Fecal Matter! It's a British Pastime!

It’s been just over a month, and I am still acclimatising back to life in the UK.  Obviously, I’m all a bit Rip Van Winkle.  Everything is the same, everything is different.  The Marmite Scandal was the straw that did for the back of the camel and provoked the writing, but it could have been any number of things really.

The amount of rubbish and dog shit on the pavements and gardens, and along walkways and in parks still astonishes me.  It is embarrassing we have an adjective in one of the names of these isles contradicted by the way in which we are happy for them to look.   T’was ever thus, I suppose, but it has been highlighted after having lived in another country that now makes this an obvious point of difference.  It is more embarrassing, of course, due to the incapable leadership in the country – couldn’t organise a piss-up… how about, couldn’t organise to keep our streets clean?

Television in the UK is incredible.  I know Stephen Fry has quasi-quoted a person who said something along the lines of “a book is like a mirror, if a fool looks in you can’t expect a genius to look out” – a corruption of a Georg Lichtenberg quotation, (but what we would he know he managed to leave the “e” off the end of his name!).  Mr Fry appropriated this quotation to TV and he is as ever correct.  The number of channels and the idiocy of much is papered over with the genius of other…it is the sheer quantity and relentlessness of the TV in the UK that is quite overwhelming.  Again, t’was thusly before I left, it is merely much more so now I’ve returned, and more truculent, seemingly.

I have just had the pleasure of driving in Germany and The Netherlands.  I am still far too nervous at the thought of driving in the UK.  Too many potholes, too narrow roads, too many cars, too much speed.  It is a bizarre spectacle watching British people clog up streets with their four wheeled carriages; households with two, three or more cars.  Pavements with slightly more vehicles on them that dog shit…actually, getting back to the dog shit for a moment: it’s the fact that often parents will have pushchairs so can’t see the shit and then it’s in the tread of the wheel and of their shoes before they even know it.  You can see the indentation and the shitty brown trace marks along the sides of the road.  It’s the fact that the children walking alongside these pushchairs are often distracted speaking with their parents or looking out for badgers or witches and don’t see the shit and then it’s in their footwear and on their hands and wiped god knows where and then the parent is unaware of exactly where the shit has gone and …anyway… in fact, do you think it was ever thus?

As a kid of the 70s, when dogs were often out wandering on their own, there was shit around but I can’t remember half the quantity you encounter on the pavements now.  Perhaps dog dignity meant they would rather not shit where others could see them?  I don’t know…now, of course, dog dignity is absent and they can only shit where their owners take them.  Anyway, I digress.

The UK is a curious country.  I haven’t quite woken up to it properly yet and can’t get the sleep out of my eyes.  It is reassuring to know that there is a ubiquity of Costas in the world, likewise Greggs, and that Soccer Saturday is still an engrossing spectacle, even though all it is is four ex-football players watching four games of football and shrieking and yelling about a national pastime.  I’m looking forward to one other pastime, this coming weekend: The 6 Nations.  I shall, as ever, don something red with feathers on it and shriek and yell at a screen and hope that Wales do the right thing and score more points than the other team.

For the first time in over a decade, though, I shall be doing it at a civilised time and not at stupid o’clock in the morning.

...Rubbish!

**RANT FOLLOWS**

The amount of rubbish that covers Britain is a subject that’s bothered me for a while.  I’ve only been back to the UK for a few short visits since I left in 2006.  The impact the amount of rubbish has is immense.  The country looks disgusting.  It looks like no one gives a care.  I was going to write “gives a shit” but the amount of shit accompanying the rubbish would make that phrase a false one.  It is such an easy fix; but then today I was reminded again why everything is as it is: I witnessed a few minutes of PMQs.

It makes you so proud.

A toadying “would the right honourable lady agree that she’s bloody great and this country is bloody great?” question greeted me.  Then Jeremy Corbyn stood up, asked a question, Theresa May blamed Jeremy Corbyn; Jeremy Corbyn made a statement and sat down, Theresa May pointed out that this was PMQs and he needed to ask a question; riled, Jeremy Corbyn stood up angrily stated that he had asked a question (in his head) and then asked another question, Theresa May started to blame Jeremy Corbyn and then I switched off.

I did not care.

These were the leaders of the country.  It was pathetic.

 

“Oh, Simon, It’s just theatre!”  It’s poor theatre, provincial am-dram full of hams, glances to the wings and butchered lines.  The childish name calling and pointing… someone sat to the left of Theresa May, bloke, couldn’t give you a name, kept mouthing “behave, behave” at one point.  It was too much to stomach.  These are elected officials fawning over each other or gainsaying one another with exaggerated indignation.  These are the people who are handling the single most important transition period in British history since, arguably, the start of the Cold War.  This adolescent bunch of vague unscrupulous voids?  It’s ridiculous.

No wonder people walk past rubbish.  Rubbish is such an easy fix.  These could not implement an easy fix if it came with easy-to-follow instructions.  

Where’s the leadership?  

Why can’t it be better than this?

What do you think of it so far?

What do I think of it so far? ...Well....

One of the things that Britain has got going for it is that it is old.  It’s knocked about a bit, done a few things.  It is a country that has a lived in feeling.  This produces so much to marvel at: the history, the innovation, the landscapes and the landmarks that have built this country are remarkable.  That a country the size and shape of a small country and with the characteristic reserve of a haughty nocturnal bird could manage such feats is, simply, majestic.

But it is old.  Age brings with it fatigue.  Britain is a fatigued country.  It is a grimy country.  And, I don’t understand why.  Recently, my daughter was asking me about the idea of the word “detail”.  We spoke about the intricacies of a pattern on some material or the use of punctuation in writing.  It is in the detail that you can see how fatigued and grimy Britain is.

A detail that really shows how fatigued Britain is is the rubbish.  I was going to use the word litter but that carries a sort of euphemistic harmlessness about it that does not truly convey the significance of this detail.  Rubbish is ingrained in Britain; literally worn into the ground we walk on - gum, chip wrappers, food wrappers, crisp packets, lighters, receipts, labels, bottles, cans and the ubiquitous cigarettes.  It’s like it’s a convention or old charter or something (Thank you Robert Rankin) that insists that buildings must now be outlined in fag.  Fag and bird crap.  They are everywhere and there isn’t a single reason why this should be the case.

I’m currently using exercise to mask all manner of insanity in my head.  As such, I’ve had the pleasure over the last month to run through some of the streets of Britain.  They are resplendent with rubbish.  This country appears to be content with the fact that rubbish is now part and parcel of the environment we surround ourselves with.  I’ve run past a garden over-flowing with household rubbish, and not just goods being readied for a journey to the tip, I mean over-flowing bins with kitchen waste, food packaging, etc lying ugly and permitted on the ground.  I’ve run past a pizza box papier-máchêd onto the pavement’s edge, beautifully moulded on, a mosaic of footprints pummelling it to grout the paving.  That’s it actually; the rubbish is becoming the grout of the pavements of Britain.

There’s one pathway in the town where I grew up that is edged by rubbish.  So much so that on one of my last visits home I came across what appeared to be the contents of a bedside cabinet dumped on the path’s side.  The rubbish there appears as a grotesque blossoming or bloom to accompany your walk.  Another main road has a hedge line mulching rubbish as a pathetic fertiliser, unable to decompose and laying there all beer can and soft drink bottle, brilliant silver metalled food package, refusing to move.  Not being moved.  One most affecting moment came in the form of an otherwise neat and tidy garden, obviously maintained (no weeds, a nicely paved driveway, edged flower beds to the side) but with a coke bottle sat, day after day, at the foot of one of the rose bushes there.  It was soul destroying to see each day.

Coming to a pavement near you.

Britain is old.  It does not have to be tired and grim.  I can’t work out why the population are content with this rubbish all around them.  They must be content with it because the fix is so easy.  During the time it took me to complete a run today, another cigarette butt was on the floor, on the pavement, at the entrance to the road I start my run from.  It will have been tossed or dropped there just like all the other fag-ends and packets have been tossed and dropped by countless people all over the town in which I’m living and all across the country.  This casual disregard for the look of the land is scary.  If we’re content to disregard the look of the land, what else are we content to disregard about Britain?  The “Great”, obviously, goes without saying.

Unperson.

There is a moment in Nineteen Eighty-Four when Syme disappears.  As a person is found foul by Big Brother and INGSOC, they evaporate.  They are no more. “Syme was not only dead, he was abolished, an unperson.”  An unperson – a beautifully sinister word.  It described me, earlier this week.  I tried to open a bank account.  This led to me feeling a way I would have rather not have felt.

I’ve been out of the country for just over a decade.  I had an account with a bank in the UK up until a few years ago.  For one reason and another, I came off that account and left the British banking grid.  Trying to get back on proved a tad difficult.

I thought this was going to be one of the simpler steps to take to get back into the world of the Britland.  I had an account with a bank here, no problems arisen, and I’ve had an account in NZ since before I arrived there, no problems arisen.  I was quietly looking forward to going into a bank, answering a few questions and walking out with an account in the pipeline and the next step of my reintegration in train.  In fact when the cheery voice on the phone informed me that the meeting to set up the account would take an hour and a half, at least, I was a little taken aback.  An hour and a half to answer a few questions and to have an account in the pipeline and the next step of my reintegration in train!? Well, ok.

The appointment started well.  Introductions and “So, you want to open an account…?” were navigated, the full explanation of the various accounts on offer were ticked off, and then the nitty gritty of the questions you have to answer to have a bank account were asked.  They were answered.  The data was input.  The computer said no – I understand this is close to a catchphrase, and not one I would usually lean towards but, such was my loss of froid that is sang all known catchphrases rattled round my head.

Powerlessness is a curious sensation.  In particular, it is a peculiar sensation in a situation where at no time did I think I would be made to feel in such a way.  I did that Google thing and synonymed “powerless”.  “Impotent, helpless, without power, ineffectual, inadequate, ineffective, with no say, useless, defenceless, vulnerable, weak, feeble, paralysed.”  Quite the list of words and phrases, eh?  Of these words, a few are more affecting than others.

Ineffectual – it seemingly highlighted how ephemeral and pointless my efforts to date to live a life and earn a crust were…are.

Vulnerable and weak – there was no comeback.  The reasons given were so beautifully vague that my mind raced - the computer just said no. What could I have possibly overlooked about my past, my financial history and situation that would give raise to a negative from the computer analysing me and deciding whether I was worthwhile?  All the insecurities that plague a person were amplified in the moment.  Knowing that I was about to walk out of the bank and back into a day, full of people being people and expecting me to people too, brought the final word on the list to the fore.

Paralysed – both in the sense that I couldn’t, didn’t want to move but, and – incredibly, as in that instant as the whole value of my very existence became questioned – the sense that my life could not move.  The move from NZ to UK had frozen.  A parlous and perilous position.  Entirely unjustified and an over-reaction but, money and the Welsh working class have an odd relationship, you may understand.

The bank employee said she would look into it for me.  The sun shone, in a washed out winter way.  People peopled.  I felt somewhat forlorn and frustrated for the rest of the day: my alien status reinforced by the whole episode. Having had only myself to rely on of late, I was now adrift and reliant on others: helpless.  It is not a feeling I wish on anyone.

*

She looked into it. 

Unutterably grateful.