Judge yourself

Getting a room in a flatshare has never been as straightforward as the utopian laddish fantasies of the Carlsberg adverts. No one can seriously expect Scarlett Johansson undressing herself in the living room and perfectly clean dishes on a Monday night. However, it does seem a lot more complicated than in previous decades. A classified advert in the local paper once provided all the basic details and your moving in date was effectively year zero. A fresh slate with bright new people. And while it’s hardly a revolutionary tactic in 2012, many people are now tempted to punch their new flatmate’s name into a search engine before they move in. Social control has always been aided and abetted by new forms of technology and with trawls of personal data going back to the early 1990s, your new flatmate’s life story is just waiting to be read.

In the pre-industrial era, the English and Scottish church-states controlled the sex lives, religious practices and all forms of everyday behaviour through the stoking of village gossip. Anyone working in a hostile office will argue nothing much has changed. But minding people’s business has always been a trait of small villages and they have traditionally ensured that no wrong undoing went untold. Privacy is a modern luxury from a historical perspective and only became available after the capitalist toils of the Industrial Revolution.

While the majority of urban Britons remain fervently individualist in their approach to life, technology has now ensured that the world has become a village again. Google stalking is a relatively new means of social control and at the touch of a button our collective lips have become narrowed – sharpened from making judgements. New flatmates trawling Google for information on their future roomies is one thing but when work colleagues or future partners begin to feel the urge it becomes far more sinister. With your personal history lingering on the cliff edge of an internet search engine, there is no limit to how Google (if used effectively) will harvest its victims.

Only recently a human resources executive, John Flexman, 34, was sacked by his employer over his profile on the business networking site LinkedIn. His crime was ticking the “career opportunities” box.  Having your boss stalk you on LinkedIn is bad enough but to be sacked for contemplating a future career is a grim indication of how the tide is turning. George Orwell was correct in that sense but what he didn’t predict is that everyone would willingly sign themselves up for it.

Social control inevitably leads to some form of censorship and has led to fake email accounts being used when applying for flats or even jobs, as this partly ensures you can’t be stalked back. Being yourself has its consequences. So regardless of whether you are interesting, quirky, weird or absolutely brilliant, there are millions who may think differently when they type your email address into a search engine. Fresh starts have become things of the past and moderating your online behaviour has now become the norm.Village life has gone digital folks and in the post-internet age there are no longer any hiding places from wagging tongues.

Down and Out in Occupy London

Dark, brooding and incongruously ugly, the Occupy London’s Tent City offers an apocalyptic vision of a post-recession Britain. A nightmarish vision of austerity, middle-class slum or a utopian commune, it really depends on your point of view. Marxist cuckoos in the Anglican’s nest, the anti-capitalist protesters have turned the public piazza outside St Paul’s Cathedral into a new found democracy. Organised by a hash tag and riddled with contradictions, the Occupy protesters are a malleable bunch. Predominately under the age of thirty, if not younger, the hardcore militants protesting at St Paul’s are invariably white educated liberals or students as they are more commonly known.

Campaigning against banker bonuses, corporate greed and the grotesque spectacle of UK business executives giving themselves a 50% increase in their salaries. Something had to be done. Identifying what is wrong with modern capitalism but thus far offering no concrete solutions, Occupy London has a lot in common with social-democratic politicians like Barack Obama and Ed Miliband. Awaiting genuine leadership, a big bang moment has yet to strike a chime with the protesters at St Paul’s.

With up to 150 tents living cheek by jowl on frozen concrete, the protesters come from different social and economic backgrounds but slumming it is a real leveller. Speaking about his experience mingling with tramps, George Orwell wrote in The Road to Wigan Pier, “Once you’re in that world and seemingly of it, it hardly matters what you have been in the past. It is a sort of world-within-world where everyone is equal, a small squalid democracy – perhaps the nearest thing to a democracy that exists in England.”

Although unlike the lowly tramps in Orwell’s essay, the anti-capitalist protesters occupying St Paul’s are bound by idealism not poverty. Coming from good homes and largely well-educated, the Occupy camp will have enjoyed wealth, comfort and opportunities for most of their young lives. It is the fear of these privileges being taken away from them that propels them to the streets. Those worst affected by capitalism, the grizzly anonymous men loitering in street corners drinking cider, are nowhere to be seen. Instead a bizarre congregation of misfits preside over a spectacle of awareness against a system that continues to feed them.

As the global economic crisis of 2008 has already shown, ordinary people have become helpless components in a computerised market system, which we are seemingly powerless to challenge or change. And nothing will change as a result of this protest camp. To pretend otherwise is to miss the point entirely. Occupy London is merely a piss stain on the carpet of the establishment. A metaphorical protest that is more likely to be dismantled by dropping temperatures than police bailiffs. However, it offers a fascinating insight into the collective values of middle-class idealism. Those whose essential needs have been satisfied and yet dream of changing the world order for the greater good of society.

With police thermal images showing 90% of tents at St Paul’s are unoccupied in the early hours, the protesters have been accused of hypocrisy and self-indulgence. Returning home to warm bedrooms, eating gourmet sandwiches from a nearby Marks and Spencers and tweeting solidarity on luxury smartphones, there are benefits to capitalism that not even the most militant-protester would want to lose. This fractious community are representative of an increasingly divided country, angry at injustice and corporate greed, but still more likely to pay homage to Steve Jobs than Karl Marx. Unnerving as it might be to suggest, the otherwise noble idealism of the protesters regularly falls short at the first touch of reality. All the while the genuinely impoverished and historical victims of the market system are nowhere to be seen.

Up a Gumtree

Gumtree has played a part in most people’s lives since its conception in 2000. Providing the great British public with many of its essential needs for well over a decade – whether it’s a new shed, one night stand or an unhinged flatmate, the online classified website has it all. On forming part of our digital furniture like television adverts and BBC weathermen did in the 1980s, the website provides a universal portal for people to share, trade and form new relationships. Embraced by the illiterate and super educated alike, Gumtree has cut through social and racial differences and provides a welcoming home for everyone in society.

Modern flatshares are almost entirely reliant on the success of a classified ad. What I have noticed is the clear discrimination working-class men face in trying to find a place to stay on Gumtree. The majority of the London flatshare adverts state they are after ‘female professionals’ or if gender is not an issue then professionals or students may only apply. Where is the guy who works in the crisp factory going to live? Is a ‘professional girl’ in a call centre working as a customer service representative a more desirable member of society than a hard working plumber on 35k a year?

Sticking to our own kind is entirely natural and women in particular have to be careful. Gumtree is a feral website and provides an anonymous forum for the dispossessed, lonely and members of society that nobody else cares about. Usually they are male but not exclusively. Gumtree has also exposed a shocking increase in illiteracy levels in this country. This poor guy certainly didn’t use a spell checker before replying to my flat advert in 2008.

hi there

i just wants to know if ur room is still avilbell,so i can halla at ya and c if u avbel to rent me one of those room witch going to be free by 12th of march.well i am studint n i allredy have my acommodation booked till 10th of march so i tink if ur room is going 2 be free n if u dunt have any problem with having 21 years old studint around,Every ting going 2 be allright.if u dunt mind ill going 2 leave u my number so u can get back 2 me.

Sean

Suffice to say my room was not ‘avilbell’ to Sean but after meeting a series of freaks, misfits and miscreants from across Europe and being rejected by all of them. Desperation takes hold and you have to take leave of your prejudices in order to pay the rent. As a result I have shared a living space with a motley crew of bizarre characters courtesy of Gumtree. For while the silent majority have been lovely, friendly and thoroughly decent people; like the American House of Representatives, the lunatic fringe always seems to have a disproportionate influence on any flatshare experience.

Some of my flatshare highlights have included a homophobic cleaning Nazi, a manically depressed doctor and one insanely hairy Georgian. All of these characters proved to be insufferable over time. It usually takes about a month before the hidden nuances of these professionals are fully exposed. For like George Orwell in his book ‘Down and Out in Paris and London’, I too have met “eccentric people – people who have fallen into solitary, half-mad grooves of life and given up trying to be normal or decent”. Alas there is now a familiar place for the eccentric and ill-balanced to find a communal home, but I can’t help wish they would stick to buying a garden shed.

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Think before you click

On becoming increasingly worried I am becoming addicted to Facebook, I began to investigate why I incessantly clicked on my smartphone for messages and comments I knew weren’t there. It made no sense for me to continually log in for updates when I had checked 14 seconds earlier. Alas I continue to tap away at my glass pane for salvation and while I might have a case of undiagnosed OCD, I suspect something more profound is controlling my urges. By clicking compulsively I am sub-consciously longing to be rewarded by some form of human attention.

Social networking is highly addictive and one of the dangers of this artificial world is that feeds into a particularly modern form of estrangement. Never before has society been so well connected yet the bite-sized nature of the internet often leaves me feeling empty. More so I find myself longing for when people wrote or described their experiences rather than just upload photographs. Writing is never static and can be magically conjured up in a letter, email, blog or an even an instantaneous conversation with a likeminded friend. The danger with the transient nature of modern communications is that any prose will be lost at the time of delivery and there will never be an effective method of preserving your electric thoughts.

When I found myself on holiday in St Ives last year, I had to endure the trauma of my phone dying and being without the internet for three days. Suddenly I had to physically buy a newspaper to satisfy my hunger for stories, news and articles. Once my compulsion could no longer be satisfied, I relaxed and began to enjoy my immediate surroundings and forgot about the trivia electronically stored in my pocket. On returning home to London and logged into Tweetdeck, I was enormously deflated by how utterly inane some of the messages were. Violent streams of spam, link repetition and empty RIP tributes to dead actors, whom the majority of tweeters had probably never heard of until Gabriel blew his horn.

What I fear the most about the proliferation of social networking is the uniformity of taste on applications such as Facebook, Twitter and the truly awful Foursquare. When the majority of people use the same websites, it ruins a romantic idea, of there being a sense of depth or continuity with previous generations. As while there are tremendous benefits in the evolution of technology, I also think it will be responsible for the end of a specific type of geographical culture. The world is getting smaller and mass production is getting so big. If everyone orbits the same ubiquitous superbrands then we are in serious danger of becoming the same.

While discovering new technologies can be exciting and rewarding, I find the lack of originality of the people using these applications to be very unimaginative. When I ceased to have internet access in St Ives, I began to compose my own thoughts, explored the world with virgin eyes and documented my thoughts with a pen. Then I began to remember the great travel writing of Patrick Leigh Femour, Laurie Lee and George Orwell and how their journeys painted new landscapes, religions, people and culture in such a vivid and beautiful way. Their prose remains highly original and distinctive pieces of work, which retains an individuality and a romantic sense the writers were genuinely living their experiences rather than inanely reporting them.

The medium isn’t the only message and while I don’t want to reject new technology, I feel there is some value in disconnecting from the emptiness which pervades social networking. Living in a world where everyone is their own personal marketing assistant, I find myself immersed in this digital matrix. But like junk food on the high street, I recognise it’s not always good for me. Switching off might well be preferable to refreshing an overpriced glass screen and hoping to see a red digit on Facebook.

Leaving the 20th Century

When I first heard the Manics were releasing a new single called ‘(It’s Not War) Just The End Of Love’, I felt a minor sense of exhilaration but this was quickly followed by embarrasment. The Manics always make me cringe. They have done so from the age of 23. The band’s latest single while gloriously melodic is lyrically stodgy and indulges in meaningless platitudes. It is a thoroughly decent pop song nevertheless but it will pass through most people’s daily lives unnoticed. Anna Friel looks absolutely gorgeous as a sexually frustrated librarian and how they managed to get the brilliant Michael Sheen to take part I’ll never know. Although him getting the opportunity to lust over Anna Friel on a chess table probably had something to do with it.

The Manics and teenage hyperbole will never be separated. In many ways they were the closest I ever came to joining a cult. As a shy Scottish teenager I can vividly remember reading their biographies, listening to CDs and reading selective works of George Orwell, Jack Kerouac, Slyvia Plath and Allen Ginsberg. On becoming an obsessive fan in the late nineties, I fully immersed myself in the DIY fan culture and began collecting all of their albums, books and videos at record fairs in Aberdeen.

Not having any money I could rarely afford to buy their handmade early singles but every month I would go just to look at the Situationist artwork or bootleg videos. During the granite wintry months, I would stumble wearing an Aberdeen football scarf and make friends with Clash fans in vintage punk jackets covered in snotty white tipp-ex. Despite knowing I didn’t have any money to feed my habit, I would go back return every month because obsession compelled me every time. What I ask myself is would this happen now? Sure you have vinyl obsessives and niche dance guys looking for old records to pillage, sample and plunder. Otherwise all you have to do is type in a few words into Google and every interview, demo tape and muffled remark is available free online.

The last time I saw them play live was at the Edinburgh Corn Exchange in April 2005 and I vowed at the time that I would never see them again.

The Manics reached their saturation point years ago though and it felt strange seeing them live again. There was something serene and ghostly calm about them, previous landmark singles that were once powerful statements had now become cabaret and were played with a jukebox familiarity. The Holy Bible songs were absolutely amazing, especially Of Walking Abortion and If White America, which were like vicious snarling scabs and for blurring white seconds I felt like I was obsessed and eighteen all over again. They ended their set with a crashing version of Motown Junk, which started off with Paradise City by Guns and Roses and it was coolest send off ever! The thudding drums whipped the crowd to a chaotic frenzy and it was the perfect ending to a heavenly evening. It was the goodbye moment I had always wanted.

By keeping to my word I’ve managed to keep my memories intact. In a way I actually admire their resilence and how they’ve managed to maintain keep their profile up after 20 years on the road. It is quite remarkable really because it is not like they were ever musical pioneers. Although I’ve now come to realise that indie music is for kids really and this can lead to a lot of heartache when you get older.

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