TV highlights for 2012

TV promises great things in 2012. These are some highlights that might be worth watching out for....

January - Guess Who's Coming to Dinner? - ITV

Reality TV show about some charity workers working with starving Africans. Tensions rise as the crew struggle to get aid in on time, and run into conflict with the local politicians. But politics is a problem on the camp too, as Daryl and Victoria can't decide who should run things. Elsewhere, there's a sparkle of romance for Jenny and a local boy.

February - Panorama: Jurassic Pork - BBC1

Examining the link between developments in the swine flu (H1N1) virus and pigs in blankets leftover at Christmas.

March - Jeremy Clarkson's How About That? - BBC1

More tomfoolery from our favourite blokey bloke as he visits council estates to ask them what they spend their (more like our!) money on.

April onwards- Face Swap - Channel 4

Reality show in which couples see what it's like to have someone else's face surgically transplanted onto the one they love. The first episode sees Jill come home to find that husband Tony now looks like the local newsagent.

April - The Only Made in Swindon - E4

Following the success of the Essex and Chelsea shows, Swindon bands together to prove to the world that they too have dislikable people in their town.

May - Guess Who's Escaped Poverty? - ITV

Follow up documentary about one African family that journeyed across the Mediterranean to Italy, narrowly missing the border police, only to win the Euromillions jackpot on their first attempt. With dramatised re-enactments.

May onwards - Freeloader in an Off-Roader - BBC1

A spin-off of Top Gear's Star in a Reasonably Priced Car in which people on benefits tackle the newly opened Top Gear mud ring.

June - Dry Planet - BBC1

Attenborough does deserts.

July/August - Olympic Shames - BBC1

New cop show following police and security personnel as they rustle up unsavoury characters at London's Olympics. With terrorists, athlete druggies and the communities of East London, the takings are sure to be high.

August - Newsnight: The Riots, One Year On - BBC2

Theresa May and Diane Abbott argue about whether punitive measures were the right tactic to curtail the rise of the underclass, as the cuts began to bite and more riots threatened.

August onwards - BBC R1OT - New Channel

The BBC invents a special channel alongside the News channel for BBC R1OT, a temporary channel, presumably, as the country once again finds itself gripped by riot fever. Join Jon Sopel for 24 hour coverage on the front line in London, and other reporters dotted around the country in dozens of besieged cities.

September - Natural World - BBC2

With incredible new technology BBC camera-people are on location documenting the rapid spread of mould over an opened yoghurt. Micro-Cameratic Technology (MCT) shows in never-before-seen detail some of the most fundamental procedures of life.

September - Jeremy Clarkson's Mao About That? - BBC1

Clarkson gets special permission to drive to China and explore the pros and cons of a communist, capitalist state.

October - An Arm and a Clegg - Channel 4

Looking back at the first half of Nick Clegg's role as deputy Prime Minister, with leading analysts and commentators addressing the gulf between promises and policies.

October - Occupy This! - Channel 4

One year since tents were pitched outside Saint Paul's, Will Self takes a wry look at where all the camping and shouting has got us. With surveys suggesting that the country hates bankers but hates hippies even more, what chance has the newly established Occupy Party got in the next local elections?

October - Euro: A Tough Act to Follow - BBC4

With the drama finally over, and the countries on the continent resuming their former currencies, Paul Mason asks what's next for the once powerful economic force that is Europe.

November - Maya 2012 - Sky1

Three-part drama series spinning-off from The Mummy franchise following Brendan Fraser as he's accosted by Mayans back from the dead with a stark warning for the fate of humanity. Guest stars Sam Neill.

December - What Will You Do Before We Die? - Channel 4

Audience interactive special presented by Jimmy Carr and Davina McCall charting the nations favourite dying wishes. From massive orgies to a ride in a BMW Q60, nothing is unreasonable when the end is nigh. Contribute online or phone in. 10% of proceeds go to charity.

December 20 - Countdown to Doomsday - BBC1

With David Dimbleby.

(Similar program showing on Sky with Adam Boulton and ITV with Alastair Stewart)

The Filter.

'Eight months of vineyards, swimming, and parties with hippies,' she says. I reply,

- What more could you want?

- Indeed. Well, actually I don't like wine too much. It's OK. I know a bad wine, but can't tell a good one. And hippies . . .

- Hippies.

- The hippie stereotype pales in comparison to the dudes I met.

- An inadequate stereotype?

- I'd say so. The stereotype provides the model, blind enthusiasm does the rest. And despite what they might say, it's not cool.

- Not cool.

- Not cool at all. Regular people wind me up, just think what an exaggerated stereotype does.

- Happy to be home then?

- I'm not home now, I'm away again.

- London's your adopted home.

- I suppose. Yes, happy to be home.

A chocolate sprinkle from her cappuccino, one grain of sawdust chocolate, has found its way to the corner of her mouth. She's looking down at the table, through the table, as if remembering something. Something table-related? I can't be sure. Something from those eight lost months spent with the hippies, swimming? I will never know. Our time apart had not been a time apart, as such. We are not people who could maintain the notion of a distance between us, because we were never together. There is no us. We were an I and a she (from my perspective), in bubbles. In the same city, same room, or merely same language, we had always been apart, unremarkably apart. Our new-found togetherness is strange, as if we are starting again from where things left off, even though nothing ever existed to leave off from. Why were we here? Probably because I asked if she wanted a coffee. People do that in London, right? Meet people who are tragically no more than acquaintances? It's just a sequence of coffees with acquaintances, nothing more. That's what we're doing. It's so banal and yet so breathtakingly significant.

And I say,

- I suppose God gave us a filter so that people don't say things like this but, you were my favourite.

The guy reading The Guardian twitches. He must be crying with laughter inside. Pity me, friend, or jump in and save me. I'm doing that thing that we always regret not doing - seizing, leaping, falling. And why do we not do it? Because it's awful. It feels awful; it sounds awful. No collection of words can get around the glaring ridiculousness of this very moment. No sequence of words can arise like a magical formula to make it better. It's like choosing between a handgun, shotgun or cannon: if you're standing in the wrong place, you're going down.

She peers though the table some more. Lips parted. A tiny smile . . . is this a smile? Perhaps. But her cheeks have something of a smile-adorning quality; she is always somewhat smiling.

- Do you believe in God?

Her eye on mine now. not staring. A soft eye. Not darting between left eye and right eye like people do when they're incredibly intrigued by what you're saying. Just her eyes, doing their thing. If her gaze were a car, it would be going at about twenty.

- No (I say this without much of the conviction I'd hoped to express.)

- So where does the filter come from?

- I don't know. Where does life come from?

- Don't get too profound on me now, explain the filter.

- My filter's evidently faulty.

- That doesn't bode well for the credibility of the things you say.

- Thanks.

- Who knows what might come out. (She tilts her head slightly.)

- I realise the danger.

- Maybe that's enough to disprove God.

- People ignoring the filter?

- People sensing the filter and then blasting straight though it.

- You're not going to let me get away with this are you.

- But God gave you free will, huh?

- Worst mistake he ever made.

- So is it you or God that filters your words?

- What do you think?

- It's not God.

- I think, therefore there is a God?

- That's a circle.

- I say the wrong things, therefore i am?

- That's stupid.

- Lacan?

- That's a God complex.

- Society?

- No such thing.

- Socially acceptable labour time?

- Completely irrelevant.

- Historical materialism?

- You can take your syllables some place else.

- My syllables will be my undoing.

She paused, then said,

- Once when I escaped the hippies and walked out to the vineyard near my cousin's, I managed to convince myself that I was in Italy. Have you been to Italy? Me neither. But I'm sure it was just like Italy. Rows of grapes, all parallel snaking across the hills, paths occasionally splitting them up. The sun was setting and I sat there long enough for the shadow, cast by a wooden trailer, to run from the path I had come from, past the tree where I was sat, narrowly missing my legs, to the barn where my Aunt was making dinner. Pizza of course.

- Of course.

- I became totally convinced that it was Italy: the Mafia were circling the town demanding protection money; Salvatore the fugitive is hiding in the hills, waiting for revenge; the young boys were trying to enlist in the army (it's the olden days and there's a war on). And my sister, who is older and luckier than I am, is fretting because she hasn't heard from Alfonso -

- Alfonso?

- Alfonso - in over a week. He's only twenty, the same as my sister. He rushed off with his machine gun with such excitement. At the end of the first week she received seven letters, all at once. He had written every day, but the post was only delivering once a week around these parts, where only the wine and Mafia operated. The second week she received five letters. Apparently Alfonso was in the trenches, in the cold mountainous regions at the French border. After a month the postman came with nothing but rations for the family, and my sister is heartbroken. She's been crying into his clothes for three days. She's stopped eating pizza. But spring has come to Italy and it's one of those curiously over-hot spring days that reminds you how drastically the heights of the seasons differ, and I'm sitting watching the trailer's shadow, waiting for pizza, thinking of my sister and the whereabouts of her quiet boyfriend. I wonder if someday I will have a boyfriend who I can cry over, who can nearly destroy me with his lack of presence, or uncertainty of life. Whether he will break my heart by finding something special in another girl which for some reason isn't in me, and I can commit myself to finding out what that thing is, mimicking it and winning him back. Because, for me, Italy is beautiful and empty. The shadow would sweep along the track, narrowly missing my leg, and depart as the day cooled.

The small grain of chocolate is still at the corner of her mouth. I almost use this moment to draw her attention to it, but refrain from doing so.

Some people are advocates of the working filter. Some people are not. Some encourage a rupture and then are appalled at the result. Some mirror it with a simultaneous breakdown in their own filter mechanism. Some laugh. Some change the subject. Some embrace the subject. Some are lost for words. Some forget that words need not mean anything. Some forget that words can mean something. Some talk of wine, war, and pizza, and dedicate their afternoon to keeping you wondering. I suppose that's why God gave us cappuccinos.

NUC: Daylesford Farm Shop, Pimlico

London is gripped by a heatwave (Uh, this entry dates back a few months...). The Crofton Park to Blackfriars line is experiencing signalling failures. Chris and I arrived in Central too late for the dérive we had planned. (Somewhat ironic - Situationist tactics thwarted by an over-reliance on public transport.) We end up in Victoria, in this café/farmshop. It's in the somewhat Parisian square here in Pimlico, where T-shirted Londoners happily bump into their neighbours in the street. It's like WestEnders, the antithesis to the East: the sun shines, everyone's smiling, peering into local independent furniture shops with their loved ones, or sipping ginger beer in a farmshop.

They sell organic food and drink. We have ginger beers - extra potent. The sandwiches look great. £1.75 a ginger beer, £3.50 a sandwich - not unusually expensive, too much for me though. The shop is bright and spacious, with organic aromas grappling with baked bread for nose-attention. This is a place for attractive people, and Chris and I wonder how soon til we're chucked out. We keep our heads down and discuss trivial things. No music accompanies us, out front of the café, but a rich soundtrack of cutlery and nearby traffic. Daylesford negotiates the country into the city with some skill.

(No Title)

it was on a hungover sunday stroll when i realised that i had stopped thinking. i noticed the effort that was needed to project something into my head, to feign interest in it and develop it into something that could keep my attention. inevitably, everything slipped away. too much concentration was required.

this was back when i was at university. the requirement for thought had become sickly, now associated with the gradual alienation of myself from my peers. a memory dipped in a bitter ointment. i seemed to lack the will to go there, to engages whatever bits of brain that made me compute things. perhaps the incessant questioning of just about everything that i was once so intrigued by, so energised by, had taken its toll. perhaps i was unwilling to think, to value, judge or enjoy, because to consider it only slightly more would involve it fragmenting into some kind of paradox, and well i just don't have the time for that.

looking back now, i recall the need to juice myself up on coffee before engaging with my brain for some purpose, say, like reading, or writing an essay, or applying for a job, even responding to an email from a bygone friend. some kind of preparatory act was required, and this ended up being coffee. coffee signalled positive engagement with the task at hand. like clearing the house before a party, knowing the mess that the party would bring. but i couldn't be bothered to party any more, the clean-up beforehand wasn't worth the trouble.

the coffee became tasteless and unaffordable. it was left to me to do things, to find some criteria with which to value things, and to subsequently decide to do them. from whence this curse of inertia? i asked the small collection of ducks below me. why this relentless indifference? any clues? i tried to trick myself with emotional triggers, something to jump-start some form of emotion. a past romance; a late grandmother; rising energy prices; world poverty... what am i to make of these things?

and rounding the corner of a frosted park walkway, that hungover sunday, i caught myself with nothing fuzzing around in this mind of mine. no daydreaming about years past, no musings on the weekend ahead, no opinions on the books i was reading. just space. space doomed to be gradually comsumed with a fairly indifferent reflection on this very predicament. to a passing dog-walker i may look deep in thought, unreachable, lost in my own problems, dwelling on deep feelings, longing, wishing, hurting... not i. this preoccupied face holds no secrets.

Spam: a respond

In reply to / collaboration with http://rememberhuman.blogspot.com/2011/10/violence-or-necessity-of-spam-filter.html

Hello Dearest One, your urgent respond needed immediately.

The robot wants the human's energy, the battery, a la The Matrix. Energy is needed so the robot can fulfil it's purpose, to be a servant. Servant for... humans, we are to assume. But, the human has been reduced to an economic indifference, a node in a network of capital, 'the used'. Used for? Well, to sustain the robot. But the robot is currently not satisfied with the dehumanising tendencies of the system. The robot promotes humanity. Human batteries.

This robot has landed upon a very appropriate paradox. That which acknowledges that capital depends on the tension between economically defined categorisable people, easily marketed towards, benign; and, the gradual becoming of them into something perpetually new - unpredictable, new markets, new growth, the expansion of capital. The robot, i propose, unbeknownst to itself, has to be precisely the hungry holistic hegemonic global economic system, with a complex of self-hatred.

This leads us to the robot's critique of the spam filter. In other words, the extent to which capital itself appreciates the spam filter. Here, the internet itself is considered the filter, and spam is considered as the eclectic multitude of content, all somewhat rooted in propagandised ideology. The filter, as an arbitrator of content, henchman of capital, provides us with the most appropriate material. This is somewhat necessary, and somewhat violent. Necessary because of the mess of the internet, through which progressive thought is obscured. But violent because the process reaffirms the user (used) as an economic node, by filtering out that which could lead elsewhere.

The robot is sceptical. This tension is what it requires, yet it seems critical of the process that does it. It's proposal seems to favour new, human, values, which detract from pure profit. But the rupture required to open the space is left out. Can this moment be found in the nature of spam itself, its relationship to capital? Presently this is unclear. And does the robot see this obstacle as one which is hindering the free flow of capital, as the libertarian sees regulation; or hindering the progress of man?

Can we think spam for the high street, with Virgin Megastore and Pret a Manger and the like occupying the top 50,000 results, independent stores doing the rest, obscured by one another and unable to make an impression and thus compete, and a few homeless people asking for change, who are quickly filtered out into the spam box? Is the spam box growing as a result, as more things fall into its judgement of uselessness? Do its rules change and its tentacles pick up new supposedly unwanted stragglers? Finally, is capitalism's 'idea' of human progress the one we want to adopt? Human progress in aid of the sustenance of capital... Remember, human, plug yourself in.

NUC: Oscar's, Ladywell.

Ladywell is a bit of a contradiction. Too close to Catford to be really nice, but with a great organic shop, El's Kitchen, and this café, Oscar's, nestled amongst the kebab shops and newsagents with broken shop signs. I like Oscars. It's tidy and cute, like a well-behaved kitten, but playful too, also like a kitten. Yes, the kitten metaphor has an extensive and varied utility, perfect for characterising certain cafés. There's a lot of colour, and art on the walls, some of which is OK. Kind of pleasant local things that people unassumingly produce and hang in places like this. It's the antithesis to First Thursday posturing, and there's nothing wrong with that. There's a huge Klimt covering a wall, but for some reason here I'm willing to tolerate it. Maybe that's because you feel quite calm here.

The food looks good, not too expensive. (Well, too expensive for me, but still.) They also have ice cream. Coffee at £1.90 per Americano. Today I got a Latte and it's pretty good. Today there is a new member of staff, who evidently snapped this job up before I got the chance. 'Excuse me, fellow, but I could deliver this Latte even better than yourself, so says I.' I sit in the garden prising open a Derrida book for the first time. Ah, unemployed in the UK - so conveniently excusable in the current climate - just enjoy it.

Far away a young lady prepares to visit the opera: Wagner, I am informed through the modern telegram we know as SMS. In isolation, jealous, I am outside, under the clouds, under an umbrella.

NUC: Yumchaa, Soho

An aimless stroll towards Trafalgar Square took us through Soho, the place where things go wrong, and straight past Yumchaa. "Quaint," said Chris. "Quite," I replied. "Shall we?" "After you." And in we went for tea. Never have we sounded such like an aging couple on holiday.

It's busy in here, and we queue. The queue is necessary in order to take in the vast menu, and make well-informed decisions. The range of teas on offer here would even make General Yen reconsider. Chris goes for a Chilli Chilli Bang Bang. Yes, inventive names come with the teas. Tea is really what's going on here. Loose tea enthusiasts, Yumchaa sell their own teas and have a few Teapigs knocking around for plurality. No PG Tips, though. They also have a good-looking selection of sandwiches and cakes which, of course, I can't afford. The prices are pretty standard for a central London café which makes an effort and has young culturally-inclined professionals as its market. So, fairly reasonable all things considered.

So, what did I get? One of there adventurous tea blends perhaps? Or stick with the coffee? No, something in me compelled me to get a Bottlegreen - ginger with a hint of lemon. So, yes, disappointing. However, tea samples were thrust before me in quick succession and I got pretty high knocking back shots of various blends of which I have since forgotten. For a true cup, I will have to return.

It's airy here, in this pale wooden room. We're in the basement, upstairs was full. If I could move into this basement, I would. It's homey. There are enough different tables and chairs to match the extensive range of teas. For every visit you could sit on a different chair with a different tea - Armchair and Mango Sunrise one week; wooden stool and Lemon Sherbert the next...

The staff care about the tea, and they care about whether you care about the tea. And I care about whether they care about me and the tea, so top marks for the staff. They brew a coffee with the same enthusiasm so coffee drinkers don't be wary.

And what's this? French music. C'est un bel après-midi, chantons!

NUC: Hop Scotch, Honor Oak Park

A regular, this one. Or, at least, once upon a time, a snaking trip from my door through Brockley into the gentrified pleasantries of Honor Oak. At the time of writing I am in the garden, for the first time. Colourful walls and benches are the images to picture, in an area 3 metres squared, with a ground made of stones. Pub-esque benches, no less - not to detract from the café-ness though. No gawping Heineken umbrellas protruding from the woodwork, which we can be thankful for.

And today, we give thanks with Green tea and the company of James and Chris. The prices have clawed their way up faster that the shrubbery that scales the fence in this garden, and justifying the frequent visits here has become trickier. It must be the friendly staff, because, for me, it's not the best coffee in town. But the staff are indeed friendly, if plucked from the local workforce rather selectively. Early twenties, female, and smiley, appears to be the criteria. (That's me on weekends).

Hop Scotch has tapped in to a fairly specific local market, that of the army of middle-class mums who group together for extended lunchtime panini-parties every single day, with kids crying and falling over and other such delights. Come 12:15 you can hear them in droves coming over the horizon from Telegraph Hill and other local semi-detached areas. 12:20 and the doors fling open, and mums reverse themselves into the café, hoisting their prams up the little step at the entrance. Animated movies play in silence on the TV, so as not to impede the pleasure of those like myself, reading Virilio or Calvino, and listening to Air or Portishead or one of those slow melancholic groups that fit so well in cafés.

At weekends, come the evenings, they have small civilised musical performances, with candles on the tables, hot chocolates and good-looking meals that I can't afford. The alcohol is pricey, which is usually the way for cafés, isn't it? It must be all about licences and bulk-purchasing and other business factors.

So long, Hop Scotch, you served us well, but now we are not in walking distance and we might not see you again.

The Word House, Gallery Café, 15th October.

The Word House has returned for its second night of eclectic rhymes and melodic lines, organic beers and hearty cheers. Having launched in the summer to much acclaim, the Gallery Café's spoken word night had set its own standard, and expectations were high. Predictably enough, these expectations translated into another full house of eager Londoners, ready for pizza and poetry. And this is good news, as the event was part of Oxjam, and all proceeds go to charity.

So, having ensured I wouldn't get kettled at St. Paul's, I strolled in as the clock struck 19:34 and bartered with a member of staff for a bottle of beer. Without hesitation, the lights lowered, the music lowered, the audience lowered themselves onto seats, and the Word House began.

We were treated to a tickler of an opener by our host, Dan Simpson, with his sympathetic portrayal of the Orange Ghost - the most inexplicably unfortunate ghost in all of Pacman. I don't think many of us had previously considered the difficulties of the Orange Ghost. But now we know, and we won't forget.

On to the first act, one Christian Watson. Don't be fooled by the dishevelled attire and facial hair, for his words are as sharp as tuxedos. He shifted from fast-paced rapping rhymes to slow, considered reflections; his hands like weapons cutting the air. He shared thoughts on pessimistic projections for love and growing up and becoming a person, expressing an equal wonder at both the highs and lows of life, and balancing sincerity with self-effacement.

Then came the Open Mic slots. A real treat, these, where anyone has the opportunity to share their thoughts and words, providing you've got the guts. The audience have no need to be forgiving - no token applause here - as the open mic poets prove themselves to be more than capable amateur wordsmiths. We had south London caricatures, friendships and family, consumerism, jobs, and an array of views on contemporary sex. Sex and capitalism, sex and myths, post-sex emotion, sex and language metaphors. All very tasteful - mostly.

A short break and we're back on for John Berkavitch, the recently-returned-from-Cambodia poet with wry sense of humour and a political conscience. His act was punctuated with audience banter and one-line poems, and jokes at once clever and ironically obvious. His finest moment, a witty and thoughtful argument for difference; a good-natured and optimistic polemic against some of the political ills of recent years.

The final act was an exercise in exploring the natural melodies contained within words and sentences, a process of combining sentiments with syntax, and floating them on some kind of the calm aural ocean. This was Inua Ellams, with his diverse vocabulary managing to convey tragedy and mockery in ways rarely done so elegantly. He showed us that perhaps a three hour midnight walk south from the Thames need not be a cold, tired chore, but a stimulating social and architectural experiment - an appealing advert for nocturnal psychogeography, and about time too. Like those before him, he won the audience through the character that fused each poem together.

The mood is one more akin to a house party than a bar: chatting in the toilet queue; bumming cigarettes off friends of friends. The audience here have a character of their own, both mischievous and courteous. Many idiosyncrasies on display on this night of spoken word, and much for us to consider as we erupt into Bethnal Green after the show. The range of content and style is at once impressive and inspiring, encouraging us all to tap poems into our phones on the night bus home.

"Occupy!" The Broadway show comes to the UK.

Summer comes to an end, pitifully hanging on in that first week of October, and with it, all my theatre dates. But no, one show remains. Only recently announced, with free tickets and no need to book, the much talked about, - infamous, even - Occupy! has come to London.

With big names on the bill at Occupy Wall Street, such as Slavoj Zizek, Naomi Klein, and Joseph Stiglitz - and Michael Moore giving an early review of the show - hopes for further successes are high as Occupy! goes global. Indeed, sharing credit with the ongoing Indignants, which debuted in Spain in May, the influence has now spread to 951 cities in 82 countries. It's a sell-out show, with plenty more tickets. On Saturday 15th October, the curtain at London was raised...

I came in during act 1, and the cast were caught in a solemn moment of hesitance. The police had blocked all entry to Paternoster Square, where the London Stock Exchange is based - a tellingly private piece of London land, owned by Mitsubishi. A disappointment clung to the air, I sensed, as those turned away from the Stock Exchange found refuge on the steps of St. Paul's, and police predictably surrounded them, intimidating those outside who might like to go in.

As we circled the epicenter, drifting down the various streets nearby until coming up against another police blockade, we were treated to a few musical numbers. "Who's street? Our Street!" is a sing-along classic, and was beautifully choreographed under the St. Paul's backdrop. A curious juxtaposition was exercised between the cast's harmonies and the cold "MOVE BACK!" authoritatively commanded by those with batons and pale blue hats.

Back at the front, where the mood had lulled, emotionless characters stood side by side, looking over the police line to the central cast, looking in hope for some kind of sign. Act one was taking an unusual route - anger had subsided, territories had been established, no one really knew what to do. Would the media take notice if the day lacks violence? What will have the bigger legacy - the London riots or Occupy London? Occasionally, a slow spiraling bellow would circulate amongst the crowd, expanding and then dying out. Something was needed to keep the audience's attention - if not a media frenzy, then perhaps understanding, solidarity and optimism.

Another curious contradiction was explored through the inside/outside opposition that ran along the police line. Those outside, as I was, were free, whereas those inside were trapped. Not simply because of the police - at this time people could go in an out from either side, providing they go through the correct checkpoints. No, what I mean is, those outside were freer agents of expression and choice. Take the two photos above, for example. The one on top, from outside the central zone, a fabric hung on an HSBC bank. No police surrounding this bank, they're all surrounding the Stock Exchange and those in front of St. Paul's. Whereas, in the photo underneath, from inside the zone, a queue outside Starbucks of post-Soviet Union proportions. This is more than just a clever use of irony. Here we at once exploring the cliché of those who attend such events - middle-class Foucault-reading coffee-drinkers, whilst highlighting the increasing practical dependency we have on the capitalist institution, combined with a growing sense of capitalist realism, as Mark Fisher would put it. Are we saying, "Capitalism's here to stay, so let's tolerate Starbucks (and with that, McDonald's, Coke, Nike, Philip Green, Vodafone, etc.) and only focus on finance"...?

It's not an easy one to call, that one. But this seemingly lack of political coherence is perhaps one of the strong points of the show. Answers are not simple. Only politicians think they are: raise university fees = more money, so goes government logic. Ideas, demands, projections, alternatives, all are complex. A coherent non-capitalist alternative is not likely to be presented by the end of this day. Just because Occupy! doesn't have an "...ism" doesn't mean it is to be ignored. That which unites is simply growing inequality and unfairness, and that which it revolves around is an economy which relies on, is indeed blackmailed by, a global financial discourse which sustains said inequality and unfairness.

Act 2 began, we passed through the checkpoint, into the zone. I had not realised that this was not only immersive but participatory theatre. The sun beat down and people relaxed, erected tents, meditated, read books, yelled slogans. Time for another song - "This is what democracy looks like!" I'm less keen on that one. Good tune, but I'm uncomfortable with the message. Where's our target? Have we moved on now from capitalism, through finance, to democracy? Indeed, this is what Western democracy looks like - to protest under specific constraints, and then pop off to Starbucks for a FrappaZappa and to use their crapper. Occasionally one character will be centre stage, lost in a rambling soliloquy, maintaining that the camp is an example of how to live outside capitalism; that this, dear friends, is the model for our new economic order. It's hardly a Badiouian event. Hold on, the Zeitgeist movement are prowling, recruiting, with their conspiracy theories and 'resource economy' alternatives. This is a place of many voices, I see, some more idiotic than others, but all important ingredients. It's like fish sauce - terrible on its own, but brilliant when almost completely drowned out by other things.

Indeed, globally, the power of this outcry lies in that rhizomatic lack of centre, whilst attacking a very specific centre, ultimately - Wall Street - the financial centre of the world; from which another sinister web takes leave - the global exchange of capital. All the Occupy!s, wherever in the world, also occupy Wall Street, with those who are physically there. Not just 'in solidarity', but through the airwaves in which capital flows, through that which connects all financial centres in all capitalist countries. It is no more than a node in a global network that is growing, and applying pressure to a gradually crippling system. We need not be disheartened if the show lacks coherence at the moment, or if it lacks an answer to the problem, for it is still in the making - you don't throw a pie before it's baked.

After an intermission we returned. The lights had gone down and it was cooler. A wheelbarrow of sorts appeared behind me, pushed by a girl. She bore gifts of ciabattas and fruit for the hungry characters within. It was a struggle to get them past the bemused police officers. "Why do you want to go in there," came the question. Rhetorical, of course. The first night of a projected many was at hand, and those on the front line need more stuff - tables, blankets, food, but mostly, people. At present, Occupy! is a performance that shows promise, that could become something special if it continues to run. But it could equally wane as the winter deepens and people stay indoors instead of going to the theatre. For now, what's needed is some more dynamism - not too much so to as exclude the nice people, but enough to draw in the audience. Carefully choreographed scenes of strategic intervention: bank sit-ins, rowdy day-trips around the city, reputable speakers, street parties, general civil disobedience.

http://occupylondon.org.uk/

NUC: The Poetry Place - Covent Garden

Went straight past the door of this café, Chris clawed me back. It's a fine place to be on a warm afternoon. Other people are scarce here: a woman peers into a laptop, scribbling notes occasionally; a balding gent reads a book; the barista is planted by a table to one side, reading, pained to arise to serve us. Poetry books line the shelves; poets in picture frames line the walls. Something tells me this particular café leans towards the poetic. Indeed, The Poetry Society are behind this outlet, I'm dutifully informed. A couple of voices resonate from below, the basement, where performances take place. Someone is planning, planning poetry.

What a quiet place. Chris and I, low tones and civilised conversation, puncturing the calm with our witty remarks. A stereo plays from somewhere, songs which sound like sentimental advert songs. You know the type - life is good, I have a ukulele, let's all sing and dance and start a mobile phone contract... It's not bad though, musicwise - I rushed to cynical judgement. The lampshades are like translucent pieces of paper hanging from wires, with scrawled writing across them. The Poetry Place plays with the rustic look, wooden tables, wooden floor boards, but selectively modern. It's not cheap. And I've had better mochas. But mochas are a tricky beast, everyone knows this.

Real nice. Good for afternoon reading / working / composing poems. Just need to become a poet.

Notes from Underground Cafés

What is a coffee shop? What is a café? It's a problem that many have grappled with. In The Republic, Thrasymachus demands that a café is simply a place to have a coffee. Socrates replies, "But Thrasymachus, you are a sensible man, are you not? Why do you not have coffee in your home?" Thrasymachus says that indeed he does have coffee, but sometimes he prefers to go out for one instead. "So you go out simply for a coffee, as you would put it, instead of staying at home, where you already have coffee and a slave to make it for you. We all know that the coffee in the café is vastly more expensive. Is this a good way to spend your money, Thrasymachus?"

"It is worth the extra," says Thrasymachus.

"And what would you say makes the extra worth that is being added to the value of the simple coffee?" says Socrates.

"To be out of one's home, to be amongst the people of the city as they come and go and stop and read and talk, to smell the coffee brewing, and the baguettes, paninis and bagels."

"But, my dear man, did you not say that the café is a place to simply have a coffee, and nothing more?"

"Or a panini, or a bagel,"

"It sounds like there is yet more to it than that, am I wrong?"

"No, perhaps you are not wrong, Socrates," conceded Thrasymachus.

And Socrates went forth to try to further understand what it is that makes a coffee in a coffee establishment different from a coffee at home.

But let's leave the room where the Greeks do their chatter, and find out for ourselves, yes? In London's many coffee shops we will go, with notes aplenty to recount. What of the staff, the furniture, the music, the lighting, the pictures that line the walls, the quality if the coffee, the garden, the clientele? What makes this place what it is? And is it any good?

Note: despite the illusory sensation that Starbucks, Costa, Pret a Manger, Nero, etc., are indeed coffee shops, they will not be included here. There are various reasons. 1. Due to the corporate structure, the staff are the same as staff in supermarkets or Macdonalds, which makes the labour experience in one of these shops one of undifferentiated corporate submission, rendering the staff little more than smiling robots, and empties the coffee itself from its coffeeness, making it somewhat a burger or a loaf of bread. 2. 'Experience' is handed down as a necessary business strategy, a gimmick, thereby precluding reality in this particular space. I'm not talking about authenticity here, but formulas. 3. The formula means that the same thing will be found in Idaho, Brighton, and Moscow, and has a fundamentally detrimental effect on local idiosyncrasies, whilst simultaneously promoting an ideology of prescribed sameness. 4. The economic factors that go with that previous point, as well as the labour problems that come with having a global work force, including union rights and coffee farmers. 5. The 'save a coffee farmer's child by buying a coffee' rubbish that makes you think you're saving the world by shopping at Starbucks instead of making it worse. 6. The idea is to experience the diversity, not the uniformity, of London's cafes, and to do so before they have all become franchised replicas of one another.

To the coffee!

from the street - a week with freddie

this week it was my turn to look after freddie. freddie is our frog. sometimes he jumps out of my hand but he never goes far because i think he likes me because i give him food. he has big eyes. today we went to the park. i put freddie on a log and i think it was like home for him. but there was less water. frogs like water. sometimes when i watch tv freddie makes a noise. i dont think he likes the adverts. i say i dont like them too but the actors need to rest. freddie does not like chocolate. even kit kats. but that is ok because im only allowed one kit kat so i dont like sharing it. the other day me and freddie played soldiers. i was England and freddie was Germany. freddie also had the micro machines but England still won because i have better aim. i wish freddie was bigger so we could play football. he could go in goal and i could practice penalties. tomorrow freddie goes home. i have had a nice week with freddie and i think he liked me more than the others because sometimes i put him in the sink and fill it up a bit.

3rd Week on the Fringe

The riots subsided, and banality came back to the lives of us all. Phew, we thought. Back to the nine to fives, the weekly shops, the Libya conflict and the Murdoch affair. And back to Camden for more shows. On Monday I went to a play, or two plays in one, which was at 4:30 in the afternoon. Are you serious? Who's going to go to the theatre at 4:30 in the afternoon? Well actually a great many people, thanks to rising unemployment, perhaps.

So begins Frozen Moment, KU MA Showcase of New Work. That's a title that gets straight to the point, right. We had two plays, a lightly humorous school-based play and a heavy and dramatic domestic play. Review here. I left the theatre a bit dazed and went to Sainsbury's, as you do. "We apologise for delays at the checkout due to a high volume of customers. Thank you for shopping at Sainsbury's." Great. Didn't matter, I was still trying to work out what had happened in that play.

I had two days off, which I mostly spent reading Percy Bysshe Shelley's The Cenci and Derrida's essay on Artaud, and watching Curb Your Enthusiasm. All research for Thursday's show, Beings, a butoh dance. Hands down, most outrageously different show on the Fringe. The five audience members sat there gawping at this curious performance, review here. Nice people too, this butoh company. They talked to us for as long as they could. Went to a metal bar with Bella after that, and just about caught the last tube home.

The last show show of the week was more geek-comedy. Met Alex en route to the Theatre by chance, and happily abandoned her in the pub when the time came for the show. Needless to say, geeks are not for everyone. Rob Deb was an excellent geek though, review here. A pretty funny guy, self-deprecating as one must be when your past-times involve staring at a screen updating your collection of potions, and preparing to battle some wizard.

Got out of Camden early that night, back to the Marquis for Cinthya's leaving party. Before long though, Dave was puking in a bush and they both had to go. We weren't far behind. Went home, intended to go to a party but the enthusiasm slowly wained as the sofas became more confortable. Plenty of music though, and Adventure Time. In case you're wondering, Albert never showed up.

One more Fringe week remains.

Bel Ami: The Musical. White Bear theatre, Kennington. 28-July

The Nineteenth century's Parisian Belle Époque seen through the eyes of Guy de Maupassant, the author of the novel Bel Ami, has a dark side. Political scandals, debauchery, back-stabbing, and the odd token accordion. 'Blessed are the crafty,' as they say.

Appropriately enough, the theatre in the White Bear is the back room of the pub, so a certain inherent seediness is already present. We're led to our seats through a Parisian café-bar, our opening scene, the cast frozen as still as the furniture holding cigarettes and small French beers.

Into this world steps poor Georges Duroy, a man struggling to find his place in an intimidating Paris. With encouragement from a growing number of friends, all he can do is embrace this malicious bourgeoisie, and ride this wave of decadence to the top of society.

This tale of assent is carried with song, an array of compositions to meet every mood expressed, and a moustachioed waiter looking on with a wry grin, occasionally compelled to contribute the odd saxophone solo. From burlesque and back-room romps, to heartbreak and fear of death, the songs convey more than the dialogue, upon which the narrative merely floats. At each turn, Georges exploits the situation for his own ends, befriending powerful women whilst remaining childishly innocent and, without the story really forcing him, he nevertheless becomes more wicked as time goes on.

As a result, our hero can be slightly hard to understand, as are our seductive selection of Parisian beauties who all fall for him but remain equally scheming. It is the elderly characters, despairing over heartbreak and getting old, putting the trivialities of life into perspective, that relate to the audience the most.

Above all, however, this is an opportunity to indulge in the romantic past of a city bursting with character, to embrace a particular mood conveyed with elegant songs and absorbing choreography. Bel Ami - The Musical leaves aside more serious reflections into a society preoccupied with power, gossip and success, in favour of an overall atmosphere and an abundance of style.

Reflections on a 2nd week reviewing the Camden Fringe

There's not been much to talk about this week that hasn't involved 'wanton thuggish violence', the disorder of a feckless sick portion of our otherwise squeaky clean society. Yup, war reigns, bankers bank, Murdoch's still alive, Cameron's at the helm, energy prices rise, so do train fares. The bloody unemployed! They cause us such trouble.

Which reminds, I'm working for free, no income whatsoever, reviewing theatre. I'm am also a sponger, planning on pushing out a kid to double my benefits. Playin' the system, yeah that's me.

All that aside though, to be away from the 24hr rolling news, watching inflammatory rhetoric spill into my room, was needed this past week. The theatre, ladies and gentlemen, was the place to be. Of course I couldn't go if I didn't get free tickets.

Alas, I only had shows on Monday and Sunday. Monday, last Monday, the 8th: I got housemate-James on board and we went Central way. James had a mocha for the first time, 'twas a day packed with adventures like that. Walked from Oxford Street up up through Regents Park, big park, to Chalk Farm. Had some great chips in Chalk Farm and went to the Roundhouse to watch Stand-Up Comics. Review here. Marianne and, eventually, Alex, joined us. Pretty enjoyable show - sitcom through and through.

Went to the pub afterwards, where the news was on. And shit, things had kicked off. If you recall Monday night was the night of London's youth terrorise the communities aaaahh. Watched that over a couple of beers, excellent TV. Then headed home and watched it for most of the night on TV. Compelling television, these guys must have been behind it... They're so good at television. The aforementioned Chalk Farm soon enough had become a bomb-site war-zone. Pretty quiet in Brockley, all in all. Only the foxes roamed the streets, and the locals were reading Dickens by candlelight.

So uh, didn't do much theatre-wise until the next Sunday. On, I think it was, Thursday I worked out how to get my laptop to 'wake up' and automatically start playing Radio 4. This was one of many life-changing experiences of the past week. That and the home-cooked chips I made.

Oh, Thursday night. Pub crawl with the housedwellers. Fine times in Brockley, half a pint in each pub bound towards New Cross. Painted the town red, although it was already pretty red after the riots anyway. An extra coat is all we contributed.

On the way home I bust into a Sports Direct and nicked a ping-pong ball.

On Sunday Chris and I saw two plays. Princess, review here; and the First Supper, review .... .... .. here. Both were pretty good. Princess, heavy, intriguing, true story about a girl waiting for her husband-to-be to return after jilting her. Good use of sound. And The First Supper, really funny. Silly sketches, frozen peas.

And that was it. Two more weeks to go. Or as they say in French - deux more weeks to go.

Allons-y.