Hoxton Ramblings

Why am I writing this? I don't know. I do. I sat at the window of the coffee shop, you could have seen it on the silver screen. Rain falling on Curtain Road and Rivington Street, old bricks and the new. 'The new inside the old' I think as I look at the Barley Mow, maybe an allusion to how commercialism is eating away the quintessential London spirit at its' core (die Wetherspoons, Borders, Starbucks).

But London hangs on; the cobbles lay ahead, while cobblers I can hear behind me. The 'nouveau riche' they are called, the young jet-set. What many do not see is the failed fashion designer, the depressed scriptwriter. Do the grey skies hide the blues? The blues? We're all in the same boat, but the waters are as shallow as those who believe they embody London.

London clings on, it refuses to fade. The pubs, the shops may close, but they are not replaced. So why were they closed? Their character cannot be replaced; give me cobwebs in an old boozer over aspiring gangsters at the doors of a club any day, or night.

Who can we touch? Who wants to know? We must not target, for what right do we have to pick and choose? All we can do is set out our stall (another relic of the past) and see who passes by. Neglect the kids? I do not think there are any kids in this city (although the so-called 'jet-set' reflect this mentality more than those with their heads in the books). If there are, then they are the very individuals who contribute to the romance of our beloved urban decay. After all, they add colour to the structural cracks.

No frenzy required, a rampage maybe. I look up at many a disused warehouse; crying out for something special they are. I'd rather sound curious than ignorant, so let's tolerate the ignorant and welcome the curious, whoever they are. Let's not sell our souls for a platform, put them up for rent maybe, but only for the duration of a setlist.

Something is missing round here. We've always known what.

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