Anarchy is a lonely old game. It’s very rare that you get to sit down with like minded people and discuss the impact that government proposals will have on your trade. All we anarchists have to go on is the inspirational deeds of our forefathers and an overblown sense of injustice. Good anarchy is really just a scrupulous selection process. It is essential you pick your role-models and your moments wisely, as I found out when I made my debut on the scene on a train into central London this week.
Like all good anarchists I was lost in my copy of the Guardian (G2 to be precise – it’s very witty you know). In an attempt to break into new sectors, I had my iPod on shuffle and was cut adrift on a sea of musical uncertainty. One can get quite excited when a run of songs you like merges seamlessly and unexpectedly into one endorphin secreting, euphoric medley and it is often difficult to contain one’s emotions. So I turned it up. And again. And again, until life was good. Ah, the sweet joys of loud music. The feet were tapping, the head was nodding, the pages of my paper leafed as if the consequences of having Dick Cheney as the most powerful man in the world were of little or no consequence to me – good old Dick with his thirst for blood and money! At that moment international politics was irrelevant, because I was about to recreate the world in my own image. As the stations whizzed past, I looked around at the glum faces and I thought “you know what man this aint so bad. It’s a Monday but damnit I think I’m gonna make today mine. I’m gonna go in there and I’m going to change something, maybe just one thing but it’s going to make a difference and its going…” and then it happened. Firm and reassuring, the hand of order fell upon my shoulder.
A sharp poke commands me to look up:
“Could you turn you music down please?”
“Eh?” Does this jerk know who I am? Does he know I’m about to change the world today?
“Turn it down it’s irritating me”.
My pulse races. I’m looking at him and he’s annoying me. I consider punching him in his fat, sweaty little face until I remember: It’s ok. I’m cool. I’m ice cool today. I laugh and return to my paper having turned the volume down.
Another poke. He’s taking liberties.
“What’s so funny?”
And all of a sudden I am David Cameron’s PR dream. He’s looking at me as if I’m an ASBO, a hoodie, a degenerate. This guy’s got me wrong. I am literati. I am the future, a rogue with good intentions I think. The grip of anarchy’s hand on my shoulder tightens and I turn to inspect it – painted nails, gaudy jewels, a sweat band. I look up to see the spirit of Avril Lavigne watching over me and I realise what she’s been banging on about for Christ knows how long. Yeah these fogies have got it wrong. Sometimes you have to stick it to the man. Why am I taking this guy’s crap? He should be taking orders from me. Bring on the pain.
“That’s utterly ridiculous. There is no way on God’s green earth you could hear that over the noise of the train”. I lean in for the kill.
As I open my mouth to apologise that my music distracted him from his Daily “intake of xenophobia” Mail, the chap beside me interjects without looking: “It is pretty loud actually mate” I am shocked. He is reading the Times. I think it likely at some point he has read an article on this. I begin to wonder if I’m breaking an age old city law. Seconds later I have convinced myself I am in the wrong. Then the enormity of the whole thing dawns on me. We’re on the train, in London and we’re… talking. Stage fright ensues. I begin to feel isolated.
Then I remember. I am an anarchist now. I must take courage from the inspiring deeds of others. I ask myself the question: What would Avril do? I look over my shoulder. I notice how well dressed she is and how her handbag looks expensive. She doesn’t look at me because she’s talking very quietly into her iPhone, apologetically almost – and she’s talking utter garbage again.
I scramble for the off button on my iPod and make one last desperate attempt to sound annoyed: “Fine, have it your way” but I’m betrayed by my trembling hand. My jitters were such that had I walked past me at this point, I would have been moved to look away lamenting the circumstances that could have led this young man to become ravaged by alcohol or perhaps a debilitating illness. I try to read about the golf. That young Rory Hamilton’s a stand up chap isn’t he? A role model almost. Why couldn’t I have felt his hand on my shoulder? He would have cracked a golf joke and got a job out of it. I listened to Avril and have been reduced to a blithering idiot.
My reign of terror is over. I am a Londoner once more. I imagine Ken winking at me before beating myself up mercilessly. “How very dare I exist in this cramped space. How utterly selfish. There are twenty other people in these 12cm³, who am I to dictate the soundtrack of their morning jaunt.”
I get off the train and walk to work. I apologise 36 times in five minutes (in truth it was only on 18 separate occasions but it is always polite to say “sorry, sorry” in diminuendo when you cross paths with a fellow pedestrian). As I walk I muse. How come we were talking on the train? That’s not right. Then it twigs: we weren’t talking. We were complaining. And then I remember we’re in England, and everything falls into place.
Like all good anarchists I was lost in my copy of the Guardian (G2 to be precise – it’s very witty you know). In an attempt to break into new sectors, I had my iPod on shuffle and was cut adrift on a sea of musical uncertainty. One can get quite excited when a run of songs you like merges seamlessly and unexpectedly into one endorphin secreting, euphoric medley and it is often difficult to contain one’s emotions. So I turned it up. And again. And again, until life was good. Ah, the sweet joys of loud music. The feet were tapping, the head was nodding, the pages of my paper leafed as if the consequences of having Dick Cheney as the most powerful man in the world were of little or no consequence to me – good old Dick with his thirst for blood and money! At that moment international politics was irrelevant, because I was about to recreate the world in my own image. As the stations whizzed past, I looked around at the glum faces and I thought “you know what man this aint so bad. It’s a Monday but damnit I think I’m gonna make today mine. I’m gonna go in there and I’m going to change something, maybe just one thing but it’s going to make a difference and its going…” and then it happened. Firm and reassuring, the hand of order fell upon my shoulder.
A sharp poke commands me to look up:
“Could you turn you music down please?”
“Eh?” Does this jerk know who I am? Does he know I’m about to change the world today?
“Turn it down it’s irritating me”.
My pulse races. I’m looking at him and he’s annoying me. I consider punching him in his fat, sweaty little face until I remember: It’s ok. I’m cool. I’m ice cool today. I laugh and return to my paper having turned the volume down.
Another poke. He’s taking liberties.
“What’s so funny?”
And all of a sudden I am David Cameron’s PR dream. He’s looking at me as if I’m an ASBO, a hoodie, a degenerate. This guy’s got me wrong. I am literati. I am the future, a rogue with good intentions I think. The grip of anarchy’s hand on my shoulder tightens and I turn to inspect it – painted nails, gaudy jewels, a sweat band. I look up to see the spirit of Avril Lavigne watching over me and I realise what she’s been banging on about for Christ knows how long. Yeah these fogies have got it wrong. Sometimes you have to stick it to the man. Why am I taking this guy’s crap? He should be taking orders from me. Bring on the pain.
“That’s utterly ridiculous. There is no way on God’s green earth you could hear that over the noise of the train”. I lean in for the kill.
As I open my mouth to apologise that my music distracted him from his Daily “intake of xenophobia” Mail, the chap beside me interjects without looking: “It is pretty loud actually mate” I am shocked. He is reading the Times. I think it likely at some point he has read an article on this. I begin to wonder if I’m breaking an age old city law. Seconds later I have convinced myself I am in the wrong. Then the enormity of the whole thing dawns on me. We’re on the train, in London and we’re… talking. Stage fright ensues. I begin to feel isolated.
Then I remember. I am an anarchist now. I must take courage from the inspiring deeds of others. I ask myself the question: What would Avril do? I look over my shoulder. I notice how well dressed she is and how her handbag looks expensive. She doesn’t look at me because she’s talking very quietly into her iPhone, apologetically almost – and she’s talking utter garbage again.
I scramble for the off button on my iPod and make one last desperate attempt to sound annoyed: “Fine, have it your way” but I’m betrayed by my trembling hand. My jitters were such that had I walked past me at this point, I would have been moved to look away lamenting the circumstances that could have led this young man to become ravaged by alcohol or perhaps a debilitating illness. I try to read about the golf. That young Rory Hamilton’s a stand up chap isn’t he? A role model almost. Why couldn’t I have felt his hand on my shoulder? He would have cracked a golf joke and got a job out of it. I listened to Avril and have been reduced to a blithering idiot.
My reign of terror is over. I am a Londoner once more. I imagine Ken winking at me before beating myself up mercilessly. “How very dare I exist in this cramped space. How utterly selfish. There are twenty other people in these 12cm³, who am I to dictate the soundtrack of their morning jaunt.”
I get off the train and walk to work. I apologise 36 times in five minutes (in truth it was only on 18 separate occasions but it is always polite to say “sorry, sorry” in diminuendo when you cross paths with a fellow pedestrian). As I walk I muse. How come we were talking on the train? That’s not right. Then it twigs: we weren’t talking. We were complaining. And then I remember we’re in England, and everything falls into place.
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