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!