#oneaday Day 569: It’s All Kicking Off

“It’s all kicking off.” A phrase which now represents the recent riots that have been taking place around the UK.

I’m not going to use this as a means of making some sort of political comment on the whole thing, because as a normal human being and a law-abiding citizen, frankly I don’t care on the political aspect of it — if there even is one. What I do care about is that people in this country have the capacity to go completely batshit mental and smash the shit out of absolutely everything, then set fire to it just to make sure it’s good and properly destroyed.

A piece on the BBC earlier summed up pretty much what I think about the whole thing — a growing culture of consumerism, materialism and a sense of misplaced entitlement among young people is highly likely to blame. Evidence of it is everywhere, and as an ex-teacher I frequently came face to face with the kind of behaviour which, left unchecked, could (and did) escalate into something altogether more sinister.

Parents do need to take more responsibility for their children and be able to tell them “no” rather than pandering to their whims. In the first school I taught in, the most unpleasant child in the class would never turn up to his detentions because, I quote, “Mum says I don’t have to do detentions”. In the face of such defiance from not only the child but the parents too, what exactly is the educational system expected to do in order to instil a sense of “good citizenship” in these little scruttocks?

It’s not all kids, of course, but any time an event like this comes along — particularly one of this magnitude — it’s easy to quickly decry all children and teenagers as “feral” and start advocating increasingly Draconian societal measures. That’s possibly not the answer, as it would likely lead to even greater social unrest — unrest which the previously “nice” kids might feel compelled to join in on.

What is a problem is the gang culture that is growing and spreading in our towns. When I worked in retail in Southampton, we used to have an almost constant gang presence in the store thanks to the fact that we offered, in effect, free Internet access. Hordes of youths in hoodies, ill-fitting trousers tucked into socks and several tons of cheap “gold” jewellery frequently spent the best part of a day in the store, intimidating staff and customers alike, until we got to a stage where enough was enough and we had to start taking tougher action.

The presence of these individuals was enough to be intimidating, but then you looked at what they were doing online. Most of them made use of the social networking site “Bebo” at the time, and most of them were on there “repping” whatever gang they happened to come from around the city. In some ways, it was sort of hilariously pathetic, as these kids boasted about how hard they were, how excellent their rapping was (spoiler: it wasn’t very excellent) and how badly they were going to “murk” their rivals from the next postcode over. But on the other hand, the obsession with guns, violence and materialism coupled with severely short tempers was somewhat sinister — and it made running across these individuals outside a disturbing, unpleasant experience. And they knew it.

The scariest thing about these riots is seeing that the people that I fear are capable of scary shit. Having your fears justified only makes them more scary.

At the time of writing, at least, things do seem to be calming down a bit. I hope this momentary madness passes and the devastated communities affected by the chaos can regroup, rebuild and move on. And that the scumbags responsible are brought to swift and humiliating justice.

#oneaday, Day 92: M.C. Tinny Distortion

It’s mid-morning. You’re sitting on the waterfront, looking out over the water, the slight morning breeze wafting through your hair and sending a slight chill over your skin. Not uncomfortably so, just enough for you to feel the wind’s caresses and appreciate the sunshine when it does hit you all the more.

You can hear the water sploshing against the wall down below as it sloshes back and forth, back and forth, never still, always moving. You don’t look into it too deeply as it’s almost opaque with green crap and the filth from a million motorboats passing through the area, but right now it doesn’t matter because this is your moment. You are, for once, at peace.

Then, a sound from over yonder. You can’t quite make out what it is. It’s quite harsh, and tinny, and… sounds a bit like Dizzee Rascal.

It is Dizzee Rascal. But a version of Dizzee Rascal that appears to be completely devoid of bass, just masses and masses of treble, so much so that the sound of the whole track is lost in a wash of what sounds awfully like white noise with a babbling idiot on top of it.

You frown at the tracksuit-clad young gentleman as we wanders past you with a similarly-attired companion. The sound seems to be coming from his pocket, and the two are talking and smoking. You frown a little harder, willing a pair of psychic daggers to fly out of your eyes and embed themselves firmly in the two boys’ colons. Sadly, the sharp implements do not manifest themselves so you are reduced to making a distinctly middle-class tutting noise.

One of the boys turns around and gives you a sneer that seems to say “fahk off mush, you is such a neek init lol”. You counter with a raised eyebrow which seems to say “I’m sorry. I don’t understand your illiterate juvenilia. Kindly return from whence you came. And throw that noise-making monstrosity into the Solent while you’re about it, you bally young scamp!”

The moment passed, the two boys wander into the distance, muttering something about “fahkin’ neeks”. Your little mental haven of calm shattered, you reluctantly get up and head for the ice-cream parlour in an attempt to drown your sorrows in a wash of soft ice-cream and crumbly chocolate.

Then you go home and cry.

Oh, why do people persist in doing this? Other than to annoy people like me, of course. There is no reason on God’s green Earth for mobile phone speakers to exist. With GPS technology being what it is now, if your phone detects that you are outside, you should not be allowed to use its speakers.

I’m not just saying this to be a miserable bastard, though that is of course a big part of it. I’m saying this to encourage people to give music the respect it deserves. I hate Dizzee Rascal, shitty hip-hop and whiney R&B singers, but those artists spend a lot of time and money producing their work, so to completely remove any degree of production from the track by playing it through a 0.5 watt speaker roughly the size of one of your pubes seems rather… disrespectful, somehow.

And have you noticed that no-one is ever playing good music through their phone speakers? I’d still feel the same if I heard someone blasting some Maiden through their phone – that shit need to be loud, yo – but it’d be nice to hear something that isn’t just for pasty white tracksuit-wearers to pretend that they’re badass black gangstas from the hood to.

The cream of this, of course, is when said pasty white tracksuit-wearers decide that it’s time for them to start their own rapping career and feel that a mobile phone provides an appropriate amount of rhythmic “oomph” to put behind their sorry attempts at rocking some rhymes. Sorry, buster, but you just look like a twat babbling crap in front of your pyjama-clad friends.

One A Day, Day 45: The Golden Snitch

Read this, including listening to the audio clip of the complete twat.

I heard this on the news the other day and I was actually a little bit shocked that it was even being discussed. One sound bite from someone with a similarly obnoxious accent as “Adam” came out with the golden line “well, like, you just don’t do it, innit?”

Sorry, rewind a little there. Since when has it been not okay to talk to the police about… what’s that thing they deal with again? Oh, right. Crime. Since when has it been something you “just don’t do, innit” to inform the police about knife or gun violence?

The growing gang culture in the UK is something I find rather troubling. While in some ways it is amusing and pathetic that these groups of tracksuit-clad white English teenagers put on that ridiculous accent to try and sound like a tracksuit-clad black English teenager putting on an accent (do keep up) and acting like they’re “in the hood”, in other senses the culture of “casual crime” is an unpleasant blight on our society.

I realise I sound rather Daily Mail about all this – but I’ve seen it happening. Fortunately I’ve never been the victim of a crime myself, though some friends and I were chased down the street and into a shop by the “Bassett Boys” once for no reason other than we were walking on what was evidently their “turf”. And, remember, I’ve worked in schools, where I’ve seen a number of kids slowly descending into that kind of culture because they’re “bored, innit”. And in my last job we were regularly confronted with hoodie-wearing, attitude-giving morons who think that 50 Cent is God.

But this recent news about the stigma attached to actually informing the police about extremely serious crimes – violence and murder in some cases – is possibly the most troubling. Supposedly, the police are there to protect us, so why should people feel threatened? I certainly wouldn’t have any qualms about phoning the police if I happened to witness something going on – and, in fact, have on a number of occasions. Fortunately, none of them have been that serious (although the guy trying to kick down our neighbours’ door was a bit scary) but I just find it bizarre to think that so many young people find the idea of talking to the police to be a complete no-go area.

The report is probably skewed somewhat in its perspective (it is on the 1Xtra page, after all), but the fact remains – the police (and indeed, other authority figures) are supposed to be there to provide a sense of security to everyone, and help make things safer. What sort of culture are we living in if you can’t report a bloody crime?

One A Day, Day 30: On Chavs

The “chav” is a curious phenomenon. Those of you reading from across the pond will have heard me use it as a term of derision frequently. Perhaps you’re already familiar with the sort of person I’m talking about.

It’s difficult to pin down exactly when they appeared as a distinct subculture. There were pain in the arse kids who always got into trouble while I was at school, but I don’t think any of them were actually involved in “gangs”. I have a vivid memory of hearing the word for the first time, however, seated on the top deck of a bus with my friend Cat. There were some kids sitting a few seats ahead of us who were using language that would make a trucker blush (including the memorable out-of-context phrase “fuckin’ pancakes” that we overheard, much to our amusement) and Cat referred to them as “chavs”. I’d not heard the word prior to that point, but it quickly became apparent that this was an established word to refer to this distinct group of people – tracksuit-clad, baseball cap-wearing, mobile phone-toting (nowadays, with shit R&B music by their idols N-Dubz blasting out of their tiny speakers) zit-faced teens with greasy hair and a predilection towards underage drinking and smoking along with abuse of strangers.

The reason I feel like talking about them right now is the fact I caught a bunch of them outside my living room window tonight. I say “caught” – “heard” is more accurate. Outside our window was a group of three guys in hoodies making a hell of a racket. At first I thought they were arguing about something, but looking out of the window revealed the ugly truth: they were “rapping”. I could tell by the stupid arm movements the lead chav was making, and the fact that his two cronies were standing around with mobile phones – one playing music from its tinny speakers as a “backing track”, the other filming the whole debacle.

The result of this sort of thing generally looks something like this:

The weird thing is how seriously these idiots take it, despite looking like absolute morons. There are gangs all over Southampton who use the social networking site Bebo to promote themselves and hurl abuse at other gangs, with the sort of spelling, punctuation and grammar that would make Lynne Truss fall down dead immediately.

I’m in two minds about this sort of thing – neither of these opinions are particularly good things. In one sense, I find their efforts to be like “genuine” gangs from, say, New York to be extremely pathetic and childish. I’m no fan of the criminal lifestyle anyway, even in films and other media (though I have played me plenty of GTA in the past), so to try and emulate it just seems dumb.

Secondly, and ironically given what I’ve just said about them being laughable and pathetic, I find groups like that rather intimidating. Being a rather mild-mannered gentleman myself (at least when I don’t have a keyboard in front of me), I don’t like confrontation, and I certainly don’t like having abuse hurled at me by people I’ve never met. A lot of these kids seem to thrive on both of these things. Having worked in schools where these kids are starting to develop these traits, I can say that it’s not a pretty sight. I realise that by saying this I am allowing them to “win”, achieving exactly what they want to achieve – intimidation of those who are not “in” on the… whatever it is. A joke? But the fact remains – these are not people you’d choose to hang around.

Part of this is probably the media biasing us against them, of course, but I don’t think the depiction of them in the media is particularly unfair, having had one experience some years back of being chased into a shop by the “Bassett Boyz” accompanied by a couple of friends. Our offence? We were walking down the same street as them. We hadn’t said anything or done anything – we were simply on their “patch”, which made us targets. Luckily we managed to get away unscathed and with nothing stolen, but the staff in the shop were obviously well-used to intimidation from these children – and they are children, worryingly – and did nothing, not even calling the police. Thanks a lot.

In some senses, chavs are the antithesis to the British stereotype of being reserved, polite and speaking with perfect enunciation. Perhaps they are a sign of a rebellion against the “status quo”. But they’re certainly not a change for the better.

Still need some convincing? Go pay the St Mary’s Mandela Boys (who claim to “rule” Southampton) a visit, and check out the comments, posted by kids who are still at schools in the area. To sound like an old man for a moment (which I frequently do anyway) – is this really where we want youth culture going?