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.

Dreams of a Life

In 2003, the skeleton of 38-year-old Joyce Carol Vincent was discovered in a North London bedsit with the television still on. She had been dead for three years. Her remains were found alongside half-wrapped Christmas presents and the haunting flicker of BBC One. Joyce’s body was so badly decomposed she could only be identified by comparing dental records with an old holiday photograph of her smiling. How she died doesn’t actually matter. What is truly shocking is how someone could remain dead for three years without anybody noticing. In a ghoulish tale of neglect and social dislocation, Dreams of a Life is a story about youth, friendship and missed opportunities. With no family and her four sisters refusing to take part, the docudrama pieces together Joyce Vincent’s anonymous life.

Directed by Carol Morley, the film interviews a handful of former-work colleagues, who reminisce about the water cooler moments and office parties they shared with Joyce in the 1980s. Now in their forties, there was unnerving sense of how our loves and opportunities narrow with each passing year. How meaningful their friendship with Joyce stretched beyond the superficialities of office small talk is questionable. Likewise her ex-flatmates appeared genuine but again unaware of her true character. Nobody it seemed knew Joyce Vincent. A vivacious and charismatic girl in her prime, the former City girl had never been shy of male attention. However, like so many troubled women, men were a shady reference in her life. With her emotional rock coming in the shape of a bird-faced colleague, she drifted in and out of a series of broken relationships and spent her final years in a women’s refuge.

With the gaps in the narrative proving frustratingly esoteric towards the end, the story of Joyce Vincent’s life remains incomplete. Set in the early 2000s and in the absence of the social networking websites that dominate our lives today, Joyce left this world without even a missed call. It is bad enough turning forty let alone living on your own. As the years slowly become decades, friends will inevitably come and go and a once beautiful, popular woman ended up spending her final moments utterly alone. Like a modern tale from Edgar Allen Poe the bank continued to pay her bills but nobody wrote or called. Invisible transactions kept on flowing all the while a scrambled television poured life into Joyce Vincent’s unvisited tomb.

Ready to Start

With too many New Year resolutions to mention and certainly none of them worth publishing online. It feels strange to be optimistic about 2012. While exercising more, eating less crisps and spending less time on Facebook are noble aspirations in the good times. Anyone reading the news would be forgiven for feeling suicidal. With storm laden metaphors sweeping across Europe, unemployment rising and a lost generation confined to living in bedsits and flatshares until they are fifty. There appears to be precious little to be optimistic about in 2012.

High unemployment certainly hasn’t put people off from trying to find jobs in London. Outside the relative comfort zone of rented accommodation, the city’s youth hostels are crammed full of Spaniards looking for work in Prêt A Manger and Starbucks. Serving egg and cress sandwiches are certainly nobody’s idea of a career but it is a job. A perfectly acceptable one if the alternative is sleeping next to a Lego pirate ship underneath the watchful eye of Mum and Dad. Doing nothing is not an option, or at least it shouldn’t be. Not everyone is able to leave home in search of work but those who do should be admired for doing so.

Curiously enough when was the last time someone British served you in that mouthful of a sandwich shop? Not that it matters but somehow it does. For job prospects are bleak and the ’los indignados’ of Spain are leaving in their droves to find employment to serve Britons over-priced sandwiches. With young people’s prospects belittled or written off as part of a ‘lost generation’. Is there a genuine alternative to this pre-scripted misery? Staying at the root of problem is a not a good idea and with reports of 18, 795 people chasing 318 jobs in Hull, then anyone young enough to move elsewhere is well advised to do so.

Already a social revision of expectations is taking shape and the middle-class dream of a range rover, dog, three kids and a wholesome marriage is not going to be an option for everyone. Well it won’t be unless there are better job opportunities and with growing economies in Brazil, Russia, India and China, then learning a new language in 2012 certainly won’t do anyone any harm. If well-educated Spanish graduates are prepared to move to Britain to serve coffees and sandwiches then perhaps it is time to look further afield ourselves?

Vince Cable recently acknowledged in an online chat with Gransnet that the “days of job security, cheap housing and guaranteed private pensions are over, but hard working enterprising young people will succeed”. Unwittingly he captured the innovative spirit of the Spanish emigrating to Britain to find work and learn the world’s global language at the same time. As a result the UK workplace is more competitive than ever before and when trilingual European graduates come in search of menial jobs then everyone has to get their act together.

Getting ahead in life has always been a struggle. And there has to be far greater innovation and courage in finding work that is stimulating and meaningful. Whether it’s freelancing online, starting a new business on eBay, learning a new language or moving overseas for the job you can’t find at home. Meekly accepting a miserable hand from a parochial negative government is not an option. Centre-left parties have failed to provide a credible alternative to the austerity cuts sweeping across Europe. Somebody has to provide a new vision for the future and with technology providing new opportunities at the touch of a button, why can’t it be you?

In these plagued streets

Much has been made about the social alienation felt by the London rioters this week. Confused, bewildered and completely unable to relate to haiku of despair on their television screens; the middle-classes have been scrambling for reasons behind the violence. Overcrowding, poverty and unemployment are to blame say the left. But rioting is about power and there are deeply complex reasons for why these incidents have taken place. As police sirens and helicopters pierce through from my South Hackney window, it’s important to remember that social alienation is not the reserve of ‘feral rats’ smashing up apartment stores.

Nearly everyday I buy my groceries at the nearby Co-op across the road, and while it’s a bit expensive and the food isn’t very good, I usually can’t be bothered walking anywhere else. I’ve been going to the same shop for over two years and everyday I meet the same dead-eyed man behind the till who never fails to blank me. Now if I were scanning pints of milk, biscuits and ham slices for eight hours a day, I suppose I wouldn’t be too enthusiastic about greeting the next customer either. It’s just that after two long years, I had hoped the sad lonely man would have recognised me by now. Alas this is modern day London and community relations are forever a transient affair.

Living in a transaction based society, I could have easily been using one of those bleeping machines at the Co-op such was the human void. At the nearby Tesco store, which have spread across the country like a virus, I experience the same robotic gestures and beeping devices on a regular basis. With nobody holding any allegiances to anyone and affluence the only barometer of success, I find myself an isolated consumer on a residential council estate. Foreign flatmates share my living space and outside the post-war estate is full of anonymous strangers who only know themselves.

Inner cities are harsh, unforgiving environments where the architecture is brutal and greenery is a luxury confined to the affluent suburbs. Everyday I say good morning to the little black lady cleaning the stairwell and she is my only community friend. Next door is a Spanish speaking family but I don’t know their names or what they do, and this is despite being their neighbour for over two years. All I do know is that they have the world’s most irritating dog and I can’t imagine what her shrill barking does for community relations. Apart from that I could die tomorrow and nobody on the estate would even notice. Living in a metropolis where nobody seems to care or know each other, it creates a social void where respect is very much a currency in decline.

However, there is one family on the estate that everybody recognises but not in a good way. Sitting on their concrete patio with the door wide open, the family are a Channel 5 documentary in waiting. In fact they represent a grotesque parody of Britain’s ‘Sick Society’. The kids are always topless and sit outdoors next to a flea ridden mattress, with streams of rubbish spilling out from the hallway onto the pavement. Sipping tins of cider and low price lager all day long, the fat family provide a comic spectacle to an otherwise faceless community.

Outside their kitchen window, they have a carved wooden emblem stating ‘Hello, Welcome and Piss Off’ as a greeting to strangers. Presumably this is to ward off evil spirits. Sadly it tells you all you ever needed to know about this family. Such charming manners don’t usually encourage people to ask about their well being. One can only wonder if their kids took part in the rioting this week. On the surface they suffer from all the swamp conditions of a sick society – poverty, boredom, unemployment and a perennial lack of space. But judging by the size of them rioting would probably seem like far too much work. Violence has now spread to other English cities with similar social conditions. Meanwhile across the road at the Co-op, the sad lonely man remains dead-eyed and aloof, swiping hummus, Galaxy chocolate and copies of The Guardian to familiar looking strangers.

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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A View from a Bridge

Dream Collapsing

On flying over Northern Spain on route to Oporto, I remarked to a Portuguese nurse sitting next to me about how wonderfully green the landscape appeared from above. With evergreen forests and misty pockets of silver trailing in my wake, the descent upon Portugal’s second city had already begun to take shape. Any assumption that Portugal is a geographical extension of Spain is woefully misleading on a number of levels. Unlike the Iberian aridity of the south, the Douro region is predominately Celtic and Germanic in stock. Situated in the corn, cabbage and port region of Portugal, the northern green fields could easily pass of as Ireland to an unknowing visitor. For there are more flowers and bushes in Portugal and there are more trees, including the sprawling eucalyptus, which are noticeably absent on the neighbouring Castilian plateau.

Somewhat fittingly Portugal has now followed the Irish Republic to become the third member of the eurozone to be bailed out by the EU and IMF. Economically weak in an uncertain world, the Portuguese frontiers have remained virtually unchanged since 1139. They removed their last dictator, António de Oliveira Salazar, in 1970 and had a democratic revolution in 1974 and like the Portuguese nurse on the plane; they are one of the most congenial of Europeans.

Youth in Revolt

According to my erudite source on the plane, the country’s student population celebrate Queima das Fitas (Burning of the Ribbons) in the first week of May. On arriving in a university town on the verge of a drunken apogee, I checked in at the Porto Spot Hostel, and booked myself a sleepless night inside a white walled dorm. Despite my room having the capacity to host three weary bodies, I fortunately only had to share with a pepper bald German man.

Travelling is a privilege and after exploring the continent in my early twenties, I still have fond memories of budgeting every penny and dining in car parks eating ripped bread and cheese. Despite growing up and finding myself desperate to progress beyond shared accommodation, I all too frequently discover the invisible hand of economics has a far greater influence over my upwardly mobile pretentions.

Fortunately the money you might save on accommodation can be invested elsewhere and on departing the boutique hostel, I began to explore the melancholy splendour of Porto. Most normal cities would consider being labelled ‘workmanlike’ an insult and the commercial district does stir with ordinariness. Deeply atmospheric and exceedingly ramshackle in places, many of the city’s buildings are in a dilapidated state of repair. Most of their finest religious buildings are adorned with blue mosaic tiles, which are the ubiquitous emblems of Portugal, and provide the country with a truly beautiful motif.

Close to the Praça dos Leões lies one of the most outlandish and beautiful bookshops in Europe. Opened in 1906, Livraria Lello is an intricate wooden cathedral with a stunning fairy tale staircase inspired by the Parisian galleries of Lafayette. There are not too many bookshops in the world with a neo-Gothic staircase and a stained glass skylight. With a luscious red carpet leading its readers towards a literary heaven, English speakers may not be able to buy a book in a familiar language but the art nouveau exterior is worth the hike up Rua das Carmelitas on its own.

On arriving at the 18th century quayside, the iconic double-decker bridge, Ponte Dom Luis I, provides a truly magnificent spectacle across the River Douro. This marine blue bridge is one of the wonders of Portugal. Hosting a progressive and modern tram network and providing stunning views of the Cais de Ribeira quayside and Vila Nova de Gaia. Squawking seagulls can be seen following wooden boats full of white-shirted visitors from Germany and the Home Counties. And old ladies and housewives can be seen hanging their washing out to dry.

Porto’s charms lie in its unspoken cracks and idyllic forgetfulness, something no tourist board could ever successfully advertise. More discerning visitors to Porto like to enjoy samples of Portugal’s famous port lodges such as Sandemans or Grahams in the independent municipality of ‘Gaia’. Famous brands advertise their lodges using large Hollywood signs in a bold attempt to seduce tourists over from the Cais de Ribeira to the rickety winding lanes of time forgotten.

Bom Apetite

Vila Nova de Gaia is a romantic throwback to the 1930s and grapes have flown down the river for over three centuries. This historic process helps provide wine lovers across the globe with ruby, tawny and white tipples, which are traditionally enjoyed at the end of a beautiful meal. Fittingly back at the river front, I enjoyed my first evening dish with a regional Porto delicacy – the infamous Francesinhe. Scotland would never have been able to live it down if they had served up this culinary invention. Drenched in saturated fat and quite literally a heart attack on a plate, Francesinhe means “little French girl” in Portuguese. Inspired by the story of a returning emigrant, the sandwich’s composition involves multiple layers of bread, cured ham, sausages and steak, which is outrageously soaked in melted cheese and tomato beer sauce.

Sitting on one of the hundreds of outdoor café tables looking across the river, I instantly regretted not eating one of their freshly caught sardines. The local ‘delicacy’ is so violently nefarious, I personally believe the Francesinhe should made be illegal under European Law. Alas not all southern Mediterranean cuisines are healthy but Porto remains a city with a poetic sensibility. From the lush vegetation of its surrounding countryside to the urban charms of the city centre, rarely if ever will visitors be offered such a rich casket of wonders.

Squatting is Free

Squatting is hot property in London after the Really Free School set up class in Guy Ritchie’s six million pound townhouse in Fitzroy Square. The Free School’s aims are somewhat unclear but their primary cause is to expose the marketisation of higher education. The squatters have organised a full programme of lectures, seminars, classes and film screenings to provide what they consider to be an alternative to formal education. Although from reading their online manifesto, I suspect their chief propagandist did not attend many English Literature tutorials with sentences such as “Freeskool iz not a zoo. We have unicorns to fly and kingdoms to destroy”.

But regardless of their lofty aspirations, the Free School’s subsequent eviction from Fitzroy Square to a nearby 200 year old pub in Rathbone Street. The education rebels have provoked a national debate about the virtue of squatting in a country with 870,000 empty buildings. In a lively discussion on Comment is Free, one Guardian reader expressed the view that “squats provide an alternative setup outside the mainstream where people are not bound by dull things like paying the rent, financial planning, justification and subordination”.

While nobody wants to pay rent or be subject to financial constraints, squatting does evoke the cuckoo conundrum as handsomely illustrated in this episode of BBC Springwatch. The nest of a reed warbler is taken over by a cuckoo chick and commands the warblers to feed him until he reaches a truly monstrous size. As a stunned observer of this ritual begging routine, I do wonder how evolution has allowed these lazy upstarts carte blanche to live rent free in a fiercely competitive and unfair world.

And while squatters can live a bohemian lifestyle in abandoned properties without paying any rent. The majority of ordinary citizens pay high rates and taxes for public services most squatters take for granted. Fairness is at the moral heart of the squatting debate and left-wing journalist Laurie Penny eloquently argues in their favour.

It is manifestly in the interests of those who own and hold all this disused property, including the millionaires who make up the Cabinet, to misrepresent Britain’s 15,000 squatters and occupiers as in the words of the Times — a “dangerous scourge”. Otherwise the hundreds of thousands of people paying 90% of their salary for poky rooms hours from their places of work might start getting ideas.

With affordable housing in short supply and millions of young people confined to paying huge portions of their wages for rented boxes in the sky. Britain’s housing crisis is likely to continue and squatters often divide local communities when they take up residence in nearby abandoned buildings. As when a group of anti-materialist hippies began squatting in an abandoned Walkabout pub in Islington last spring they eventually overcame suspicion and became a welcome addition to the local community.

In stark contrast this Australian documentary from 1983 about punk squatters in North London provoked a less welcoming response from residents. Squatters are always likely to divide opinion and as long as law abiding citizens passively acquiesce in a society that tolerates obscene bank bonuses and tax avoidance from multi-national corporations. Then it doesn’t matter whether squatters are middle class students rebelling against their “oppressive” parents, anarchist punks or free education activists taking over luxury buildings. If wealthy property owners are careless enough to leave houses vacant for years and do nothing about it, then it is hardly surprising if cuckoo’s fly in and expect to be taken care of by the wealthy.

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