Violent
Thursday 01 June.
The city air is hazy tonight.
After the sun goes down, there it is, hanging in the air.
You look along the road, say focusing at 30 metres, and the surroundings already look like staring through a pale smoked-glass window.
But it moves.
Haze swirling.
Violence too.
All over from 1am Friday morning.
A fight breaks out on Brewer Street.
Two men.
Grappling with a bag.
It gets rough.
A nightclub doorman calls out to two female police officers, who rush in, separate both men and slam them up against a shop front.
Then cops everywhere.
Four vans, two cars. White short-sleeved shirts, black stab-proof vests, utility belts rattling.
One man persists. Two male officers wrestle him to the ground and kneel on his neck and legs.
The man is cuffed, ruffed and slammed into the waiting police van.
Later a woman asks for an emergency high-speed lift. She says her friend has just been eaten up in Bar Salsa.
I take her there, high-speed, via a cash-point so she can pay me.
She says her friend keeps slipping in and out of consciousness.
Funny thing is we get talking and pull up outside Bar Salsa, and she sits in the Rickshaw talking to me about my work as a journalist for a further ten minutes.
She says she used to run a magazine but now works for Hello magazine, and she hated her job.
She says: “What I really want to do is write about people like you.”
I have to say I was flattered at this.
Still, flattery don’t pay the bills.
That’s all that counts. That’s all I want.
Do it and pay the goddamn bills.
Still, nice woman.
I tell her to take the money, do the poxy job and spend a little time writing for herself, or Indymedia.
There is plenty to cover out there, even in your own neighbourhood.
I go home.
Bad night.
Little cash.
Tough times indeed.
Wait till I get home to eat.
Save every penny.
I walk to the bus.
Two police vans, a gang of officers yelling at two men held against a department store window.
The window is cracked.
I carry on walking, avoiding people and stare at the floor.
A guitarist on the corner of Tottenham Court Road is playing sweet echoing music.
I feel like I am in a movie.
In London, at night, in the morning, just trying to get by.
This makes me smile, as I pass girls in mini skirts, throwing up in shop doorways.
The city air is hazy tonight.
After the sun goes down, there it is, hanging in the air.
You look along the road, say focusing at 30 metres, and the surroundings already look like staring through a pale smoked-glass window.
But it moves.
Haze swirling.
Violence too.
All over from 1am Friday morning.
A fight breaks out on Brewer Street.
Two men.
Grappling with a bag.
It gets rough.
A nightclub doorman calls out to two female police officers, who rush in, separate both men and slam them up against a shop front.
Then cops everywhere.
Four vans, two cars. White short-sleeved shirts, black stab-proof vests, utility belts rattling.
One man persists. Two male officers wrestle him to the ground and kneel on his neck and legs.
The man is cuffed, ruffed and slammed into the waiting police van.
Later a woman asks for an emergency high-speed lift. She says her friend has just been eaten up in Bar Salsa.
I take her there, high-speed, via a cash-point so she can pay me.
She says her friend keeps slipping in and out of consciousness.
Funny thing is we get talking and pull up outside Bar Salsa, and she sits in the Rickshaw talking to me about my work as a journalist for a further ten minutes.
She says she used to run a magazine but now works for Hello magazine, and she hated her job.
She says: “What I really want to do is write about people like you.”
I have to say I was flattered at this.
Still, flattery don’t pay the bills.
That’s all that counts. That’s all I want.
Do it and pay the goddamn bills.
Still, nice woman.
I tell her to take the money, do the poxy job and spend a little time writing for herself, or Indymedia.
There is plenty to cover out there, even in your own neighbourhood.
I go home.
Bad night.
Little cash.
Tough times indeed.
Wait till I get home to eat.
Save every penny.
I walk to the bus.
Two police vans, a gang of officers yelling at two men held against a department store window.
The window is cracked.
I carry on walking, avoiding people and stare at the floor.
A guitarist on the corner of Tottenham Court Road is playing sweet echoing music.
I feel like I am in a movie.
In London, at night, in the morning, just trying to get by.
This makes me smile, as I pass girls in mini skirts, throwing up in shop doorways.
posted by Oscar Beard at 7:04 PM
2 Comments:
Your are Nice. And so is your site! Maybe you need some more pictures. Will return in the near future.
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Hmm I love the idea behind this website, very unique.
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