There's got to be a morning after
If we can hold on through the night...
We're
all a bit tired. Although 'tired' isn't exactly the right word.
Simone said it was a bit like “tears at the end of a party”. I
think some boffin will eventually called it Post-Riot Syndrome. The
rest of us will call it Glad I Didn't Get Killed By A Teenager Can I
Relax Now?
Weird
times indeed, my friends. I've been here for the bombs, now the
riots, and, a few week ago, Luke's personal request of 3 hours of
karaoke as part of his stag do. They were all scary, but the riots
were by far the scariest. We stood around the tele while society
crumbled around our feet, around our tube stations, and before our
very eyes. I didn't really get worried until they started burning
things. Fire will always be a primal signpost. Warmth and safety. Or
destruction and disorder. And we were not feeling warm or safe.
We have a chance to find the sunshine
Let's keep on looking for the light..
I'm back in the
West End by the way. Not acting. Dressing. Backstage on a musical
called 'Betty Blue Eyes'. I quite like it. As shirts were ironed and
socks sorted for the show ahead, Flower (wardrobe boss lady) had the
desktop tuned into the BBC. Now I never read the papers or watch the
news, so anything that gets through to me is always substantial. The
fact that Flower had tuned into the news instead of running DVD
episodes of 'True Blood' did make me think, “Hmm...helicopter shots
of people running through the streets of Peckham and not
Grant Bowler turning into a werewolf...something is afoot...”. But,
you know, it was afternoon. It was a nice day weather-wise. It was,
goddammit, Monday. Why would people be running through the streets of
Peckham on a balmy London evening? On a Monday? Is there a sale on?
Turned out there was. Nick one, get one free. And then another. And
another. Don't forget to tweet your mates! Everything must go!
Including law and order! Fuck da police!! Anarchy in the UK!!!
Seriously, Flower,
am I going to die because of Twitter?
Oh, can't you see the morning after?
It's waiting right outside the storm..
This
shit had been happening for two days already but I'd missed it. A lot
of people had missed it. We're used to sirens and a bit of
argy-bargy. It's a big city. Stuff happens. Bombs go off. A few angry
people kicking in the window of a Footlocker
in Brixton on a weekend can be mistaken for a fun-run. When they're
still kicking and running and shouting on Monday, and when the fun
slash violence seems to be spreading to random boroughs, and suddenly
what-the-fuck they're in Clapham? (read City Road, Newtown, or
Brunswick St, Fitzroy) …well, now we've put down the socks, the
sewing machine has stopped its soft jack-hammering and the computer
screen has become a magnet for the curious and increasingly
perturbed. “This isn't right.” I remember someone saying that.
And it wasn't. People start texting partners and family and flatmates
and taxi companies because they don't want to have to walk through
that at 11pm after the show. I text two mates asking for a couch for
the night just in case. My train goes to East Croyden and oh-look
Croyden's now on fire. Not a wheelie bin or a car, a whole chunky
block of shops and houses. This Is Serious Mum.
And
yet, even in the face of city-wide adversity, I pass Ian flouncing
down the corridor calling out: “Well! There's not going to be any
houmus in Peckham tomorrow!”
We all laughed and secretly hoped we had enough milk in.
Why don't we cross the bridge together
And find a place that's safe and warm
The
show, of course, went on. Songs were sung and dances were danced and
everyone kept texting but the story was told. It's set in 'Austerity'
Britain after WW2. “Fair Shares For All” is the opening number
and out in the streets everyone seemed to have taken it a little too
literally.
Back
on the TV at half-time, the incredibly smart journos on the streets
kept crying “There aren't enough police! There's too many riots!
There simply aren't enough police!”
Yes, Bryce, that's it. Tell the kids at home whose moral compass was
lost with the remote that there aren't enough police. Brilliant. Then
the next day, the deputy commissioner gets his head on the box and
says, “Yes Judith, we're sucking every copper out of every major
city in England to get 16,000 of them in London tonight.” Somehow
the kids in Manchester and Birmingham only heard him repeat the words
'golden opportunity' over and over. No prizes for guessing who went
and got themselves a bunch of free prizes that
night. Fucking hell...
You've
seen the reports yourselves. You probably understand it's all over
including the shouting. Well...there's still the court cases but
thankfully the politician's heavy-handed knee-jerk reactions are well
under way. There's talk of evicting the convicted from their council
estate housing. And their families. How incredibly wise. Let's ignore
the underlying social problems and create street tribes of people
without a debit card or fear. Bryce and Judith can spread the good
news that London's about to turn into a John Carpenter film starring
Kurt Russell and an eye-patch. “'Escape From New Bond Street'! In
cinemas now! The ones that aren't burning!”
It's not too late, we should be giving
Only with love can we climb...
Hmm...might take a little more than just love...
It's not too late, not while we're living
Let's put our hands out in time.
Time to wrap up.
So yeh. We're all...I dunno...tired. It's Sunday. Yesterday many of the cast and crew were letting their heads loll. Leaning and slumping. More than the usual end-of-week weariness. It was fatigue. We didn't really feel safe until Thursday, so we've all been tense for days. And I mean tense. Taut. Quietly singing the theme tune from the original 'The Poseidon Adventure' to ourselves: There's Got To Be A Morning After. And this was a skirmish compared to what many people are going through. My empathy levels for people in war zones have had a boost, let me tell you.
There's got to be a morning after
We're moving closer to the shore
I know we'll be there by tomorrow
And we'll escape the darkness
We won't be searching anymore.
Not for houmus anyway.
