid, against the gingers or basement Moggies – calling them dirty Miggers; whipping them hard as they carry noms from distant houses, while forcing a secular religion upon their fears and molesting their ancestors. By all accounts, Cats couldn’t give a fuck – you leave them alone, they’ll do the same. Racism to a Cat is irrelevant; you feed them, they like you. You don’t feed them? Fuck you pal, I’m finding someone better. 

Racism is ridiculous, and tragic. A level one brick wall in the computer game of life, made complicated by the greed of Caucasians from lands past, and the lack of education by their African ancestors to understand the exploitation at that time. It isn’t even an end-boss; like Cancer, AIDS or any of the other shit the Devil tries to fuck us with. Racism is a stupid, man-made ideal, which serves no purpose; except to remind us of how far we have come, but how much further, we still need to go.

Perhaps this is the real irony of human beings. Given the gift of a basic self-awareness, in order to perhaps figure out the mysteries of existence, and yet they spend 95% of the time arguing over the importance of skin-tones; creating stupid shit like white only golf clubs, or black music awards - when did music have a skin-colour? Some things make sense culturally; hairstyles, foods, etc. But much like Tiger Woods as a golfer, or Eminem as a rapper, if you stop people doing shit because of their skin-colour, imagine the amount of missed potential passing our species by. Letting skin define us, is an insult to every last potential in any human being.

Tomorrow, Will Smith will awake, eat food, have a shit, get dressed, and do a bunch of stuff. So will I, so will you, so will everybody else. The skin-tone will not make any difference biologically; only potentially in a social manner. Be proud of who you see in the mirror. Be even prouder of who you are in your heart. Because that, is where the real colour of life lies...

  

Lee.