Conversation with Councillors 29.11.16

Somebody said something interesting, eventually

Subject Councillors answer residents' questions
Date Tuesday 29 November, 2016, 19.30h
Location Downstairs, beneath the chess players, Golden Lane Estate community centre

Stanley Cohen House with its Grade II-listed "plastic bags"

Alderman Graves (he is the Big Hat in the posse of our Elected Representatives) began by asking how news of this meeting got around the estate. Did we hear about it via email, paper mail or by some other route such as noticeboards? He soon got the message that things could be improved in that regard before Lee Millam (Great Arthur House) stepped in with an urgent moan about the workmen doing the windows at Great Arthur. 

What were they playing at? Nothing, seemed to be the answer. Drinking tea, rolling fags, discussing whether the universe was infinite or not. Anything but fixing the bloody windows. The Alderman started to take on the ruddy complexion of a man who'd just realised that leaving his new golf clubs in the E-type was probably not such a good idea. One of the other councillors (a lone woman among six men) said something along the lines of "we hear what you're saying", which I'm not sure was the answer Mr Millam was looking for.

The subject moved on in a roundabout way to social housing, right-to-buy, who pays for what, how the housing stock is protected from predatory speculators in the age of Materialism Gone Mad, and the thorny issue of numbers of properties built versus the location of said properties. 

Roughly speaking, at the core of this is whether, for the same money, to build 100 new residential properties in the centre of Cripplegate, or else to build 300 dwellings four miles outside of it. These are the Big Questions those at the Corpy agonise over every minute of their lives, and especially during toilet breaks. Add into this equation a heavy shot of central-government busy-bodying and it's headaches all round. 

Councillor Gareth Moore (he's our guy off the estate) raised some characteristically realist points and explained that it is in the DNA of the Corpy to skew all decision-making towards business and commerce (my words), and that the planning protocols that apply for commercial projects differ entirely from those that apply to residential stuff. My understanding from what he said was that the Planning Committee on the council was overegged with expertise in the commercial field, but very light on expertise in the residential area. This has resulted in no end of bureaucratic constipation for residential matters, but was now being corrected by someone new in charge of things.

Then came an interesting bit, and it came from Alderman Graves, who was by now warming to the occasion and looking a little less likely to burst a blood vessel. It was triggered by Paul Lincoln (Basterfield House), who said that Barbican residents have special status within the Corpy - their very own committee - whereas Golden Lane is some kind of poor relation, forever in receipt of second-hand clothes. Gravesie, as I was now calling him (to myself), put on his 'thinking-cap' face and said that the way forward might be to start up a Golden Lane Working Party. To my ears this sounded like progress, and even the other assembled councillors (who all sit in a row, looking as if they are waiting to be called into the head teacher's office) showed signs of resurrection.

The Alderman's suggestion was not an opportunity to be missed, and after a brief diversion into drains, insurance and a potent question from myself about the poor lighting around the estate, Sue Pearson (Hatfield House) whose middle name is Persistence, raised her hand. Were the assembled officers aware of the newfound love affair between Golden Lane residents and the Corpy, instigated by projects such as the redevelopment of the community centre, the Lord Mayor's float and an overall softening of behavioural tones. After a massive whinge about the "plastic bags" still stuck on the end of Stanley Cohen House, she spoke about evolving plans to find a robust yet sustainable management model for when the community centre is refurbed and reopened. Magically, she screwed a pledge of support from each of the honourable members of Death Row and everybody skipped off home to watch Jordan Banjo getting evicted from I'm a Celebrity...Get Me Out of Here!

Happy days.

Encounter: Renal Outpatients

Conversations about kidneys are a speciality for Billy Mann

My face must look like it needs a good talking to. Every six months or so I attend a regular outpatients appointment at the Royal London hospital in Whitechapel to monitor the state of my kidneys. I suffer from a hereditary condition that, left unchecked, might result in kidney stones. Passing a kidney stone is not something I would wish on my worst enemy. 

In the waiting room at my most recent appointment a man sitting nearby started asking me questions about his kidney and fished for information about mine. Cheeky bastard, I thought. He wanted to know if I was in line for a transplant, because he was sure as hell he was. He started talking about the different signs of kidney damage and their intensity  I told him that right now I am able to manage my kidney difficulties by drinking lots of water. Two to three litres a day. He seemed unimpressed. "I don't like water," he said. I replied: "Any fluids will do. You can drink beer if you want." Then I realised that this man was almost certainly Muslim. Dohh!!!

'He was determined to believe his 

own kidney condition was serious'

Riven with guilt, I moved the conversation on quickly. I started to mutter something about the miracles of modern medication but he was determined to believe his own kidney condition was serious and that death was but one more visit to the urinal away. I struggled on, trying to convince him that the doctors knew what they were doing and things are rarely as bad as you think they are. But he had already sold himself the idea that his predicament was drastic and that he would require a transplant. I opened my mouth, took a breath and was about to tell him that it is quite feasible to live a full and meaningful life with just one kidney, when his consultant arrived and took him off for the designated appointment. My face must have looked like it had made a narrow escape.

A message from the departed

Bitching over a dead person's possessions is undignified. By chance, Billy Mann uncovered the perfect solution

The subject had turned to death. He wasn't sure how it happened, but there it was. And before he knew it A_ was telling him about one of the local guys who had recently met his maker, and the rumpus that followed his sad departure. His charred bones had barely cooled ready for the crusher before various junior members of his family were at each other's throats over who gets what. He said I could have his Mexico 70 World Cup stickers book. This was the commemorative pictorial album lovingly stocked and tended by children at the time. That one of Jairzinho was special. What a player!

The conversation continued precariously, and with detailed reminiscences of the 1970 World Cup, until a note of levity could be found. This arrived with a wistful smile and an explanation from A_ of how his own mother scotched the potential for such family strife. She had seen this kind of thing before and was buggered if she was going to see her children bitching over "a few knick-knacks". A_ raised his eyebrows at this point and described a gift he had bought for his mother while on holiday some years ago in Crete. It was a set of small vases or vessels finished with a rather expensive looking lustre glaze. They cost £500. He was quite flush at that time.

A_ began to wonder how much they might be worth today. "I had them valued about 10 years ago and he said one was worth £500". He had three. But the question was itching like mad. What was his mother's magic formula for stopping any arguments over the worldly goods of the deceased? The question continued to knaw, and as it did his thoughts drifted to other examples of this malaise he had known. A_ looked him in the eye as if the answer was too bloody obvious to state. It was. Each time one of her children had brought her a gift, once they had gone she place a small sticker on the item with the name of the gifted, so that when she passed on, whatever you bought her was returned in the spirit of 'What goes around comes around.

Hacked off by hackers

Having your Facebook account hacked is no laughing matter. Well, maybe, concludes Billy Mann

At a fireworks party in a friend's garden I was retelling the story (detailed elsewhere in this blog) in which a young girl, probably as a mischievous bet with friends, decided to tell me, a pitiful looking old codger tottering along the street, that the prime minister, David Cameron, had once inserted his penis into the mouth of a dead pig. 

   One of the group at the fireworks party took this as a signal to pitch in with another seemingly alarming story. She told us that her Facebook page had been taken over recently by people operating out of Beirut. 

    "They posted all kinds of things in Arabic. I had to send messages to everyone saying don't believe everything I was saying because it wasn't me. It was these people in Beirut, talking Arabic."

    "What did they say, these Beirut Facebook chancers?"

    "I don't fucking know. It was all this awful Arabic stuff."

    "How did you know it was awful if it was in Arabic?"

    "It just was."

    "So, you told everyone to ignore all the rubbish you had spoken in recent history because it wasn't you at all, it was these Lebanese Arabs impersonating a middle class, middle aged woman who lives somewhere in the southeast of Britain?"

    "Yes."

    "And what happened next?"

    "I told Facebook and they fixed it."

    "Just like that? Did they tell you what they did or what had happened? Did they contact anyone in authority?"

    "No."

   "Oh." 

Encounter: Dancing in the doorway

A brief conversation left Billy Mann lost for words

They bumped into one another in the doorway to the community centre. They were both visibly pleased by the accidental meeting. 

"I'm here for the folk dancing," one told the other. "Third floor." 

The other, from genuine interest rather than politeness, asked how he had been. 

"Not that good. I haven't been around much, to be honest." He stepped forward, drawing closer, and lowered his tone. "My mate Rita's got cancer." He stepped back and made a rapid swishing motion with the index finger of his right hand. "Had a mastectomy." 
The other felt inadequate, not knowing what the appropriate response was. The truth was he wasn't sure there even was one. They shook hands and went their separate ways.

Encounter: On Golden Lane

Children and animals - keep your distance from Billy Mann

I don't think I can be faulted for not spotting the approach of this particular missile. I was walking home one afternoon when I became aware of three children further down the road I was on. They were in high spirits, excited and laughing. As I neared them, two peeled off, leaving a girl, I guess around ten years old, standing in front of me. She spoke to me directly.

"Excuse me, mister, but did you know..." 
She stopped, looked slightly bashful, then returned her gaze to mine.
"Did you know that David Cameron..." she started to giggle and looked around for her friends. I thought it was time to say something, so I pulled off my glasses, dipped my head slightly and uttered, "I'm sorry, I don't hear very well..." I thought I was giving her the opportunity to make a quick exit from the encounter, but no, she ploughed on with renewed vigour.
"David Cameron. He's the prime minister." 
I nodded.
"He put his penis in a pig's mouth. I'm sorry, this is very rude." 
The giggles got the better of her and she covered her mouth with her hand. I feigned surprise, opening my eyes wide in mock shock.
"One of his ministers... One of his min... Someone who used to work for him spread it around. It's true. It's all over the internet."
"Was the pig alive?" I asked
"No, it was dead," she replied.
"A dead pig?!"
"Yes."
"Well, thankyou for telling me that. That is a very strange thing to do, isn't it?"
"Yes, bye."

Conversation: Ball breaker

Billy Mann was not expecting this particular slice of life...

He came and sat down beside me. The large room was virtually empty, so anything spoken in confidence had a good chance of staying that way. 
"The doctor wants to whip off one of my bollocks."
I was not totally blindsided by this statement. He had told me before of the difficulties he experiences in that area. Chief among them was persistent though sporadic testicular pain, the result, he says, of a digestive disease he suffered some years earlier. "That's where all the poison ends up, in your bollocks."
The pain, he said, only arrived following exertion and was controlled easily with generic painkillers.

"If I was in constant pain, I wouldn't hesitate. Straight under the knife, but as it is I can live with it. The doctor still wants it chopped off, though."

I held both hands between my legs, pulled a tortured face and quietly squealed, "Oooo!"
He went on: "He's determined, but I told him I was quite attached to it."

I wanted to ask, "Left or right?" but bottled it, and took a pathetic stab at levity instead.

"Didn't Hitler only have one plum?"

"Nah, that's a myth."

"So, if they lop one off, do you get some kind of falsie to fill the space? A gobstopper thing?""Yes. It's like a ballbearing, same size, same weight. They just make a little slice, pop out the bad ball and put the ballbearing in."

I wanted to ask if he thought a man's attachment to his scrotum can be compared with a woman's feelings about her breasts, but the question seemed unnecessarily stupid and the answer seemed selfevident, so I bottled it, made some excuse, and scuttled out of the room, walking as if I had just dismounted a horse.