Londoners Life 5 – By Phil Ryan

Winter is here in London. It’s official. The clothes say it all. And right now you can clearly see the London tribes. Clear and defined. In cloth, leather and appliqué. The Hoxton and Camdenite trendies. The monied Sloane’s of Kensington. The shady street dealers of Shepherds Bush. From the ludicrously large Fur Trapper hats and skinny jeans, to the silver and gold Puffa jackets plus obligatory bling. The thigh length Cossack boots to the new Paul Smith stripy scarves. Postcodes struck in wool and leather and nylon as clearly as an assay mark. A friend once remarked that the onward march of the chain clothing store would eventually destroy all individuality in style terms. But be that as it may, just like the swallows flying south each year off to Capistrano following nature’s imperative, the winter looks are as clearly and definitively ingrained at a genetic London borough by borough level.

In Whitechapel it’s the portly types in the Primark Gangster collection crossed with JD sports sale items. In Chelsea it’s the slim model like folk in black Yves St Laurent mixed with Yamamoto. London brands its citizens by fashion and by income so very clearly at this time of year. I’m surprised it’s not on their passports – a second picture of them in full seasonal look. Oh the customs officer would say peering at the small image of them dressed head to toe in Burberry check. You’re from Stratford. Through you go.

And as certain as the winter fashions the other London winter signs are gathering pace. The chestnut sellers are back from wherever they go in the warmer weather. You’ll find them at every piazza or open space. Traditional London winter prices at about 90 pence per charcoal blackened cremated chestnut. Or to translate – £3.00 for three grudging half mouthfuls once you’ve discarded the charcoal and eaten the non burnt bits. And of course the ever perennial pre-seasonal dodgy perfume sellers. Honest guvnor’ this Calvin Klein is genuine. Just a litre for a tenner. The crowds swarming round them like hyperactive bumble bees on Ketamine. Sadly without the sense of your average drone. Stolen or not – no respectable crook is going to give four bottles of Chanel no 5 away for nothing. So come Christmas they’ll watch in baffled dismay as poor Auntie Vi’s face falls off into her soup or the smell from the bottle attracts Zombies from as far away as Peru seeking dead flesh. A little bit of Del boy mixed with Jeffrey Dahmer. Typical. You just can’t trust criminals eh?

But London’s street people are changing. The old perennials giving way to more foreign imports. From Romanian pick pocket gangs to increasingly rabid street preachers. I saw two the other day on opposite sides of the street. One a Yemeni Muslim the other an American Christian Evangelist. Both completely barking mad. Yelling weird slogans about saving us all. Finding our way to their truth. My immediate thought being what and turn into you two nut jobs?

Just like my last column I’m sure I could be missing something here though. Did they have a spiritual truth? But the answer is in fact no. I’m just not convinced my path to eternal salvation starts outside the Car Phone warehouse. With people unburdened by the pressure of sanity. Although, if it has to start somewhere for me, there has to be cakes. And in London right now there’s a new cake shop explosion. I of course refer to the new muffin places. Time was you’d be lucky to get a chocolate one. Now there’s a plethora of new places offering every type you could think of. I saw Passion Fruit and Peanut butter muffins the other day. Although, this could have just been the first day for the new guy. He’s off the medication now and his doctors are hopeful he’ll soon be able to live a normal life. Muffins I ask you. A new fashion. Who’d have thought it? £4.00 a pop or £1.50 per tiny micro mouthful. But I’ve been to five separate boroughs recently and they’ve all got these trendy looking new tea rooms. Or Café’s de The as they like to poncingly call themselves. It’s a studied look. Coolness and kitsch in one. Brushed Oak and steel benches next to pictures of polka dot pinnies and old posters of apple cheeked children at a gas stove.

Cake stands with frilly lace overhangings next to a sleek black ipod docking station. Earl Grey tea caddies next to Red Bull cans or those weird energy drinks you’ve never heard of with extract of ginko root and killer whale ears. And the people who run them? All the owners all look like successful architects with a hint of mental illness. The women. Prada meets a lady factory worker from the fifties. And the men all look like Bertie Wooster meets Karl Lagerfeld via Oxfam. The rest of the staff doe eyed eastern European beauties working for the minimum wage. Of course the word home-made figures prominently everywhere. As does organic. As do eye watering prices. But hey ho. It’s cute. It’s retro. It’s wildly overpriced. But do we mind? No. It’s a London thing.

Londoners Life 4 – By Phil Ryan
It’s a given that in London you see odd things. City things. Things you don’t see say in the countryside. Urban things. And though they’ve been around a while I saw a thing in town just now that left me speechless. A large man. Standing on a main thoroughfare. Outside John Lewis. In a dayglo boiler suit. An almost radioactive lime green reflective material. The words Computer Sale written all over him. Up each leg. Along his arms. On his chest. On his back. And adding indignity to indignity. On the large sail like top hat he was wearing was an arrow. Pointing to presumably the place holding the computer sale. A human billboard. With a pocket thing. Full of leaflets.

Sadly my initial thought was what must the job interview be like? That said. Oh my god. Who came up with this idea? There used to be guys holding giant signs on poles. They were always listening to something on headphones. Presumably the words “don’t kill yourself” on a constant loop. But the pole was a tangible thing. It said I’m a signpost to the golf clearout. The guy has to hold me or I’ll fall down or blow away. But the suit sign phenomenon. A black hole for human dignity. A nadir in exploitation. It’s just a few steps away from children up chimneys isn’t it? Yes I’ve seen people in costumes before on the streets. There’s a party place near where I live. They do fancy dress. Fireworks. Novelty stuff. Every now and again there’ll be a guy in giant teddy bear costume outside holding a bunch of balloons and dancing around on the pavement. He waves to the cars. We toot our horns and wave back. He waves back. We all smile and feel a little better. Of course I could have this wrong and it could be some earnest protest about the exploitation of bears in circuses. Maybe the balloons are just symbolic. Maybe the party place hires out endangered bears. Perhaps the Giant teddy is begging us to help stop this. His little dance and wave actually blind fury as we smile and wave and drive on. He’s not waving he’s shaking his fists at us. Thoughtless swine. But I like his Teddy bear suit. It’s very nice. Friendly. Evocative of childhood. Whereas the dayglo guys just look frankly naff. And conjure up slavery and low wages. Damn I can’t stop thinking about that Teddy bear now. But as a Londoner my conscience is pricked about ten times every hour.
There’s the smiling young people with clip boards. Fresh faced. Innocent. Optimistic. Students I’m guessing. Saying hello. Giving you a thumbs up. They wear little tabards saying Christian Giving. Starving Children or Africa it’s awful isn’t it. Apparently it’s called chugging. Which is shorthand for charity mugging. They try and stiff you for two pounds a month or someone will die. And secretly they hint it’s your fault. Then there’s the misery tables. Usually the pasteboard ones you buy at B&Q to paper the downstairs lav. But now covered with pictures of beagles having a fag. Monkeys wearing makeup which I thought was quite cute until the earnest young woman put me straight. I gave her a quid. But one truly unique London thing is the anti regime tables. Solemn looking people holding books of people who have disappeared. Down with the nasty regime. They want you to sign a petition. I always do. But of course I can’t help thinking A) I’m not sure the nasty regime is going to be bothered by a petition.

 Especially from a load of concerned Londoners, as currently they’re happy killing people who probably need a bit more protection than a petition but the B is the more worrying. Maybe I’ve now upset the regime by getting involved. Plus now they’ve got my name. Sometimes my postcode. Maybe they’ve got Google Street map. These guys kill people. Uh oh. But that’s another issue for another time. I guess the point is that the streets of London are now covered in stuff. Year on year. People in your way. Stopping you getting where you are going. Don’t get me wrong it’s all generally good. Big Issue. Great. Salvation Army. Fantastic. Red Poppy appeal. Marvellous. But I have to say finally there is one group of London street people that just baffles me. The Hare Krishnas. Uh? A load (sorry make that four to six) of people in thin orange pyjamas shuffling along banging a drum slightly out of time (very annoying if you feel like grooving) and repeating themselves in a sing song voice. And always two of them who don’t have all the orange gear. I saw one the other day with the orange shirty thing but wearing leather bondage trousers covered in zips and high heels. His friend had the orange pyjama bottoms but was sporting a rather fetching pink Puffa jacket with the legend Street Fighter embroidered across it with matching Ugg boots. Clearly they were half krishnas. Not quite fully orange. Trendsetters if you will.

But be careful. If you catch their eye they’ll immediately stop and try and flog you a book with some bloke and a blue elephant on the front. Or sometimes a weird looking CD. So the pavements are filling up. But do we care? Really. Does it bother anyone honestly? No. It’s a London thing.