Diary: June 2017

June in Simplified Chinese

 

30.6.17

‘The UK is a parliamentary democracy, so the amplification of MP power is welcome – especially after a period of executive arrogance arising from the aggressive over-interpretation of a referendum result.’

Guardian editorial

 

24.6.17

22.6.17

It has been a soup of happy and sad these past days. Last night we got an email from Eric in Tenerife giving more details about Glen’s death. We never really wanted much information, but the big thing for me was that Eric valued our friendship enough that he felt he COULD tell us. I think they were more a couple (not sure I will ever be able to de-couple them) of the Fifties than the Sixties, but I have nevertheless/nonetheless put Sixties music on while writing this. If nothing else, they kept that spirit alive. But of course they kept a lot more alive.

I noticed a Stephen Staunton painting in the studio during the Headway Members Forum yesterday and set my heart on buying it. It is a self portrait in which Stephen has two mouths. I will leave you to look at his work, know that his brain injury left him profoundly deaf,  that he is an arsey bugger, and decide for yourself.

The price negotiation was delicate, but Michelle took control, and we sealed the deal at  £70. Stephen, shook my hand, blew me a kiss and promptly went around the entire building showing members the money he had earned. He was a star. I was saddened by this for selfish reasons. My ego seemed to be a part of the transaction and that was not comfortable. But if anyone who wants to argue, I will tell them it is a fucking great picture, tell them why, and then tell them to go fuck themselves, because it is on my wall.

19.6.17

A young mother moves to get off the 390 bus on York Way, London. She starts to reverse the buggy out of the central door but the final step down is difficult and another passenger helps to lift the front of the buggy to assist. But the young mother is a dwarf and her kind helper nearly topples her over by lifting the buggy too high. The look on her face suggests this might have happened before. The helper cringes and apologises.

19.6.17

I understand from an internal email at the Guardian that the cricket match between India and Pakistan will always being in colossal ratings from Google. This pleases me because one of the post-internet-revolution ways the Guardian has been very successful is in live blogging, a new way of reporting and a charming way to be told a story.

15.6.17

12.6.17

I was just about to pen a diary about how the centrists could make Labour a properly progressive government in waiting. They hold the chance of Britain finally becoming a modern social democracy.

A message to the rebels: work with Jeremy Corbyn and Labour can win. Then this appeared in the Guardian:
https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2017/jun/11/message-to-rebels-work-with-corbyn-labour-can-win

See 3 June entry

Portugal tour

11.6.17

Trying to imagine what the future would have held if the Theresa May Conservative Party had been elected with a stonking majority. Slavery is the thing that springs to mind, a uniquely neo-capitalist type of slavery where pittance wages are the norm and zero-hours contracts standard. Would any of these new slaves revolt and slit the throats of their 'masters’?

10.6.17

I am just remembering a young man named Derek, who used to install himself on any available sitting surface in Moss Menswear on Breck Road, a clothes shop run by Joe Hollywood (Evertonian from Bootle) and assisted by me, on occasions. Derek would spout the dogma of 80s Liverpool Militant and Derek 'Degsy' Hatton, but once you dragged him into a serious analysis of his politics, it emerged that this was young Derek’s chosen method of meeting good-looking girls.

8.6.17

Is Portugal the place that has most successfully fine-tuned mass enterprise to its own national advantage? Probably not, but they turned ordinary wine into a flourishing port industry. And they profit from the shoe business by aiming for quality rather than quantity - at least that is what I am told - knowing that in terms of low-cost production they cannot match Asia. In future I shall be watching for other ways Portugal is managing to niche the mass market. Add to this cork, sardines, fado, soap.

8.6.17

Here I am, awake and typing at 6.30am, excited not by today’s General Election in Britain. We are in Porto, Portugal and I have just finished listening to two radio pieces that make me proud of my country’s national broadcaster, the BBC.

The first was The Queen’s Speech, by John Finnemore, a play in which the inventor (a woman) of an early sound recording device, cons Queen Victoria (Stephanie Cole) into ‘buying in’ to her voice-recording contraption that uses cylinders and wax. The second was a 1966 version of Romeo and Juliet by Ewan McColl in which ‘Ron’ cops off with ‘that little dark piece’ Julie and they board a ‘jazz boat’ to begin their fateful life of love together. McColl sings narrative interludes into the play about the star-crossed lovers from the ‘Montagu’ and the ‘Capli’ families.

Both plays had class as a running theme. The inventor from the Finnemore play was an Eliza Doolittle type who was not afraid to speak to the Queen bluntly and argue with her in her own voice. In the McColl play, the class motif runs deeper. Not only is one family posh and the other common, but in the sung interludes, McColl adapted flavours of jazz, gospel and country to spice the narrative.

The plays ran in succession on BBC Radio4 Extra, the digital station of ‘comedy, drama and entertainment’.

5.6.27

Area around Casa do Alentejo is mobbed by heavy metal zombies. J said it was like walking through Kerrang, and she should know.

5.6.17

London Mayor Sadiq Khan has asked citizens not to be alarmed about the increased police presence on the streets.

4.6.17

Out walking in the streets off Avenida Liberdade, Lisbon, J spotted a nice place for a glass of wine. We sat outside. J started reading the DK Top Ten Lisbon guide book, and where we were sitting, the small street-front bar of Casa do Alentejo, was a guide-book recommendation. We went inside up pink marble steps to explore an ultra-decorative Moorish palace type space and had a lovely tapas meal in the buzzing Taverna. J said, “this is us”. There is a swisher Restaurant too, so we must go back and try that.

4.6.17

The Lisbon taxi colours are light green/turquoise with black. Nice combo.

4.6.17

Spotted a man on the plane using his phone to take a picture of the back of his head. I presumed it was to check encroaching hair loss.

4.6.17

‘Natural’ death, almost by definition, means something slow, smelly and painful.

George Orwell

J’s Mum once told the story of a local woman who died during a bus journey, adding, “At least she wasn't alone.”

4.6.27

Heathrow airport

Reading news of the “terrorist” attack on London Bridge and Borough Market last night. Six civilians killed, reported on BBC. Three perps shot dead. Arrive at Heathrow around 8.15am. Armed police at drop-off point. Facebook is loaded with people offering to donate blood. If there actions result in more and more armed police deployed in the streets, the very foundations of 'policing by consent’ have been destroyed. So the big question is, Who Care's? And among those who do, Who Care's enough?

I don’t think I will ever slip naturally into speaking Portuguese. The temptation to adopt the Sean Connery James Bond sound is never far away, and just mouthing the words “dosh shervayshas” (two beers) brings on a fit of the giggles.

4.6.17

Heathrow is for the few, not the many. No Accessorise here. Many of the staff are Southall people of Asian origin.

4.6.17

Travelling to Heathrow, we passed the Shepherds Bush Empire and Jane recalled that Neville Brothers concert some time in the noughties when concert-goers turned up with their shopping bags.

3.6.17

Have just read an LSE blog posting to the gender gap in voting intentions. Plan by the current government on social care provision made older and middle aged women fearful. Older women because they don’t know what care they will get, and middle aged women because they are most likely to be burdened with caring for the elderly members of their families. These two groups were considered safe votes for the Conservative Party, while younger women preferred Labour. Now a rump of core Conservatives are having second thoughts.

3.6.17

Some weeks ago I shared a long article on Facebook about Jeremy Corbyn. It more or less fingered him as the head of a crypto-Stalinist axis of evil. One person replied to the posting, the son of a friend I secretly refer to as Herr Miles (the son, not the friend, and he is not German, he just seems to spend most of his working life on an aeroplane). Miles replied to the posting saying (I paraphrase) that when the Blair/Brown project got elected as New Labour, lots of leftwing ultras “bit their lip”, so now the boot is on the other foot, the Blairite wing of the party should do likewise.

In the past weeks, I have come to agree. But what swayed it for me was the notion being aired that a Corbyn Labour government would be shambolic and inept. Prime Minister May is using the term “coalition of chaos” repeatedly.

But imagine this: Corbyn’s Labour does win. The question is, can they govern? There is the question of their numeracy skills. It is not an unfair one. Experience of running countries is not at the top of their CV. This is where Corbyn’s centrist doubters can make a difference. Ed Miliband, John Prescott, Gordon Brown, Alan Johnson, Yvette Cooper, Ed Balls, plus many more: they all have vast experience of running this country, so now is their chance to make a difference, get behind their leader and devise a new programme that works for the many, not the few.

Diary: My philosophy

Turn up

Be me

Go home

For a cup of tea.

Picture: Open Garden Squares Weekend

Community Cafe at the Golden Baggers allotment project.

Picture: Shankly Word Wall

Diary: May 2017

29.5.17
A friend who has recently debuted as a councillor has been told off for behaving too much like a citizen, which is not befitting for a councillor, apparently.

26.5.17
I saw the crescent, Connie saw the whole of the moon. Or at least that is how it seemed to me. I wanted to know what colour eyes Marilyn Monroe had. Connie did a web search but ignored any written testimony in favour of checking the images and trusting what she saw. Blue-grey was the answer. I am too skeptical about photography to trust it to deliver facts.

Memory: 1981
Bruce Springsteen, Manchester ApolloWe had been told to stay seated, but as soon as the full blast of air from the speakers signalled the opening chords of Prove It All Night took off the front of our faces, we were up, on our feet, and on a charge.

25.5.17
Witnessed firsthand the conflict between parents and disabled people on the buses. Riding to the Guardian, a wheelchair user at one stop signalled to the driver to open the ramp at the middle door so that she might board the bus. The space on the bus allocated for wheelchair users was already taken by two mothers with buggies, who shouted to the driver that the space was full. Both women looked at each other and at the wheelchair user (also a woman, though I am not sure gender is important here, other than women generally being the parent who has to struggle with buggies on buses) and shook their heads in dismay. What this really meant I am not sure. Were they indignant that a wheelchair user might want to use a bus? Or were they annoyed that buses and bus drivers do little to accommodate parents and the disabled? I’m not sure the last is actually true, but the first has certainly made headlines recently and is likely to remain a sore point for some time to come. The wheelchair user decided to wait for the next bus.   24.5.17Yesterday came in three parts. First I settled into getting what to say about Chippy’s pictures straight in my head. I lay in bed in the early hours and it all seemed straightforward. I would start with his eyes and I would end with him having an attack of the giggles with Tony Allen. But when it came to recording the audio, it didn’t happen in the way I’d planned. I was stuck for words. Somehow I managed to utter something about his eyes, but then it all fell apart. I clawed my way back to talk (badly) about how he and Michelle work together. Then I went off on a ramble about Connie As A Goth, which was on the wall in front of me, and the portrait of me he did in which I look like George Michael with an oversized right ear.
News of the suicide bomb attack in Manchester was all over the news and I began to wonder whether this was a ‘gender crime’. It seemed targeted at girls and young women. Killing children indiscriminately was another thought, an act not exclusively practised by terrorist groups.
Later I attended a drinks-cake-speeches reception at the Guardian’s Education Centre, where I have been doing volunteer teaching assistance for over three years. Nice to see some familiar faces, and I managed to get a chat with the Chair of the Scott Trust Alex Graham, a Scottish giant, who sounded genuinely proud of the Education Centre’s work and how it reflected the core liberal values of the Guardian that began nearly 200 years ago in … Manchester. This is all the work of the Guardian Foundation, a charity wing of the Guardian covering the Education Centre, the Archive and Exhibitions.The speeches were short but packed with passion and commitment.
One of the familiar faces I bumped into was Joseph, now a senior editor. Many years ago he worked on the Education desk with Sheila, who was instrumental in setting up the Education Centre and was herself a senior executive until she left last year for pastures new. I asked Joseph if he thought the Manchester attack was a ‘gender crime’. He thought not, adding that terrorists simply seek the greatest number of dead bodies. They don’t do demographics. I still wasn’t sure about that, but began to wonder that maybe I had grown a little too attached to the ‘gender crime’ label.

21.5.17 London
Meeting with poet called St John to see how he might goose up our allotment’s contribution to Open Square Gardens next month. Unfortunately, he cannot do his 'Spring’ poem because it is June, which is Summer. Pity, that. The lines about sniffing fertile bushes would have been a real treat for our visitors.

20.5.17 London
Spotted people photographing chewing-gum blots on Millennium Bridge. Not sure what they were doing at first, but I noticed three different sets of people doing it, so watched more closely. Is there a social media-style photo collection somewhere on the web. I dare not look.
20.5.17 London
Boat trip on the Thames Clipper to Greenwich from Bankside for Séan’s birthday. He was deeply absorbed in the encyclopaedia of Lego Superheroes we bought him, but later managed a killer impersonation of me walking round with my stick uttering weakly, “I’m a very old man I am.” And Paula keeps her credit card in her bra.

6.5.17, Paris
Kate tells us that Ade is “walking out hand in hand” again. What lovely news.

5.5.17, Paris, Montmartre Citadines
The reception fella told us that Dalida was buried/entombed in the nearby cemetery. We thought he said Derrida and got quite excited.

1.5.17
In the Arona Gran hotel in Los Cristianos, Tenerife, they put a small vase-like bin in your breakfast table. I think you are meant to put your tea bags and butter paper in there.

“I don’t mind dying, I just don't want to be I'll.”
Eric

Picture: Monroe Word Wall

Picture: 'Millennium Marilyn'

A photograph of Millennium Bridge by our friend Paul Cahill from the south side of the Thames in the area around Tate Modern was the hook for this image from my studio scrapbook. I put an outline of the classic Marilyn Monroe upblown dress shot in there for fun.

Picture: 'Dead Man's Hand'

This story was inspired by two fellas, G and A, from the Men's Shed at St Luke's Community Centre, Central Street, London EC1. The are longtime south-Islington/Finsbury residents who've known each other from childhood. They are from a typical white working-class background and I imagined in this story an old criminal connection that is renewed when they become active in a local community allotment project in Islington that uses redundant small caravans as garden sheds.

Picture: Tony Blair Word Wall

This was one of my first word walls. Not much is personal here, so I don't feel very special about it.

Local: Community theatre

Golden Lane Estate Community Centre

Picture: Death

Studio scrapbook. Eric said this during a liquid lunch on holiday in Tenerife, with a deadpan delivery. He was always phlegmatic about death. This quote refers to a friend who met his end quickly and with little fuss.

Diary: A Letter to Emily Thornberry

I sent a handwritten version of this letter sometime in March. I was bored and in a very cheeky mood. Thornberry did not reply but passed the letter to Mark Field, who sent me a creepy letter saying there was nothing he could do, etc, not my place to interfere, blah.

Dear Ms ThornberryIslington Council and the City of London Corporation are about to unknowingly gift up to 300 of your constituents to Mark Field MP (Con).This is the outcome of a proposed plan to redevelop a piece of land on the edge of Islington South formerly occupied by the Richard Cloudesley School to create ‘much needed social housing' and a primary academy.
 On paper, the proposals look innocent by modern standards: a two-form primary school and a 14-storey tower block of dual-aspect apartments fronted onto Golden Lane. In practice, the development is a backdoor extension of the Grade II listed Golden Lane Estate. The Golden Lane Estate is, as you probably already know, a place of worship for architecture students worldwide and a historically important ‘living museum’. It was an attempt to regenerate a badly bomb-damaged area of London after World War II on principles of good functional design, and a socially progressive and humane demonstration of how high-density inner-city living can work and thrive. Key workers from the nearby St Bartholomew’s hospital were among its first residents. 

Today it is a much-loved urban oasis of hard-faced concrete, steel framing, coloured wall panels and green spaces. There is a gym, tennis courts and a swimming pool. There is the multi award-winning Golden Baggers allotment project. And we have a soon-to-be updated community hall that recently hosted herds of excited children crawling around the floor while adults sat gently swaying to the sound of a brass band playing David Bowie’s Life on Mars.Now it has become the plaything of political pygmies. Here we find two councils, City of London Corporation and Islington Council cosied up in a plot to plonk your constituents onto the doorstep of the Golden Lane Estate. Many of them, I am sure, would be very happy about that, but if the current plans go ahead their homes will be managed and controlled by the Corporation of London and, by extension, incorporated into Mark Field MP's constituency of Cities of London and Westminster. The details of this ugly manoeuvre, plus graphic illustrations of its hideous effects can be found at https://www.facebook.com/groups/GLERA/ Your local Labour colleagues Mary Durcan and William Pimlott can also brief you.

South Islington and Golden Lane residents have lived together happily for many years. We share a lot. We have welcomed our Islington neighbours to events here on Golden Lane and they welcome us to activities around Whitecross Street, King Square and St Luke’s. But now, the partnership of manipulation formed by the City of London and Islington Council in this proposed development is set to blur the borders so much that there is no way your constituents can be adequately represented. In this sense they become hostages to bad politics. I fear Islington has been duped by the dark forces of political chicanery and the desire for an instant solution to key social problems at any cost. The plans are being railroaded forward with unseemly speed and very little proper consultation.This letter is starting to sound like a Nimby rant, so I will finish, but ask you please to check the details for yourself, for the sake of your displaced constituents and for the reputation of Islington South.

Diary: Adelfia, Brighton

To a Greek restaurant, Adelfia in Preston Street, last night with Sue & Lil, Jaq & Lynne. We met beforehand for a drink in the Royal Sovereign. We laughed about the hammering Crystal Palace (Sue) had recently inflicted on Arsenal (Lil) and got tips for hangouts in Cristianos (The Hideaway, a pub near the church and the petrol station). Hotel California started playing on the pub sound system, at which point Sue asked me to name the band. When I replied the Eagles, she punched the air with a yell of EEEEGGULLLS (Crystal Palace), and I knew I’d been had. The music continued and I noticed at one point three of us quietly swaying in our seats to the country rhythm, mouthing the words to Take it Easy: ‘Don’t let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy.’ Jaq did not attempt to hide her disgust.

Adelfia was friendly in the way we have come to expect from Greek restaurants and the staff’s happy mood infectious. The menu had other Mediterranean touches: halloumi dusted with flour before frying; the cheese stuffed into the peppers was softly spiced. During the mains (me, chicken souvlaki), Sue dropped a biggie. When Sue, Jaq and Jane were at university together, an older student they all knew not very well turned out to be the Westminster bomber. Cue them all trying to remember something about him that set him apart as a would-be mass killer. He was not interesting in any way, they reported, or they would have remembered more about him. Not like the gender fetish bloke who did things with raw chickens on the weekend. I spoke to Lil about Brexit and whether he feared for the future of his two daughters, 17 and 23. He was sure everything would turn out OK.

Diary: Western Road, Brighton

Walking west along the north side of Western Road, about half way between Currys-PC World and Argos, I spot an outstandingly overweight woman bouncing along in front of me, pitching and rolling from side to side as if trying to keep her balance during a choppy sea voyage. I started to think unkind thoughts about her. Should she have equal entitlement to nhs services? Should she be charged double for the two seats she occupies on buses and trains? That nasty sort of misanthropy. Then I spotted her male companion. He was much thinner, but still probably obese by modern measuring methods. His outstanding feature was the pair of grey cotton jogging pants he was wearing – loose fitting and stretched droopy enough to exhibit his arse crack, but murkily stained in the rear toilet area. The single mark wasn’t big enough to spot from a distance, so not majorly embarrassing, some might think. But walking behind him was not a treat. Just as I expected to again to be taken over by hateful snobbish thoughts, instead I started to wonder whether I should tell him about it, and if I did, what might be his response. I found it hard to believe that his wife/girlfriend/spouse-equivalent wasn’t aware of his soiled state. Then I thought maybe they both knew but didn’t care. Maybe it had only just happened and nobody but me knew about it. All the time these thoughts were distracting me, my eyes were fixed on that humiliating patch. It got to the point where I started deliberately to look away in case anybody thought I had a thing about staring at men’s dirty arses. Then they both squeezed through the door of Foodilic and I was free.

Picture: Easter

Diary: Bridges Support Group

Mary is my favourite. Quietly determined, destined to succeed. I think the progress line should be called the Rocky Road and be randomly jagged.

Diary: Headway

B is whingeing to P about his dire financial situation. 'They’ve cut my money off,’ he tells him. B is possibly one of the scraggiest-looking people in Britain. He is a spit for the 1970s TV character Catweazle. His hair is long and grey. His beard is full of waves and knots. His simple rectangular steel-frame glasses sit on the bump of his supposedly once broken nose. As his chin drops in fixed concentration while he rolls a cigarette, furtively, closely to his chest, the glasses slip over the nose-bump to the tip, where they sit, waiting to fall off their orange-peel landmass into his lap, which is more often than not clothed by a pair of heavily and variously stained jogging pants. Grooming is not a word that will ever be used to describe B, but he is astonishingly witty.

Diary: Shoreditch

At the #artskickers2017 awards with #submittolovestudios manager #michellecarlile, who cuts a better Peel than I do a Steed.

Local: Golden Lane Rant2

The Orwellian Golden Lane development plan is a game about to enter its second half, reckons Billy Mann

Campaign poster

The proposed development projects around the estate have triggered in me a number of proverbial sayings and the like. First it was all about trying to fit a quart into a pint pot, now it's the one about doing one thing well rather than lots of things badly.

In the case of the Bernard Morgan House proposals, I am still stupidly baffled as to why the project was not conceived from the start under the title ‘heritage’, the existing building with all that lovely flint and retro tiling retained and its interior modified into contemporary living spaces. The determination to smash it up just seemed like destruction for destruction’s sake, the product of a hubristic mindset on acid that had cruelly infected the decision-making process. I am told the police needed to sell the land for a maximum return (to Taylor Wimpey) because funding from central government has been cut so deeply they could no longer do their jobs properly. All I know for sure is the more I look at that building, the more I will miss it when it's gone.

Over at the Richard Cloudesley site, I am haunted by the memory of an early meeting with the Hawkins\Brown architects in which we were told how the team had completed a ‘zonal analysis’ of the Golden Lane Estate (leisure zone, community zone, recreation zone, etc) and that the Richard Cloudesley project would become an ‘education zone’ extension of the estate. This sounded reasonable, sort of. Here was once the site of a school, so putting a new one in that spot wasn’t such a controversial step. 

Then an elephant walked into the room in the shape of a 14-storey apartment block and my already passionate dislike of that pretentious backslash in the title ‘Hawkins\Brown’ turned into something bordering on hysteria\psycopathy. A school on the Richard Cloudesley site and housing on the Bernard Morgan site would have been a fair, sympathetic and manageable solution – balanced, in keeping, and all that.

But what were are left with instead is a crazed seek-and-destroy masterplan of excess in which playmakers at both the City of London Corporation and Islington Council daily score points off one another in a display of tit-for-tat blundering. This sorry situation has left residents forced to take part in an Orwellian game that was both rigged from the start and is now being reframed at every turn to subdue any meaningful discussion. 

Whether there is a great deal of support outside of the Golden Lane Estate for the residents' campaign is hard to tell. Comments online and recent local election results suggest the game is not over yet. Yes, this estate is a temple of worship for architecture students the world over. Yes, it represents an enlightened vision of society from the past that says intelligent, creative planning and building can transform lives. Yes, it is a totally fab place to live. But does all that count for anything anymore? I would like to think so, but defending it is getting harder every day and requires a huge leap of faith.

My mind goes back to Istanbul, 2005. Liverpool are losing 3-0 at half time in the Champion's League final to a rampant AC Milan. I won’t tell you what happened next. 

 Sign the petition.

Diary: Westminster Attack

Sadiq Khan, Mayor of London, was impressive this morning on the radio, the day after an attempted attack on the UK Parliament in which young overseas visitors were mown down on Westminster Bridge by a crazed motorist. The attacker then stabbed a police officer. Khan spoke clearly and with pride and authority on the issue of London being a great city because people here like to celebrate their differences with openness and tolerance. He also talked about being a Muslim and about the British tradition of the citizen police officer and 'policing by consent’.

Diary: Prime Suspect 1973

Watching the TV drama Prime Suspect 1973, it is hard not to imagine some of that inter-police-officer hankypanky going on in Bernard Morgan House in days gone by. Any first-person stories would be welcome.

Posted to goldenlaneestate.org

Film: Personal Shopper

With the (very arty) camera invading every corner of her existence, Kristen Stewart has to act out of her skin. Very compelling and gripping in parts. It was probably trying to say something, but I couldn't work out what it was.

Diary: The French Elections

I used to respect the French, but Monday night! Bordel de merde! Their TV schedulers have clearly been touched by le digit d'insanité. The only thing a Friday night in France needs other than four bottles of red wine and a takeaway is a three-hour political boxing match on the telly.

Local: The Siege of Golden Lane

Two big development projects on the fringes of Golden Lane Estate have got residents pushing back the boundaries. Billy Mann reports

Down your street: the architect's view of life on the edge of Basterfield House

There is a feisty north-south alliance growing on the Golden Lane Estate. The north of the estate is in a frenzy of disgruntlement over the proposed development of the former site of Richard Cloudesley school. The south is similarly irked by what is happening on the site of Bernard Morgan House. This looks like a straight fight over which 'development' project can piss off residents the most, Bowater or Basterfield. But what in other circumstances might be a friendly fight (who has the best window boxes, for example) is actually a case of two teams on the same side. The opposition is somewhere else, somewhere remote.


The former police section house (decommissioned in 2013), Bernard Morgan House, on Golden Lane, is the proposed site of a City of London development to create 'much needed high quality new homes'. The project is to be handled by Taylor Wimpey. After a number of 'consultation’ sessions, activity seemed to stop. Then recently an email from vigilant resident was circulated that purported to expose a crafty manouevre to get the building razed to the ground before the new one had even been approved. The document listed a host of Year 5 homework mistakes in the plan. Whoever penned it didn't know the difference between north, south, east and west, and couldn't spell Bernard ['Benard Morgan House']. The 3 March target date for demolition to start came and went and red faces were said to be seen rustling through the bushes of Fortune Street Park. I never got a reply to the email I sent asking whether the building's vintage decorative tiles might be saved and recycled.

Meanwhile, Up North on the estate, the City of London Corporation and Islington Council have got themselves into a bipolar 'partnership' to renew the area around the former Richard Cloudesley School. With indecent haste, plans emerged from architects Hawkins\Brown, and the blue touchpaper was lit. The proposals showed a primary school, plus separate school hall-cum-kitchen, and a 14-storey block of duel-aspect 'affordable' apartments. To the untrained eye, the plan also appeared to show the theft of part of the service road that runs alongside Basterfield House. That's where the ambulances and fire engines are meant to enter the estate in the event of an emergency. The drawings were very nice, and eventually a scale model appeared that looked like it was made from polystyrene offcuts and a matchbox. 

The revolution starts here: Campaigners' montage of the view from the heart of the estate

It's hard to argue against schools and houses, but the diagrams did look as if too much had been crammed into a fixed space; the proposed tower block was a scary monster that would loom over the entire estate (it didn't even have a funny hat on top, like Great Arthur does); the two-storey detached school hall would not only stare threateningly at the Golden Baggers but its proposed kitchen would soak Basterfield residents with the free perfume of cooking chips. I could carry on, but the rap sheet is far too long. A dedicated working group of People Pissed Off was started. They meet often in a revolutionary huddle and post damaging counter arguments and incriminating evidence on Facebook (see picture). With all this anger floating around, some previously unseen councillors eventually turned up to offer sympathy. The elections are on 23 March.

I wanted to find out who to blame. The architects and contractors are at the frontline of the projects and an easy target. The City of London Corporation has turned avoiding proper consultation into a dark art. Invisibility is the watchword. Transparency has too many syllables. But residents' fears might never have grown to fever pitch had housing and planning officials been more assertive in explaining that, despite what looks like two cans of worms half opened, the management talent is in place, ready to make it work out happily ever after. This, of course, is a fantasy, so what passes for reassurance instead are weak variations of "we hear what you're saying", "we're listening" and "we're taking this all on board". 

The feeling from the north and south sides of the estate that the walls are closing in and Bowater and Basterfield residents especially are about to be squashed into submission by ignorance, stupidity and blindness. As a Basterfield resident and Golden Bagger I wanted to know on whose doorstep I should empty my sack of smelly compost. At one meeting I collared a man from the Corpy and gave him my very best psycho-killer gaze. He spluttered then told me plainly that the buck stopped with them, the City of London Corporation. Islington council, he told me, was merely providing the land and the tenants for the sky scraping tower block. He forced out a spluttered laugh when I told him it would be his head Golden Lane residents would be throwing rotten tomatoes at. He obviously thought I was joking.

Picture: Northern Ireland Elections

Picture: Tiny Dancer

Studio scrapbook image based on mishearing the lyrics of the Elton John song 'Tiny Dancer'.

Picture: Tony Blair on Brexit

Diary: At HMS Belfast

A tourist excursion turns into an unexpected discovery

Tower Bridge and museum ship HMS Belfast

You can always rely on a six-year-old to open your eyes to the realities of the world. A friend's son was 'doing' ships and boats at school. The Cutty Sark was the first idea on the table for a visit. But self-interest soon stepped in and I proposed HMS Belfast. The reasons were pathetic. First, it is closer to where we live than the Cutty Sark and thus an easier journey. Second, I had never 'done' HMS Belfast and I'm always up for visiting somewhere new. Plus, I knew it was 'a floating museum', a project by the Imperial War Museum and the IWM I knew to be a class act.


It was snowing as we arrived, but the staff were cheery, helpfully telling us the tricky ladders an old disabled crock such as myself should avoid. Yes, this is as pretty much as close to a real warship (it's actually a 'light cruiser') as most of us will ever get. Very little has been modified to accommodate the lily-livered landlubber, and as you scramble and duck around the decks, life at sea in wartime moves quickly to the front of your brain.

One concession to modernity is the audio guide. Our youngster was keen to get on with it and quickly embraced its button-pushing attractions. I'm going to guess it was his first time with an audio guide because it wasn't long after he had started listening to the commentary that we heard him seize a pause in the recorded description to exclaim, "Can I just ask you one question?" 

As we moved around the ship's nine decks, snapping pictures and absorbing the claustrophobia, it was hard not to marvel at the technical complexity of all the wires and tubes, the guns, the radar and the proper deference to the hierarchy of command. It was a masterpiece of engineering, both technological and social. How on earth did they work out where to put everything? This I came to see as a 'British' skill, the kind of expertise envied by other nationalities. The kitchen (galley) is a design classic all by itself.

The visit was timely because the very next day the Observer ran a story about the British arms trade and its controversial dealings in Saudi Arabia. The piece claimed that the Saudis were using British mad weapons to massacre civilian populations in Yemen. The export of lethal wespons is restricted by law. Killing children is not permitted by licence.

Whenever I read these pieces I can't help wondering where all our Great British weapons factories are. I've never seen one, or if I did it did not have a sign on it stating 'intercontinental ballistic missiles sold here'. Visiting HMS Belfast the previous day and having my jaw floored at the magnitude of Britain's technical accomplishments, strengths that saw us through world wars and to chequered flags in grands prix across the globe, seeing this wealth of talent directed towards extreme violence rather than to improving the lives of millions, was sickening. Maybe that should become the nation's big post-Brexit idea to re-establish our great talent for innovation and invention as a cause for good, something to be proud of and to make our children proud of us.

Picture: Young Lovers

Studio scrapbook sketch story based on a photo by Wendy Howells of Eva and Gar at Gatwick Airport on their way to India. The imaginary conversation written into the paving stones (added by me) is purely for the viewer's entertainment.

Picture: The Truth That Ran Us Down

The line comes from the Bruce Springsteen song 'Backstreets'.

Diary: Trust World Café

An initiative to put good communication at the heart of stroke treatment got off to a lively start. Billy Mann reports

Tess Baird is an unstoppable force. In November 2016 she gathered together a few colleagues and contacts in a small room in London's Mile End Hospital to explain her bonkers idea. She wanted clinicians and service users to get to understand and communicate with one another in more meaningful and effective ways. The subject in focus was stroke care, which is how I got the call, being a stroke survivor. She reckoned this new groundbreaking bond between patient and practitioner could be found using something called a World Café. I posted a report of that meeting shortly after it took place.

Grand ideas often get lost in what is sometimes called Development Hell, so I turned up to that first meeting, made whatever kind of contribution I could and went home expecting the idea to fizzle out. It didn't. Emails were exchanged and the spark generated at the first meeting was oxygenated into a comfy campfire, around which a whole bunch of people (plus one newborn child, Leo) sat early in the new year to thrash out some ideas for how quality communication might flourish on the stroke ward. This event quickly got its own hashtag, #trustworldcafe. 

Seven round tables in the Garden Room at St Luke's Community Centre, London EC1, each hosting five or six people, fired up and the room quickly took on the buzz of the marketplace, the sound of chatter and earnest declarations bouncing off the walls. Hot beverages were taken and posh cake digested. And to think some people were pretending to 'be at work'. 

Question 1

The event swung around four questions. The first asked us to talk in pairs about a time we "totally trusted someone". What was the experience, what did it feel like? I got chatting with someone who told me how they had 'bonded' with their partner over an intense dislike of dating. As described to me this was a proper meeting of minds and outlook that was recognised instantly by both parties. They saw it as an 'opportunity' and both were 'relieved' to have found a sympathetic ear and a glad eye. It was heartwarming stuff. 

We then moved the topic from the personal to the professional and asked what made trusting relationships function in the workplace. The answers we arrived at jointly sounded like statements of the bleeding obvious, but put under intense scrutiny started to carry more weight. All the time we were jotting words and phrases on to a paper tablecloth. Lines such as "say what you do and do what you say" and "deliver on promises" put some flesh on to the bones of everyday exchanges that involve trust, and which without trust would collapse. Relying on others is how our lives function.

Question 2

From working in pairs we moved to working the table, exploring within the group the mechanics of trust and how that might be nurtured. I learned of one stroke survivor's desire to ride a horse again, having grown up around horses in Romania. By now an artist had been earwigging at each table and was busy creating a 'live graphic' of our thoughts. It was worth stopping just to watch as she gave visual birth to all our ideas.

The #trustworldcafe 'live graphic'

The questions continued. We moved tables, went into huddles, struggled to find answers, but didn't give up. There was still plenty of cake left. At one table I put forward the idea that every 'hard', factual question a patient is asked by a clinician should be offset with a 'soft' question that gently explores the patient's life outside hospital. Cat or dog? was the example I used in a round-the-table demonstration (our table: three dogs, one cat and an awkward "cat and dog"). Questions about football, hobbies, telly, films, etc, can provide the therapist with valuable 'clues' that might open a window of opportunity on how best to advance treatment. There was some concern as to how what is essentially small-talk can be parlayed into 'productivity', the looming presence of a cash-conscious clipboarding nhs manager being the sticking point. I'm not sure my attempt to liken this kind of information-gathering to 'detective work' found any buyers. 

Libby and Aoiffe

So what did I learn at the #trustworldcafe? Too many things to list here, so please check the Twitter feeds for details. But if I had to pick one it would be at the beginning of the session when, by way of a warm-up, Tess gave us a list of questions to ask each other. The last of these was something like, "What is the craziest outcome you can imagine springing from this #trustworldcafe?" To illustrate, Tess told us her answer. It was that news of this event's runaway success reaches a rich publisher, who invites Tess to write a book about it, earning her £4million. Her newfound wealth somehow puts her in contact with George Clooney, who promptly ditches his existing wife and marries Tess. And everyone lives happily ever after. Such is the power of the hashtag.

Picture: Electoral Reform

The Electoral Reform Society do some punchy graphics.

News: Trump and Truth

From a former US government information expert

Film: Manchester by the Sea

News: Donald Trump

Donald Trump mistakes Ivanka from Brighton for his daughter

Picture: Peter Sarstedt

Photo/text mash-up madness for Instagram. Text=lyrics stolen from the artist's publishing company.

Diary: My Stroke 'Journey'

Art gave Billy Mann a chance to tell the story of his stroke in an unusual and often graphic way

My annual visit to the National Hospital of Neurology and Neurosurgery in Queen Square, London, to deliver some macaroons and Vin Santo to the therapy team for Christmas got me feeling sentimental. I realised that visiting the Neuro Rehabilitation Unit (NRU) on the second floor has become like returning to your old school. Memories come flooding back. Seeing the patients travelling the same rocky road I did four years ago is a wrench, riddled with pain but saved by an overwhelming sense of hope. So much happened here for me. It is where my life was put back together. It was a rebirth. So, as naff as that sounds, I feel quite attached to the place and to the people who helped me during my two-month stay.

Most of them have moved on, but Anne Fleming, who dealt with social work issues, was still there and full of good spirit and a still unfeasibly straight fringe. I deposited the festive goodies with her, asked her to pass on my best wishes to anyone who might remember me and put in a plug for an exhibition of paintings by survivors of brain injury from Headway East London art studio, Submit To Love.

It wasn't such a shameless plug since I have a series of five paintings included in the exhibition depicting my 'stroke journey', and as already stated, NRU played a key part in that. Each of my paintings includes a hand-written paragraph describing the five 'chapters' of the past four years, from the moment of the stroke to my life as it is today.

The first, 'Surrender' attempts to illustrate the period from the initial trauma to when I went into surgery.

The second picture, 'Oblivion', is all about what happened in surgery.

The third, 'Confusion', examines what happened after surgery when I was in and out of ITU and then on the stroke ward.


The fourth painting in the series, 'Survival', covers the sink-or-swim experience of my stay in NRU, where the chance to start again kicks into action.

And the final picture, 'Release', reflects on my life since discharge from hospital in February 2013 and the shape it has taken since then.


I could bang on endlessly about these pictures and their meaning, but the blunt truth is that, once they were finished, I was glad to see the back of them. I was bored with myself, and right now I don't care if I never see them again. Sometimes the right thing to do is to simply let go of what was and what happened. Strange, though, I can't imagine losing the tiny bit of love I feel whenever I visit the National hospital in Queen Square, and long may the macaroon continue to be delivered.

The exhibition of paintings by members of Headway East London is at Stratford Circus Arts Centre, London, until 23 February 2017.

Picture: Steven Gerard

Photo/text mash-up madness for Instagram. Text stolen from fashion editor Jess Cartner-Morley, the Guardian.

Quote: Theresa and Boris

Diary: Uncommon councillors

Somebody said something interesting, eventually

Subject Councillors answer residents' questions
Date Tuesday 29 November, 2016, 19.30h
Location Downstairs, beneath the chess players, Golden Lane Estate community centre

Stanley Cohen House with its Grade II-listed "plastic bags"

Alderman Graves (he is the Big Hat in the posse of our Elected Representatives) began by asking how news of this meeting got around the estate. Did we hear about it via email, paper mail or by some other route such as noticeboards? He soon got the message that things could be improved in that regard before Lee Millam (Great Arthur House) stepped in with an urgent moan about the workmen doing the windows at Great Arthur. 

What were they playing at? Nothing, seemed to be the answer. Drinking tea, rolling fags, discussing whether the universe was infinite or not. Anything but fixing the bloody windows. The Alderman started to take on the ruddy complexion of a man who'd just realised that leaving his new golf clubs in the E-type was probably not such a good idea. One of the other councillors (a lone woman among six men) said something along the lines of "we hear what you're saying", which I'm not sure was the answer Mr Millam was looking for.

The subject moved on in a roundabout way to social housing, right-to-buy, who pays for what, how the housing stock is protected from predatory speculators in the age of Materialism Gone Mad, and the thorny issue of numbers of properties built versus the location of said properties. 

Roughly speaking, at the core of this is whether, for the same money, to build 100 new residential properties in the centre of Cripplegate, or else to build 300 dwellings four miles outside of it. These are the Big Questions those at the Corpy agonise over every minute of their lives, and especially during toilet breaks. Add into this equation a heavy shot of central-government busy-bodying and it's headaches all round. 

Councillor Gareth Moore (he's our guy off the estate) raised some characteristically realist points and explained that it is in the DNA of the Corpy to skew all decision-making towards business and commerce (my words), and that the planning protocols that apply for commercial projects differ entirely from those that apply to residential stuff. My understanding from what he said was that the Planning Committee on the council was overegged with expertise in the commercial field, but very light on expertise in the residential area. This has resulted in no end of bureaucratic constipation for residential matters, but was now being corrected by someone new in charge of things.

Then came an interesting bit, and it came from Alderman Graves, who was by now warming to the occasion and looking a little less likely to burst a blood vessel. It was triggered by Paul Lincoln (Basterfield House), who said that Barbican residents have special status within the Corpy - their very own committee - whereas Golden Lane is some kind of poor relation, forever in receipt of second-hand clothes. Gravesie, as I was now calling him (to myself), put on his 'thinking-cap' face and said that the way forward might be to start up a Golden Lane Working Party. To my ears this sounded like progress, and even the other assembled councillors (who all sit in a row, looking as if they are waiting to be called into the head teacher's office) showed signs of resurrection.

The Aderman's suggestion was not an opportunity to be missed, and after a brief diversion into drains, insurance and a potent question from myself about the poor lighting around the estate, Sue Pearson (Hatfield House) whose middle name is Persistence, raised her hand. Were the assembled officers aware of the newfound love affair between Golden Lane residents and the Corpy, instigated by projects such as the redevelopment of the community centre, the Lord Mayor's float and an overall softening of behavioural tones. After a massive whinge about the "plastic bags" still stuck on the end of Stanley Cohen House, she spoke about evolving plans to find a robust yet sustainable management model for when the community centre is refurbed and reopened. Magically, she screwed a pledge of support from each of the honourable members of Death Row and everybody skipped off home to watch Jordan Banjo getting evicted from I'm a Celebrity...Get Me Out of Here!

Happy days.

Diary: Renal Outpatients

Conversations about kidneys are a speciality for Billy Mann

My face must look like it needs a good talking to. Every six months or so I attend a regular outpatients appointment at the Royal London hospital in Whitechapel to monitor the state of my kidneys. I suffer from a hereditary condition that, left unchecked, might result in kidney stones. Passing a kidney stone is not something I would wish on my worst enemy. 

In the waiting room at my most recent appointment a man sitting nearby started asking me questions about his kidney and fished for information about mine. Cheeky bastard, I thought. He wanted to know if I was in line for a transplant, because he was sure as hell he was. He started talking about the different signs of kidney damage and their intensity  I told him that right now I am able to manage my kidney difficulties by drinking lots of water. Two to three litres a day. He seemed unimpressed. "I don't like water," he said. I replied: "Any fluids will do. You can drink beer if you want." Then I realised that this man was almost certainly Muslim. Dohh!!!

'He was determined to believe his 

own kidney condition was serious'

Riven with guilt, I moved the conversation on quickly. I started to mutter something about the miracles of modern medication but he was determined to believe his own kidney condition was serious and that death was but one more visit to the urinal away. I struggled on, trying to convince him that the doctors knew what they were doing and things are rarely as bad as you think they are. But he already sold himself the idea that his predicament was drastic and that he would require a transplant. I opened my mouth, took a breath and was about to tell him that it is quite feasible to live a full and meaningful life with just one kidney, when his consultant arrived and took him off for the designated appointment. My face must have looked like it had made a narrow escape.

Picture: North Sea

1953: Waves & Surges

Quote: Dostoyevsky

From the Underground Man