Apocalypse, Part 2
There had actually been a purpose to my leaving the house via the Wan King, and this was to meet Poppy and the Editor to take a cursory glance at some exhibition or other that had opened in the vicinity of Spitalfields. They were already there, clutching the stubby, imperfectly chilled bottles of French lager that seemed to be the traditional accompaniment to this kind of thing. Nowadays I can never see a piece of contemporary art without getting a faint tang of fizzy Strasbourg filth on my tongue; Pavlov would have been very proud.
Arthole
The Editor was standing back looking bored while Poppy attempted to describe her responses to something on the wall in front of her (it may have been an artwork, or possibly part of the building). “What do you think?” he asked, stifling a yawn.
“It’s…erm…it’s quite….” she said, making a few feeble hand gestures. She continued to do this while I went over to the Editor and proceeded to tell him about the dreadful changes at Liang’s takeaway. “I’m considering,” I concluded, “that there might be a small feature in it, at least.”
“So let me get this straight,” said the Editor testily, “you’re whingeing because your local takeaway has decided to change its menu slightly. I call this slightly misplaced concern.”
“But the boxes!” I replied. He shrugged. “Better than them going out of business entirely, or being replaced by one of those cuntish bars you’re always complaining about. Usually over a drink in a cuntish bar, I note.”
This was not a day to be worsted in argument by such a person as the Editor. I walked over to a rather drooping, hunched Poppy, who was still struggling to describe the picture. “Come up with any words yet?” I said.
“It’s…it’s…very…” stammered Poppy. I gave up and went to see if I could scrounge any more lukewarm bottles. Usually I had a taste for the pseudo-intellectual cut-and-thrust of the contemporary arts world, but today everything seemed oddly hollow. Had I finally been struck down by Seasonal Affective Disorder, or had Liang’s blatant sell-out shaken me to the core? Or was London just really, really shite?
Shite
“London’s full of shite,” I said eloquently later on, as walked South towards the City, dragging Poppy and the Editor in my wake. The Editor scowled.
“What are you on about now?” he said. I guessed he was just feeling irritable as some screeching harpy at the show had failed to be impressed by his “I am the editor of a magazine” shtick, but this was understandable. It hadn’t worked for me, either.
“Well,” I said, “so much of what we see around us is a facade, a pretence. More so than anywhere else in the country, because London has so much more of a reputation, in the cultural field, to live up to. I mean, look at all this urban decay around us. If you look closer it’s actually overflowing with galleries and clothes shops and other things that, let’s face it, require large disposable incomes to be viable. But it retains a faux-bohemian facade because then it appears more genuine. People naturally associate art with poverty, after all. Isn’t the starving artist or writer a hugely common stereotype?” I looked around. “All these people are probably, I dunno, risk analysts or something. They’re about as bohemian as I am. Well, I am, actually, but still.”
“You too could be a starving writer at any moment,” said the Editor, irritably. “Anyway, I like it round here. It’s vibrant. The decay, as you so thoughtlessly call it, betokens the creative and economic regeneration to come. Things are happening, which is more than can be said for most of London.”
“Exactly the same thing is happening,” I said. “Here,” and I pointed up to the buildings around us, “is London anatomised. Up there we have artful – tasteful, even – industrial dereliction. Sanitised decay. Down here, the biggest, shiniest cars you have ever seen. It’s all very fin de siecle, except that we’re supposed to be at the start of a century, of course.”
“You’re just annoyed because of that Chinese restaurant thing,” said the Editor. “I think what we have here is genuine enough.” I laughed. “It’s just a new carton round the same old kung po chicken as far as I’m concerned. People playing at being bohemian and then driving home in their high-spec Audis? I mean, come on.”
“Well, there are always a few obvious pitfalls to avoid in this sort of thing,” said the Editor, and promptly disappeared into a workmans hole in the road, which the dim, artfully post-industrial lighting had failed to adequately disclose. Poppy squealed.
“You bastards!” screamed the Editor from somewhere below the level of the tarmac. “Get me out! Fuck, I think I’ve broken my ankle! Are you laughing? You’ll both be sacked for this!”
“Sorry,” I shouted into the hole. It was a bit dark, but from the sound of splashing the Editor was clearly attempting to pull himself out of some foul puddle or other. “This kind of thing is terribly common in run-down areas, you know. Or perhaps the workmen are off engaging in some piece of performance art. Or this may actually be an installation of some kind itself. Is it listed in Time Out by any chance?”
There was a strangled sort of growling noise, and two filthy hands, one wrist incongruously ornamented with a Breitling watch, started clawing their way out of the hole in front of me. Despite the arrestingly cinematic nature of this image, I thought this was a suitable moment to beat a hasty retreat, as the Editor was clearly in rude health.
“I’m hungry,” said Poppy, whose presence I had quite forgotten. Frankly, after all that weak lager, so was I.
“Yes, yes, some food might be an idea. I’m sure the Editor will catch up with us in a minute,” I said, looking nervously over my shoulder.
“I know a good Chinese place!” she beamed. “It has food in cartons, just like…in…in…”
“In America. Great!” I said. “I’m sure it will be lovely.”