Resurrection

Chapter 8 : Fear and Loathing in London

Joe Strummer's haunting anthem for the punk-rocker's requiem: "London Calling to the underworld, come out of the cupboard, you boys and girls", was filtering through my thoughts as I navigated my way out of Paddington station. It was like many central stations I had discovered, though in this instance, reminded me of Sydney: tourists stumbling around blindly, late night commuters and several homeless people brandishing their best rags and holding out a begging cup while important-looking IT specialists politely looked away from them, hoping to not ever make eye contact and see their shadow archetype glaring back at them. The waffling stench of urine, mould and hot pies continued to puncture the air that hung thick over the Brunei Statue. Even on a late evening, the foot traffic and constant PA interruptions meant that this enchanted place remained a frenzy of activity. I was like a replicant navigating a near dystopian world, trying to establish an identity, though the desire to be off-world was much greater. Another swig of Kentucky bourbon slaked the thirst and burnt down the back of my throat. After a gasp of air and the sensation of liquid pressurising out of my nostrils, I was finally starting to feel some cathartic effects of the golden brown liquid. The needless thirst remained at the back of my throat, spiking the various ulcers that dotted my mouth.

I stumbled out of the nearest exit ramp and managed to make out the sign post for St Mary's Hospital and Praed St. I continued to plod my way through central London, taking in the sights of bustling peak hour traffic that continued its ritual edging despite the fact it was now the briefest of strokes before midnight. Later on people would put it down to a number of events including a series of protests from a variety of ethnic subcultures. Each swig of the bottle would continue to wash out the various lens flares of car lights, high end shops and blur out any signs of organic life trying to make their escape from Hyde Park.

London was a strange place to binge: not just a take on the alcohol but to self-binge on constant dalliances with the dark and depraved voices that can linger in one's grey matter. My amateur waltz, plodding down imperial roadways was like a nihilist's bleak scrapbook. I pushed through the chilly night air to blur past images of Madame Tussaud's Waxed emporium of celebrity snapshots, Piccadilly Circus with its juxtaposition of imperial Victorian architecture and modern gargantuan television screens. During any other time I would have gladly taken a photo with these backdrops and a nice text home to say 'Look where I've been.' But at this point in time I was horrendously lost. I shifted past billboards broadcasting Monty Python's Spamelot. The sound of 'knights of the round table' was echoing around my head as I tried to concentrate on the waves of meandering socialites.

'On second thoughts let's not go to Camelot: it's a silly place'

Eventually I would drown out the usual car horns and ambient traffic noise to react to what I thought was a classic case of soccer hooliganism. I was undoubtedly sure that West Ham were the victors that night but Manchester City were hardly the losing type either. The chants and baritone boisterous anthems splayed out in the late night atmosphere like a fog that would put John Carpenter at ease. This haze would also envelope passers-by. As I rounded a corner, the cries grew louder and morphed into something a little more sinister. I flicked my eyes over banners and concentrated on the lyrics of these slogans only to work out that this group had other ideas than to boast about their club's success with the boot. The anti-Islamic sentiment spread out in a wave and I realised that the English Defense League had taken residence outside a local business chamber.

I could understand their anger and confusion. It had only been a few weeks since a British soldier had been decapitated in broad daylight and the fight-or flight instinct was a very natural reaction once it had been freshly percolated through the mass media. People could suggest it was mere paranoia, but this was the follow-on from a number of terrorist incidents throughout Europe. Anti-Islamic sentiment had spread like a religion, engulfing the moral fibre of industrial populations all throughout Britain.