Jul 21, 2025
Roger Mayne. Girl in the Snow. Bethnal Green, London. 1955
I Am Collective Memories • Follow me, — says Visual Ratatosk
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Roger Mayne. Girl in the Snow. Bethnal Green, London. 1955
I Am Collective Memories • Follow me, — says Visual Ratatosk
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never once been able to answer the question “and what do you do?” both because you never went to those sort of middle class posh people’s cultural studies parties and because you was never going to be the kind of shithead who ‘did’ something, especially the kind of shithead who thought that their ‘doing’ something means that they were then ’something’ in themselves when they are all just a horrible same bag of shit, piss and bones - the same as everyone else except with better skin and more expensive shoes on their feet.
xchris, White Peckham, in Lumpen, issue 4, July 2020
'Look a clock. We don't have that in America' 👨🏻 --- #bigben #london #uk #england #redbus #brutain #photography #travel #canon #fblogger (at London, United Kingdom)
I grinned at the dawn because everything was possible. But here were street curbs, which, seeing me smile, sang. But here are my fellows diligent at 6:30am in heavily decorated tiny rooms. Scorning their dedication to dim lives. Shouting skouse piss heads fucking Arsehole fucking prick man and all move on and heads down and avoid. And who can blame the English on the train platform at 7:00am for not wanting their shirking solitude shattered.
The furtive swelling glances at cash machines. The reeking kebab house. Chicken and fish shop. ALL CHANGE PLEASE and PLEASE SWIPE YOUR CLUB CARD. cul de sacs that smell of tabs and clinging yellow curtains. And over fussy small fences dividing proud privaledges. burger vans and hearses.
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and as all of us are aware of this we call it 'self conscious'. I was told american was not as self conscious. having visited, I'd say they go to fewer lengths to be ashamed, whereas masking our personalities and ectasies is an essential part of the english psyche. we play cloak and dagger with one another, practicing and interpreting each other's social performance. -- the man who gets on next, has he shown photos of the new kitchen cabinets to his co-worker opposite? because they look great. though there's concerns about one of the neighbours. likes a drink apparently, and he's only been living there a week and he already knows that, but his co-worker might need to drink a bottle of his gin, because he bought too much for the party, and everyone who came brought their own anyway.
her ipad has more jewels than most Geordie lasses. It's held by a red lacquered mock-snakeskin stand. the heavy hands that stab at it crawl thick in bling. her red lauqered doctor martin boots are up on the seat opposite her as you sit down. she squivvels her lacquered face at you and you say: "s'aright pet, keep em up". and she's bewildered.
there's a crackling moment in any public space embalmed by communal silence, when a person attends to their phone or a friend, and shatters the silence by revealing their intimacies in accent and voice. ten pairs of bored ears leap to judge them. dialect, posh, being real posh or faux posh, bland middle class, or working class being real working class or faux working class, what region it might be from, tone it speaks in, with what familiarities, ahh that's defintely the soft accepting slowness of a conversation with a boyfriend. none of the staccato stabs at keeping up a laughing momentum, or the dilly dallying of dominance. that's a voice that has been in bed with its listener, droning over each other's sureties a while. occasionally teasing, or defensive. that's a well rounded, comfortable dialogue, the only restriction being she's wheeling it out in public, on this train, and even she fears sharing such intimacies in this public setting.
but naw she's telling of not putting her hand in her pocket all night and it's rude to turn down free shots and a you know me with southern comfort. but's just as well she was on the other shift the past week otherwise she would've been in the pub every break. and the voice at the other end hears her wild tales in silence and then she's distancing herself from some others with a "well the only people who do that are those people who don't have any morals and aren't married", locking her firmly into two clubs her husband cannot deny her membership of. and she says it rationally with little artifice. and i believe her. she's gone from the pouting and angrily bored to dreamily fey. her head is resting against the window, eyes unfocused on the countryside rolling past. "you sound different on the phone compared to how we've been talking the past four weeks … i dunno, clearer. Oh, i'm gonna take a bath as soon as I get home. It's been a month of showers. I really can't wait to take a bath."
london city of fear.
london city of anxiety.
london city of perception.
he was putting out a torrent of social signifiers. polo shirt, new, tight. jeans, new, tight. boutique totes, new. his hair was merely alright, cut closer but not short, the sandy ginger colour indistinguishable from profesionnally tanned skin. and the firm muscles of recent exercise. he had a power stance, a foot ahead of me in the tube. and then he turned around like a lighthouse.
square onto me, a foot ahead, and screaming all these things. ordinarily i'd aknowledge the other human in keen proximity. begin the dance of setting the tone of conversation, roles of dominance and servitude. find out something. enjoy.
but my ordinarily is not london's ordinarily, and, with all the excuses of heavy bags, arrivals and timidity, i was to let this london win out over my countryside ways. i looked the other way, and his scrutinities glanced off me without being reflected.