Controversy
It was a particularly grim, joyless afternoon in the capital, and I was having the Londoner’s equivalent of the Falling Down experience (sample: “Where the fuck have they put the fresh coriander? I can’t find the sodding fresh coriander”), when I received a text message from the Editor. This is a rare occurence nowadays; ever since he accidentally sent me one referring to me as “sweetcakes” (I believe it was meant for someone else, though cannot confirm this) he’s been a bit wary of using it.
“ARE YOU NEAR TRAFALGAR SQUARE,” it read.
“Depends,” I responded guardedly.
“COVER CARTOON PORTEST THX BYE” (sic) came the reply.
“Oh for God’s sake,” I muttered. I had no interest in any portest, pardon me, protest, whether anti-cartoon, anti-anti-cartoon, anti-cartoon-with-anti-extremist-reservations, or otherwise. If the mainstream Press insisted on creating a story by sticking the media equivalent of a pointed object into a highly sensitive area and wiggling it around a bit, then that was entirely their concern. My phone beeped at me.
“I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE THINKING. COVER IT, I’M WARNING YOU”
This was how I found myself wandering down Tottenham Court Road, Charing Cross Road, and finally into Trafalgar Square. There were placards, there was cheering, there were groups of suspicious-looking skinheaded men being led away by the police. All the usual sorts of fun, in fact. I stayed for about five minutes and then wandered away into the retail hell of Covent Garden. Fighting my way through the gawping crowds of tourists, and shoppers, I was suddenly struck by the utter indifference of most of the people around me to whatever was going on just down the road. Londoners of all faiths and backgrounds were flinging themselves into the all-important business of putting their bank accounts through the wringer.
Was this good, or bad? I wasn’t sure. But it demonstrated very neatly one of London’s most enduring qualities: it’s fundamentally a mercantile centre – a city rarely bought to any kind of standstill, whether by demonstration, strike, or catastrophe. The day after last year’s bombings, for example, many people – including myself – were back on the Tube; eyeing each other with suspicion and practically vomiting with fear, certainly, but back nonetheless. This wasn’t defiance for the most part but a simple human need pay the mortgage. Similarly, you’re unlikely to see any Londoners ripping up the road surface to see if la plage lies underneath it. So, in short, part of an ongoing event which has caused an enormous amount of distastefully strident media coverage / hand-wringing (delete according to which papers you’ve been reading) was simply absorbed, as if nothing had happened.
Anyway, this is what I was explaining to the Editor over a drink later on.
“Are you refusing to get drawn on this story, then?” he asked, accusingly.
“I’m not commenting on it.”
“But…free speech! The media…”
“I’m not commenting on it,” I replied threateningly.
“Suit yourself,” said the Editor, sulking. “Doesn’t make for much of an article though, does it? Average Londoner Largely Ignores Headline-Grabbing Rally.”
“It seems about right, though,” I countered. “The vast majority of people are perfectly happy to tut about various things or comment on them via the oh-so-interactive BBC website, but when it comes to actually going out and seeing what’s happening, they couldn’t care less. They leave that to, I dunno, the Evening Standard, or something. Which, personally speaking, I find quite a disturbing prospect.”
The Editor shrugged in response as my phone rang yet again.
“Hello Rupert,” I said wearily.
“Hi!” bayed Rupert. “Are you coming to this party or not?”
“I…what party?” I stammered confusedly, before suddenly remembering an invitation to some dire-sounding, vaguely Valentines Day-related thing organised by some of Rupert’s hideous friends. The words “fancy dress” swam into my consciousness.
“You remember!” he said. “We…we’ve thought of a great topical theme” (I could hear the sniggering down the other end of the phone at this point). “Well, we thought perhaps we could go as famous religious figures.”
“How very witty,” I replied.
“And, you’ll never believe, I’m actually going as…you know, like in that newspaper, with a bo…”
“Oh God,” I said. It never ceased to amaze me to what degree the reasonably-wealthy felt able to seize on other people’s deeply held beliefs as the material for their so-called ‘humour’. Still, reality had a tendency of biting them on the backside eventually….
“Anyway,” Rupert continued, “I’ll come and pick you up. Where shall I meet you? Bring a loincloth and say you’re Buddha or something.”
“How about…” I turned to the Editor. “When does that rally end, by the way?”
“Not till late this evening,” he replied.
“Ah, good. Are you already in costume?” I asked Rupert.
“Yep.”
“Splendid. See anything about the rally today, incidentally?”
“What rally?”
“Never mind. OK, well let’s say in about two hours. Just off Trafalgar Square, I reckon?” I snapped the phone shut and grinned broadly. “I think we might have a story at last,” I said to the Editor. “Doubles all round?”