the Condor way

what i'm reading... http://thecondors-werenotsorry.blogspot.com/

In the wake of Baby P and Shannon Matthews on our news, I remembered an incident when I was travelling that disturbed me so much I had to write it down immediately as it happened...

Writing from the next table...

One guy and two women speaking French to each other, and one of whom seems to be the partner of the man. Two pale and quiet children variously sit or wander nearby. One boy, the older of the two, starts crying quietly. The adults ignore him until he starts to moan that he is bored. The man tells him to be quiet, that we (the adults) are relaxing and drinking beer. He keeps on and says that he’s been bored all day and that he wants to play; he doesn’t want to watch them drink anymore.

The women both stay silent. The man keeps his voice very calm and tells the boy to be quiet once again. He carries on crying. It is pointed out that his brother isn’t crying, that there can’t be anything to cry about, as his brother isn’t crying. He offers up another desperate plea; he just wants to play, why can’t he play? He says he is asking quietly, not whining. His father, still with a very even voice, almost dangerously calm now, says that he should be quiet and stop crying, and think about the way he is acting, now and until they get back to the hotel; when they will have a little chat. He says that if he thinks about how he’s acting now, then he will understand why, “I do what I’m going to do at the hotel.”

The conversation between the adults resumes. There is talk of going to a bottle shop to get beer and going back to the hotel. The younger boy asks if he can play on the beach and if it safe because if he adults are at the hotel they wont be able to see them (the kids). The father says it will be fine, the beach is close, “you can explore a bit”. The older boy, red eyed, says that they can’t do that, it’s not safe. Father says when he was their age he was all over the place. He says this in a kind of disgusted way, directed towards he older boy.

The waitress comes out. She asks if the group is OK for drinks. The man says that they are going to have to leave because they have “pains of arses who want to do something else”. She leaves. The younger boy protests he isn’t a pain. No one says anything. The older boy whimpers behind his mother, his legs curled up on the chair.

For the first time, the mother looks at her son and says, repeating the man, that he should think about how he is acting. The man agrees and says he will understand when he gets to the hotel. The mother mumbles something about how the other woman doesn’t need to see this. The man assures both women that they wont ‘see’ anything. The boys remain silent.

The man gets up and says “who’s ready?” The little one jumps up and says “I am.” They all get to their feet. The older boy is silent. He is the last one up. They cross the street and he is the last one to climb into the 4x4; the father helps him in.

It is 15 minutes since they left. I wonder if they are back at their hotel now...

A shopping experience like no other...

The rain is slicing through the car park, people and cars play chicken as they go about their business, in the 1970s shopping precinct.

A huge queue for three cash points just inside entrance to Asda mingles and tangles with the queue for the Coinstar machine (usually a silent beast in the corner of a supermarket, an avert for being poor, which changes the pennies and 5ps you have been putting in an old bottle into real money, at a price) I have never seen a queue for a coin star machine in my life.

The cheapest brands of cigarettes dominate the cigarette and lottery counter, which has an equally unruly and confusing gaggle of people and push chairs queuing to pay their tax on hope.

The supermarket is Saturday-busy, crawling with dusty, pallid complexions, the lines on their faces telling stories you wouldn’t want to hear; women with hair, greying and thinning before its time, matted with grease and hair grips; more pushchairs than parents, grabbing at anything on the clearance shelf; track-suited groups of lads, shouting across the aisles as they ignore the frailty of old and young around them and jostle each other towards the checkouts.

A sea of modern poverty, surrounded by things to consume.

There is mild comedy at the self serve tills as products are waved in the vague direction of the bar code scanner many times before the bleep; a young mum with pushchair fails to scan a plastic toy and is told she can keep it by the acne ridden supervisor; behind him a security guard bungles a old wizened man into a back room for the booze he has hidden in his jacket.

Behind us a man lies on the ground, unable to control his legs, arms or speech, fitting and tripping in the middle of the weekend shopping rush, surrounded by shop staff and paramedics and holding all the till queues up as the till girls crane their necks to see the drama. A little girl with an afro asks her grey-skinned grandmother why the man is on the floor shouting. Gently but with a disturbing resignation, the grandmother explains the man has had something that made his brain go funny but that he will go to hospital and have some tablets and then he will be better. The girl seems satisfied and turns her attention to the sweets by the checkout.

We go back into the blustery rain and drive away as another ambulance screeches into view.

Celebrity

What makes people go weak at the knees for people they’ve seen in a magazine or on stage?

I’ve never really understood the whole screaming-until-you-faint-at-an-early-60s-Beatles-concert type fan-dom.

I’m on a couple of discussion lists for musicians I love and have admired for years, but hardly ever read them as (especially on one of the lists) the things the fans say freak me out....

I also believe that it’s probably true you should never meet your heroes, especially musicians – will they ever live up to what you imagine them to be (especially when your favourite album by them was made in 1974), and is it worth risking never being able to listen to their music again because it reminds you of the time you completely embarrassed yourself by asking them to sign something (WHY do people want a signature, WHY????)

Don’t get me wrong, I once watched an interview with Tom Waits circa 1979 on Youtube and it made me ache to know him then, in just the way his (early) music makes you want to drink too much, smoke too much and live on the seedy side of town; he doesn’t make it sound glamorous, it doesn’t sound easy, but he makes you want to do it anyway, in that 3am-just- finishing-the-second-bottle-of-wine-wallowing-in-some-woe kind of way.

Anyway, that’s OK, you’re on your own, it’s about the music and drink and you don’t have to let anyone know you ever do that...

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I run a music festival, and recently went to see an acoustic artist play as part of a city-wide music conference / festival type thing, in the hope of booking him. He happens to be part of a very famous band and also happens to be very good friends with one of my school friends. We’d already had email contact and my friend said she thinks he’s up for playing acoustic at my festival next June.

So I go along with Mars, watch the set, have to disguise the fact that I know the words to the songs even though album only came out a week before (was quite excited at prospect of him playing at festival), and go and talk to him afterwards. He is charming, I get bought a pint by the promoter by virtue of the act I look important because of who I’m talking to, he says he will play my festival for free as long as his band doesn’t get booked for that date, he will know this in January and will confirm.

He is also pleased that his accommodation will be my friend’s mum’s house (at which point I think maybe is not the fact my festival is fabulous but that my friend is gorgeous).

ANYWAY. Nice one. Mars and I are watching the next act when she nudges me and points to said famous bloke and two teenage girls who are getting him to sign a copy of his album, then asking for photos with him, then giggling and trying to think of something to say to keep him there, and gushing, and gushing. He leaves and they immediately inspect the album cover and giggle and ignore the band on stage and visibly begin to devise their facebook status updates for the next day.... this makes me sad.

Am I a snob? Am I a killjoy? Or do I just wish people cared more about the music than about the fame?

the final frontier......

I have known Mars for six months, most of the time she has been in the UK, in fact I remember the date I first met her as it was the day after I had been mugged (attempted mugging as I refused to give the mugger my bag). This greatly amused Mars, for what exact reason I cannot remember, but it was probably the fact that the story involved two (yes TWO) people falling over, something I would later come to realise is the thing she finds funniest in the world.

Anyway, I know her better now as she has been living with me for the past four months and I can fully recommend her as an interesting, funny and opinionated (in a good way) person, who has easily integrated into the Manchester scene and my group of friends. Although I’m not sure why she couldn’t just remind me she wanted me to write this thing in person instead of through her anonymous persona.....

Don’t worry Mars, will email you the proper one ....

Kiffissia to Athens

Two women, both Greek, both look very Greek but not at all alike; one dressed with thought and one with utility, one tanned, one pale, one slim, one not, seated next to each other as the train scuttles into the light from the tunnel.

In perfect, almost poetic harmony they both glance out of a window at a passing church and silently cross themselves, then return to their differences.

Editing our memories

I first gave in to digital photographs four days before I left England for Vietnam. I gave in for practical and financial reasons. I didn't want to, I was reluctant and ashamed. That was two and a half years ago. I am more ashamed that, having been back from that trip for almost two years my film SLR remains under my old bed at my Mum's house. It's too easy to stay with digital but I wonder what the consequences are....

The digital camera interrupts the long moment, and panders to our vanities. Where a film camera will capture an instant and leave it there, a digital camera demands to be looked at, it demands attention, screaming and shouting from the table that you can see the images immediately. So instead of carrying on with the day / drink / conversation, we huddle around the camera looking, zooming in, deleting, editing.

We are editing our memories, we are editing before we had time to process. Deleting too early what could become the missing pieces of a story, the telling smile or glance that 'spoils' a photograph in the instant but could be capturing the prelude to something that will happen in the future.

What are we losing? Does it even matter?