The Land Where I Belong Part 2

It was night time in the big city, wet taxi cabs flew by, hot red buses full of crack pots and junkies went by, we jumped on one, made some jokes then dropped ourselves off at the Canteen restaurant, Spitalfields.
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It's a nice enough area now, but back in Victorian Britain it saw many of Jack the Ripper's victims draw their last breaths. It's quite trendy now; quite arty with famous residents Tracey Emin and even Damien Hurst a few years back. Jeremy Bentham of 'greatest good for the greatest number Utilitarian' fame was born there too.

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So after a rather drunken meal, well drunken for me anyway...culminating in a nice drop of brandy, ended then we stumbled out, across white paving, under funky lighting reflecting off smooth shiny new walls of glass and steel.

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After a few drinks in a glorified factory, and cashing in on it too, we went to a place called Tabernacle, a weird if none-event which boasted big crowds and bigger prices upstairs, but a quite quaint yet smart club downstairs, with a lit up disco floor, and small star lights in the wall. Not that I paid much attention of course; I was too busy getting pissed on sambuca, tequila, beer, vodka, gin, wine and whatever else took my fancy. Twas like Tom Brown in an alcoholic sweet shop!

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So after an expensive night then I was well out of reddies. I went to the Sudanese corner shop at the top of the road and scraped enough for some juice and a crap pizza. Fell from rich to poor in a matter of minutes. At least I had my Oyster card...oh shit where has that gone?

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So I enjoyed it, LONDON, but it wasn't me. You can't look at people on the bus, can't talk to people at the bus stop, exchange a familiar glance with communters on the train home, can't moan about the weather or the shit running times of the trains. You leave your place in a morning and go all focussed in getting to work. I still do it; I will bump into someone and still say sorry. You do that and they treat you with the same level of contempt if you were to bump into someone then walk away in Nottingham...lots of words there for a very small point. London is my capital city, I feel proud to walk past the statues of Cromwell and Churchill...tourist points for the Japs and Americans, my heritage, MY HISTORY. London is my capital city but I don't belong...I don't belong anymore than anyone else down there.
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Get back home, or jump up and down Briggate in Leeds...I feel welcome there. I still feel welcome in Headingley, or in the Dolphin or Leeds Market, or Upper Parliament Street.
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London; theres shit loads of people there, all different nationalities, all faiths, a mixture, DIVERSITY, the buzz words we're all shouting out for...a diverse city! That's good though; I welcome it, but it's not my capital, not like Nottingham or, dare I say it, Ilkeston, or Leeds. I'd rather be a Midlander, or Northerner than a Londoner. Notice I didn't say Southerner? I like some parts of the south...queen of the south, not THE Queen. Give us back our houses, sell your jewels and give the money to the poor.

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Is Beauty really Truth?

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As another fellow blogger has recently remarked, in a tone usually taken by my Grandma, "the days are getting lighter." Indeed the mornings are brighter - this morning there's a reassuring plethora of pastels above Meadow Lane. The morning is cold, bitter, unforgiving, yet, the world seems brighter. Maybe it's the music I'm listening to, the hot tea I'm slurping at through the plastic cover, the thought of the weekend, or maybe it's just because the sun is starting to shine!!!

Passing through Radcliffe Power Station, the sun glanced the side of the towers, the steam and smoke plumes a-wake and rest neatly in the sky. I think that's beautiful - industry amongst nature - how it all has its place.

Now, my town has its nice places, good views etc but I cannot appreciate them anymore. I associate them with a lot of negativity ergo they are not beautiful to me anymore. You move away for a few years then return, and you love it. Someone grew up in London and they beg and yearn for the country, and vice versa. Say you grew up in Liverpool. A beautiful city, especially in the Summer. The way the Mersey lights up the city with the glimmering sun dancing over the waves, the architecture, the heritage then you move away.

You go to Sheffield or Manchester or Nottingham to Uni, and you dig that place for a few years. But when you return home you appreciate it - your parents, your town, the way each street has its own smell. Don't tell me Billy Wordsworth didn't pine for the city sometimes - he loved London,

"The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,

Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie

Open unto the fields, and to the sky;

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air."

That really is taking the piss though...London has never been like that..."smokeless air"? But, each to their own I suppose. He probably yearned for London if it was THAT good, especially on his walks around the Lakes with Dorothy, "Fuck me Dozzer...I only want to read a good broadsheet and score some quality Opium...Coleridge knows a bloke down Fleet Street."

I want to escape all this hideousness - get to the countryside, another town, city, country, and live, breathe, walk, run and dive in, then come back home at weekends.