Lots of hate going on at the moment, specifically Mike hating Tony Blair. I’m surprised that Mike could only come up with six reasons for hating Mr Blair, although I’m sure if he wanted to he could go on and think of many, many more… I know I could.

It’s a rant I received about hating old people that got me thinking though, because really, as is the case with such things, I don’t think it’s the age of people that matters at all. It’s really easy to just blanket attack the ‘old’, just as it is to do the same for ‘the kids’. There’s good and bad at any age. The kind of old granny who would witter about ‘showing her knickers’ is the kind of teenager who would shriek hysterically about the same thing, the same middle aged woman who would make you (me, at least) cringe in disgust at seeing her trying to appear ‘glamorous’ and ‘alluring’ by wearing too few clothes and showing too much ill-toned flesh. And it’s not pensioners who are the only ones who clog up streets when you’re trying to get somewhere; it’s kids who weave around like they’re drunk, gazing in every window and at every car parked by the sidewalk; it’s the adults pushing prams at about a half-mile an hour, wittering on their mobiles (‘I’m passing Debenhams now!’); it’s the couples who stroll hand in hand or arm in arm (or, worst, hands in butt pockets) and will not detach themselves for anyone or anything. So basically, it’s not the age, it’s the personality that I hate.

Of course it’s easy to diss the old. It’s easy to dismiss their lack of willingness to ‘learn’, but then again, it’s not the age. I don’t know any fifteen year old who use the Internet for learning how to make bombs or for learning very much at all… they’re all too busy messing around in chat rooms or on their IM services to bother. Which is fine, up to a point.

It’s easy to diss the old, and it’s very hard to be positive and genuinely tender about them. Forget all the kneejerk nonsense spouted by ‘the nation’ about the Queen Mother. That’s not tenderness, it’s just empty mediated fear of treading ones own path. No, for genuine feeling go for Dexy’s ‘Old’, the only song I’ve ever heard that makes old age seem as special and vital as it can be… as long as the person is.

There will always be jerks on the bus, there will always be people blocking the streets. That’s not age, it’s just humanity. And as we all know, humanity, on the whole, sucks.

posted by duke harringay at 1:06 PM

Sitting in the train station this morning, I was strangely delighted to hear an English accent at the ticket office. It sounded so civilized after even just a few days of barking, aggressive Scottish accents… which probably sounds silly and maybe a bit sad, but there it is. I just really don’t like hearing Scottish people talking very much. Particularly those ones on the telly who p.r.o.n.o.u.n.c.e. every bloody syllable and try to force a smile through every goddamn word.

The train journey was interesting. I filled a sketchbook with drawings on the way up to Glasgow and back, and on the way up there were three horrible teenage boys who were obviously fare-dodging. They were really repulsive, especially this one kid, who had horrific blue dyed hair and one of those truly repugnant round faces, the kind that looks so smug and full of itself you just want to smack it. He was probably the ugliest kid I have ever seen, and believe me, I’ve seen some sights… And they talked so loudly too, with rough Ayrshire accents and every other word a ‘fuck’ or ‘fucking’. I wish I’d had my walkman and mic to record them. They really had no clue about where they were on the journey, because when we came close to Dalry (Rupert! Again!) they were saying to each other that they were ‘fucking comin tae fucking Paisley’. And when they realised it wasn’t they called it Darly. Which amused me and the guy opposite me no end. I think they got kicked off at Lochwinnoch, which would be funny because there is nothing there except a bird sanctuary or something equally boring to fucking wee teenage twats. As it were.

Glasgow, on the whole, looks nothing like the city I left twelve years ago, which is hardly surprising. I didn’t like it very much, going back, I have to say. It looked kind of ugly, even in the sunshine. Or rather, the people looked kind of ugly. So many just looking so aggressive, in their stances, their postures, when they open their mouths. So many cigarettes being smoked… so many bloody football shirts being worn as everyday wear, nearly all of the Celtic ones, which I guess just reflects the fact that they happen to be the more successful of the two city teams at the moment. I remember when Rangers were winning everything it was the other way around, as I’m sure it will be again.

It felt odd being up around the Art School again, deserted as it all was, what with it being the holidays and all. The main building still looks magnificent, and I’m oddly proud to have been educated there, but it was still very strange, looking up at the windows of the old Architecture School building, glancing at the new sign above the door to the Vic café (red in my day, blue now), hearing the ghosts of Del Amitri playing ‘Crows In The Wheatfield’ (they used to rehearse in the hall there). I wonder how many of my peers are still in the design business, how many of them have moved onto other things, although if truth be told I don’t wonder for very long at all. Maybe I just wonder about Patrick, who of course introduced me to ACR and so much else, and Andrew who played me the Wake, and Robert, who was, well, maybe the coolest person I ever knew in that kind of ‘art’ way. I thought of Robert as I walked along Sauchiehall Street and noticed that Nico’s was still there… Nico’s being then the kinda trendy art school hang out bar that I just never went to because I wasn’t fashionable enough. It’s a great name for a bar though, and far better than the ‘nice’n’sleazy’ that sits just up the road.

In fact nearly every other building now seems to be a bar or a club or a restaurant. It’s weird. They nearly all looked far to hip for me to venture into though, even (especially?) the 13th Note café down on King Street, which I’m told has Josef K CDs on the jukebox. I walked past and had a glance through the window at the handful of hipsters within and decided that I was definitely more suited to wandering alone with my camera down by the Clyde, along to the Saltmarket and past the Barras. So I did.

I went in the museum of Modern Art too, which was really disappointing, especially since part of it was closed for refurbishment. What was there was really poor though, especially the gallery given over to a show of David Mach work. I really don’t like Mach’s work at all. It’s all so obvious and clumsy. I get the impression he thinks he’s making really funny jokes, when really he’s not at all; he’s just making really boring cracks like, say, some guy fronting some godawful Saturday night telly show. On ITV.

There’s a couple of Peter Howson paintings there too, which I hate. There’s ‘The Patriots’ which is meant to convey some kind of critique of the Nationalist fervour so prevalent in Scotland (which, to give the painting it’s due, it does pretty well), and then there’s ‘The Glorious Game.’ And guess what that one is about? The thing is, I look at these two painting and they both say the same thing to me: they both show me how ugly and aggressive Scotland is. Maybe that IS the point. Maybe Howson really hates football too, and ‘the glorious game’ is an ironic title… somehow I doubt it though. And then there’s Steven Campbell and all his obvious fucking symbolism. Ugh. The only things that even slightly excite me are a couple of Bridget Rileys, and some delightful collage/assemblages by Margaret Mellis which remind me of Roger Hilton’s. Except Mellis blows it somewhat with a couple of figurative collages which really should have been stashed in the depths of a studio somewhere and forgotten… Aside from that, it’s only hearing Everything But The Girl’s ‘Each and Every One’ on a radio whilst Mach’s minions tear and pile newspaper around burnt out cars that raises my heart. It really does sound wonderful, and just for a moment it’s 1984 again, I’m lugging a portfolio up Hope Street and dreaming of nights full of cider and bicycles.



posted by duke harringay at 7:46 PM