Alan Coleman

Did everyone stop watching Lost because it was ridiculous, or because of the intensely irritating 118 adverts every 15 minutes? Probably a bit of both, but for me the sight of those two goofy student types with false moustaches was simply too much to bear. One day I’ll borrow the box set off someone from work and watch the entire thing during a sickie.

Naively I thought that after Lost that would be it, the campaign would finish, the advertising execs would take their bald patches back to Hoxton and we all could all go back to Channel 4. That is without the risk of turning into that bloke played by Michael Douglas in the film Falling down.

No such luck I’m afraid because they’re back, but this time the campaign has taken on a whole new level of aggression beyond the confines of the shit pump. With the help of a whole army of the above mentioned execs, the two punchable students are stealing our public space right from under our noses.

Unsuspecting commuters brave enough to tackle Waterloo or Victoria of a weekday morning are returning with horrific stories of sensory overload, rage and in some cases, Post Dramatic Stress Disorder. Or maybe that’s just me.

The stupid fake moustaches and running vests are plastered on any available surface in what must be one of the most cynically cheap advertising gimmicks of recent years. It is quite literally, everywhere.

Not enough is the usual advertising space we all try to avoid whilst waiting for the tube, 118 now dominates the airspace with enormous draping banners straight out of the Nuremberg Rally, and looking down won’t help because the floor’s been covered with 118 paraphernalia too.

Like the station concourse the sleek ticket barriers, every inch the mark of quality with their functionality and brushed aluminium, have also fallen foul of bastardisation with an array of gaudy plastic 118 stickers.

Every inch of this communal space, whether private property or not, was paid for and built by people like us. They are patronised by people like us who pay thousands every year to use the transport system of which we should be proud. To see this privilege, which is the veins of our economy as well as an integral function of our society cheapened in such a manner is saddening, although not surprising.

It’s somehow indicative of an era that could easily be entitled, ‘New Labour – The final initiative’. The closing showpiece of blatant contempt, almost the last push towards societal conformity and sterilisation. A place where The Da Vinci Code and Feeder have become cultural standards, and where greed and one-upmanship are the champions of tomorrow’s generation.

118. Cultural vandalism at its very worst.

Mowing the lawn for the council

Everyone has their own little thing that for them finally signals the beginning of summer, it might leaves on the trees, the appearance of cricket on TV or simply just warmer weather.

For me the start of summer comes with the first sighting of what I spotted this lunchtime on the way back to work, it is the most sure sign that after weeks of waiting the finest season of the year is finally upon us.

Enter, the council lawnmower.

It’s shape and colour has changed very little over the years, a sort of green mini tractor with yellow stripes and fat tyres, what John Deere would describe as a ‘Riding lawnmower’. It’s a speedy little affair with a superb turning circle and is the sort of thing men the world over will always want to have a go on. They can be seen bezzing about any council owned property or state school, which is where I noticed my first one over 25 years ago.

I remember mum dropping me off late after the dentist, she had a white spitfire with spoked wheels and the roof was down because it was such a nice day. And there it was, the council lawnmower flying round the playing field throwing up daisies in its wake. Everything seemed so in place, like it would never change. A combination of the weather, childhood innocence, the 70s haze and an undercurrent of good honest industrial action. The only way things could have been any better was if I had the job of driving the council mower.

The blokes that do that job, like the council lawnmower itself, haven’t changed in all that time. Still the same anonymous suntan and cut down jeans, the same leaning forward on the wheel like it’s a truck, and still the same grassed stained boots and look of complete indifference. These where the swarthy looking types that parents warned their daughters about, distant men with tattoos and sun bleached quiffs. Basically, proper men. Great.

By the time I’d progressed to an average suburban comp, my interest in the council lawnmower and the blokes that rode them hadn’t changed. I would sit in double maths and gaze out of the window at the council lawnmower speeding around the playing field making patterns and shapes. Come break time he would roll a fag, sit in the shade and gaze at his work. Soon enough a gaggle of the more confident girls would gather round and marvel at the raw sexuality of it all.

It was then, as it must be now, one of the greatest jobs in the world.

I don’t need many reasons to be cheerful on a Friday, and the opportunity of two Ian Brown tickets from one of Mandy’s colleagues at work put an extra big grin on my face. As is always the way with these things we met loads of great people and had a wicked night, in fact, as time goes on it’s the new people and alcohol that appeals more than King Monkey himself.

Take for example the two young girls in front of us in the queue outside. Well dressed and funny with a sharp sense of humour, essentially the epitome of cool with their intuitive sarcasm and Essex accents. The same goes for the people we met in the little bar upstairs. Okay, there was a certain amount of ‘Lost it’ to the occasion, but these where genuine people with interests and lives all the same.

The next morning, after coming out of the greengrocers, I was struck by an overwhelming sense of optimism and pride as is dawned on me that we’re not such a bad race of people after all. Now I don’t want to come across as smug, or overly romantic or like I’ve been taking handfuls of pills, it’s just nice to feel a bit more positive about things sometimes.

I think that in paying too much attention to both tabloid hate and broadsheet self hate, we appear to each other ugly and bitter individuals. What I’m trying to say is, that we may be running the risk of turning ourselves against each other through no fault of our own. The bitterness of the press combined with the egotistical insanity of modern politics is so relentless that we may actually start to believe the cynicism, or worse still, to think of ourselves in those terms.

It doesn’t have to be that way. Because for every tosser that leaves his coffee cup on the train, abuses public office or pisses over the toilet seat, there are a hundred other people out there capable of humanity, kindness and respect. And that applies to London more than anywhere.

So, as the fashionable vortex of suspicion and hate gathers pace, just remember that we don’t necessarily have to join in. From Ian Brown to the Greengrocers and from Snaresbrook to Chelmsley Wood…

We’re all right really.