In Comp. 3348 you were invited to submit an extract in which Charles Dickens writes about today’s London. It was perhaps a slightly smaller haul than usual but full of nuggets. In Dorothy Pope’s rendition, the great author is gratified to discover that ‘my Oliver is playing in one of the many theatres’; while Paul Freeman has him excelling at pub darts. I especially liked Janine Beacham’s Ghost of London Present: ‘I see Mrs Cratchit shopping at Sainsbury’s, and running a GoFundMe page’; also Frank Upton’s grime scene: ‘“Listen fam, I goin’ to shank that yute for you,” promised Mr Wellbeloved, with a theatrical gesture of hand and fist…’ Other honourable mentions go to Bill Greenwell, Frank McDonald, Mark Ambrose and John Paul Davis. The winners whose entries are printed below get £25.
It was the best of pies; it was the worst of pies. It was the Crêpe Suzette with lemon juice, orange and real Grand Marnier from La Crêperie de Hampstead; it was the pavement gift of a stale Subway sausage roll on Turnpike Lane. It was the restaurant at the Canary Wharf investment bank, it was the handouts at the Tottenham food bank. It was Christmas at the Dorchester – roast goose, kumquat compote, cranberry brie bites; it was Christmas with the Camden Crisis team. We were all going direct to the Ritz; we were all going direct to the soup kitchen. It was the Harrods Dining Hall spring guinea fowl with quinoa salad, pomegranate seeds, avocado and feta of hope, it was the Harringay bedsit beans on toast for one – the toast of Christmas Past, Present and Future, of despair. In one city, it was a tale of two sittings.
David Silverman
Is this truly London, Sir? The Uncommercial Traveller, dizzied by vertiginous towers mysteriously half-empty of clerks, perplexed by the uncannily translucence of a Thames he knew opaquely brown, can scarcely conceive this the Great Wen he loved and loathed. Though far from clean, it lacks the repulsing stenches and lung encumbering miasmas of yesteryear. Magnetism or mesmerism have called forth the populations of a hundred nations to engorge the thoroughfares, though trade is hardly brisk. Noise continues unabated, the constant roar and whoosh of airborne conveyances and horseless carriages distracting the Uncommercial Traveller from such continuities as there are. Technology having advanced a thousand years, every Camden urchin carries a tablet onto which he may conjure any vision he can imagine and many he cannot. Human nature having progressed not a whit, our urchin prowls his neighbourhood unbreakfasted and carries, in readiness, a blade. Yes, this is truly London, Sir.
Adrian Fry
As I traversed our great metropolis my steps tended towards that immense fluvial artery colloquially known as Old Father Thames. There I encountered a tumultuous throng, voices raised in protestation. Eager to ascertain what had so enraged these denizens of our fair city, I sought further intelligence from a uniformed member of the guard of honour stationed on each side of the thoroughfare. In answer to my enquiries he gestured to the banners held aloft by the jostling crowd signalling their intention to journey thence to the coastal environs of our happy island home, their vexed demeanour suggesting some impediment had been placed in the way of this design. Outraged by this assault on the right of every free-born Englishman to travel at will to genteel sea-side towns, Brighton perhaps or even Bognor Regis, I joined the assembled multitude, raising my voice with theirs, ‘From the river to the sea.’
Sue Pickard
Venturing into the London streets one instantly hears a subdued polyglot hubbub, an orchestra of electrical devices through which citizen calls to citizen. How many lives, how many stories mingle there. These sacred devices are prompters of envy, the regaled target of thieves and pickpockets, but even the poorest wretch must have one. And poor wretches there are, multitudes who sleep on the streets. A Christian soul can only reflect with anger and pity on the unfair immiseration of those who fall by the wayside while rogues prosper.
What scents the city air is no longer industrial sootiness but the exhaled breath of the fashionable ‘vaper’, which may include wafts of euphoric tropical weed. Its effect is to pacify; one might weigh that against the biblical scale of rage and murder among the populace. Among novelists the traditional hobby of complaining they are not adequately rewarded lives on.
Basil Ransome-Davies
Phones, said Mr Gradgrind, are all that’s wanted in life. Teach the boys and girls nothing but Phones. Head down, never mind the rest. Nothing else will be of any service to individuals in this city.
He waved his hand towards the London street which, like every other, was inhabited by scurrying figures all bent in the same purpose. From rat-infested sewers to the innermost fortifications of lofty commerce reaching for the heavens, the glazed faces studied their hand-held reflections, unmindful of passers-by or the poor at their feet. Even in the highest organisation, the House of Commons, where compassion should rule, the Phone had pride of place, directing legislation and making alliances by thumb and finger.
You can forget Fancy, and all the Arts which have no use nor ornament. He coughed proudly. Time’s what counts and the Phone’s where you find it.
D.A. Prince
Dr Bumble ushered Oliver out of the Tavistock Clinic, explaining that however much he wanted to be Olive Twist, he could not simply demand more treatment. Unwilling to take up any of the offers of work deemed suitable for juveniles, and unable to provide his own transport for the delivery of Italian pies, he ventured alone out onto the streets. He discovered that rough sleeping, which he had chosen as a style of life, was a criminal matter, but luckily he met a friendly and articulate fellow who turned out to be called Dodger. ‘You come with me, covey,’ he said. ‘I know a group of fine gentlemen, from Albania I think, and they’ll help you.’
‘They are not pickpockets, are they?’ asked Oliver, who had read books about London. ‘Not entirely,’ said Dodger. ‘’Course, you might have to nick a mobile or two. But mostly it’s all about distribution…’
Brian Murdoch
No. 3351: Vote for us!
You are invited to write an election manifesto for any party or entity, real or invented, in verse form (16 lines max). Please email entries to competition@spectator.co.uk by midday on 22 May.
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