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Burnt Out at 26

Look up the word ‘hipster’ in the Urban Dictionary and you enter a whole world of pent-up frustration. My favourite being the perfectly succinct: ‘Someone who listens to bands you’ve never heard of, wears ironic tee-shirts, and believes they are better than you.’

This cultish group have honed self-deprecation to a near Zen-like art. Larry David, though, they are not.

For those of you that saw the now viral (not because it was infectious, it wasn’t, it was just plain bad) The Only Way Is Dalston would have been taken aback by the sheer absurdity of it all. As it eventually transpired, it was actually a self-made show by Vice Magazine. Yes, you read that correctly, Vice Magazine; the epitome of everything a hipster has come to represent.

Whether it’s just that they don’t like what they see in the mirror, whether it’s a form of jealousy, or even the fact that some loose form of social hierarchy based around a person’s aesthetics has been formed, it’s difficult to narrow it down. The East End has become a hotbed for the cynical, the ill-informed and the downright pretentious as much as it has for any real consistent stream of creativity.

It appears today’s ‘yoof’ have reached a plateau when it comes to what is socially accepted as ‘cool’ and this is best interlinked with a lack of any real cause to get behind.

My generation simply doesn’t have anything important to say, and if they do, it’s already been said and by people far more eloquent and intelligent than us. So, we’ve given up, resorting to hide in the shells of decades past.

The hurtling cultural shifts of the previous few decades have left ours still searching for an identity, and in the meantime, clutching onto the shreds of others. We are Generation Bland; and a bitter one at that.

The ’60s had the fight for racial equality and free love, the ’70s had punk and even the cringeworthingly titled ‘Generation X’ had grunge. Today’s generation prefers to look the part without actually being the part; a shortcut to success without the necessary ideas to back up the bravado.

Uniformed conformity is order of the hour. The façade for the sake of originality and social standing just isn’t cool man, and plus, it just all looks so bloody exhausting. Like Hyacinth Bucket gone rogue.

This is far from being some sort of rousing call to arms. I am merely, in the words of Marc Bolan, ‘talking about my generation’. We’re a bone idle bunch, but without the misdirected geniality of the ‘slackers’ of yesteryear.

Self-deprecation can be an endearing quality in a person that you know and love, but when you attach it to a whole social stratum, it takes on a much more contrived and sinister undertone. Then again, I own both a Barbour jacket and a pair of boat shoes, so perhaps I’m just as bad as the rest of them? Hypocrisy is thine name, and based on my choice of clothing, tending to sheep along on an exotic cruise is thy game… apparently.

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What to Do With Hipsters?

After reading James McManus’s article on the tedium and unoriginality of London’s markets I felt his pain. As a kid I used to trawl through Camden Market and think I was truly unique because I’d brought a badge saying ‘Down With Society’ or a Frida Kahlo postcard or something. Which I would’ve been forgiven for thinking, because upon my return to that little town called Essex, no one had ever seen anything like it before. I was super cool. Really I was.

But when I moved to London, sporting my worn-out Converses and wearing a cardy that could’ve been my nan’s, had I obviously not paid loads for it in Brick Lane, I learnt pretty quickly that the ‘individual look’ I was going for was as refreshing as arsenic. If you’re turning to London markets as a saviour to your identity crisis, you’re looking in the wrong place, my friend.

But as for all markets being the same? Blissfully, you couldn’t be more wrong. I was of a similar view until about a year ago when, researching a similar rant, I stumbled blindly over the peripheries of the obvious, and found promise of a land where not every stall sold T-shirts saying ‘I hate slogan T-shirts LOL!!!’.

At first I was disbelieving that some of the places mentioned would have evolved barter systems, let alone shops… But lo and behold, after visiting these bargain hotspots, it turned out I was (mostly) mistaken. Despite the appearance of a ransacked souk or a stall of charity shop rejects, these little markets are full of cut-price gems that you’ll never find in the shops – hand-drawn maps, vintage wedding dresses, old family photographs, accordions – it’s a minefield of interesting finds. While you might have to rake through a lot more crap to get to the good stuff, believe me, the good stuff is there.

The key here is to steer clear of well known places (or perhaps just places you hear about while talking to some milquetoast in skinny jeans telling you an ironic story about his gap year in Kazakhstan) – examples include Camden, Broadway, Southbank (notable exceptions to the rule are Portobello and Borough). Stick to the little, local places you hear about in passing – Deptford, Walthamstow, Chatsworth Road, etc. And far from flourishing under the pretence of being cheap, these are the places where you can do your January shopping for pennies. One word of warning though, James – if you don’t like car boot sales, these markets aren’t for you.

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In Defence of London Markets

So the party season is over and at least three people I know are detoxing – three and a half including myself. Others have looked January in the face and chosen to drink straight through, come out conscious in spring, and then get pissed to celebrate. Yes, I’m talking about binge drinking, our favourite pastime; the truthful answer to that job interview question: ‘So what do you do outside of work?’

Last year, over a million people in the UK were admitted to hospital because of booze and the growing phenomenon is predicted to cost the NHS £3.8 billion per year by 2015. Meanwhile, the capital is where the problem is rising fastest: hospital admittances related to binge drinking in London jumped 14 per cent last year.

Based on my own life I’d say that people in their mid/late 20′s in London drink a savage amount. This is not meant as a judgment; just an observation. I recently found myself shutting my eyes for a micro-nap on a club toilet seat; I love binge drinking. But I am worried about my health in the long term, and I can’t afford to spend £400-plus per month at the pub. I often feel very jaded afterwards and sometimes during – as I lift another rum and coke to my mouth, I find myself thinking, how many times have I done this?

There is a dichotomy between public condemnation of binge drinking and widespread acceptance of it. We’ve completely disassociated ourselves (necking 12 drinks on a Friday) from the realities (heightened chances of mouth, throat, neck and breast cancer, brain damage, liver cirrhosis and high blood pressure).

So why do we do it? In London at least, stress seems like a huge factor. But in the name of Socrates, who used to go around Athens asking people why they did things that were considered totally ‘normal’ – to see if they were examining their choices in life – I asked some friends. Here are some of the answers I got…

’80 per cent habit, 20 per cent hoping something fun will happen.’

‘To take the backpack of life off. To put a barrier between myself and my day.’

‘To completely forget about my life. It is quite fun though, isn’t it? I’d rather get obliterated and have a laugh.’

So while politicians quibble about the price of alcohol and the Daily Mail highlights the horrors of it, wouldn’t it be better if we spent some time considering why we do it? It’s such a huge component of our culture now that it won’t be changed by scare tactics or piecemeal legislation. From the answers my friends gave I’d say we’re driven partly by a desire for escapism and fun, and partly by habit. If we really wanted to cut down binge drinking we should start with two questions: what can we replace it with in part that will meet those desires? And what might be improved in our lives to lessen our need to escape them?

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Why Do We Binge On Alcohol?

Recently in my job-searching adventures, I have come across job-ads offering full time unpaid internships. Some offer expenses but some keep suspiciously vague on the subject of remuneration.

I understand the rules of capitalism, of ‘demand’ and ‘supply’, and I agree that it makes sense to get people in cheap if they are willing to do the job. Still too often the line between ‘offering experience’ and ‘pure exploitation’ is being crossed.

Firstly, this is London and London is notoriously expensive. As a company you are effectively expecting people to put in full-time hours for nothing and still live here. Although some people make it work thanks to scholarships and parents, many miss out. If the internship was part-time, the intern could also take on a paid part-time job. Interns are not necessarily known for speed anyway – but if the job needed to be done quickly, you should pay for the experience of an employee.

Secondly, if a person signs up to work for your London company unpaid, travel costs (and heck, lunch or they’ll have toast for three months) should be paid for. Some foreign students I know got screwed out of their travel expenses because they didn’t think about negotiating this in their contract. This means they are now effectively paying to get to work.

Am I the only one thinking this is wrong? Sure, they signed the contract but they are 19! Foreign! It’s like beating newborn puppies!

I have a Masters degree and have held a job for years before trying to switch careers this year. So my applications to internships is a choice, though more one in the category of ‘rock and hard place’.

I have sent in three-page writing-tests with my CV and have been for interviews to demonstrate my abilities for these unpaid positions. Then I’m told there might be another round or that they could possibly renew the internship for another three months (more toast…) but there is no paid job.

For crying out loud! How are companies looking for employees but not budgeting for them? Where does all the money that they help generate go? Was that not another rule of capitalism – one works for the profit one makes? I’m no Marxist, I’m not sitting in a tent outside to kick the 1%, but I do wonder whether the markets have crashed on our common sense and sense of morality. Greed made the system come crashing down, wouldn’t it be time to try another approach?

Discussing fair or unfair seems futile: all I know is that this exploited generation will have its time. No big, slick, Linked-In connection will help you, when the time comes, be aware: karma is a bitch.

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Internships: Unpaid and Unfair

Have you ever walked around a supermarket for two hours with £20 placed firmly in your wallet and eventually come out the other end empty-handed, note intact? No, me neither. But when it comes to the social etiquette of a London market, this seems to be not only common practice, but encouraged.

Trust me; I understand just how far from the pack that I’ve strayed on this one. To say that this is a minority view would be an understatement. At the moment, I’m right out there with David Icke and Mohamed Al Fayed in the nutty stakes.

I get why some people enjoy markets, I really do. I just find them all a bit on the pointless side. They are supposed to be relaxing and all about ‘the vibe’. But markets are little more than a carboot sale with better PR and without the added, and frankly crucial, element of the unexpected. 

The thing that I really have trouble getting my head around is the lack of a formally planned activity (form an orderly queue ladies, planned fun man is here). Instead, all you have is hundreds of Londoners wandering around aimlessly because everyone else seems to be doing the exact same thing. It’s the blind leading the blind.

Are all these people just pretending to have fun, sipping lukewarm mulled wine out of a styrofoam coffee cup, or are they genuinely having the time of their lives? Can anyone actually describe in three words what exactly it is that you do at a market?

I live a stone’s throw away from Broadway Market in Hackney. As you may surmise from its location, it’s achingly pretentious and self-involved. People flock here to display their individuality when all they succeed in doing is exposing the world to their uniformed conformity. Aside from a nifty film shop and a cosy pub, it’s basically just a narrow street with a few ropey restaurants on it.

Camden Market may have been alternative back in the 1980s, but now it’s all so coordinated and contrived, preying on whimsy and tradition. Tacky T-shirts, undercooked chicken and quite frankly rubbish paintings aplenty.

Then we have the seasonal markets – the ever-efficient German cash cow at the South Bank being a prime example. Apparently, eating a bland slab of meat carcass in a doughy bun while simultaneously watching a faded carousel waltz around at approximately 4mph is the thing to do at Christmas. Well if it is then Bah Humbug.

The thing that I find most galling, though, is that they continue to flourish under the false pretence that they are cheap. Ramshackle stalls are a thing of the past; these markets are fully fledged businesses now. They have outlived their initial function and as a result, they’ve outstayed their welcome. Much like ill-informed football pundits or a recently reformed ’90s boyband, they’re trading, quite literally, on past glories.

Right, now I’m off to watch an old episode of Only Fools and Horses, a snapshot to a simpler time, the way markets used to be – funnily enough, I unearthed this gem at a car-boot sale, and to this day, it’s still the best 59p that I ever spent. (Disclaimer: the above may be a complete fabrication; it may not. However, it does offer a vaguely and conveniently cogent conclusion to a convoluted rant, so there).

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Why London Markets Aren’t All That

I have been alerted recently to the rising levels of inequality in our city, echoing the problem of rising levels of inequality nationally, and internationally. As a writer I get to sit on both sides of the table; I earn little, but occasionally attend swanky events for free and see how the other half live. It’s a serious problem. Deep dissatisfaction has caused a marked increase in protest and civil unrest, and later this week the Organisation for Economic Development will release a report on why inequality just keeps rising in London.

I wondered, at such a time, how anyone could be so insensitive as to commission and show Made In Chelsea. But then I watched a couple of episodes and was moved by its profoundly anti-materialist message: be grateful you’re not born rich because you’d be a complete queynt. It’s an advert for levying a 100 per cent inheritance tax rate; the Socialist Party should screen it. So although I’m slightly embarrassed by this depiction of our city, I’m also grateful to the programme for making me happy with my lot.

It also provides first-class comedy. What could be funnier than watching Spencer roll around Chelsea like a Barbour-clad cheeseball in a Land Rover, moaning incessantly about the fact Caggie doesn’t love him? She, meanwhile, is on a date with a French man – his nationality subtly depicted by a perma-beret. Another great scene was watching ‘the boys’ have a highly erotic rugby kickaround. While one friend teased another about being tired, the deviant finally exploded his filthy reason for fatigue: ‘I had sex last week!’

To be fair, the show also goes a long way in promoting transsexual rights, because the men, with their Adonis ambitions, are indistinguishable from the women, and no one thinks anything of it. One of them has such great hair I’m jealous.

Now I know it’s not real. I know it’s scripted, but these people condoned it. They put their names to it, and they can’t even claim need. I work in Parsons Green, which although not quite in Chelsea pretends to be, and I’ve seen enough salmon-coloured trousers to make me believe there’s a vein of truth in all this.

So I’ve come up with a solution to reduce inequality in London with one fell swoop: rename it the Royal City of Kensington and Chelsea and separate it out. London’s average income would plummet but it would be more equal. After all, they’re living in a different world, a different city even. Then they can inbreed like the good old days – and keep the money in the family darling.

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Cordon Chelsea Off

Let’s face it, it’s a hard time to make ends meet, and with standards of living having improved so dramatically for the majority of us, it’s hard to get by without the latest copy of Heat, let alone heating. In a society obsessed with material goods, it’s too easy for the less affluent of us to feel like we’re missing out, but in some ways, we couldn’t have it better. People don’t wait till things break to buy new anymore, meaning there’s a huge surplus of goods about – there are more microwaves than there are ready meals and more sofas than we have bums to park on them – which means there’s always something up for grabs, and often for free!

And not just any old tat either; good quality, practical items that more often than not just need a quick wipe before use. Freecycle – a site where you can offer or request unwanted items – has a plethora of goods available, from toasters to toys, insulation to irrigation, and even cars (yes, cars!). Anything you can think of will appear at some point, and it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say you could furnish a whole house using it.

Though as it’s hardly a best kept secret, you’ll have to get in quick to avoid disappointment. The competition in London to nab the latest freebies is intense, but compared to the empty toy boxes, dead cats and hedge trimmings you can probably expect of more remote areas, count yourself lucky you’re a Londoner!

Even less secretive is the abundance of perfectly good furniture just lying out on the street ready for the taking – and before you think,  ‘Oh, but there must be a reason they threw it out,’ when was the last time you threw something perfectly good out, or gave it to charity, or just stopped using it? I’m willing to bet it was quite recently. Because in London, what with the constant moving and lack of space, people are always having a clear-out. I remember finding a side cabinet outside work once, and though it was a hernia-inducing two-mile walk home with it, it was free, and it was mine.

There’s nothing quite like the feeling of getting things for free, and teamed with the knowledge that you’re helping limit the amount we send to landfill, it makes you feel rather nifty. Obvious words of warning – if there’s a sofa on the street, watch for woodworm, damp, cat piss and the like. And when getting things from freebie sites, check if they’re broken as a few items are. Folk tend to be pretty honest though, and will tell you straight out if the item they’re offering has a fault; you’ll be surprised how quickly they still get taken. Because when you have nothing, everything has a value.

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The Best Things in London Are Free

Since 1965, Gaby’s Diner has been providing affordable but healthy food for actors and theatre-goers. However, Gaby’s days are now numbered after Westminster Council okayed plans by landlord The Marquess of Salisbury and his company Gascoyne Holdings to boot out the diner in place of a generic chain restaurant.

But Gaby fans will not see the eatery shut its doors without putting up a fight, as for them the May 1 closure will rob London of one of its prized independent food venues.

You only need to step through the door to see why so many people have fallen in love with this little eatery, with a counter full of delicious freshly made salads and authentic Middle-Eastern treats. Walls adorned with pictures of famous guests, old theatre posters and raving reviews, Gaby’s is just bursting with character.

Relocation is sadly off the cards for the moment, explains owner Elyahou, saying that he just can’t afford another place in the West End, adding that Gaby’s is the last place in West London that offers the renowned salt beef sandwich, which means when the doors shut for good, the dish will disappear completely from the area.

He said the imminent closure represents a wider problem in London in general, with more and more small businesses being swallowed up by the big companies.

Sara Nathan, creator of the Facebook campaign ‘Save Gaby’s’, agrees that something needs to be done to save independent eats. ‘I don’t like the thought of all the chains that are homogenising our high streets and the West End,’ she said.

Nathan, a customer who has visited the diner through the decades with her musician husband said she was ‘shocked and devastated’ when she heard that Gaby’s was to close. ‘I just wish I had known earlier!’ she added, ‘Gaby is great at falafel and salt beef, but he’s not an experienced campaigner’.

Nathan says the situation just isn’t fair. ‘The Marquess, with over a £300 million fortune, can afford lawyers, advisers, consultants, meanwhile Gaby is an immigrant from Iraq via Israel,’ she said. ‘Gaby has done well for himself, running a successful small business, but he struggles to deal with Gascoyne Holdings.’

The campaign has steadily grown on and offline and now consists of a paper petition with almost 4,000 signatures, plus the original Facebook page tipping towards almost 3,000 members.

To raise awareness of the cause, a Christmas card campaign has also been set up, along with a series of events, kicking off tomorrow with a ‘Cabaret Falafel’ evening. The venue’s high profile regulars also include Simon Callow and Mike Leigh who have also spoken out for the cause.

In an interview with The London Evening Standard, Gascoyne Holding’s representative Adam Wiles said that no decision had been made as yet to which restaurant would occupy the building once Gaby’s was evicted.

Lord Salisbury said he currently had no further comments to make about his company’s plans to shut the diner.

If you want to support the cause, check out the ‘Save Gaby’s’ campaign on Facebook.

Gaby’s Deli
30 Charing Cross Road
Soho
WC2H 0DB

Tel: 020 7836 4233

Image by Paul Iché

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Save Gaby’s. Fight Clone London!

I’ve been around the block a few times. Not as many times as a throaty-voiced Brooklyn hooker puffing out a cloud of smoke before saying the same words, but maybe 16 times and I know sexual chemistry when I feel it.

Unlike the rest of the animal kingdom, where a whiff of sexual chemistry is followed up by a brisk mounting-squealing-pregnancy cycle, lust in humans has no foregone conclusion. It can lead to marriage, a one-night stand, a simmering friendship or just a loaded smile across the bus. But the most maddening form of sexual chemistry is the one that has no conclusion whatsoever. This type of chemistry is fuelled by a species of homo sapiens, known in the scientific community as the ‘unobtainaboy’.

If the unobtainaboy were an animal he would be a peacock, spreading out his exotic and beautiful qualities, strutting around in front of you while winking (peacocks definitely wink all the time) and then, just as you’ve decided you would mortgage your left arm if he were to coyly suggest it, off he goes, feathers wiggling until they have shrunk to a bright speck on the horizon.

But this won’t be the last you see of him. Unobtainaboys are like boomerangs. They return to where you are, each time more resplendent. And because beauty has a hypnotic power, each time you greet them with new enthusiasm, knowing that crushed hopes are nothing beside the great optimism their presence inspires.  Keats understood: ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty – that is all/Ye know on earth and all ye need to know’.

A key feature of unobtainaboys is that they are not the misogynistic assholes found in Neil LaBute scripts. They’re good people, just a little gamesy – the magicians of the dating world. Reality is too trite for their tastes so they jazz it up with flourishes that leave the audience guessing. If audiences got wise to the man beneath the peacock suit the act would be over. When this happens, unobtainaboys cry.

So, what to do if  you find yourself in thrall to an unobtainaboy? Warning: advice may contain metaphors:

1. Enjoy the show
2. Find a straightforward animal
3. Train as a magician’s assistant

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Living With Unobtainaboys