Uncool Reunion

A regal throne, complete with colonial portrait.

Peculiar banquet hall, decked with ivory tusks and silver goblets. I stole a lump of sugar.

Old Boys.

Two weeks ago, on a bleak Thursday evening I packed up my tote bag and wandered over to Mayfair wearing a t-shirt I had bought on eBay with a pair of exposed breasts on. 

This was a school reunion, an assembly of 'Old Boys' from my former school in Devon, an amusing misnomer given that we had been invited and that the majority of the attendees were wispy haired white men who attended in the 60s. Not my usual dig, I had spotted the event on facebook and along with an old school friend, we met in Soho before gracing the occasion around 8pm. Two smiley receptionists greeted us upon our arrival, thrusting name tags into our hands and gesturing towards the bar. There were no free drinks as the event had promised, and what the event had also failed to alert us of was the glut of UKIP advocating Old Boys; the chair of which bought us both drinks with some racist shrapnel and openly sneered when following questioning I informed him I was studying at an Arts and Humanities university. 'Most of our old boys go into Surveying! You'd be surprised! At some of these events there can be over 100!'. I couldn't think of anything more soul sucking.

My lovely companion, studying languages at an esteemed red-brick university was met with noticeably more marked 'ah!'s of approval at institution and degree, whilst I internally sniggered away my own anxiety and adjusted my cardigan, grabbing onto the cotton like my self-worth. True, I hadn't exactly aided the process through choice of t-shirt. 

After darting between various other conversations with former teachers and students (we were not only the youngest but the only women out of approximately 40) we made a deliberate dash to the toilets where we took it upon ourselves to explore the 'banquet hall', performance quarter and bizarre imperial bathrooms (see above images). Absurd silver trinkets and goblets alongside chandeliers and imposing ivory tusks, this exhibition of wealth and empire was light-years away from my charmingly gritty quarter of South East London I had grown so fond of.  

I left the occasion with a sour feeling of inadequacy, an ignored friend request, a cheek full of kettle crisps, and the sense of having been condescended on all components of my being through various conservative attitudes. A breeding ground for nepotism, sexism, and a perpetuation of outdated, quaint ideals.

There's no such thing as a free drink.

Reykjavíkurdætur make me want to punch the sky

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

A direct attack on The Great British Academy

I have something on my chest. It's currently inflamed and looks like I have the onset of a terrible skin condition. It's as red as the red flag, gently restricts my breathing at worst, and over the years has provoked countless shrill exclamations of 'are you alright?'. I've had it as long as I can remember in times of heightened anxiety, arousal, anticipation, to go on. I am currently seething.

As a non-oligarch student of Literature at a London university I work part time. Following a brief stint back home over the Christmas period where I slotted back into luggage shop tribulations- a grave error- I put my foot down and secured a job as a tutor of GCSE English back at uni. The firm; based in Hackney are relatively newly fledged and fundamentally the loveliest bunch of young professionals keen on helping students of all ages gain confidence in academia in both private and group tuition in schools across Greater London. As a student who was once reliant on tuition to shoehorn me through GCSE Physics I understand the importance of getting through to a pupil who may not necessarily connect with the subject but is eager to work at it for the sake of a grade. So far, I have tutored GCSE students with abilities ranging from a D/E grade to A, and whilst I am still very much a fresh face to the sphere of tuition, I'd like to say I take immense pride and attention to lesson planning, listening to students and asking for their own feedback to sculpt the lessons round their areas of focus. To be totally frank, there are few things I enjoy more, and I can get an immense adrenaline rush out of it.

I have so far worked at two schools, one in West London and one in East London; both being light years away from my former secondary school. As a student who only left secondary education about four years ago, I'd like to say I was still fresh from the oven. I loathed my school wholeheartedly, having transferred mid-GCSE following a family relocation to North Devon. A rurally isolated private school; mine perpetuated a grotesque class divide with Damien Hirst’s darling tottering down corridors whilst I hopelessly attempted to integrate. 150 years old, the school held close Freemason ties [insert pun on school ties] shamelessly made known to pupils with the presence of the enormous Masonic rugs rolled up in the corner of the drama studio and 'special favours' that my Music teacher has mentioned that several of the male teachers would make for the sons of Masons. In fairness to my parents they were aware this was unsurprisingly going to be an awkward time to move any 16 year old from the costal metropolis that is Brighton so sent me here in the hope of an amicable environment and quick solution to salvaging an education for a furiously hormonal young woman.
My experience of secondary school, as most teenagers find in retrospect, was painful. I was distinctly made to feel aware of how much money my parents did or did not have in comparison with my peers, and as an extension I felt an enormous sense of guilt at being there and so insufferably miserable. Girls were forbidden from wearing trousers (there was no option), boys had to have hair of a certain length, my peers frequented homophobic and racist slurs so often I gave up on trying to call them out.  It wasn’t until I moved back to the city and discussed this with friends at university I could finally express my pent up frustration at a school so retrograde in its deeply conservative ideology.

What I would not understand until four hours ago is that arseholes are not exclusive to the private sector. Call me a fool.

The schools I teach at in West and East London are both Academies. I value my job, and in light of this I am going to abstain from referring directly to the school(s) in question. What I am not going to abstain from is the expression of the conversation I had today with a year 11 pupil, ‘A’. ‘A’ is a GCSE student in her final year of secondary school. She is diligent, has grubby fingernail, is the most methodical planner of essays I have ever encountered and quite honestly is absolutely charming. This said, half of the scheduled sessions I’ve had with her she’s called off or she’s had doctor’s notes. Today was evidently a lucky day and sure enough she was waiting outside as soon as I had finished with the previous group session. ‘A’ looked visibly drained.   

I open the school approved ‘tutor pack’ that the head of department has instructed us to use. A smarmy, deeply condescending woman; it is evident by her manner that she has very little respect for us tutors, let alone her students. Today in the earlier session she swans in making no attempt to speak to us privately and waltzes in mid-session to my colleague, asking if her students have been making ‘insightful comments’, then reprimanded another for slouching, both in the most poisonous tone I have ever heard a teacher speak to a student. The whole premise of tutoring is breaking the boundaries of formalities to tailor to the student’s learning and allowing them to feel comfortable to broach questions on the topic that they may find challenging. Two weeks ago she stormed into my session and in front of my entire group session and told me my whole lesson plan was incorrect in explicit earshot of my students. That evening I sobbed to my boyfriend and drew a tiny effigy in my journal.

I asked ‘A’ how her week had been. She gnaws on a biscuit in response, “it’s from study club miss” she says, embarrassed and wiping the crumbs from her mouth- completely ignoring my question. We propose to look at a creative writing question we had planned from the previous session; we look at the mark scheme. ‘A’ highlights the key words, slumped into her chair and I try to keep a chirpy tone, anxiously sipping on my own cold coffee.  When we finally commence writing a creative passage she slumps even further. “I’m really sorry miss” she confesses, “I’m exhausted.”.

I ask her what time she was in this morning, presuming 9AM; my own earliest lecture and a pain at that. She tells me that students must be in for 8:11 promptly every day. If a student is more than 1 minute late they lose their break time and their lunch time is halved. I gawp, and she continues, the other one-to-one student who my colleague is overseeing chirping up too, and before I know any better they are both outpouring.  Girls must have their hair in ‘one unit’ [one hairband- two are deemed unprofessional]. If a student is caught rolling their eyes or saying ‘oh my god’ they are excluded for a week. Any student put in isolation must ask permission to drink water. The school day is 8.17AM to 6PM, for 5 days a week plus compulsory Saturdays 9AM-1PM. ‘A’ informed me that the academy would be rolling this out over the Easter period as well.  What’s more is that before the start of every single of the six lessons that make up the day, the students stand behind their chairs and recite:

‘Throughout this lesson I aspire to maintain a calm disposition and an attentive air so that in this class and all classes I can fulfil my true potential’.

Whilst immediately evoking visions of a Dystopian 1984-esque institution, nay, prison, I couldn’t help but be reminded of the pupils I had taught in India, rote learning a Robert Louis Stevenson poem but who could barely spell their own name. The words are hyperbolic and pointlessly archaic to the extent that their meaning is totally redundant. It’s a literal fucking incantation to the ghost of the Grammar school.

I couldn’t shut my mouth if I wanted to.  

What is perturbing is that this academy is doubtlessly not exclusive. Gove’s upheaval of the UK education system now places immense pressure on students through the introduction of linear A-Level exams culminating in exams at the end of the 2 year stint meaning Universities shall have to consult a student’s grades at GCSE, exams typically sat when a student is 16 years old.

I asked ‘A’ if she thought the strictness of her school improved her grades? She said no.

Did the strictness of her school detracted from her enjoyment of her studies? She said a little.

I asked ‘A’ what she intended to do once she had completed her exams. Her friend sat across the room said she had been planning to ‘stick it out’ for sixth form. I tried in vain to stress that the levels of discipline at this age are far higher than at A-Level, let alone in university.’ A’ was keener to leave as soon as she had the chance to do so.

Well done Michael Gove, it’s working. You’re dissuading future generations from pursuing further education, apprenticeships will be on the up and A will secure herself a job through hard grit, providing she sticks at the same industry for the rest of her life.

I don’t know what I’m proposing, if proposing at all. I am documenting the perspective of a child emotionally and physically drained by a school fighting for funding like tigers over a buffalo.

This school’s principles are grotesque [as I’m sure hundreds other are] and the most perverse and industrious husk, devoid of humanity and nurture I have ever had the misfortune to teach at.

I am still seething.

A [my] sad puppy, as a reflection of the author's angst.

Becoming my own 14 year old icon: A revelation. or An Education in Blagging it.

I'd like to think I've done a lot since moving to London. I've served the president of China a fish course wearing shoes that my mum bought from Sainsburys in the 40% off TU sale. I've dug myself into an unimaginable pit of monetary debt, I own a basil plant now, I'm a vegetarian, I've developed an intolerance to whiskey. And, to go on, as of the previous night, I witnessed a collective of my 2009 indie icons snort cocaine from a Soho bar to the professionally glazed eyes of the staff. Is this truly the climax of my adulthood? Is this making it?
Tuesday afternoon, with less than 3 hours notice I made the impromptu decision to drag my miserable body to a ~hip #music gig, following a mutual friend pulling out last minute and as bid for myself to procrastinate further the impending 3 essays I have due in for the next few weeks. This is not a pastime I have participated actively in since I was about 14 and an acne ridden resident of Brighton with a paper round and an unquenchable desire to fit in. So I ambled to Brixton with 2 cans of K cider stuffed into my trouser band and some sleek white cotton trousers [I purchased myself for a meagre £3 from the M&S Bideford outlet] we flitted between support acts and labyrinth-style smoking decks till the headline act; my ethereal puberty pinups graced the stage and I felt a sweeping hormonal déjà-vu.
The group I had been with had all shared a similar musical/maturation experience fixated round this band and we stood in a small ring for the encore and held hands in a strangely ritualistic manner. G had a lot of feelings and had a spontaneous sob to one of the more down-tempo numbers.
The hilarity-cum-internal screaming did not unfold until the gig was over, following a hapless and cripplingly awkward scene of events with a corner shop owner, lemonade, my insufferable pedantry and an unforeseen sexual remark. I screamed in the gentleman's face, holding up a stern finger and sharply threw the can back on the shelf before marching off into the Brixton night in a trail of enraged feminist fury. As fate would have it, this would lead us to the local pub, an upmarket French establishment at around 11:45pm was unremarkably heaving and upon purchasing a more expensive and non-sexist lemonade, we found ourselves a tiny booth already occupied by three unassuming young men, one clutching a tote bag brimming with records, all sporting various degrees of facial hair.
Whilst drinking this delicious lemonade we mused over the night thus far, our past experiences of live music and where we would go on from this quaint French affair. The men next to us finished their drinks and we shuffled along to allow them to exit. They filed out until the first member of the troupe was out the door, when gentleman number three dashed back to our booth, leant over and into my ear he whispered: "the after party is one 100 Wardour Street, Soho". Our heavenly hairy godmother in a paisley shirt and an earring. It was henceforth that a 2009 Indie mirage unfolded into a miraculous overdraft fuelled blur of teen heroes and free Peroni.
Following an additional misogny fuelled encounter with my fantastically resilient companion (see mid image) and a bored Brixtonian we eventually wriggled into an uber; the tax-free/mass-corporation-guilt leaving a sour taste that was distinctly obscured by the circus of butterflies in my stomach.
Living in the South East of London, it's not all too often I head into the centre of town. When I do, mostly for work purposes, I am consistently cycnical and frequently glower to myself over:

•  tourists
• literally anything in a suit,
• imposing buildings
•  people who have clearly spent more than they would have done on a book on a handbag
• anyone who looks remotely like they might have voted Conservative in the previous election.

 When we got out of the uber in Soho, in a similar manner to my experience of offering canapé’s and serving plates to women legitimately wearing tiaras to show their wealth at the China State Banquet, I felt like a Soviet spy.
We slipped into the after party, guilt-free greeted by an entourage of 30-40 folk, huddled round a private table with waiters in grey suits and dull eyes who offered us vodka with cranberry/soda and called you ‘madam’ like a Victorian lady. In the smoking area we bumped into the men we had briefly met at the pub- it transpired they had names- Ollie Tao and Cozzie, who looked genuinely pleased to see us. We were without a doubt the only members without a direct link to the band, three thirsty and clueless young women following our noses to watch our teenage idols dissolve their septums.
I come back to the question, if my fourteen year old self could see me now would she be jumping for joy? Texting all her pals on her Nokia smart phone? I’m sorry to break the illusion Elinor but they’re really not all they’re cracked up to be, these are a gang of men in their early 30s, who probably have wives and a mortgage.
For those of you who are as ill-informed as I was, it turns out- what you do at after-parties is mingle and people ask you ‘what you do’ whilst they stare at your breasts for the response. Generally you repeat this about four times, mid-transition your previous converser will glare at your new chat mate and so the process continues.
To be brutally honest with you Martin, I still don’t really know what I’m doing, both here and in the grand scheme of my life, but once the housing bubble bursts I doubt you’ll know what you’re doing much anymore.

Cynicism triumphs again!

 

 

An Ode to Barnstaple

A parting partial ode to the town of broken dreams and stagnant hopes. I have wandered through each chartered street. The estuary acting as a reminder of the enclosing rurality, this; a sweet concrete haven from the stale muddy fields and damp cottages.
Glide down the high street and avert your gaze as you brushing shoulders with every sexual encounter since aged 14. Nobody ever leaves this town. They enroll on a woodcraft course then advance to a bedsit by the bus station.

And to the library! An imposing brutalist literary safe space, do not try and engage in small talk with the women on the counter. They know of your £30 card fine and thus will never let you loan A Vindication of the Rights of Woman til this is respectfully wiped. Upstairs smells faintly of urine but you find your habitual corner and try to absorb as many books as is humanly possible til closure.

Newly sprung Vintage shops line the side lanes, self aware pretension with an air of celestial condescension on the Adidas mortals. Why pay £80 for a dress you could have bought for pittance at a a neighbouring charity shop? Funding a charity? It probably won't smell of lavender and the women serving you probably won't have a fringe. But this is a Hit New Sensation! The North Devon Journal produce a glossy two page spread on the Aspirational Entrepreneurs. Slow and aged disciples of the Shoreditch mass. Barnstaple is a 24 month time-warp. The seeds of the hipster are freshly sewn and bleed tentatively through the fabric of the high street. Swathes of 60s Swedish fabric, draped in the window display amongst über-chic mannequins and redundant whicker baskets. Aesthetics.

A little walk further, and you may stumble into Green Lanes Mall. Mighty 70's institution. Shelter for the New Look honeys. I tend to shuffle my feet past River Island after an unfortunate job interview, superficially unpleasing or something, not in line with the brand ethos or something.

In the population of 31,000, few go unseen. Foreign blood is clocked and logged and remarked on and slandered. That tart from Appledore. Archaic slips, adorable ignorance; homophobia, racism, transism, UKIPing fascists. You'll find yourself regularly wincing. "The only black girl at school", this is how she is primarily identified by peers.

And should you find yourself, unflinching explorer, in the realms of Fever, or The Rising Sun do not hesitate in smiting down any man who non-consensually gropes you. You may be the only female not donning heels, instead in a particularly unenticing pair of DMs but the sheer fact you (may) possess a vagina is incentive enough for these rapscallions to dive into a soirée of molestations. Watch you back as you walk swiftly down the high street back to your getaway car in the old cattle market car park. In the hours of darkness there is an ilk of man who revs his wagon, in convoy with his pals, full speed down the pedestrian only street. Don't go weak at the knees for a wink and a growl.

Amongst the misogynist japes and lecherous outbursts, the Barnstaple realm also homes the only women’s refuge in the entirety of Devon, homing between 50-60 families per year. A service recently jeopardized by drastic funding cuts of £2.4 million meaning the charity is now heavily reliant on it’s two charity shops operating in the town. Devon County Council have oh so much to answer for.

Birthplace of Katie Hopkins. Resting place of tedium and all that is bleak and retrograde and mundane. I'm outta here.

Things you should absolutely definitely not do on your Gap Year

Dear Me,

Intrepid 18 year old; would be voyager, fresh from the gates of sixth form. You've already torched all your unit 4 past papers and squeezed a fake plastic tear for the circumstantial friends from your form tutor you'll probably never see again, with good reason. You're drunk, both literally and figuratively; on the prospect of 12 months of self discovery and hedonism, slinking off to a foreign cave for a few weeks in late November perhaps. You don't a clue what you're fucking doing.

So here, in a insipid bullet-pointed manner is a list of non specific things you should absolutely definitely not do on your Gap Year.

• Firstly, you should certainly never make yourself an internet vow that you will capitalise on one day each week by posting a blog article. This will fundamentally never happen and you shall again find yourself stuck, ironically, back in the ritual of never actually writing.

• Get a job at a sexist dive bar called 'Fever', to which even the name connotes a hangover/venereal disease. Work this job for 3 1/2 hours in an XS t-shirt. Earn £18. Spend it on something illegal.

• Fall in love with somebody you initially met on Tinder. Immerse yourself in their life, read extensively on Socialism and Post Modernism and watching three seasons of their favourite American sitcom on Netflix. Subsequently break your own heart when they flit off to various Nordic countries for the next 15 months. They're better at writing than you will ever be. Swear profusely at your iPhone.

• Cheat on them with a tiny Italian man in an outdoor Cuban nightclub on the West Coast of India. You're a fucking idiot.

• Think that the journal you keep whilst traveling, nay, the Facebook album, nay, every hilarious hostel memory is poignant. It's not. It's eye-wateringly narcissistic and if you keep beleaguering your nearest and dearest with South East Asian anecdotes they are going to write you out of their lives.

• Attempt to keep up every single college friendship. You're doomed to failure. As you slowly watch the decay of the HASHTAGGALS group chat, jump the sinking ship. You don't like somebody? Delete them. You disagree with someone's opinion? Articulate your criticism. Life is too goddamn short to pretend to like people. Embrace the decline of cool. Listen to precisely what pleases your ears. Stop caring about music festivals. Their primary purpose is telling people you are going to this festival, their secondary is actually going.

• Promise yourself that you'll finish reading Ulysses by the end of the week. You won't do this. You'll get depressed that you didn't. Start with poetry and work yourself up from there.

• Dye your hair 'Tangerine Dream' the day after Halloween, unintentionally. You are not punk rock. The Doctor doing your travel vaccinations will laugh at you.

•  Inadvertently volunteer at an Arts Centre with over 20 men and women between the ages of 50-85. You thought you'd be helping the woman on the Media desk. Instead you're licking stamps and stuffing envelopes with the Christmas catalogue in exchange for piss warm milky tea.

• Buy a scooter. Learn to ride this scooter. Crash this scooter on a rainy afternoon skinning your ankle, heavily bruising your right elbow and unable to use the push clamp because you were riding in heels. 

• Keep smoking. You are living at home. Who are you trying to impress? It is a counteractive activity that literally burns your money. I appreciate you are depressed. It's inevitable that you are going to have low points but utilise your new found maturity and pour your air into a more constructive hobby. Take up the flute again. You used to be so good at the flute.

• Inaugurate a babysitting business in the local village. Put pastel coloured bunting on the poster to appeal to the middle class mothers because Bitches Love Bunting. Accept the friend request of one of the dads who liked your post on the local village Facebook page. This dad is a racist and you know it. He's shared 14 Britain First photos. Accepting money from racists is morally wrong.

• Take that booty call. Even if he's moving to America.

• Do not NOT spend your days in the local library researching Middle Eastern countries you have never heard of but feel like you probably should because you heard about them on Radio 4 and your stopover was in Qatar.  You'll later be approached by a man in a knitted hat whilst on a train to Exeter who'll swear blindly he spied you from behind a book last Thursday and ask what you're doing tonight. Deny all knowledge, but continue your studies.

• Let your work mate Tony think you're really Wiccan and into Tarot. You're not, you're just being polite and didn't want to discourage him when he told you he'd cast a spell for a good KPI score this morning. Click 'maybe' on his Tarot evening Facebook event. 

• Decide to change your UCAS confirmed option university mid June having had 10 months of seeming contentment and applied for accommodation and/or finance. Address your doubts. Change your course.

LOVE YOURSELF. Stay cynical xxx

Finding your Feet

Bloody hell.
There was a good period of time where I forgot clean about ever having participated in any form of amateur journalism.
If there's anything I've learnt in my 3 month writing hiatus it's that's I'm exceptionally good at procrastinating things that I enjoy doing with shittier insipid activities; such as, becoming assistant manager of a luggage shop, losing my iPhone and making a fresh post-it every morning for the past 12 weeks pledging to myself a fresh blogpost.
Your find yourself in a vicious cycle of promising yourself you will endeavour to produce a piece then finding a seemingly more important task (mine ranged from knitting a long mint coloured scarf, bumping into Matt Bellamy on a south Devon beach, gutting my bedroom, cutting my hair, painting the spare room, the list goes on) and losing faith in yourself upon the failure of completing the task in the back of your mind grinds you down. As a result you ultimately lose the passion for what you were doing in the first place which is weird, because I sure as hell enjoy the act of writing. It's odd, you just find yourself totally slumped at the though to of sitting down at the computer, and every time I saw another published article go up I just think 'what's the point?', a sickening sense of inadequacy at the inability to even produce a few hundred words. I suppose in essence I lost track of what I wanted and people took priority.
Yet we persevere, life is swimming merrily along and months have sailed away. I find myself in the gap year rut of working, soon to be, three equally dissatisfying jobs in pursuit of a month volunteering in Kerala, Southern India in February followed by some weeks of aimless wandering. Then to Sweden? It's all rather vague. Roll on Goldsmiths.
I guess this is quintessentially part of the entire 'finding yourself' cliché. A kick up the arse and a stern 'ELINOR GET BACK ON THE HORSE' because I'm telling you now, I'd hidden the goddamn saddle.
Here's my pledge of a piece a day, let's see how it goes.