I leave my flat in New Cross at 5:20pm on Monday 17th November, raring to go for my trip to Hackney.
It’s cold, not cold enough that my fingers are blue but enough to make me appreciate bringing my black leather murdering gloves for the journey back. Didn’t use them in the end, didn’t do any murdering… it also wasn’t cold enough after the event to justify their use.
Leaving at the time I did I assumed the street would be a hectic mess of after work commuters. To my surprise it was quite the opposite. Turns out I was the hectic one! I was getting fairly frustrated at a group, more so line, of people I found myself walking behind. They were walking at an unusually slow pace. Usually I wouldn’t mind but for some reason I had hyped myself up to deal with the crowded street, I was being impatient. I had accomplished this by thinking that something in my flat might spontaneously combust, hell even the room itself wasn’t safe! I put myself on edge to match the aptly named ‘rush hour’ that I thought would indeed be rushing. I was wrong.
I managed to get through New Cross Gate’s ticket barriers quickly and easily, unlike some around me.
Boop. Five quid gone in an instant.
The platform gave me time to sit and calm down, having a little bit of time to write notes such as “So quick, so hectic, yet, so calm and respectful. Or is it just nobody gives a fuck”, look at me trying to be profound, so cringe. And Yes! Nobody gives toss!
New Cross Gate.
The tube arrives just as I finished that note, kindly giving me time to put my notebook away in the pouch on the chest of my windbreaker. Thank you TfL.
The tube wasn’t packed like a tin of Windrush Sardines, something typically served at this time of day, so once again my expectations were subverted. I was able to plonk myself down on one of the leaning standup seat things by the door, resting against the hard plastic and 5 inches of cushion to make myself comfortable.
As I’m sitting, standing and leaning all at once scribbling away in my notebook the guy sitting down to my right skittishly takes quick glances in my direction, diagonally up and to the right. He probably thought I was writing about him, I wasn’t.
After finishing my notes I did exactly what the guy I just imposed my own self centred assumption on presumably thought I was doing and wrote down “Guy next to me keeps skittishly looking back at me, probably thinks I’m writing about him”. Lo and behold.
Surrey Quays.
The most likely scenario was that he was checking on what stop was next, sign being diagonally up and to the right behind me, as he got off at the next stop.
“Free Seat!”
It takes me a few moments to get settled.
This was my first proper note taking I had done out in public, I didn’t know how to position or hold myself. Being the only passenger not glued to a phone screen helped, I’d rather them stare at a screen than at me. Ultimately I would love it if they were staring at a crossword or sudoku puzzle, but we can’t have everything we want.
Canada Water.
Expected at least a little bit of rush at Canada Water, nothing.
Rotherhithe.
Wapping.
Nobody got on or off at Wapping. The air was still.
With the lack of activity on this tube I was able to sit back, relax (unusual at this time) and appreciate the non-space. Admiring the bland, inoffensive textures and colours.
Shadwell.
I guess I can get everything I want because a lady boarded, newspaper in hand! Sat down, put her readers on, pulled a pen from her jacket pocket and started on what I assumed to be the Metro Daily Crossword. Finally I wasn’t alone in avoiding the glass rectangle in my pocket.
Whitechapel.
And just like that, gone with Platform 5 at Whitechapel station. May we see each other again ‘act of doing a crossword or sudoku puzzle on the tube’.
Shoreditch High Street.
Now we are getting somewhere, Central London, it’s skyline permeating the glass panel opposite myself.
“The skyline, still, quiet. The trains and buildings share similar qualities: cold, metallic, ever-present.”
Hoxton.
Each time the doors opened the outside chill was let it, it was a piercing cold that never ceased. Following me like a ghost, reminding me of years end.
Haggerston.
The only other voice I heard on the entire journey was that of the tube announcement lady. She has a nice voice, soothing, a redeeming factor the non-place should be admired for. It was.
Dalston Junction.
And just like that some 800 words later I had arrived in Hackney. Greeted by the sweet smells of hash and Dixy chicken. A sweet symphony.
Upon arrival I had one goal in mind, Jazzy Pizza. I was starving and wanted to get something in me as quick as I could. I put my head down and set off up Stoke Newington Road in search for grub.
The cold followed my being up through Hackney as I dodged and weaved through crying beggars and slow walkers. I made good progress, I didn’t take risks, unlike some on bikes and scooters who I saw suffer many a close call in my short walk up past Dalston Kingsland Station. The closest call I spotted happened while I was standing waiting for the green man at the cross roads where the Nando’s is. One of the cherry decal Ocado vans was waiting in the centre of the crossroads waiting to turn, blocking the view of oncoming traffic also waiting to turn. So to cut a long waiting time short, a car almost pulled out into fast approaching oncoming traffic. What an eventful crosswalk.
After a swift journey past the venue I would later find myself in, EartH, I found myself at the front door of what I presumed to be a closed Jazzy Pizza. That was until a worker walked in from behind me as if he too were a customer, it was open and empty. After a minute pondering at the menu and the failure to understand how the vegetarian options were more expensive than the meat. I decided to cut my losses.
Before this event I was so hyped up for pizza, thinking constantly about what pizza I was going to have. Upon arrival I made the pretty easy decision of turning around and walking back down the street I just walked up to look for something else. I judged a book by its cover, and I don’t really regret it. Nothing stood out and wowed me, just made me ask “why is this on a pizza?”, the answer is probably “because its Jazzy”.
Still being pushed by grumbling hunger I made my way back down towards Dalston Junction station, back past the crying beggars who were now replaced by a beggar on wheels! Chasing people down on their mobility scooter.
It took me almost getting back to the station before anything really stood out and dragged me off the street. I was moments away from walking into the Tortilla on the opposite side of the road before I was finally caught in a restauranteur’s trap! Burger Boi! My first thought is “could be a chain”, but I was hungry and a burger didn’t sound half bad.
I made my way inside to accompany another skittish bloke waiting for his meal.
Skittish. Word of the day apparently.
There was one of the newish order kiosks waiting for me before the till. Obviously thats how I chose to order because who actually goes up and orders anything anymore.
I ordered a Korean Boi, a chicken fillet dipped in Korean sauce in a burger with Korean slaw, fries and a full fact coke. All while the skittish dude paced up and down the entire restaurant mumbling, I couldn’t tell whether he was on the phone or not, but he was no trouble. Eventually got his food as I sat down on a high stool and went on his merry way out into the cold Hackney night.
The wait for my burger was filled with note taking and pop radio… not the kind that I could drown out and ignore. No. The kind that made me want to plunge my head into the deep fat fryer my fries were being fried in.
The burger arrived, hand delivered straight to my table. I thought this was quite odd at first, I had never had table service in a fast food restaurant. I was caught off guard, quickly scrabbling my things together, placing them to the side as the server slid the tray in front of me with extreme care and precision.
I thanked her. She smiled and quickly made her way back behind the counter.
“Decent Burger.”
I slowly start making my way through the Gochujang and BBQ Sauce slathered sandwich, writing in between each bite. I was in no rush. The event didn’t start for another hour.
I got lost in the sauce, floating in the space between. No “Korean Boi’s Back!” posters, no flashing LED’s and no forsaken Pop Radio. Just me, my notebook and my chicken sandwich.
The illusion came crashing down as my personal pocket dimension—my solace—was disrupted. Disrupted by the very server who had so delicately delivered my food moments prior. Something was off, I clocked it immediately. I hadn’t had that much time to get fully acquainted with my meal. The peaceful bliss had only just begun. She was eager, smiling. A trait not many hospitality workers express at the end of a long day. She hadn’t come here just to ask me how the food was, a question that she could barely contain herself before asking. An ulterior motive was afoot.
It was only a matter of breaths before the motive was revealed.
“Would you mind giving a review on Google?”, she asked in a bit of a hurry, seeming nervous. This question opened the floodgates that were her lips. What came thrashing out were a series of statements on how the burger was new (contradicting what the sign said) & that she created the burger along with her father who owned the place (making me question my own judgement on whether this was a chain). She followed this by repeating the question once more.
I hesitated at first, waited a few second then passively said yes. After agreeing to give a review she thanked me and made her way back to her post, behind the counter.
Another guy had walked in and ordered by this point, he found booth somewhere behind me. He was quiet and kept to himself. But it was odd when he had to go and collect his food from the counter. Failing to receive the same treatment I had been subject to.
3…2…1…Bingo! It hit me.
“Maybe the lady just thinks I’m a food reviewer, a goddamn Yelper.”
It made sense why she would think so. I was alone. Ordered a meal and drink only, the standard. Sat down and started writing in a notebook, not going on my phone or doing anything apart from write. I was writing while I ate for fucks sake! Of course she might have thought I was a food critic!
Look at me go, placing all of these assumed thoughts onto people.
I gave her what she wanted, not really. I wrote a review. But I never put it on Google, I only wrote it in my notebook.
“Messy burger, me like. That’s the review.”
I also ended up writing my actual thoughts too, goddamn Yelper.
“Strong sesame taste, not too overpowering, E would hate it. Nice Slaw. Well seasoned fries. Despite the interior being overly garish, the food had a nice homey feel to it. Look at me being a Yelper, I better not find cum in my next bite.”
I didn’t.
I hope people understand the South Park reference and don’t think I expect people to cum in fast food burgers…
After finishing my burger, leaving only a couple of fries on the side, I packed my things, threw what remained of my Korean Boi Meal in the bin and carried on my way. It was 6:45pm, doors were open, so I made my way back up Stoke Newington Road towards the EartH Theatre.
I was walking on the opposite side of the road this time.
2 hours and 45 minutes into rush hour, the volume of people had increased along with the influx of road traffic.
It was damp. Damper than before. Colder than before. A mist had descended upon Hackney, cars and storefronts lighting the way for pedestrians including myself.
The homeless of Hackney had congregated at Dalston Kingsland Station as I strode past. Wrapping up warm under the station’s entrance, preparing for the dauntingly cold night ahead.
Getting to and into EartH theatre was a breeze. One quick bag check, a glance and go, my favourite. I say favourite but I personally wouldn’t like my bag to be checked at all, but I understand the need for it. Made my way up the thin stairwell. Scanned my ticket, got my mark of entrance—a small x written in sharpie—placed right on the ball of my hand, an odd spot. I took a small detour into the bar area but quickly moved on, prioritising getting a seat more than getting a beer or merch.
The old cinema doesn’t have conventional seating. It has a large wooden platforms incrementing like steps for a giant. So comfort isn’t really a factor. They do, however, rent out pillows. I think thats great, but why do that when you can just bring your own! Like I did! I sacrificed bringing my camera for this pillow, worth it.
“Comfy ass, happy Manny.”
I found a space close to the top on the right hand side of the auditorium, brandished my pillow from my backpack, placing it neatly in the joint between the floor and the front of the seat behind me. A nice space where I could cross my legs and watch Aaron Bastani interview Cory Doctorow for Novara Media in comfort.
As I was settling I thought the chill had followed me in like a ghost from the outside, turns out it was just the draft coming from the bathrooms at the top of the hall that I happened to be near.
“Good thing I’m wearing a vest, along with repping the merch like a good Neo-liberal consumer.”
Something that hadn’t followed me in from the outside was the Pop Radio, they were playing decent music at this event, I didn’t come for the music but at least it didn’t make me want to ram my pen down both of my ear canals.
The stage was set up as if it were a living room. Two seats and a table in between. A bookshelf erected between the two seats held a few books and a cool orange lava lamp. It was nice and casual.
The theatre was filling up as the start time was fast approaching. A few people already complaining around me about not bringing or renting a pillow. I was very grateful for the pillow, but it didn’t stop me from having a few bouts of pins & needles before the event had started. Would’ve been worse without the pillow so I can’t complain.
As the auditorium filled I was asked to move across and forward so my legs hung over the edge of the massive step to make room, I was not happy. I wasn’t as comfortable as before and I couldn’t lean back. Not a happy bunny, at least the event was worth it.
Watch both talks on Youtube @NovaraMedia.
I have never seen a more charismatic man on stage than Zack Polanski. I also have never seen a more intelligent and funny man than Cory Doctorow. Two incredible anti-zionist Jewish men.
It was quite a rush to get out of the theatre after the event can concluded, I managed to duck and swiftly make my way through the crowds filing into the stairwell. I was bid farewell by the theatre’s security guards as I left through the front doors and made my way back to Dalston Junction.
The mist had lifted in the handful hours I was inside. The cold was lingering but its piercing effect had weakened. It was a relatively uneventful walk back to the station. Two bikers in matching jackets tore it down the hight street causing a ruckus, but that was all. The street was empty bar other event attendees making their way back to their appropriate Tube Stations and Bus Stops.
Dalston Junction.
Haggerston.
Once again, train dead silent. I thought at 10:20pm the Windrush Line would’ve been a bit more lively. I guess I’m grateful because I didn’t want a hectic journey home. My ass hurt and I was not in the mood for any trouble.
Hoxton.
I heard so many chesty coughs throughout the night, its that time of year I suppose. Didn’t get ill which was a stroke of luck. I was sitting on that Tube manifesting my well being.
Shoreditch High Street
“Everyone getting on looks so cold that they are all exuding a chill that has significantly lowered the ambient temp of this carriage.”
“They all seem to know each other and all seem equally as pissed off at the cold as each other.”
Despite my carriage being a little full after Shoreditch, it was quiet. A theme I wasn’t expecting tonight, but very grateful for.
Whitechapel.
“And just like that, in the space of a stop, aprox. 0.3 miles, they are gone along with the chill they all brought with them.”
As the overground made its way beneath the city and river for the next few stops the carriage warmed to my pleasure. A toasty journey home was welcomed. I couldn’t get too comfortable, otherwise I’d have the untimely job of making my way back from Crystal Palace. Not the night for that adventure.
Shadwell.
Wapping.
Cue the lady sitting next to me to sing the chorus of W.A.P.
Rotherhithe.
No singing ensued upon the announcement of this station over the carriage speaker.
Canada Water.
Still haven’t fixed that damn escalator that goes down to the jubilee line.
Surrey Quays
New Cross Gate.
The air was still around New Cross as I exited the Overground Station.
The cold followed me back to my flat, to my surprise it hadn’t exploded.
Now that would’ve been one hell of an ending. Instead this is the one you get.
Thats it.
The End.
manny.duran 