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MIDNIGHT AT THE OASIS
If you're going to open a bar with a late-night licence, you need a name for it dripping in cliche. This one was called 'The Oasis' and it was anything but. Open until 0600, licensed to serve food and drink until 0500, it quickly found favour with a clientele of late night revellers who would be drunk on arrival; trouble, unsurprisingly, was fairly commonplace. And when you're looking for premises to site said late night bar, I can't think of a better place than 50 yards from a major police station. Not around the corner; not 20 minutes drive away - but within line of sight, no more than a 20 second sprint from the front door to Europe's busiest nick. Because that way, when it kicks off at the bar because some loud-mouth twat is refusing to pay his drinks bill/doesn't like the look of the barman or the waitress takes exception to being felt up, the oncoming night shift of coppers won't take long to arrive and sort things out. So it was at The Oasis. As a part time copper working out of that nick for the best part of twelve years, I got to know The Oasis prettty well; we all did. It became part of that 'sixth sense' all coppers develop in the same way that we would get a feel for how the evening would pan out - though with a ground that encompassed Soho, 'quiet' was not a desription we used too often - and almost without exception you could guarantee a call to that bar at least twice in an evening - more frequently at weekends. Fridays on night duty were always the same. On a shift that started at 22:30, the first thing you encountered on leaving the nick to start a patrol were the people. At that time of the evening, emboldened by a few drinks, they were fun. The lads would joke with you, the girls flirt. You'd get phone numbers pushed into your pockets by giggling twenty-somethings in short skirts and heels, egged on by their mates and a few glasses of wine. Jokes about 'playing with your baton', or 'fondling your helmet' Lascivious chat, coquettish behaviour from the girls, tom foolery and laddish banter from the fellas. It was playful, always good fun.
That behaviour morphed though as the evening wore on. You'd generally have a bit of trouble around 23:30 as the pubs kicked the punters out; the odd leery fella who thought the world owed him a living and decided to collect what was his because through the bottom of a pint glass he thought he could take on all-comers - and win. That's when we'd get the call. Generally a few 'words of advice' from a couple of us in uniform having driven to the scene on blues and twos, coupled with promises by more sober mates to 'take him home' did the trick. No point ruining somebody's evening when, brushing the hangover away the following morning, they'd remember and feel sheepish anyway. Drink affects everyone differently, but aggression and a suppresion of inhibitions are a potent mix in certain personality types; 'handle with care' was my philosophy. It was about knowing when to wade in and when to take a step back. The most powerful weapon a police officer has in his armoury is discretion; and often as not, you could have a more positive effect on a situation by not arresting someone, even if you'd have been justified in law to have slapped the cuffs on them and carted them off. With some people though, there's just no telling them. And generally, you'd find those people at 03:00 stumbling out of the clubs, a full six, seven or eight hours of drinking alcohol behind them. Barely able to stand, some would get into their cars and attempt to drive home (I caught the most drunk driver I ever arrested by chasing him on foot as he drove his car up Wardour St early one Saturday morning - as he attempted to drive away having crashed into his fourth parked car, I opened his door and with nothing to support him, he literally fell out of the driver's seat and into the road. He was five times over the legal limit). Some would behave rashly (I arrested another bloke one night after he 'playfully' stole a night bus full of terrified passengers and drove it up Charing Cross Rd - the driver had hopped out to buy some cigarrettes from a kiosk and foolishly left the engine running). Then you'd get the real nasty crimes. The stabbings, the assaults, the odd killing. Gone was the alcohol-induced cheerful, playful demeanour which defined people as you came on shift, replaced intstead with a more menacing attitude. And when people are stupid O'clock drunk, you can try reasoning with them; it's just that more often than not, your appeals will fall on deaf ears. So it was on one night duty I recall, when I made a typical arrest at that bar I knew so well and which illustrates nicely how, despite trying do some people a favour, they will always be intent on making things worse for themselves. It was a memorable night as I'd been posted with Laura, one of the sexiest women officers in the Met (and didn't she know it!). Lusted after by every copper I ever met - and most of the fellas she ever arrested - she had long, shapely legs which she insisted on showing to full effect by patrolling in skirts, long after every other female officer had switched to trousers. She was good fun, a good mate and a good officer to work with. She was also the fiancée of my mate Steve who was a custody sergeant.
Unusually, we got the call from despatch to attend The Oasis just as we were walking past it. More often than not, trouble seemed to occur just as the night duty PCs were sitting down in the nick's all-night canteen for 'dinner' at 02:30. You'd be sat there in shirt sleeves, about to shovel a mouthful of egg and bacon into your mouth when the radios which we all kept on our duty belts would burst into life, "Urgent assistance required at The Oasis" And almost simultaneously, you'd hear chairs scraping the floor as we downed forks and rose as one to rush in various states of undress to the aid of whichever officer had found themselves outnumbered and under threat from drunken revellers with nefarious thoughts in mind. The call on the night in question though came, as I said, just as Laura and I were walking past. Laura acknowledged the call and told despatch that we were on scene and we entered the premises. Ground Zero was easy enough to identify - an extremely loud and aggressive woman who was abusing the bar stuff and refusing to pay her bill. We made straight for her. Normal procedure with a case like this is to separate the two main protagonists, calm them down and try to get both sides of the story, Then you'd assess and decide upon what action, if any, was required. In this case, it quickly became clear that the loud and aggressive twenty-something woman - we'll call her Hutchinson - was going to be trouble. She was falling down drunk. She was big. And she was aggressive. Watch the X Factor? Remember Voices with Soul? She looked like all three of them on speed.
Hutchinson was in company with a group of friends, all of whom were clearly better blessed with discretion than she, as they paid up upon our arrival. Hutchinson though had an audience and decided to show how ‘tough’ she was by taking on two coppers with the audacity to demand that she behave. Under duress, she settled her bill, and then, as we were about to let her go with no more than a warning - 'words of advice' as it's euphemistically referred to by coppers everywhere - she decided that she’d go out fighting. She called Laura "a white cunt bitch" and took a swing at her. Bad move. I grabbed her arm, moved it behind her, and as I did so, Laura had her handcuffs out and across the woman’s wrists. Hutchinson overbalanced, and went down in a mass of arms and legs. At this stage, I was still prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt - there's a nice, easy power of arrest without warrant for situations like this under Section 91(1) Criminal Justice Act 1967 which makes it an offence to be guilty of disorderly behaviour, whilst drunk in a public place. Usual procedure was to take the arrestee back to the nick where they'd be put in a cell to sleep it off before being released with a caution the following morning. No police record and the night's excesses could be forgotten. But Hutchinson quickly closed the door to that option on herself. Having made a spectacle of herself, and been deserted by her friends, she made things worse when I called up the van to transport us back to the nick. Upon the arrival of the van crew, she decided we’d have to carry her out, and as we did, she spat at the operator. Bad move number 2. She ended up going from a charge of Drunk and Disorderly, to a charge of Disorderly Conduct under section 5 of the Public Order Act. That’s a criminal offence, as opposed to one that would have seen her released from custody after a couple of hours in the cells with a caution. When she got to the nick, she upset the custody sergeant because, (i) he was Steve - my mate and Laura's fiancé and he doesn’t like it when people threaten his good lady, and (ii), because when he took her to task, she spat in his face and hit him. Such a wanton disregard for authority has to be addressed, and it was – she had a charge of Assault on Police added to the charge sheet. So as well as spending the night in the cells, she was carted off to local magistrates the following morning and remanded on bail having been charged with Disorderly Conduct and an Assualt on Police. She was later tried and found guilty on both counts, receiving a fine of £750 for the offence of Disorderly Conduct and one of £800 for the charge of Assault on Police. She also has a criminal record and received a life ban from The Oasis to boot. And all because she didn't know when to shut up. |
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1.12.04 14:54 |
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LONDON BLINKS: A GREAT NIGHT OUT
Blinks have never looked so good - and London didn't know what hit it. Saturday 4th December saw well over 20 of 20six's finest converge on The Old Thameside Inn at London Bridge at a 20six event to ease them into the party season. From as far afield as Newcastle and the south coast - and all points in between - complete strangers felt compelled to meet up in central London and socialise together in an event known colloquially at 20six as 'Blinks'. Forget everything you've ever learned about social intercourse and the way in which you make friends; blogging redraws the boundaries. It's both enchanting and (initially at least) disconcerting, the manner in which you find yourself engaging with people that all of your conditioning tells you are strangers in the conventional sense. Except, paradoxically, they're not. You approach the group tentatively at first. The venue's charming in its way, ideally placed on the banks of the Thames in fashionable Borough market but the large group seated in the basement bar contains no familiar faces. Does it? Oh look, there's Maisy over there looking even lovelier than in the photo that greets you when you click on her blog. So that fella next to her must be fellow blogger NickD (the man can work wonders with silly putty - Hippo anyone?!). You introduce yourself and sit down and notice the rest of the group. There's Queener and the lovely TheSocialMenaces looking resplendent in black, topped off with a crown and a proper title. She's a lady. You start talking but there's none of the awkwardness that normally attaches to meeting people for the first time because blogging does something bizarre. You know more about the person next to you than perhaps some of their closest friends do - the minutiae of life, the recent frustrations at work or the fact that her sister is 16 weeks pregnant. The details aren't important here - in life, they give you something to hang a conversation on meaning that, at blogger meets, there are no (watch out, bad pun) 'pregnant' pauses or awkward moments. Before you know it you're deep in discussion until a curve ball catches you out and someone asks you about an element of your life you've never told anyone before. Until your mind catches up and you vaguely remember blogging about it several months ago!
The lovely Em and Baboon arrive - is that a beaded headband I saw there? - followed shortly after by Bobble (radiant in heels) and Bubb (top fella). Seconds later my phone rings - it's fellow petrol head TheStevedaq and he's outside looking for us. No sooner have we added a couple of extra tables to our camp and sat down again when the Three Degrees arrive; Kate_Sith, newshoes and Loopy Luda. Kate looks glamorous, newshoes looks just lovely and Loopy Luda is neither Loopy nor called Luda - but she is a complete poppet. After that, it all becomes a bit of a blur. I imagine it's like speed dating but without the hassle or the worry - you play musical chairs and talk at length before someone else joins in and the dynamic changes, the group grows larger. By now we'd swelled to over 20 and somebody suggested we move camp upstairs - the logistics of which defy belief. An hour or so after setting off upstairs, we make it though and 20 seconds or so after we get there, the size of our group intimidates the pubs's other customers to vacate the premises and we have the far end of the place to ourselves. Bliss - comfy chairs, no queue at the bar, enchanting company and a great view - what more could you ask for? Late into the evening, the conversations get deeper as we discuss the relative merits of societal values here and across Europe (God, how did that happen?!), blogging's impact on society and the workplace - and shoes! Somehow, whatever the subject, whoever is in the group, the conversation turns to shoes at least once every ten minutes! NickD, Bubb and I exchange glances - we're not wired for this! Several trips to the bar give me a chance to practice my impersonation of sobriety although it convinces nobody - least of all myself. Therefore you're probaby better off reading a brilliantly conceived precis of the evening by Bobble. There were so many people there who I either said hello to and didn't get a chance to talk to, or later in the evening, simply didn't see. Midget, onwardsandsideways, Chauncey, Midnight - maybe next time? I had a wonderful evening; really enjoyable, engaging company from a lovely group of people. Now, if somebody could tell me why London Bridge station was closed at 11:30pm necessitating a walk across the bridge to Bank on the same line, I'd be most obliged. Oh, and Kings Cross station at midnight is just brilliant; everyone speaks fluent drunkenese, you can buy the Sunday papers and if there's a more enjoyable way of getting a train home in the early hours than munching on a skanky Burger King meal whilst poring over the Sundays, I've yet to discover it. Brilliant evening - thanks all (especially TSM for proposing it). When's the next one?! |
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6.12.04 10:40 |
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POLICE PLANT EXPLOSIVES IN AIRLINE PASSENGER'S LUGGAGE
I meant to post this story yesterday when the newswires first started carrying it but events overtook me and I forgot. It didn't make the terrestrial news broadcasts last night although I believe a few of today's newspapers have covered it. Police in Paris have lost five ounces (150 grams) of plastic explosives after they were mistakenly secreted in a passenger's luggage and loaded onto an aircraft at Charles de Gaulle airport during an exercise yesterday. The explosives were slipped into a random passenger's bag during sniffer dog training at Paris' main airport terminal Charles de Gaulle airport. The bag then ended up on one of 90 flights leaving at the time, and police are now trying to track it down. They stress the explosive is "no more dangerous than a bar of chocolate". The package of explosive was put in a bag at the airport last Friday (December 3rd) to see if police dogs could detect it but someone took their eye off the ball and the baggage handler unwittingly put the bag on a plane. Police sources say they do not know which plane the bag ended up on - about 90 flights were leaving the airport at the time and it could be on an internal flight in France, or be travelling as far away as the US, Japan and Brazil.
Cleared for Departure: Police in France have confirmed that they are still no nearer to discovering the whereabouts of 5 ounces of plastic explosive after they secreted it in a passenger's luggage during an excercise. Somebody forgot which bag it had been hidden in and the luggage was then loaded onto a commercial flight. Picture (c) Jans Mogren Police insist the package of explosives is no more harmful than a chocolate bar - it has no detonator and does not react to movement, shock or even fire. But they do concede that somewhere in the world, one of the thousands of passengers who passed through the airport will get a nasty surprise when they open their luggage. Thus far, nobody has contacted police to say they have the explosive. Airlines, airports and police forces around the world have been alerted.
That is greatly reassuring, isn't it? |
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6.12.04 14:56 |
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A REVOLUTION in LONDON
There's a reason I'm looking forward to the next London blinks at Vertigo 42 on December 20th and it's not just the thought of drinking fine wines in good company. The prospect of doing so 590ft above London's pavements, with sweeping views over the majesty of my favourite city has turned something interesting into something special. Because I don't know if you've noticed, but London is undergoing something of a revolution at the moment and there is no better place to see it from. Gone is the dark, dirty city I remember from my youth. The ugly, imposing architechture which blighted so much of our capital, conceived in the dark days of the 60s has vanished, replaced instead by bold, emphatic structures more in synergy with contemporary tastes. London is looking good. And it's getting better. Let me put it in perspective; the last time that London saw development as comprehensive as that going on at present, Samuel Pepys was an unknown diarist drawing inspiration from the aftermath of the Great Fire of 1666. Across the capital, a string of mega-projects is rising from formerly derelict sites. From Wembley in the west to Stratford in the east, these vast schemes are valued in billions rather than millions. With the public sector in retreat and the government increasingly expecting the market to fund large-scale infrastructure improvements, the projects are being driven by a new breed of private developer. There are a number of reasons why all these developments are occurring seemingly simultaneously. London’s sustained economic boom coincides with a desperate housing shortage – 800,000 new homes are required within 10 years. Since 1997, when Labour wrested the reins of Government from the Tories, and more recently when Ken Livingstone became mayor, the onus has fallen on recycling urban land rather than building yet more sprawl, so developers have had to learn to cut their cloth accordingly. In short, the space just doesn’t exist to keep on expanding, so it’s been existing urban sites that have come under the microscope and with ‘spare’ land being so scarce, those that aren’t being put to best use are under development. Down come the ugly, derelict shells, the anonymous office blocks that household name corporations shun, to be replaced by sympathetic, striking architecture with every conceivable comfort.
The overwhelming majority of smaller sites have already been built on, leaving only the huge sites once occupied by now-redundant railway marshalling yards, gas works and power stations. And the old ‘wheeler dealer’, looking to turn a quick profit has been replaced by a new breed of property developer willing to invest time and money into projects with a long term perspective – those which might perhaps take decades to pay off. Previously, the will simply wasn’t there to convert disused tracts of London land, many of which languished for decades. Kings Cross and Battersea Power Station are two such places that immediately spring to mind. Occasionally, developers with an eye on big money would forward ambitious proposals only to see them blown out by local interest groups. Recently though, developers have adopted a more subtle, inclusive approach resulting in a profound shift in the manner in which London as a city is developing. Private companies are now providing much of what local authorities used to provide – and doing so to a better and more consistent standard. Another side effect is the widespread acceptance and affection for the designs which are now changing the face and character of England’s Capital city.
Take for example, one of London’s newest landmarks, the Swiss Re skyscraper – known affectionately as the ‘Gherkin’ for its unique shape. It's been 25 years since the City of London last got a new office tower, and it's never had one like this award winning structure. Just a few short months after being opened it’s already been described by the BBC as “visual shorthand for the capital”. It took just three years for the tower to gradually spiral out of the ashes of bombed Baltic Exchange site in the heart of London’s financial district. In the initial stages of construction, its curved skeleton could only be glimpsed between the buildings crowding the City's tangled streets. But as it stretched skyward, it crested the packed skyline. From this glazed tower, the capital spreads out beneath your feet. And just as those inside look out at London, London looks back. For it can be seen from far and wide, its blue cigar-like shape providing a sharp contrast as it rises above box-like office blocks and familiar sights such as Tower Bridge, the London Eye and St Paul's Cathedral. In September, the building - officially called 30 St Mary Axe - took the coveted Royal Institute of British Architects (RIBA) Stirling Prize on a unanimous vote by judges. The prize honours the building making the greatest contribution to British architecture in the past year. Just across the city, Tower Hill, regarded by some as the 1,000 year old psycho-geographic centre of London, used to be a confused collection of unsympathetic buildings, overgrown shrubs and an arterial route heavily used by urban traffic. When's the last time you saw it? Because recently, a benign hand has swept away the detritus and brought order to one of the most heavily visited places on the Capital's map, replacing the confused vista with a calm, even austere, urban space. It has opened up uninterrupted views of the western flank of the Tower and in so doing, will effortlessly absorb the five million people who come to the Tower every year.
To even consider attempting a reworking of this urban space was the architectural equivalent of walking on egg-shells as architects Stanton Williams faced the challenge of consulting with organisations representing more than 100 local groups, government agencies, statutory bodies, companies and planning authorities to gain permission to adapt a Scheduled Ancient Monument, listed buildings, and close a traffic through-route to achieve a completely pedestrianised space. That they did so successfully, and in the time taken is nothing short of remarkable. During that five year project, archaeological remains of a wall and tiled walkway from the 1600s and the medieval Lion Tower, home of the Tower Menagerie in centuries past, were revealed. The archaeological finds have been incorporated into the new design and remain protected underground for future generations. A combination of Lottery funding, corporations awash with surplus cash and a desire to improve the environment allied to the will to make things happen means that redevlopments like those at Tower Hill are by no means unique; more and more are occurring across London. The cranes towering over the canyons of the City should be a clue; scan the newspapers and you can't go a day without news of yet another new monument, a major new building winning an award. In the past two weeks alone we've had the £1.5-million memorial in Park Lane unveiled in tribute to all the animals who have contributed to Britain's war efforts and consequently been awarded the PDSA Dickin Medal, a kind of Victoria Cross for animals; St Paul's Cathedral unveiled a striking new memorial to Sir Winston Churchill. The privately funded £260,000 memorial is the realisation of a long-held dream to pay tribute to the man who decreed during the Blitz: "At all costs, St Paul's must be saved." And with so many major developments occurring across the capital, each one of which will change the use and character of its immediate area - not to mention the skyline - for a generation or longer, London’s immediate future has never looked better. Both aesthetically and economically, the extensive redevelopment of London is good news for all of us. |
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8.12.04 13:19 |
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YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE STUPID BUT IT HELPS
What would you rank as the most important personal trait required to become a sucessful criminal? I'm not talking about major league - after all, you're not going to succeed in that particular field unless you're blessed with the sort of business acumen that John Harvey Jones would envy. No, I'm talking strictly low to middle division here; petty crime, theivery and the like. It's obviously an attractive life for some; the potential to turn a quick profit with minimal exertion required; flexible hours, no dress code as such and best of all - no qualifications required. So given all of that - and the knowledge that the only potentous cloud on the horizon to mar your future is the local CID - known colloquialy as "Da Po-Lice", you'd think that common sense might be a useful tool to have in your armoury, wouldn't you? After all, a weapon is only of any use as a last resort - surely it's better to stay one step ahead? Fortunately for those of us on the right side of the law it isn't the case. And it's a real bonus too for those police officers who are more interested in fighting crime and making proper arrests than filling in forms and drowning in the latest government initiative. Police officers like my mate Steve who's been driving an unmarked crime car of late. Unmarked crime cars are a fantasatic initative on the part of the Met - and effective too. These aren't your run of the mill saloons; more often than not they're from the higher end of BMW or Saab's range. 540i's, dark in colour but bristling with discrete electronic ephemera, radios and lights. They sit in traffic, just another anonymous car adding to the rush hour crawl; that is until they're tasked. The crew don't trouble themselves with traffic offences, petty crime or routine patrol stuff. They're there to respond to the nastier side of the business - those who commit burglary and steal cars using keys they've lifted from the hallway or bedside table.
Not Your Average Police Car: Good for catching dumber-than-average crims. Often, arrests come as a result of good old fashioned police work. Steve and his two man crew will be out driving around and they'll 'clock' somebody driving a car and their sixth sense will go into overdrive. Something doesn't look right - the person doesn't match the car; or they'll see three young fellas driving a Jaguar XJ8 late at night. Their suspicions are often proven the minute they ignite the blue lights nestling behind the grill of their patrol vehicle and switch the siren on; if the target vehicle makes a run for it, the occupants have got something to hide. They're rarely a match for Steve's pursuit driving though and after a short chase, generally, he gets his man. Him and his crew have had a number of commendations from senior officers for some of the crimes they've cleared up as a result. We were out recently and over a beer, Steve recounted a rather good arrest he'd made that week. The bloke he nicked is never going to win any awards for initiative though and judging by what I know of the circumstances, is more than likely depriving a village somewhere of an idiot now he's enjoying time at Her Majesty's Pleasure. We're talking about a criminal here who set himself low standards but failed to achieve them. Chummy was up before the judge at the local Magistrates Court for burglary and theft of a motor vehicle as a result of an arrest by one of Steve's colleagues who we'll call Mark. Before the trial, Mark fancies a sandwich and wanders over to a supermarket opposite the court. And walking across the car park, he spies Chummy who's sat in a parked up Toyota Rav 4 with his girlfriend. "Something not right there" thinks Mark. After all, he arrested the fella. He knows enough about him to know that he hasn't got the wherewithawl to afford a new car like that. So he gets on his mobile to Steve and informs him. Steve runs a check on the index number Mark's given him through the Police National Computer and sure enough, it comes back as stolen in a recent burglary. Same M.O as Chummy's about to go before the beak for. Well Chummy isn't going anywhere soon, so Steve takes a slow drive to the car park where Mark has seen the stolen car and plots up where he can get a good view. A call over the radio tasks the local response car to take up a position at the front of the court.
You're Nicked!: On the wrong side of the law Thirty minutes later, Chummy and his girlfriend leave court and make for a local pub. A swift couple of drinks and they wander back to the car where Steve, who's been given a description of the target by Mark watches him get in. Chummy clocks Steve who's convinced he's blown it - after all, it's 12:00 on a Friday afternoon and there's Steve and two other fellas sitting in a supermarket car park in a high performance BMW 540i. They look as out of place as a fella in a striped jersey and mask carrying a bag with 'Swag' writ across it. Chummy's either blind or stupid though. Probably the latter -the wheel is turning but the hamster is dead. You get the picture. He fires the engine and drives off. Steve follows. Lights on, siren on and Chummy finally realises. The car chase is no spectacle, lasting no more than 500 yards before the RAV4 slews to the road side and Chummy decamps on foot, gallantly leaving his girlfriend behind. It's a short chase though and Steve gets his man. That one arrest clears up several outstanding burglaries and recovers two stolen cars - one of which is still laden with the spoils of the previous night's burglary. And Chummy? His moment of stupidity/arrogance that saw him driving to court in a stolen car saw him carted off to prison where he's just started a three year term. The RAV4 has since been reunited with its owner who, perhaps unsurprisingly, is a hair dresser. |
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10.12.04 12:39 |
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PICKING UP THE PIECES
They say you shouldn't live in your past. In that respect, it's a lot like Birmingham - I wouldn't want to live there either, but I see nothing wrong with visiting it every now and then. My present career owes a massive amount to a certain part of my past and last night, with someone instrumental in the shaping of who I am, I retraced old steps. And it was better than good; it was fantastic. Ian and I worked together in my old life. We're the same age give or take a couple of years, from similar backgrounds. I met him when I was 21 and we struck up an immediate rapport. He was a key member of the team and we bonded from the word go. I lost count of what we shared - the successes we celebrated together; the lost nights, the weekends away. With the other guys - Steve, Terry, Brian and Michael, we shared everything. Ian's wedding to Rachel is remembered by all of us - she worked with us too, and it was like the best team event we'd ever have. That was 1993; things were at their zenith. Team spirit couldn't have been stronger and our respective successes seemed an axiomatic fact of that. I don't look back on those days through rose-tinted lenses; they really were that good and we recognised that at the time. The biggest contributory factor was the fact that so many, of like mind, age and experience, joined a bank whose corporate maturity was at a commensurate stage to our own personal development. Total synergy between us, each other, and our employer. And although we were driven by the confidence of youth, we were virgin enough as adults to believe it, and reinforcing it, the company was virgin enough as a corporate body to foster that culture, nurture it, and provide the tools to sustain the illusion We were all under 25 years old, earning more money than we could possibly spend, driving the cars we'd dreamed of owning. But it wasn't the material aspect of our success that drove us; what mattered was that we were regarded within the bank as key to its success, but left to our own devices to achieve that success; total autonomy. We could do what we wanted. If we went out after work (as we were prone to do), we could cancel the next day's meetings and take the day off. No questions, no problem. Our decision.
Ian and I at the Britannia Hotel, Docklands after a night at Trader Vics and the Rendevous Casino with the team, circa 1993 Working within such broad parameters frees the mind though, and in practice we worked harder than I believed I was capable of. It was fun. Getting up at 0545 to drive into the office for 0700 was fun - because I knew that I would see Ian and Steve there, that when we got to work we'd make money. Every week we seemed to set new precedents, break new records business-wise. And we had a brilliant boss who motivated me like nobody before, or since. His genuine delight, and pride at our achievements humbled me. Our achievement as a team was impressive; self-styled as The Elite Club we were responsible for over 60% of the whole London office's production (5 of us, out of 60 producing over half of the profit). He fought damn hard to secure us the recognition that he thought we deserved. Summer meant half days all week, afternoons in the White Swan. Lazy days spent drinking and reminiscing with the connivance of our managers who, more often than not, joined us. Both Ian and I remember saying, on more than one occasion, and with no hint of irony, "Surely, it doesn't get any better than this". We meant it at the time, and with hindsight, I believe it now. The circumstances could never be recreated - We know now, we know what we would be trying to achieve. Back then, it all happened by default, and the gradual sense of awareness became part of the dream. Circumstances conspired to provide the ideal ingredients, and we just followed our instincts and it all happened. I've been a hopeless friend since though. Because whilst our successes initially mirrored each other's, something in the dynamic changed; it always does, because it has to. By 1994, my restlessness had got the better of me. I get itchy feet and when the urge comes, I have to move on. So I left to work somewhere else, lured away by the promise of greater rewards. Two year later, I left the City for good. And over time, although Ian and the others stayed, we lost touch. Two weeks ago, I rang Ian on impulse. Haven't seen one another for seven years or more. Haven't spoken for four. Last night we met up. And it was like we'd never been apart. The years have been kind to him; he's aged, but like all of us in our thirties, forties he looked better - like he'd grown into himself. His eyes reflected life, the fine lines etched in his face redolent of experience. He's done well for himself. For old time's sake, we met at the Duke of Somerset mid afternoon yesterday. Over beer, we laughed until we could barely breathe, drank until we could barely stand and swapped stories of what life has thrown at us since we last met. It was 21:00 when we left. For old time's sake, we walked to the White Swan. We had a drink there, and saw the ghosts of oursleves in the corners, standing where we once stood as younger, more naive men. An hour later, we walked directly across the road to the Indian restaurant that ten years ago had seemed like a branch office, so often where we to be found there. Jackets left over our chairs in the office, we'd wander down there for lunch, and still be there when it got dark. It's changed now of course, but the food - I can't recall a nicer Indian meal in my life. Whatever consitiutes a great night out, last night for me had it in spades. Perfect, engaging company with a bloke who knows me as well as I know myself; within an hour of us meeting up we were finishing one another's sentences in conversation and there's not too many people I know well enough to do that. We didn't stop talking; he knows how to tell a story and it's a pleasure to listen to him. With some people, you don't listen, you 'wait to talk'. With Ian, I listened. And when I spoke he did the same. We parted at gone eleven last night, seven hours (and as many pints) after we met up. I was barely able to stand but that was okay because P went out last night too and I met her at Kings Cross. She helped me get home which was useful because I don't think I'd have managed to find my own face without help. Certainly speech seemed a reach too far. I went to bed last night thinking my hangover was franked and in the hands of the Royal Mail ready for delivery this morning. But I guess it got lost in the post because I woke up feeling better than I had any right to expect (the litre of Evian I drank in the night must have done its job!) We've arranged to meet up again after Christmas. We won't be losing touch again. |
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15.12.04 15:30 |
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SOPHISTICATED, COOL BRITAIN. NOT
If you're a long time reader of this blog, it can't have escaped your attention that I've got something of a passion for London and the South East. Indeed, for Britain as a whole, a country I feel great pride in being able to call home. But it wasn't always this way. Remember the cultural wasteland that was the UK up until the late seventies? Britain was a dreadful place; lacking in national confidence, the three day week, constant strikes and drab, dark streets all reflected our lack of pride in Britishness. The Second World War left us with an enormous hangover that affected us both financially and perhaps just as important - in terms of how we saw oursleves as a society. Many houses in London had no bathroom or central heating; coal deliveries were the norm. And technology? A bakelite telephone with a rotary dial and black and white television were about as high-tech as it got. British Leyland produced the Austin Allegro, a car with a square steering wheel that should have been killed at birth. Culturally, we were on our knees. But I've forgotten all that. Because something stirred. The influx of migrants brought cultural diversity to our cities and cuisine. And a generation of kids inspired by chemistry sets, spirographs, Mecano and home electronics became today's visionary architects, scientists and designers. They picked up the worthless, half-baked research and development projects that littered the labs of the seventies and did something with them. They rocked! We got style. It's not just the fantastic night life, or extraordinary variety of top class restaurants that make it what it is. Or our world reknowned chefs, designers, industrialists and businessmen. It's not even our police service, still the envy of the developed world, or our system of democracy that sees us shaking our collective head and rolling our eyes in a knowing way at America's 'foriegn policy' - like, "Tsk tsk..you'll see". It's not only our landscape - from the devastating beauty of the Lakes to the skyline of Docklands or of London. I've waxed lyrical about the technological advances and melting pot that is our culture and how they've conspired to turn us into a world-class nation.
We've got cars like the Aston Martin DB9 - aesthetically and dynamically, one of the most perfect cars ever built. We've got buildings like the Swiss Re 'Gherkin'. iPods, PCs, DVDs, XDAs - the technology that we dreamed about as kids; that even as young adults, we never thought we'd live to see. Just look at us now. Er... Maybe not. For every time I start to get carried away; every time I think of Britain as a cultural powerhouse with a national self-awareness that's the envy of the world, something comes along to remind me that actually, no. We're still quaint old England. And whilst we aspire to greatness, somehow something in our make up will keep holding us back. I'm indebted to blogger Stuart Hughes for two recent audio clips from BBC Radio which illustrate my point perfectly. They're both in mp3 format and tiny in size - together, under 300kbs - so they'll load almost instantly. We'll begin our audio tour of golden moments in British broadcasting in Lancashire, where the early morning news team is in a spot of bother. It's 7 o'clock on a Saturday morning, there's been a gas explosion in Greater Manchester, but aside from the news reader, the only other person in the building available to put his lips around a voice piece is....the bloke who does the angling report. Never mind, we'll use him then. Once you've recovered from that, have a listen to this broadcasting gem from the south west next, where a popular euphemism for, er...'ladies bits' appears to be not quite so well known. Maybe we need to think at a more parochial level; it's London and the South East that are culturally ahead of the game; Britain's got some catching up to do! |
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17.12.04 12:04 |
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