I'm in a bad mood. The Northern Lights rained on Oslo last night, and I missed them. Missed the Northern Lights. Instead I was waiting for a bus on possibly one of the ugliest squares on the globe, whilst desperately trying not to stand out amidst a few drunks and homeless people, all of whom were men. It was one of those occasions when you realise that had you been wearing a plastic bag and belching into space, you still wouldn't fit in. I thought it best to seek refuge in a nearby hotel until the appointed time for departure, only to find myself in a lobby full of horny Eastern European men playing cards. So I did what I usually do when confronted with an impossible situation: I took out a book, and tried to look like a man.
Thing is, people are bloody weird. Every time I leave the relative safety of my room I am stunned at how much weirder people have gotten, sometimes in a matter of minutes. The examples range from the scary to the pathetic. During my walk home last night 2 prepubescent boys self-consciously carrying vodka bottles lent their choir boy voices to 'Fuck you, motherfucker', a tune with which I don't have the pleasure of being acquainted. I couldn't help but wonder whether they would be so brazen if they were suddenly released into the Bronx in the middle of the night. If I were God, I'd be tempted to stage that experiment.
I thought I was the only girl who takes a taxi to cover the distance between the bus stop and her front door. It turns out there are plenty of us. The thing is, it's not just at night that you have to be careful. It's all the bloody time. I'm sick to death of plotting and calculating how to avoid finding myself in a deserted spot during the middle of the day, let alone at night. If this sounds like an exaggeration, I would recommend taking a stroll in some of the streets off Ladbroke Grove at 2pm. If you have a death wish that is.
There is of course the fabulous illusion of escape, the dream that it will be better somewhere else. But it's the same everywhere you go. It's the bloody McDonalds/Zara conundrum. Everything modern is designed to be some sort of assault. For instance, how anyone can enjoy Dalston on a Saturday night is beyond me. Why would anyone choose to share confined spaces with abrasive, unhygienic people with bad haircuts is mysterious, at best.
And how do you con a whole generation into thinking dirty is cool? Into dressing so as to look like they've been attacked by lawnmowers, and dipped in compost? Not to mention the organised noise which passes off as 'a gig'. Indeed, I think the person who invites people over to his house to listen to an orchestra of flushing loos, draining bathtubs, and pigeons being tortured will be onto something(©). He'll be able to sell his concept to Saatchi for millions.
And then really escape! Escape from the sheer ugliness of it all. How on earth did this happen? Being fascinated by crass rubbish could have been a fad. We didn't need to elevate it and make it our contemporary culture. At the exhibition Dirt which I was gullible enough to consume, there figured a series of door-like structures made from human excrement.
Why would you make doors out of excrement? Why? Glass was an option. Ceramic, another. You could learn about lustreware, and make something pretty on the cheap. Why shit?
Someone has to wake up at some point and say 'No, hang on, I've had it with being fed rubbish of this order, Art isn't an empty concept, it has a function in society, and I'm none too pleased with how this function is being served.'
This civilisation will go down in history for unmade beds, and doors made out of crap. Fantastic. Meanwhile, Boris Johnson, who I assumed had taste because of a few jokes made on Have I got News for You approximately 10 years ago, now gives opening speeches at shopping malls. And instead of giving people the option of learning a beautiful dance, a dance with a history, studios across London teach pole-dancing to those girls who once wore g-strings to primary school and are now old enough to entertain middle-aged men 'to pay their way through law school'.
See, if I had gotten to see the Northern Lights, it would have been all alright. I wouldn't give a damn about the doors made out of shit, the organic stupidity of the pole-dancing lot, the Dalston jerks, and Boris' defection. But every human being needs regular exposure to Beauty.
Otherwise, they go insane.