Thursday, 25 July 2013

The British Screenwriter's ode to Hollywood



The movies are doing my head in at present
Of all careers out there, this one seemed quite pleasant
But getting things made is like walking in treacle
It isn't my fault, No! I blame other people!

For this is a business where everyone smiles
Make sure that you're up on the Hollywood styles
'How bankable is he and what did he say?'
'Is she right for it?' 'Maybe? How much does she weigh?'

'I'll read it tomorrow!' 'God damn I forgot!'
'Next time you're in Cannes you should come on my Yacht'
'Do you have a nice Indie? I want the next Juno!'
'I quite liked the start but the rest's a bit... you know?'

'Wow you're a screenwriter?' 'What have you made?'
'I'm not signing anything till I get paid/laid'
'Is that actual blood on page ninety six?' 
(Where I gouged my eyes out and impaled them on sticks)

'You're from England? 'I love that!' 'Hi! How have you bin?'
(That means that he's poor and has terrible skin!)
I'll just quit so I don't have to moan like a bitch...

Yeah, who am I kidding... They might make me rich...

Monday, 7 January 2013

Doing film business in Nigeria - An understated near death experience

I must preface this article with a couple of things.

1.  Anything I refer to is purely based on my own experience

2.  I was only in Nigeria a week, a short sharp shock for an Africa newbie.

The first experience of a work trip to Nigeria is of wondering around with vaguely symmetrical aches in your upper arms.  Yellow Fever, Typhoid, anti malarials rattled around my confused biology, as administered by a Northern Irish nurse who still felt the need to distract me with holiday based conversation as she repeatedly stabbed me.  Be still my Celtic sister, turn my arm into a colander but don't insult my intelligence.  I'm freelance so after this I can go and have a lie down...

That lady and a fair few others had a not dissimilar response when I revealed my plan to visit Nigeria for work.  'Don't get kidnapped' a friend of mine chirped helpfully, ruining my fun.  Others simply wrinkled their noses and ask 'Why?'  The short answer was as follows.  'I am going on a research trip for a feature film I've written about a Western writer who is kidnapped by pirates whilst visiting Nigeria on a research trip.'

Those with a moderately developed sense of irony politely suppressed a snigger at this.  Those who know me and my travel habits a little better do not make the Indiana Jones esq connection I'm trying to cultivate in my university teaching.  I'm generally more of a cafe culture Europhile making trips to places famed for their museums, train links and boulevards.

Fortunately those visiting Nigeria must undertake a mandatory training programme known in most circles as obtaining a travel visa from the Nigerian High Commission.  Here, I must make a distinction. If your bank offers a Visa credit card, you will be welcomed in with open arms, obtaining the travel visa through a relatively simple online process accompanied by an hour's early morning wait.

If not then you must attempt to 'pay at the commission' and your training begins in earnest.  After being searched and checked over by external security, asked to turn off your phone, you will be sent downstairs through a waiting room into a small room where the magic truly starts to happen.  After about forty minutes, commission staff will appear and say 'good morning' before reappearing close to a half hour later to open a small office for which you are encouraged to informally queue.

Nigerian queuing as far as I can work out, seems to be the same way that people might queue at a broken ATM continuously dispensing cash.  Once you force your way to the front, a terrifying young woman, physique straining under a sprayed on silk blouse will grumpily ascertain your 'status'.  Mine was, 'Have form, have supporting documents, just need to pay.'  She grunted, then handed me a pink slip.

Then you discover that 'pay at the commission' loses something in the translation.  What you have to do is leave the commission, head round to the post office.  Opposite the post office is a Newsagent with a Cadbury's chocolate logo on the outside.  You must go in there, ask for Mr Patel, perform the secret handshake, give him a piece of pink paper to prove your identity and £100 in unmarked notes.  He will then pay the consulate and give you a receipt.  After picking up a £50 postal order (£80 if your turnaround is less than a week) you then return to the commission and rejoin the queue with no beginning or end.

After fighting your way to the front, you then hand your slip back to the scary silk blouse woman who tells you to sit down, which by this point you feel like doing anyway.  You then sit in the airless subterranean chamber for another hour until they process your payment slip.  Once you have the payment slip, you may then join the official queue, which is at least governed by the Argos numerical waiting system.  (Average waiting time from this point- 2 hours)

After your number is called, you must then attempt to outwit a desk clerk who does not want you to visit his country and with undisguised glee, winds down the clock until the end of the processing window at 1pm, demanding a signed letter of invitation from whoever you are going to meet with in the country.

Day two, assuming you can get the letter, you return to the Commission before it opens, queue to get in, wait another hour and a half.  (You are now on first name terms with many of the others in the queue having spent five hours with them the previous day. Negotiate with the same desk clerk who might grudgingly grant your papers, or in actuality, take your documents and passport and hold them, encouraging you to return a few days later to pick up your prize.

If you still want to visit, the experience does indeed prepare you for what is to come.

2013 and I

Me:  So 2013, we meet at last.

(2013 twirls moustache, strokes white persian cat and presses button to activate shark pool)

2013:  I've been expecting you.

Me:  Um... Ok.  So, how is this thing going to play out?

2013:  Well, I have some rather delightful things in store.  This year you are going to turn 30, plan a wedding and cancel your gym membership at the earliest opportunity.

Me:  That doesn't sound so bad.  When I saw the sharks I naturally assumed things would be more dire...

(2013 looks somewhat disappointed but carries on regardless)

2013:  Ha!  You know nothing!  For this will also be the year of your final confrontation with the film industry, the year that dictates whether you will make the leap to dreamt of success or hide yourself amongst the tall grass and reassurance of a job with hours and pensions and the the cat vomit-like stench of failure.

(2013 laughs smugly, Persian cat looks moderately offended)

Me:  Actually, a lot of people I know do real work.  Some of them I even like.

2013:  Did I mention you will no longer be cool anymore?

Me:  You really should have talked to 1990 - 2012.  Cool has never really been an issue for me for the same reason that crashing my Boeing 767 was never an issue.

(2013 looks impressed)

2013:  You have a Boeing 767?

Me:  Yes, and it is full of champagne, pork pies and ho's.

2013:  I don't believe you.  You don't dress well enough to own a private plane and nobody eats pork pies with Champagne.

Me:  My hypothetical plane, my rules, besides, the ho's haven't complained and that's all I feed them.

2013:  I knew it!  There is no plane, no ho's and no pies.  You are no longer cool.

Me:  (sighs) So what if most of my friends are over thirty and married?  So what if I own a cat and have a mortgage.  So what if my idea of a great Friday night is watching back-to-back 15 year old episodes of Cold Feet on Lovefilm and commenting on how 90s everything looks whilst debating how it was that Helen Baxendale ever 'happened', watching Arsenal lose to mediocre opposition on Match of the Day and trying to remain witty enough to dupe my fiancĂ© into accidentally sleeping with me.  Is this not the middle class utopia I was promised?

2013:  Face it, you are boring.  You are boring and two stone heavier than in 2010, I asked him.

Me:  You take that back!

2013:  Your hips don't lie, in fact they have a distinctly middle aged waddle these days.

Me:  Fuck you, I worked in theatre in 2010 and was unable to feed myself properly.  My metabolism has slowed but I'm told I look healthier with the weight on so you can fuck right off and misquote Shakira at someone who deserves it.  Besides I still play tennis once per week and relish the two days after it where I can't walk after losing to the nice man in his mid fifties who humours me so patiently.  That waddle is tendonitis.

2013:  Whatever you say.  So, any resolutions to break or is an inevitable slide into middle age the best you can do?

Me:  Yes, I've decided to win at everything, except for arguments with my other half because victory is an impossibility there.  I will make a Hollywood film, train a brace of kick ass screenwriters at university and so help me, I will have that loft conversion so I don't have to sleep with my head and my feet touching opposite walls of my bedroom.  I will complain about the X Factor and about those friends who post baby posset on Facebook.  I will call for the execution of politicians who begin sentences with 'Look' and those who play youtube clips at parties.  I will ignore the sycophantic lobotomised drooling of the mainstream media over the monarchy...
And I may even put up some shelves.

(2013 looks a little perturbed.  It attempts to distract me by throwing its white persian cat into the shark pool and backs away slowly with the half smile one uses to humour a crazy person.)

2013:  Ok, you just do that.

(2013 disappears through a secret door, tripping over its own feet in its haste to escape.)

Me:  Don't go!  I haven't even told you how I plan to spend my Christmas iKea vouchers...

(I Sigh, watching as cat is consumed by sharks.)  


Monday, 17 September 2012

Shut up and put your top on

Yesterday, my Sunday began as it often does these days, with a kitten jumping on my head.  Cute and annoying in equal measure.  As a self confessed news addict, Sunday usually evolves via Andrew Marr and something fried (I am Scottish) into a bleary eyed trip to the corner shop to pick up the Sunday Times.

Yesterday, and today, and probably tomorrow, the news is fixated with Kate Middleton's boobs.  On a regular day, this would irritate me mildly.  Yesterday, as I walked to the shop, I discovered the Lee junction and the Sainsbury's closed in one direction and ominous blue and white police tape.  Police patrolled the cordon and press were just beginning to arrive.  A little way from the roadside, figures in full forensic gear moved without urgency.

A clipped conversation with a Community Support Officer filled in the gaps.  On Saturday night, a fourteen year old boy was stabbed to death getting off my bus, outside my supermarket, just a few yards further down my road.  I admit that from that moment, my mild irritation with the news evolved into something more akin to near irrational rage at our values, probably to the detriment of the article I'm writing.

Outrage! Outrage! Outrage!  Nicholas Witchell's rodentine features contorted in disgust, Sir John Major's withering reference to 'Peeping Toms'.  News reportage so slanted you would think the French had urinated on the Queen's head or set fire to a Corgi.  The Royal statement, bristling at 'Images reminiscent of the worst excesses of the press and paparazzi during the life of Diana, Princess of Wales'.  No.  Nobody was chasing anyone.  They're just photos, the like of which any mid level celebrity must guard against.

Amid all this, as Sunday unfolded, a young child lay dead, most likely murdered by children, his end on that Saturday night barely registering the merest blip on the news of the following day, even though his murder occurred on the same road as that of Jimmy Mizen, another school boy killed for nothing.  Things were supposed to have changed since then.  Where is the disgust at this?  Where is the outrage?

As I told my fiancĂ© what I'd seen, it occurred to us that we'd heard the sirens.  Sirens being nothing unusual in our corner of South East London.  Lee and Lee High Road are conduits for the emergency services and are routinely illuminated by the flashing lights of police response.  This was evidenced in the 'Oh, by the way...' footnotes of the brief report on BBC's local news website.  Someone else was stabbed in New Cross too - Condition critical...

But now, for more on the boobs, we go to Nicholas Witchell reporting live from the sphincter of the establishment...

I have some sympathy for Kate.  Learning the ropes of regal cloud cuckoo land cannot be the easiest thing in the world.  But my other half probably put it best.  'Why do you need to get your boobs out on a balcony?'  (Regrettably something she doesn't often do herself)

I go further.  In exchange for entering a fairytale world where your lavish lifestyle is paid for by the public and your every move beatified by a rabid, salivating press and an enraptured low IQ fan club, you might have to sacrifice topless sunbathing in view of public roads.  And if you are caught out, don't go suing people for buying into and seeking to profit from the myth of your importance.

Princess Margaret to me put it best, underlining royal responsibility through a tacit admission of their opulence.  'We've got plenty of houses.  If you don't want to be seen or photographed, you don't have to be.'  When the story first broke, I hoped that the response would be the following.  'Yes, I must now officially confirm that I have boobs.  As do half the world's population.  I'd rather they weren't photographed, but c'est la vie, at least I'm extraordinarily privileged.'

Perhaps if the murdered child had been white, the balance of reportage might have been different.  Perhaps the skewed representation of our news was not governed by things as cynical as money.  It should be noted that the UK press stoking the 'outrage' are guilty of exactly the same profiteering as those who have published the photographs which at least have the decency to attach no more importance to the 'story' than an idle salacious distraction.

Perhaps it is just that national representation is more important than fact.  In olympic year, perhaps our country should be better represented by wronged royalty than murdered black children.

Tuesday, 26 June 2012

Class of 2012

As a Scotsman, it is possible to enjoy the faint schadenfreudic glow that follows the time honoured, quarter final tournament exit of the England football team on penalties.  Whilst it is true that a Scot can only rightly make fun of English football by employing a German expression, (and bastardised at that) it seems possible to see certain patterns emerging.

Failure is this country's boogie man of choice.  You would think that a country that hasn't won anything since a couple of years before the moon landings would regard failure as the guy you know will eventually turn up  at your party and ruin it by vomiting in the dips.  You don't like him, and he leaves a sour taste in the mouth, but you are so used to him that you've started putting paper down in the living room.

Is it just a coincidence that in the same week as this predictable failure on the international stage, our politicians have been bemoaning the English school exam system.  As a teacher in our prisons and our universities, I can see both ends of the education spectrum - those who fail, and those who are failed by it due in part to what could be described as an over-reliance on 4: 4: 2.

Here the metaphor diverges slightly.  It is an irony perhaps that what are often described as would-be economic basket cases of Europe are so clearly outclassing England on the football field.  Spain, Portugal, Italy, mocking us with their latin sensitivities, corruption and siestas.  But alongside these teams stands Germany.  Resolute, unflappable, consistent Germany.  Perhaps the only mercy in the Italian penalty agony was that it saved England from a mullering in the semi.

In truth, our team looked extremely ordinary against foes capable of retaining possession.  Superior technique born of a system of training from progressive youth programmes.  The 'get stuck in' attitude and swash bucking bombing up and down that characterise our play has produced brave, big hearted but woefully under skilled heroes waiting to be knocked down and eulogised come quarter final day.

Can the same be said of our education system?  Will the silky skills and economic ball retention of young German, Chinese or Indian workers and intellectuals consign young Britons to the third tier of competition or failure to qualify all together?  As a teacher, the signs are worryingly similar.  I teach a University class in which, of the three students who know how to use an apostrophe, one is German, one Indian and one American.  (gasp)

Whilst this is a pedantic point, it is symptomatic of an erosion in standards which is beginning to become evident not just at the bottom, but at what is regarded as the upper echelons of successful society.  Students regard me in shock when I dock their grades for poor grammar.  They are shocked because nobody has made this stand in their full education.  'But I got an A in English'.  Yes, maybe, but who gave it to you?

My lawyer recently worked miracles to help me purchase my first home.  He sent multiple legal letters. He is my age, educated and can't punctuate or spell.  I rewrote much of what he sent me not out of my usual pedantry, but out of the bare fact that in the midst of a fraught and bloody legal battle, I did not want the seller's legal team (who were determinedly trying to screw me) to think that my lawyer was an illiterate.

I teach in a prison full of people who genuinely cannot read.  People whom our system has rejected, often because they can make twenty or forty grand a month selling drugs, more than their limited brush with education could ever promise.  This is the smash and grab mentality of our system.  The GCSE and A Levels that are the educational long ball to the big man.

Yes the exam may be passed, the domestic goal scored, but against real adversity of recession and in competition with our own privately educated middle classes, driven foreigners and the talent of emerging economies, our young people risk being left out, sidelined and found wanting like Emile Heskey at a Spanish training session.

Just as with England then, the solution can only lie in re-engaging with the youth.  Teaching young people to compete intelligently and to earn the tools they will need to do so.  But this begs the question of the fate of our current generation.  Whilst our football heroes can go back to their clubs where the foreign stars that humbled the national side can resume their time honoured duty of making mediocre Englishmen look better at football than they are, the generation education has failed face a life in prison, on benefit, the work scrapheap, stuck in the dead end job as the promotion goes to the guy who can use an apostrophe.

In the meantime, they must make the best of glorious failure.

Sunday, 24 June 2012

Taxing moralisations hide the same old story

The moral high ground is a blood-soaked place, overrun by skirmish-hungry politicians and commentators hell bent on positioning themselves at the heart of the public good, or more commonly, public outrage.  Moralising seems to have expanded to encompass almost every aspect of our lives including, it appears, that most dispassionate of subjects, tax law.
And so, it comes to Jimmy Carr, unwilling poster boy for avoidance schemes more commonly associated with the upper echelons of business fat cattery.
I must admit to more than a pang of disappointment in Jimmy, not for his avoidance behaviour but for the slightly sycophantic whining nature of his capitulation and apology.  Jimmy's tax affairs, within the law as they are, are not accountable to the public and even less to the Prime Minister whose family fortune is built upon a creative relationship with legal tax obligations.
But more than this, Jimmy clouds the issue.
A friend of mine once told me a story of a man who stumbled onto the London comedy circuit, armed only with jokes, controversial in the post Connolly age of aggressive comedy.  The man was not well received, battered by audiences in clubs with only a handful of confused tourists hooked off the Leicester Square in attendance.  In gigs like these, five or more comedians share 'the door' and can expect to make as little as £15 for a night's work.
My friend was also a comedian who worked within this unforgiving world for many years until necessity drove him back to the government sanctioned, hard working, nine till five 'real world'.  The man in my story had a different ending.  He worked on his material over a period of ten years or more, broke the invisible barrier into television and became a comedy superstar, selling out arenas and raking in massive reward for his years of effort.
How did he succeed?
Talent for sure.  A prolonged flirtation with the controversial perhaps?  Hard work?  Definitely.  Comedy is a brutal and unforgiving mistress that tends to take of its suitors years at the bottom and allow only a chosen few the light of exposure and rewards of success.  But whilst my friend did his years, honing his skill in that half-life of an existence suffered by those with the audacity to be broke in London, Carr was able to take ten years at this same comedy university, supported by the multi-millions of his now estranged accountant father.
Behind this case is the same equation that David Cameron fears so much.
Privilege opens doors.  Privilege begets success...
Privilege gives you an advantage over those without it.
Nobody can stump on this argument.  My granny, proud in her council house in Edinburgh's rough Craigmillar was always the first to say that 'there is always someone less fortunate than you', often when threatening to mail my vegetables to Africa if I didn't eat them.
Cameron has made a mistake in highlighting Carr as it is the accountants of the elite who are able to work the magic of the one percent tax bill.  Carr's hypocrisy may rankle but Cameron's must ring louder and greater for one reason.
Jimmy Carr for all his talents has no power to reshape tax policy in this country.  That power lies with another privileged Oxbridge graduate with a wealthy father, and unless David Cameron acts, he will see his tenuous grip on the moral high ground slip in a way that cannot be reclaimed.

Sunday, 14 August 2011

Everything Must Go - Riot Night in London

As I write this, I sit in a flat above a row of shops on a market street in Catford, Lewisham.  The shop below me has boarded up its windows.  The sun is shining and the street has an uneasy good humour but the fallout from three nights ago is palpable.

Three nights ago, I arrived in my road and walked straight into a discussion between the shop owners and stall holders.  Everyone was closing up.  Even as we stood together, figures in black hoods moved through the street, first in ones and twos and then in larger groups.  People stepped out of their way.

I went into my flat and turned on the news.  Riots had already broken out in Hackney, Croydon and then, Lewisham.  At the other end of Catford High St, two cars were on fire and rumours of looting were growing.  BBC News elicited panicky phone calls from my relatives.  It was heading my way.  I put some bits in a bag and headed over towards my girlfriend's house.

At the top of Catford High Street, I found a small crowd of residents with two maligned-looking police officers at their centre.  An African man asked the officer if 'It was safe to walk down the High Street'.  The officers looked at one another.  One of them then responded.
'Well, I'd walk down it.'
Master of the non-committal response.  We could hear the sound of distant alarms.

Some of us began to walk down it and arrived into the middle of a mob of around 200 'youths' in the process of smashing their way into Argos.  The size of the group was both surprising and ridiculous.  We watched as they forced their way inside and then began to emerge with HD cameras, arms full of jewelry and wide screen tvs on their shoulders, their faces masked or hooded, some with Halloween masks.  The looters milled around, some actually queuing to get inside the shop.

There was no reaction from the police.  Nobody stopped them for the 30 minutes or so I could see them.  I couldn't get a signal on my phone.  Either the network was overloaded or the Police were dampening it out of their fear of twitter.  Just as I headed down a back street towards my girlfriend's house, three riot vans finally arrived.  They didn't even stop beside the rioters but some of them broke off, legging it down the same street with their new televisions.

I suddenly found myself isolated amid a group about twenty masked looters.  They were laughing and joking amongst themselves, euphoric.  At that moment I realised that I was completely cut off.  My phone didn't work and even if I could call the police, nobody would have come.  If they wanted to rob me, it was entirely up to them.
As it happened, they had other things on their mind.  Some carried their new appliances into pleasant, well built houses on the quiet suburban road and the rest vanished into another side street.  I walked on to my girlfriend's house and the sight of people vanishing loot into the house opposite.

We then watched as the riots spread from borough to borough.  Still David Cameron refused to break from his holiday.  It seemed that only when the pleasant, middle class area of Ealing was hit that Cameron had something he could understand.  In the Londo-Caribbean household in which I then sat, there was discomfort at the number of hooded black faces, but there were others too.  As the riots spread to Birmingham and the North of England, the colour of the faces changed but the problems were the same.

'Unacceptable'  Scolded Theresa May uselessly.  A more upper class, haughty woman would be difficult to imagine.  What could she possibly say when she has no mental comprehension of or physical association with the areas and people who were bringing the capital to its knees.  When Cameron returned, the Conservative government's fears and priorities became obvious.  They adopted exactly the same tactics faced by every ruling elite in a civil uprising.  Criminalisation and sounding tough, denigrating the numbers of rioters (small of course).  Before even the results of the Mark Duggan inquiry were concluded, phrases such as 'No possible justification' were heard.  How could they know before the facts had been established?  Their greatest outrage was at the national embarrassment caused with 2012 looming.  Cameron blustered and soundbit but clearly could not comprehend how he had become the first Prime Minister to face riots on this scale in living memory.  This was not the country that Dave was born to rule.

Many people have tried to offer reasons for why the city's order failed so badly over those nights.  The thing that struck me was the total disconnection between those in power and the people and areas hit by riots.  This disassociation was not just with the politicians.  The media were spectacularly guilty of this, misidentifying Lewisham and mistaking Hackney for Deptford.  The most embarrassing was their quotation of a rioter's incitement via twitter to hit the streets in which they translated 'endz' as meaning 'gang'.  Anyone who has been to South London wouldn't make that most basic and sensationalising of mistakes.  They looped riot footage from previous nights and turned the event into a spectator sport, whilst at the same time missing key developments and information that would have been useful to the public.  But more serious is the complete inability of politicians to recognise what happened as anything more than a spate of criminality arriving as a bolt from the blue.  In this, Cameron is like the child who puts his hands over his own eyes and believes himself invisible.  Just because he can't see, doesn't mean it isn't there.  As with every walk of life, if you cannot identify when you have a problem, what hope can you have of finding a solution.

In any case, a solution is no easy thing.  Being white and middle (ish) class, my own perspective and understanding is far from complete, but as someone who has worked in Hackney and lived in Brixton, Streatham and Lewisham, I am not blind to the world in which the riots materialised.  One of the things that has struck me in the days after the action has been the pleasant reassuring feeling of seeing police, not even that many police in Catford's case, on patrol, walking down a High Street at night.  This is something I have scarcely seen in my time in Lewisham or Brixton.  In South London particularly, we're all used to the sirens and the occasional flash of a high vis Ford Focus, (unlike some places, sirens are nothing new in Catford) but to see police on the streets has a calm purpose and civility that cannot be bought by one hundred invisible rapid response teams.  In short, the number of police on the street two or three nights later does not feel excessive to me.

As for the rioters, whilst there have been a number of high profile exceptions - the ballerina, the teaching assistant, the millionaire's daughter non-withstanding - Cameron cannot and should not attempt to communicate with them directly.  So vast is the gulf of empathy that seeing millionaires like Cameron, Osbourne or May purporting to have any clue about life on an estate is stomach turning.  They need to find people who understand, make them visible.  They need to stop hiding behind the bottled bluster and Daily Mail outrage that does nobody any favours.

The lives and often, the values of people left to fester out of sight and mind, not in-keeping with the 2012 presented view of Britain are toxic to a degree we haven't even begun to understand.  Places where teenagers kill one another over 'respect', where the successful guy with the nice car and good house is the local drug dealer.  Places where adults are killed by gangs of children and smart young men shouldn't stand up for their girlfriends for fear of brutal, violent reactions long divorced from any reason, proportion or perspective.  That toxicity was the true cause of the riots.  It already existed.  Over the weekend it was merely focused by a dealer's death, targeted by twitter and BB chat and emboldened by the fact that for three days, nobody stopped it.  It is not evil, or even 'sick' as the Prime Minister labelled it, presumably in another mistaken usage of urban slang.  It is a mantra, a way of life that has risen out of places so forgotten by 'clean cut' society that the darkest of actions carry limited consequence.

In those places, if you don't work at school or work outside of it (in the legal economy), the state will provide housing and care that will increase with the number of children you have.  If you are under 18, you are ideally qualified for holding guns and hiding drugs as the state cannot meaningfully punish you and the gang can cast you adrift at any moment.  That this way of life has become normalised, packaged and even glamourised has created ghettos, not just of people and places - of 'endz' in its proper usage, but also of values so skewed that those who do not know or conform to their rules can and do end up dead.  This is because these areas are not policed by police.  In places like that, the police are occasional visitors, like the clean freak aunt who occasionally drops in for a dawn raid or one off arrest.  The everyday policing is left to the gangs and their codes of respect, an ideology shaped too by the playground mentality of children in which the latest trainers or Iphone denote more status than any GCSE could ever hope to.  This creates a terrifying, urban (Unlike with Cameron, not a byword for black) Lord of the Flies society, but one in which the adults are actually present and at best powerless, at worst complicit as shown by the accounts of parents in Lewisham dropping their kids off by car so they could go looting.

The most terrifying thing about the London riots is that they have shown what is possible.  They have shown that outside of these ghettos of values, wider society is not so strong.  Cuts, efficiencies and the death of values in politics have left us vulnerable to the cynicism and instant gratification of the ghetto ideology as shown by the number of 'ordinary people' who joined in and fanned the flames, 'caught up' in the riots.  The police are beleaguered and lest we forget, recently decapitated by the seemingly distant phone-hacking scandal.  The press, especially 24 hour rolling news has been shown to be devoid of value and context, playing the riots more for its own ratings than to give information to people who needed it.  News 24 was like a puppy dog chasing its own tail, excitable but bemused as riots bounced around like so many brightly coloured balls.  The Conservative government by its makeup alone is a slap in the face to any hope of social mobility even without their policies on EMA and University tuition, and lest we forget, it is less than a year since the expenses affair showed our politicians to be truly, madly, deeply corrupt.

But whilst the institutions and their leaders may fail us, there is no shortage of evidence that good people still exist and in large numbers.  The broom army, the nobility of parents who lost children but still appealed for calm, the dignity of so many victims.  London in particular has never ceased to surprise me in the number of selfless displays of humanity from a purportedly unfriendly big city.  But to my mind, what we lack is a social alternative, a positive ideology that we can take to the grim places and present as a different option to 'respect', to merely accruing big tvs, big trainers and big cars.  Cameron's Big Society is flawed in every way apart from the necessity to create a means by which everyone can invest themselves for a positive end.  The Big Society in its current form fails because it asks people to volunteer their time whilst cutting services, expecting sweeping, common magnanimity to take the place of government social provisions.  What Cameron has failed to realise is that a wide-scale social change like the one he hopes for does not come out of a blue sky focus group to be implemented from the top down by people who are actually above society, insulated by wealth and breeding.  Rather social change comes out of unrest, anger even, in short, exactly the kind of scenes we have just witnessed and for it to happen, the status quo, and the institutions that perpetuate it must be fundamentally altered.

Chief amongst this is for us to elect people who properly understand the people they represent.  A coalition of  teachers, youth leaders, engineers, scientists, outreach workers, business people small and large.  We must get rid of this young, airbrushed, branded professional politician who is good for nothing more than playing politics.  In doing so, we must not expect them to be squeaky clean or without prejudice.  The politicians we have now are a response to the sanitising, corrosive effect of media scrutiny, but with Murdoch's power on the wane, we have a chance to put some real people into power.  Politicians need to be seen as people who have succeeded in their chosen field and won the true, actual respect of their community.  They need to have a connection to the communities they represent.  They don't need to be perfect but accountable, accessible and as recognisable to the people on the estate as to those in the ghettos of Eton and Oxford.  I suspect that there are some politicians like this in our parliament, but they lurk on the back benches, cowed by the superpoliticians into keeping their real opinions in party line check.

Whilst it may be a pipe dream, the best way to improve society is to properly represent the society that you govern, so that when issues arise, you have a means by which you can understand them and not, as both Cameron and Mayor Boris have done, incomprehensibly argue that massive city-wide social unrest is not in some way, a product of the way the country is run.