So far, much of this blog has focussed on the physical environment of London and how it can be walked, viewed and generally abused.
Despite all that, it’s clearly the people that make the capital what it is. With its kaleidoscopic variety of culture, history and takeaways, it manages to pull in folk from all over the world like some kind of Boris-controlled tractor beam, crunches them into a giant crucible and spews them out into a nice Londony-shape.
There are people everywhere; at every time and in almost every place. You can’t avoid them. As Anthony Giddens will tell you, we are shaped by our interaction with others, and it could be seen that by living in such a densely populated place as London, you are going to be subject to a much more intense dose of pure, concentrated human. You are going to change in double-time.
Morph: Tony Hart's high-concept metaphor for the malleability of human nature? No.
So what change does London induce? Well, if you meet the people that I tend to run into at newspapers then you will probably get slightly more cynical. News is news to these people and empathy is nowhere.
An ex-soldier is homeless. News. A politician’s kid is in trouble. News. A local school is holding a fete. News-arama. Newspaper sales are falling dramatically and the industry has as much clue of what move to make next as Nick Griffin at a Dubstep night… oh, wait.
Yep, in London it’s easy to find yourself surrounded by people who are all about the benjies 24/7. There’s nothing wrong in wanting to earn good money per se, but I have heard that it doesn’t make you happy. Although you never hear poor people saying that.
Despite the avarice and the cynicism, quite a lot of these people are annoyingly nice and likeable. Sure, when a story or a money-making scheme comes along they don’t waste time in getting their slice, but the rest of the time they can do nice things like buy you a pint or pick up that magazine for you that they know you like.
So the change these types can enact is confusing. For example, I now find myself sympathising with the hacks who work at places like the Daily Mail and the Sun, people I had previously assumed were satanists who dined on Murdoch-sourced baby hearts. Having met some, they aren’t, which to a bleeding-heart liberal can be a massive disappointment. Of course, they do a job which is absolutely abhorrent and probably negates the power of matey banter over last night’s football, but you still can’t help but laugh at their jokes and maybe even buy them a pint back - as much as you want to act out your pinko wet dream fantasies where you shout at them about the exploitation of Chilean maize farmers and that NO ONE GIVES A FUCK ABOUT CHERYL COLE.
Bet this motherfucker's shorthand is immaculate
Hence, the experience becomes a balancing out where, like most things in life, you realise that the reality is nowhere near as good or as bad as you had been led to believe.
Subsequently, you naturally reassess your own standards in line with what you’ve seen. If it isn’t palpably detestable you probably move towards it, just a little. It’s not a total surrender, just a wee concession.
And inch by inch you are moving towards the city’s collective psyche, the middle-ground, to Westminster and to Mayfair.
Over the years the city will get you. When you leave people will seem to be speaking a different language, their movements will be alien and bizarre and you will be confused when toothy, provincial pub landlords explain that they don’t sell cinnamon lattes.
