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.

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?

Heart Shaped Box

At the beginning it was the maddening fluidity of her walk and the way she made you breathlessly silent just by her presence alone. She never spoke to anyone. And together we felt the imprisonment of being a boy and how our job was to merely create a noise that might fascinate her. With her soulful blue eyes and ripe, pert and desirable mouth, I felt a strange unison with my anonymous colleagues. Well I did until she turned into the kitchen and the shrill ping of the microwave crushed any lingering feeling of desire. For the anticipation lay in her walk and how with every step she took she was a heartbeat closer to my own.

As you might have already gathered by now, offices can be notoriously dull places to earn a living. If you spend the lion’s share of the Gregorian calendar sitting in front of computer, then inevitably the mind will begin to wander. Sometimes I have tried to fancy virtually anyone just to escape the menial wonders of Microsoft Excel. Spending up to eight hours per day in the same allocated spot, usually performing the same tasks without thinking, is almost asking for you to fall in love for 16 seconds. Albeit with someone wildly out of your league, grossly inappropriate, engaged or the intern with phosphorescent eyes and probably still in her early twenties.

Spending so much time in the same place with the same people will inevitably rouse the most dangerous of human emotions – curiosity. As a result most people will develop a crush on a work colleague at some point in their lives. Even if it is someone you wouldn’t ordinarily find attractive in real life. Never advisable and almost certainly best avoided, office liaisons usually end in disaster and whether it’s excruciatingly embarrassing or incredibly painful. The bitter ending will provide a malnourished office with juicy scraps of gossip for years to come.

Curiosity is a curse that has afflicted even some of the most intelligent men and women in the workplace. As anyone engaged in a secret romantic tryst can usually see the tsunami galloping in the distance. But like the stupid footballers who have sexual affairs with reality TV contestants, they continue to believe in the self-inflicted illusion that no one will find out. Although no one will fail to spot the tell-tail signs of you arriving together at the same time, usually late with a sheepish grin and ruffled unwashed hair.

All it takes is one perceptive mind and the keyboards will be rattling out scandal until even the cleaner finds out. Usually such childish behaviour is fueled by jealously at how their previously anonymous colleagues could be having such an exhilaratingly good time without them. The lovers inbox will be a ripe treat and they won’t give a damn about what anyone else thinks. Until it all goes wrong that is.

For silent curiosity is always more exciting than the real thing. As like the regal beauty that left her male colleagues twitching in synchronised admiration, the attraction ultimately lay in enigmatic silence and how difficult she was to attain. Expectation usually kills a party and broadening your horizons away from your desk is probably wiser than aimlessly seeking a distraction from it.

Spring Break

On working in close proximity to Regent’s Park, I cherish the advent of spring as I can now go for a lunchtime walk inside the most attractive park in London. The stirring of nature’s passion has seen thousands of people descend upon the beautiful green plains in the last few weeks. This precious unpaid hour is always welcome in warmer climes but even during the harshest winters I have stoically insisted upon every second of my lunch break.

As a young child the clattering of the school bell signalled an hour of endless possibilities. One lunch time (a long time ago) in northern Scotland, I led a stunning coup d’état against our primary school matron, as hundreds of children gained their first experience of a democratic rebellion. Football had been banned on the school banks because it was supposedly too wet underfoot for hundreds of little feet to chase after a greasy leather orb. A handwritten petition circulated down in the concrete jungle and my fellow rebels enjoyed our moment in the sun, only to be reprimanded by an hour-long detention on the strike of the home time bell.

Despite having no discernible talent for football, I still fondly remember coming back to class soaked in sweat and mud. The ferocious competiveness of our games and high pitched squabbles over what constituted an imaginary bar are one of the few things from school I actually miss. Growing older and being fortunate enough to attend two of Scotland’s finest universities, I realise now that everyday is like a lunch break for an arts undergraduate. Student life on a picture book campus will provide for a wonderful education and grants unlimited access to nearby bars, cafes and newsagents. There is no such thing as a late lunch when you crawl out of bed at the back of noon.

On graduating and having to pay rent in the city of Glasgow, I found myself temping for discredited financial institutions and lunch suddenly became very precious indeed.  When the clocks go back in October, it’s almost like the Arctic Circle imposes a military curfew on Scottish daylight but I always left the office in order to claim my sixty minutes of freedom. Glasgow is like a miniature Chicago with its American style grid system and wanting to claim my precious hour of daylight, I would munch upon cheese and gammon sandwiches, crisps and two pieces of fruit on a well healed parade around the city.

Glasgow is one of the greatest Victorian cities in the world but since I was unwilling to power the glass turbines of big business for the minimum wage, I departed southwards towards London’s advertising and digital heartlands in Goodge Street. Lunch time suddenly became a flexible experience and I can now eat some of the finest cuisines in the world on my unpaid hour. Unprofitable media companies squabble over free deliveries of little Greek pies and nearby cafes, bars and stylish restaurants offer a penny sucking haven for anyone wanting to escape the soulless matrix of databases, targets and Microsoft Excel.

As the clocks move forward and the vernal equinox stimulates life on previously cold soil. The green tranquility of Regent’s Park attracts a primordial gathering around its duck ponds and playing fields. Lunch time may only be one hour but it remains universally celebrated across the Western world and something savoured by school children, workers and chief executives alike.

My last bite

As food prices continue to rise and my salary unable to keep up with the rate of inflation, I faced a grim economic decision and made cuts to my lunch budget. While I have no intention of starving this year, I can no longer justify spending excess of £5 a day in cafes, bars and delicatessens. At lunch time I now have to unwrap wholemeal sandwiches from a recycled Tesco bag and savour the grim banality of an economic recession. With my taste buds regressing back to the 1980s, I became nostalgic for the culinary delights of the credit boom when it was acceptable to spend well beyond your means.

Lunches can brighten up even the most mediocre day at work. At the strike of noon, I consider lunch time in Fitzrovia to be a truly glorious affair and not just because I am not working. Fitzrovia is arguably one of the best places in London to enjoy a mid-day feast. With almost every world cuisine available, I would regularly satisfy my carnal desires at the Goodge Place Food Market. Despite my modest salary, I have always strongly believed that beautiful food should not be restricted to advertising executives queuing up for crispy garlic prawns, chicken burritos or Lebanese falafel from Hoxton Beach.

On becoming accustomed to enjoying a grand luncheon everyday, I would attend trendy cafes and rotate my meals depending on whether I fancied Japanese noodles, Pasta alla carbonara or a Vietnamese Bánh mì sandwich. Alternatively if I was running low on funds, I would resort to a taste of real life at Greggs and feel unhealthily Scottish for 48 hours. Such poor eating habits became the norm towards the end of last year when I began my efficiency drive. While saving is now an economic necessity, I sometimes feel disillusioned eating wholemeal sandwiches and occasionally slip back into decadent ways.

Food is one of life’s great pleasures and one of my favourite cafes in Fitzrovia is the charming Italia Uno, which serves rustic dishes and beautiful Italian sandwiches. Such is the popularity of the cafe you will regularly see immigration-style queues in anticipation of a cold slice of prosciutto. While undoubtedly popular with local residents, the cafe’s interior is fairly ordinary and embraces the traditional Italian fare of cooking, football shirts and Berlusconi inspired bad television.

Customers should wait until after 2pm for the peak lunch crowds to disperse before entering this family run outlet. Almost all of the regular clientele are from the Bel Paese and their sandwich menu is absolutely divine. The classic Piccante sandwich with extra sun-dried tomatoes is the undisputed favourite and while at £3.80 a sandwich it is very reasonably priced. Italian sandwiches are now confined to a distant memory as my lunches are forcibly digested in front of a keyboard. Unable to turn back the clock, I continue to walk past the advertising executives eating Lebanese falafel and can only marvel at what unrestricted wealth can buy in this age of austerity.

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Up in the Air

On writing from a rented box in the sky, I find myself staring out towards a concrete forest of tower blocks, cranes and scaffolding. With the average price of a room in London costing up to £150 a week, I like many others have found myself lured by the promise of cheaper rents in the east. Having spent my first six months in the capital living in genteel Chiswick, I felt bound by the invisible hand when I moved to East London. Unless you have a professional job or enjoy the luxury of being subsidised by your family, the cost of housing in the capital is increasingly unaffordable. Where the majority of people now have to enter the Gumtree lottery and throw a huge portion of their income on mediocre accommodation.

After tiring of coming up for air in West London, I decided to abandon suburbia and make a radical lifestyle change in late 2007. On moving to Whitechapel in search of affordable housing, I can recall my first evening exploring the Victorian side streets and becoming acquainted with inner city life.

Whitechapel is physically unattractive and only really comes into life in black light, where it becomes a true urban menace with sirens, graffiti and encroaching cranes. There are skinhead cockney geezers sitting on broken bar stools and outside you will discover complete freaks walking past you like an abandoned crisp packet. When I refer to ‘freaks’ I don’t mean alternative middle-class people in ‘controversial’ attire.These freaks are complete fucking weirdos, who grunt aggressive noises and there was one in particular that made me want to court an instant metallic death just to avoid making eye-contact.

Whitechapel is an extremely vibrant place and ugliness is always like to have a seductive tonic. After making eyes with the Katie Holmes barmaid the other night I almost dropped my glass in shock. It only lasted a few seconds but it just goes to show how rewarding life can be when you unearth a flower in the dustbin.

Undeniably raw, angry and glittering underneath the Gerkin, I found myself estranged in this new world order. Like those before me, I came in search of affordable accommodation and while initially I felt out of place in Whitechapel. Economic chains do ultimately bind us all and like the Bengali men selling fruit and vegetables in plastic tents, I came across another demographic earning a living on the floor.

Whitechapel regularly hosts walking tours for middle class tourists wanting to discover more about Jack the Ripper’s murder spree in the late 19th century. Although why a misogynistic killer has now become a form of street entertainment for middle class tourists is a fascinating one. At the end of this century will Rothbury become a tourist attraction for huddled groups wanting to discover more about a sadistic Huck Finn with a sawn off shotgun?

As the Gerkin continues to shine in face of violent cuts in public spending, I find the housing situation in London virtually unbearable. With modern advancements in technology, I feel very frustrated that employees must continue to live within commuting distance of the workplace. If people could work at home on the internet like so much of our social and daily lives. Then no longer would people have to pay ridiculously high rents for rooms in squalid locations.

While you may still find yourself paying £150 a week for a double room it would no longer have to be confined to Central London. Rents in places such as Whitechapel would be able to drop down and greater diversity would be spread across the regions. If only this practice were in place now I could be writing high up in sky overlooking the Mediterranean. Something only mercenary landlords and tube station muggers could take issue with.

Pictures by kind permission of Louis Berk from his book “Walk to Work: from the City to Whitechapel”.

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Arrested Development

WestEndWalk

After the Guardian revealed Lord Wei of Shoreditch is unable to fulfil his Big Society duties because working for free is incompatible with ‘having a life’. Lord Wei not only exposed the sham of a government expecting people to work for nothing in an era of massive spending cuts. Moreover it shone a torch on the murky world of corporate exploitation in the modern workplace. Earlier this week Richard Bilton’s excellent BBC documentary showed how class continues to restrict access to professions and well-paid careers to all but an exclusive pool of well-connected individuals.

Anyone looking for work in the publishing, fashion or media industry will already be familiar with internships. The vast majority of media jobs in Britain are based in London and anyone lucky enough to receive an offer can be expected to work for 3 months unpaid and still have no guarantee of employment. With 1 in 10 graduates now out of work, I can recall my struggle to make a break through after graduating from the University of Glasgow in 2004.

After the privilege of studying at a world-class 15th Century institution, the harsh reality of finding stimulating employment became all too apparent when I temped for the financial services industry. While I wanted to use my creative writing skills for a living, I sorely lacked confidence and with no connections, I found myself trapped in a vicious circle of dead end temping jobs to pay the rent. Glasgow is the call-centre capital of Europe and after graduating, I would turn up every day for £6.04 an hour wearing a Britney Spears headset on behalf of the Scottish Co-Operative Group.

With my dignity in tatters, I quickly realised that in order to improve myself, I had to go down the Scottish voluntary route. By doing so I religiously scoured the internet and worked for free on behalf of tourist boards, local restaurant guides and a global university website. Eventually I quit my administrative day job to focus entirely on voluntary writing positions I had initially agreed to fulfil in my spare time.

On not wanting to let my future references down, I eventually gave them my full working week for nearly 5 months and used credit cards to pay the rent. Clearly unsustainable I fortunately managed to get a salaried media job in London as a result of my volunteering and agreed to move down south.

While I have clearly benefited from volunteering and believe it is often a necessary passage for young people to get ahead. Anyone doing a voluntary internship in London will have astronomical overheads compared to what I had to pay in Glasgow where the cost of living is far cheaper.

If young graduates want a media job in London then they will be expected to serve not one but several unpaid internships before getting a salaried position. Expecting people to work for nothing inevitably favours upper-middle class children from the South East, who have financial support or live within commuting distance of their parent’s home. This new aristocracy of coming from a home owning family is increasingly divisive and helps to form an unfair and disproportionate workplace in some of the most desirable sectors.

Once you’re inside the door then depending on your employer it is increasingly down to the dark arts of networking and internal friendships to progress. While it would be desirable to think you can progress through ability and hard work alone, I often find social intelligence and the ability to ‘work a room’ is all too prominent in making that elusive connection to get ahead. From a personal perspective I have always found the charm offensive very difficult because I don’t have a silver tongue to seduce random strangers at launch parties, meetings or screening invites. We are all made differently and the path ahead is not always going to be a fair or equal one.

When Labour leader Ed Miliband spoke of the British promise being under threat by cuts to public spending. He tapped into a deeper trend of how the current generation cannot expect to exceed the wealth and standard of living of their parents. There is nothing clever about making the best jobs only for the rich and by narrowing the best opportunities to rich home owning families it only serves to create an increasingly divided and unequal society.

Clearly there are social, moral and long-term economic benefits from having a well educated workforce and to frighten off potential students from poorer or lower-middle class backgrounds is foolhardy in the extreme. It makes me extremely angry that higher education is perceived solely as a means for people to make money.

Surely in the current economic climate our future values have to change. We should be looking to create a fairer, balanced and more equal society instead of this myopic chase of prosperity. Even by writing inside a rented box in the sky for nothing, I am still enormously proud of my university education and feel it should be open and accessible to anyone. Something even Lord Wei would agree about as he reduces his voluntary hours in order to pay the bills.

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