e r cla
by
Pete and Jo
The Journal of the London School of Economics Students’ Union Volume CVII, Issue III Editor-in-Chief Aleona Krechetova Contents Editor and Typesetter Katie Carr Director of Design Grace Fletcher Copy Editor Cassandra Padget Front Cover Thomas Rees Back Cover Emily Boon Ying Tan & Grace Fletcher
clare Volume CVII, Issue 3
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from The arChIVe
Courtesy oF daVId bIrd
Clare market rowing Club Taken c.1900 at Waterloo pier. david Bird’s grandfather is the coach and stands in the second row, third from the left.
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Editorial London (now affectionately called London2012 by all its inhabitants, most of whom chose to abandon ship for the duration of the actual Olympics Games) has played host to a number of special occasions this year. Olympics and Paralympic Games aside, London is home to over 150,000 students, a centre for financial ventures, and generally as a giant metropolitan cauldron of various cultures, ethnicities and backgrounds. This issue of the journal includes a short guide to surviving in the Big Smoke for our incoming Freshers, as well as touching on the transition from a quieter rural environment, to the boisterous noisy streets of London that we all know and love. Whether you miss the rolling hills and glistening rivers of the (now perhaps not so sunny) countryside, or you long for the hum and buzz of the mysterious city, this issue delves into the nostalgic, but at the same time looks to encourage pragmatism. Be you an excited Fresher, a bored and jaded third year, or a recovering intern; this issue makes evident the one mutual feeling that transcends across all platforms - that British people like to complain and whine about anything and everything, good or bad. And whine we shall. After all, the ‘unbearable’ weather, the number of tourists and the poor transport links provide excellent conversation starters during Freshers’ Week.
Happy reading.
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W edi ant t su. oria to joi cla l te n lse. rema am? our ac. r E uk ketre mail vie for det w@ ails .
Contents Featured Writers
The South Downs Sam Williams
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3:7 Maya Linstrum-Newman 10 Oxwich Point Sam Williams Snow Richa Saxena
16 18
To the Country Girl Anil Prashar
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Shine Mairtin Walsh
22
Change of Postcode, Change of Mind Isabella Silver 26
Sounds Srishti Mukherji
Somewhere in the city street, in the heart and veins of the city Chloe Kiliari 36 Deaf in the City Hayley Fenton
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Order Laura Kudrna
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An interview with Manni Pewlate Adam Wright and Iain Ramsay 48 LDN 2012: An Emotional Journey Katie Carr 54 Freshers’ Guide
Abstraction (Voices In The Darkness) Rory 29 Great Expectations: A Tale of Two Cities Edward Larkin 30 6
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60
Contents Featured artists Lucy Sherston 7, 9, 21, 49
Elli Graham
37, 45, 62
Lucy Freegard
41
Katya Radkovskaya 11, 18, 19, 20
Grace Fletcher
42
Katie Carr
12, 14
Rich Gemmell
47
Jamie Pelling
17
Emily Boon Ying Tan
55, 56, 58
Paniz Gederi
23 Megan Eckman
59
Pete & Jo
68
Ben Burrows
25
Vanessa Woo 27, 30, 34, 51 Kate Jones
28, 39
ChloĂŤ Oldfield
32
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the south downs sam williams The hills seem so strong. The white, bright, late afternoon light Smudges black shadows Along their soft heights; Where, content to recline in their violin pose, The curve of the earth is lazy and slight And the smooth of the grass like a delicate rose. Here the landscape lies bare In blue hazy relief, Shadowed by clouds in the chalk-filtered air. And still sit the trees, Ancient and square In this rarefied world between city and sea Where the sky and the clouds and the birds are So free. But as cock crows to Man To raise him from slumber, So the clear breeze to the Downs Brings its agent of plunder: From a distance, The traffic is thunder.
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3:7 Maya Linstrum-Newman
‘And the eyes of them both were opened, and they knew that they were naked, and they sewed fig leaves together; and made themselves girdles.’ The coastline curves inwards and outwards, wrapping itself around the marshy wetlands. The sand becomes mud, moving from golden to grey so subtly that it is impossible to pinpoint the divide. The water barely moves, almost stagnant: thick with oil and sewage while patches of long grass blow about frantically on the seawall above. When the sun begins to set, the flats light up. Beams of gold shoot across the muddy waters into the horizon and a rosy haze settles on the beach. For a few precious minutes it is paradise. Twilight floods the landscape, invading the wounds in the rocks and filling them with shimmering dust. In the distance, wooden groynes stand tall like crucifixes basking in the long rays of the setting sun.
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In these brief minutes it is hard to remember that this place is anything but paradise; yet, as soon as the sun disappears, so does Eden. The light evaporates, leaving the place desolate and cold. The sea lies dead and empty; no life moves within it. The boulders cast monstrous shadows across the flats and the rusting metal of things long forgotten grows duller and duller. The eerie glow emitted from the thick industrial town further inland is not capable of providing any rosy haze or shimmering dust. It merely provides a further reminder of how alone this place really is. And yet, this does not deter her. Crouched down in the long grass, gazing down at the beach, she sits and waits. She gnaws on her grubby knee, her legs pulled tight into her chest. She uses her whole hand to drag away the few wisps of hair fluttering before her eyes, pressing into her plump little
cheek as she does so. new strands replace the hairs as quickly as she moves them away as her fine hair, no matter how matted and tangled, is powerless against the coastal winds. her eyes squint as she looks out to sea, causing her heavily freckled face to scrunch up like paper. This had been their special place from the beginning, back when they would walk together here, through the lanes, picking blackberries and pressing them into each other’s mouths, the juice smearing over their chins, leaving their lips sticky and sweet. Then
they would clamber over the rocks down to the beach. her legs did not always stretch the distance between the boulders and so he would swing her down and down. sometimes she would pretend she couldn’t jump the distance just to be lifted up against his chest so she could feel his blood pumping around her and the tremble of his arms as they lifted her. When they reached the sand they would stretch out on their backs and run their fingers through the ground, feeling it crumble like muscovado sugar. Occasionally, their fingers would interlock and she loved to look at the difference in colour:
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her skin so delicate and pale that you could almost see right through it and his so dark and nutty and rough like sandpaper. As it grew colder, they would move in closer together and turn their faces towards each other, their hot sweet breath warming each other’s faces. She shudders as her stomach turns at this memory. Now the thought of his touch gives her an incredible urge to vomit. The landscape had been growing darker and colder yet still she must wait. He was always late. It had all started to go wrong in Africa. The air smelt like cinnamon there, spicy and sugary at the same time. Perhaps it was the heat. Heat has a tendency to ignite insanity and then furiously fan the flames of it. Stumbling along the beaches of Mombassa, they howled and roared at each 12 clare market review
other while onlookers hurriedly shuffled away, not knowing where to look with two strangers so naked in their pain. They would scream and scream until, exhausted, they would crumble in a heap in the sand with their limbs entwined. Panting and pressing their damp foreheads together they would promise never to leave each other, no matter what. In the slums, their anger and jealousy had seemed petty and they had clung together amid the poverty and human suffering. The stench of burning rubber and excrement was suffocating so they built a sphere of fresh air with their love. At night, when the air was filled with crying and shouting, all they could hear was the beating of each other’s hearts and when they saw a mother and her dead baby they held each other’s hands and felt a reassuring
surge of life. Perhaps, therefore, had they not been so spoilt, their fruit would never have become so rotten. If they had lived their lives in Kibera, she would not be crouched down in the long grass waiting for him. The sun had almost completely set. It was unthinkable that he wouldn’t come at all. He must be coming; he must. She hoped it would be soon, as the longer she waited, the less sure she was of what she had decided to do. It is funny how the mind works like that; how you can be so unbelievably sure of something when it first springs to mind, but then the more you stretch and pull this little idea, the more you dig into it, exploring its every fibre, the less sure you become. Well, she had certainly examined every particle of this decision and everything its rays would
inevitably shine upon; and yet, now little clouds of insecurity were beginning to cast shadows of doubt on this decision. The longer she waited in the long grass, the darker these clouds became and so she trespassed down into her memories, searching for those that hurt her the most, for those that she had so long tried to purge herself of. Wrenching these memories back up was still painfully easy. They flooded in, causing blinding white pangs of humiliation. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, remembering what he had done. She concentrated all her attention on the most painful memory, drowning herself in the nausea of what he had told her he had done. And then – She could see a silhouette moving along the wall. He was here.
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oxwich Point Sam williams I sometimes gazed, As the day entered its crepuscular phase, Towards those bales of hay: Stacked three deep On the headland Out across the bay. There was a castle and a farm, A gate, a final barn, And a path; Pressed by years of boot-tread Into thin and wind-bitten grass. A low and stony wall Spilt up the head in futile sprawl; Now it’s deliquescent – a curd of rocks and bracken – An ancient fence between horse And wild, spiky gorse. The bales are the final artifice. Beyond, the cliffs give way to sea And grass elides with velvet astral bliss. I’m sure that if I climbed on top and leapt I would not flop back down to Earth but rise, And rise, and rise – To join the staccato manganese of stars Where I at last am free from the turpitude of doubt: A finite object held in endless arms.
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snow Richa Saxena In the moonlight, I love the street which is snowy white, And the frost in the cold sky whispering sweet nothings, And the flakes of ice. And so I love the street which has turned snowy white. O dear skies, forgive me if I am not singing it right, But I love the snow on my window outside. I love the snow in the moonlight And the street which has turned snowy white.
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To The CounTrY GIrl anil Prashar have you ever seen the scenic city land? Where buildings bud and swell, seizing sunlight, With their roots underground to help them stand; a fruit of ambition that knows no height. True, some may yearn to escape the grey grass and seek ease of life in rural respite. not long ago they took a converse stance; American dreams filled with city bound plight. The city corrupts; the country has value? What value is there in the life unlived? our suns are the same, our skies the same blue: any differences are those that you give. Be blind no more! lift this veil of perception and see our worlds hued with one complexion.
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shine Mairtin Walsh The romantic reflections of that first decadent, sun-drenched week in October are recalled: the week that was, the week that it should have been, the week that would be. The supposed LSE chastening of youthful liberation, of which rumours abound in joyful and cynical abandon, was not to be felt. We – the fresh-faced men and women from the North, the East, the South and the West – found ourselves religiously creative, granting ourselves the innately beautiful ability of forming previously unconstructed relations, beating new paths in the wilderness that seemed to be, within this new world of discovery. The time had come for the realisation of our dreams. 2pm. Sitting aboard the snaking express on the West Coast mainline, the tannoy confirms the destination ahead. Manchester Piccadilly. I am a week into my new life as an LSE student. London, its stock brick construction, its tower blocks and graffiti laid bare
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to the naked eye under the rare sun, passed alongside the train window: first in an almost reluctant sluggishness, then hurriedly in a quickening haze. The quiet hum of conversation and occasional peaking cockney intervention sends me into thoughts of enrolment: the pitterpatter of flip flops on Houghton Street; the ping-ponging of the high and low notes of chatter and laughter as friendships germinated into green shoots; that striking moment in Clement House where the conversation soared as high as the Wembley arch now visible. The splendid sun still shines. 40 minutes later. Quaint cottages, dotted sparingly north of Hemel Hempstead amid chance lakes, find themselves somewhat engulfed by their hilly situation. I am led to remember my feelings that second day: people had already met and now had places to discover. The sultry heat, continuing during the day and appearing amorously throughout the night, established itself for the
entire first week. Spanish, French, Italian and German flourished fruitfully down every street. It was time for an impromptu taste of London with new friends. Ah, the museums, the galleries, the bars! The only limit is the imagination; an aphorism well-served and well-represented by the University itself. Indeed, a public lecture – ‘Citizenship, Immigration, and the European Social Project: Rights and Obligations of Individuality’ – became a must-see. Only at LSE, among such intellectuals, would this be considered socialising. In this moment at the School, in its politically-cultural environment,
I felt I had arrived; I had found myself. The tannoy says we are entering Milton Keynes. The splendid sun still shines. 30 minutes later. We pass Rugby and Nuneaton. Warwickshire flashes by in the space of twenty minutes. The famous aphorism that ‘time flies when having fun’ could not have been more appropriate for my first week at LSE. Nights out in Southwark, Leicester Square, Camden Town, Islington, Edgware Road – where else would this have been possible? All of the Halls of Residence are positioned in central London. Countless new Volume CVII, Issue 3 23
discoveries await the explorers and I felt I could relate to LSE’s motto: to understand the causes and origins of things. It is as we make our way to University each day, down those Georgian and Victorian roads, that we are taught to approach problems differently from others. In those first few nights, those beautiful, formative nights, with no lectures, no classes, full bank accounts, we experience ultimate freedom. Disregard Plato and Cicero: veritable freedom is to be found in Freshers’ Week. Who said the rivalry between UCL and LSE is a bad thing? Competition thrives in London; excitement prospers. 4pm. We are passing Stoke-on-Trent’s terraced housing, a factory called ‘Shufflebottom’, the caramel canals of Kidsgrove, and the trees giving cautious welcome to Macclesfield. The sun, now reticent among the Northern clouds, recoils and the grey sky looms. London is already feeling like home. Nonetheless, I begin to wonder what exactly is happening at halls; what is it that, so quickly, both my head and heart desire in my absence? Stockport merits a quick stop. The skyline of Manchester ebbs tentatively into view as the train 24 clare market review
slows: Beetham Tower, City Tower, the scaffolding next to a development on Wakefield Street. My phone buzzes, ‘At Holborn station, going to South Kensington, want to join us?’ The Pendolino comes to its final stop. People alight: crowds with suitcases, briefcases and umbrellas suddenly appear. But, no! There is no need for them now! The splendid sun shines once again, through the glass roof of Piccadilly station. The crowds gather. My family await my arrival, bags in tow. In my mind, I am back at Holborn station on a Friday afternoon, meeting my friends once again. The tannoy proclaims that the train for South Kensington is now ready to depart.
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change of postcode, change of mind isabella silver ‘Quick, come look!’ my mother says, running to the window, eyes gleaming. ‘Brian is washing his car!’ I run over excitedly, and both of us peer into our neighbour’s garage from behind the living room curtains. Let me be clear: Brian is not some Desperate Housewivesesque hunk who washes his car shirtless. The reason for our interest in fact comes from two things: first, Brian is washing his car wearing his wedding dress and is clearly mad; and second, my mother and I have nothing else to do. In other words, we are in the countryside. I’m not saying everyone in the countryside is mad, or that there aren’t any mad people in London. London is full of crazies. And cross-dressers. I recently saw a man on Shoreditch High Street wearing a skirt (although to be fair I think it was more of a fashion statement than a declaration of unstable mental health). Despite 26 clare market review
all this though, London is still just better. My aversion to the countryside (by which I mean anywhere outside of London) stems from a childhood in Bath – which, while technically termed a city, is small and inbred enough to be classed as ‘the country’ – followed by the relocation of my family home to North Devon (enter Brian). For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to GET OUT of the countryside. Those who have escaped Bath sometimes refer to it as the Bath ‘tub,’ because its inhabitants, like spiders in a bathtub, are forever trapped, pitifully and pointlessly trying to scale the sides just to slide straight back in again. Some people love being spiders, and to be fair there is a lot to love: the countryside has less crime, actual green spaces and everyone knows who you are. There’s none of the anxiety of the city, that toxic urban atmosphere
that sets your teeth constantly on edge. The countryside is safe. But I hate all these things and love the things people hate about London: the noise, the transport and most of all, the Londoners. To me, these nuisances are a miracle, symptoms of what makes London great: its capacity for opportunity. In a city, there is always the possibility of change, the chance something amazing could happen. You could meet a celebrity on the next corner, or the love of your life. You could find the job of your dreams (unless that job is being a farmer). You could be a man wearing a skirt
to work and be given props for your daring fashion choice. You could do anything. And sure, the countryside has more trees, people know your name, and if you were on fire someone might try to help instead of avoiding eye contact with your flaming corpse as they would in London – but that’s it. The countryside is pretty and calm, and it’s fine if life has nothing left to surprise you with. London, though; London has hope. That stress people talk about is in fact expectation, anticipation. So what if there’s knife-crime? I’d take all that over all the walks on the beach and fresh air and crossdressing car-washers in the world.
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Abstraction
(Voices In The Darkness) Rory
The debris of the traffic passes by The wind howling in the dark like a ghost A warm, gentle wind floats through the cold air as the streets are cascaded with sunlight
GreaT exPeCTaTIons: a Tale of TWo CITIes edWard larkin It wasn’t until late september that I was finally whisked out of the american midwest, that vast brewing cauldron where technology diffuses from the Valley and leaders descend from the Beltway to confront ‘hard-working folks,’ as presidential candidates are wont to call us. up and away from that flat expanse, where everyone is an expat in spirit but can never quite get around to leaving; wheels up from the tired greyness of detroit, michigan, to what I assumed would be the cosmopolitan, well, greyness of london.
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‘You’re heading to the centre of the world’ an old friend told me the day before departure with a conspiratorial grin. my own expectations were not so grand – I had, after all, recently been to the throbbing heart of new York City. But no matter how sophisticated we think ourselves, none of us can ever escape those pictures in our head – the wild-eyed visions of the future. I fashioned myself pirouetting through the year, taking advantage of every last thing the city had to offer. The world’s shining city on that island on the far side of the atlantic.
not a city, The City. London. A place of refined culture and cold elegance – layers of history ordered in stately repose, not a hindrance to modernity like the withering gaze of the Parthenon over athens, but an exhortation. Wheels down at heathrow and even the stagnant cabin-air was pregnant with hope, the lifelessly opaque voices of the flight crew noticeably piqued with ‘Welcome to london!’ little did I know that I would be spending the next few days wandering around with a grotesquely heavy backpack, coated with an embarrassing film of forehead sweat indicative of someone who has been walking aimlessly in a foreign environment for a long time.
little did I know that this would be exacerbated by the fact that I had apparently missed some sort of revolution in the verbiage associated with credit cards: one did not now swipe so much as insert, and my outdated magnetic strip card stamped with a billowing American flag now seemed not only painfully jingoistic but also a bit ironic. little could I have imagined that sweatshirts and jeans – perpetually avant-garde on american college campuses – would need to be replaced by razor-sharp suits that threw the topology of every anatomical feature into sharp relief, that my fat ties could be sheared into thirds and still be unfashionably thick. little did I know that I would see a horde of us interrupt the understated economy of ‘color’ and ‘labor’, programs distended
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into programmes, Zs massaged into Ss. Little could I have predicted that rides on the famous tube weren’t so much pleasant affairs as desperate attempts not to get buffeted to sea by the gigantic throng, spinning out of the way1 of besuited men power walking with kamikaze resolve.
still look just as happy or sad as everyone else, and they appear to sweat the same saline solution that we do. There’s no forbidden kingdom that desperately needs to be imagined – we are in it, and it quite closely resembles the world outside.
The LSE is a university. An excellent one, no doubt. But no Much of the ‘official’ literature amount of promotional material about the LSE2 touts the prowess can alter the realities of student of its students, the distinctiveness life – the days ruined by stubborn of its location, and the perks of pimples, the existential fear of its renown. The school might exams, the anxiety about your thus seem like a special sort of own lack of industry when the heaven for solipsism. And it is kid next to you in class raises his true: artists and activists, officials hand metronomically, his answers and entrepreneurs, celebrity and royalty – London has them all, and always on point. a vast underclass of those waiting for their chance. But this does not This is not to say that LSE necessarily mean you just become definitionally can be nothing less and nothing more. But it more cut-throat. The magic of does mean that statements about London is that it also gives you a students’ unparalleled engagement sense of what the ‘real world’ is or passion or intelligence are and how radically different it is probably just as applicable to from those simple pictures in our Oxford, Stanford, etc. heads. Investment bankers aren’t those rare creatures purportedly But the LSE is indeed different. making seven figures a year and sweating little shimmering droplets Unlike the manicured quads and reverent quietude at other of platinum – they’re working down the street, and you come universities, at the LSE, one must walk directly through the fray to to learn that (miraculously) they Volume CVII, Issue 3 33
get out on the other side. Perhaps Houghton Street is a great synecdoche, its crass, bustling energy representative of London as a whole. This might seem at first like a neat metaphor without much in the way of content, but I would submit that it’s more than that. London is so unfathomably large and multifarious and diverse that it forces a comparison between the pictures in your head and the world in all its detail. The truth of the matter is that no one person or thing could ever hope to be at the centre. This is perhaps the greatest benefit of studying at LSE. Not that it’s constantly stimulating – it very
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quickly becomes home. But to live in London is to realise that there’s a lot out there besides your own ‘tiny skull-sized kingdom,’ as David Foster Wallace put it. To live in London is to question those idols we hold sacred – money, prestige, fame – without ever thinking that hard about them. And there’s no better time to do this than when we are young enough to have latitude, idealism, and vigor; to be dilettantes. When we know so little. This is the closest I have yet come to pirouetting through anything.
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That genre of brochure that tends to photograph six incredibly telegenic students, each conveniently a different race, all smiling charitably; or the type that shows an entire class sitting alert, two taut hands stretched up in firm yet respectful challenge.
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sounds Srishti Mukherji A young child's plaintive cry for his mother. The sound of heartbreak next door. The tinkling of glasses; celebrations above and mourning below. A young girl, she cries, remembering the deceit of one she thought true; a raucous bunch of young boys yelling out to each other. Who would believe they were all on the same planet, a few paces away from me and you? Gusts of cold wind wail outside the window, carrying with them other sounds from faraway places we don't know. A distant siren, flashing lights, someone somewhere is fighting for their life. Footsteps sharp against the gravel of the road, someone with a purpose walks swiftly by. The screeching of brakes, the sound of metal warring with the road, someone just watched their life flash by. To all these sounds, I add one more; the sound of life itself, the sound of a billion breaths, a billion hearts, the sound we all ignore the most.
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somewhere in the city street, in the heart and veins of the city Chloe Kiliari ‘I’d give her another life’ you said one night while we were casually enjoying our burgers somewhere in a busy street, in the heart and veins of the city. You could see her dark soul through her hazy glasses, obscured by the steam of the food she was serving. She could easily have been vegetarian or one of those people who are too scared to ask for their well-deserved plate of food at the end of the day. You could see her grey soul through her glazed eyes as she swiftly turned her face from table to table, in her vain attempt to avoid eye contact. You could see her nervous system collapsing through a body that was almost transparent to the trained eye of a committed people-watcher. ‘Where will she end up tonight?’ I asked, and you smiled while 36 clare market review
reaching for your burger to take another bite. You knew my question was rhetorical. Through the windows we could occasionally see monsters, all those trapped souls in the steam of the city. All those agitated souls, frenziedly dancing to the rhythm of a city song, so recognisable that I bet they sometimes pray they could destroy the invisible radio playing it. Through the windows we could occasionally see strangers passing by. Sometimes hiding underneath their long, warm coats to deny the need for a caring embrace. Sometimes hiding underneath a crystallised smile that could smash to pieces if you ever decided to softly touch their face. Sometimes hiding behind masks that had long replaced their original facial features, the original wrinkles of
their experiences. I remember once telling you that it seems to me that if you wear a mask for more than a few minutes, then the mask ends up wearing you. ‘You think too much’ you whispered that day and I secretly grew a balloon of hatred for you in a corner of my mind, before my unrestrained love for you burst it. You held my hand on all those nights I shivered somewhere in a cold city street, in the heart and veins of the city. On all those nights the monsters were wandering in the streets, half
drunk and half in love with their reflections in the spilled drinks on the floors of bars and pubs. Half angry with futile dreams, I saw them spit at their own shoes as if this would stop them walking to all the wrong places, towards all their bad habits. As if this would stop them running in circles. ‘Why are they running?’ I asked – this time not rhetorically – and you pulled me towards you and kissed me instead of revealing the secret I craved to hear. So we hide again in your small welcoming room, somewhere in a Volume CVII, Issue 3 37
city street, in the heart and veins of the city. In the morning, while we rush through the crowd, I feel like a dizzy child on a rollercoaster. The red, the green, the white, the yellow, mixed with the scents of different continents, the incomprehensible words spurting out of the mouths of tired-looking, but optimistically stubborn faces of true fighters. Robots in their suits overcoming the hurdles of tourists that have too much time to spare; aliens reading the news to themselves on the worn seats of buses; young swans swearing they know what their destination is even if they have never read a map. I feel like Alice in the heart and veins of the city sometimes. I think to myself that this city could very well be a strange dish, one that someone would choose to order from a long menu as a challenge. It could also be like an exotic, poisonous flower that paradoxically grows in the coldest weather. Millions of people wish to take a piece of it in their room, even if they know that the flower may swallow them one day. The danger of the unknown is what some of us like to call adventure. And an adventure is always good, isn’t it? Isn’t it? 38 clare market review
‘Why do I love this city?’ You don’t answer as you pull me across the road. One has to be careful as they cross from one street to the next, from one life to the next. Everything seems to move faster than us. There is always a train to catch, a play to see, a door to walk through, a life to discover, step by step. Somewhere in a city street, lost souls learn to live the life they are given. Lost souls learn to choose the tiny details of a life that they can learn to make their own. ‘You know, in another life, I’d still love this life we are living’ I confidently declare on our well deserved Friday night out. The lights and the music and this incomparable feeling of youth – be it a delusion or not – embrace us.
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deaf in the city Hayley Fenton
Much like Samuel Johnson, Graham was of the opinion that when a man tires of London, he tires of life; for there is in London all that life can afford. Many people thought this was a strange opinion for a born and bred countryman.
to the Natural History Museum didn’t warrant Londoner status, or opulence for that matter.
Perhaps Graham felt this way because one of his favourite fables of all time was ‘The Town Mouse and The Country Mouse’. Graham professed to have the opulence of the Town Mouse, and yet the humility of the Country Mouse, and he strongly believed the opulence of the Town Mouse was the type of wealth that belonged exclusively and exhaustively to Londoners. Of course, Graham placed himself in this special London clique. He also refused to romanticise the countryside in the way that seems mandatory in England.
Graham was deaf. Graham had endured a lot of ‘ooo-ing’ and ‘ahh-ing’ and ‘are-you-sure-ing’ from his countryside friends when he told them he had conquered the glacial London housing market and found a cheap studio above a run-down bar.
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It’s probably a good thing Graham’s friends didn’t tell him this. Graham wouldn’t have been able to hear them anyway.
His Londoner friends, on the other hand, greeted the idea that Graham would be living alongside £10 sandwiches, grey air, 18-hour work days and the type of stress that is synonymous with psychotic break downs with much indifference. To be honest, they had never really understood how Graham could bear to live anywhere else. They would invite
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to walking straight past babbling Big Issue salespeople. But Graham’s friends often forgot that deafness is a disability, not a blessing.
Graham to dinners and write down advice about areas he should and shouldn’t live, which essentially meant areas he couldn’t and could afford. Deaf in the city must be a wonderful thing, Graham’s friends would say to each other. No being woken up at some ungodly hour every Tuesday because the office down the road has synchronised their weekly fire drill with the deafening cacophony of road works. No screechy giggles and slurred, rotten chat-up lines that permeate the nine o’clock air. No cussing, or moaning, or groaning street-sleepers. No guilt attached 42 clare market review
Irrespective of his deafness, Graham was used to silence. Woodlands and fields have a habit of soaking up noise and melting it into an all-consuming stillness. Country houses with panoramic views and gravel pathways don’t need to ooze music and mindless chatter to maintain ambiance. Silence is synonymous with the country, just as noise has the same association with cities. Graham had decided that he had mastered the country way of life. Weekends spent on the Cornish coast would be replaced by the West End and open-top bus tours. He would never need to leave. Graham didn’t think he had ever been more excited than the day the one-way ticket arrived. ‘If I can master London, I can master life’, he would think to himself and then tell his indifferent London friends.
Graham soon got used to the people; how they walked so fast and never smiled – ever. He got used to the heart palpitations when buses would screech to a halt seconds before a zebra crossing. By unfortunate experience, Graham learnt that between the hours of 5 and 7pm at tube stations, personal space ceased to exist and bruises were inevitable. Sometimes Graham would count his bruises; he considered them to be London memorabilia. Graham bruised easily. Graham got used to how it was more usual to be part of the news than watch it; how there were far too many protests that the media either didn’t care about or weren’t aware of. Bikes, with comical wheels and tinny frames that folded down to the size of a book would race each other through the streets, sporting portly businessmen on their seats, like overweight houseflies. Graham enjoyed watching the bikes whiz past, but not as much as he enjoyed the West End. Like anyone who has lived in London for any length of time, Graham soon became profoundly
attached to the fallacy that London is the centre of the universe. But dreams are dreams for reasons. Graham would stand outside Big Ben, willing himself to hear. He would pass buskers in the underground labyrinths and gaze at them until they grew uneasy. He waited to hear the noise that permitted a shower of gold and silver coins. He waited. For months and months and months Graham waited to sense the other half of the city. After all, a city isn’t a city without sound. But it never came. Graham remained deaf. Quite often there were street performers. Once there was a magician in Covent Garden who chained himself up and beckoned Graham over to untie him. Unaware of what was being asked of him and too ashamed to confess his deafness, Graham stood limply in the centre of the crowd. He had never had so many people look at him at once, and he watched as the audience’s intrigue turned boredom and then amusement at Graham’s apparent stupidity. Volume CVII, Issue 3 43
He felt a moment of vexation at moments like this, that often moved him to tears, but which he could never entirely explain. And there was that woman. The woman that had run up to Graham, her face mashed with pain, clutching a mangled arm to her chest. She began gesticulating wildly with her lips. Mouthing desperately, screaming silent words. Please help me, please help me, please Graham grew frantic with his uselessness. And suddenly the woman with the mangled arm was recoiling at the jumble of incoherence that had tumbled from Graham’s mouth. Deaf people can’t talk, not properly at least. Of course they can’t. More repulsed at this inability than her injury, the woman shot Graham a scathing look and pushed past him. Her shoulder deliberately smashed into the side of Graham’s because the woman was of that opinion that if Graham couldn’t speak then it must also be that he couldn’t feel. 44 clare market review
She thought Graham should be punished for both of these things. Graham bruised easily. Humiliation haunted Graham for weeks. It didn’t leave with the tears that seeped out of the corners of his wrinkled eyes or with the days of isolation that followed. Graham and Humiliation became unlikely companions. It wasn’t long before they were inseparable. And it wasn’t long before more than Graham’s confidence was eroded. Theatre trips and morning coffees had left Graham’s purse dry. Stale bar-smoke was permanently embedded in his clothes. The drunks that spilled onto the roads, with a flagrant disregard for oncoming traffic that only exists among the inebriated, had slowly lost their appeal. Graham was in a city of 8,174,100 people, plus Graham. He had never felt so lonely in his life. Despite his better judgement, Graham couldn’t help looking back on his countryside past as a rural idyll – idyllic moments that were made all the more memorable for their rarity. For example, the tramp that lived in
the woods with his two dogs and occasionally stole bathtubs to put in the middle of the roundabout. Or the Village Ladies that would squawk and jiggle at each other at the cafe every morning. Sometimes when Graham went for his latte, the Village Ladies would wobble and jabber their way over to his table and teach him how to make origami with napkins. In a way, those were the happiest times of his life. It was a Tuesday when Graham decided London had been nothing more than an egocentric desire to be heard; something that
had always been impossible yet possible being The Deaf Man at Number 24. London had always been a dream and not for the fact that it was the capital or because, when he was a child, Graham was taught heading for the city was the best anybody could hope for. For Graham, London held another identity; dirty and parochial, London transcended the stagnation of country dwelling and, for once in his life, he could pretend he was just like everybody else. But Graham bruised too easily to live in the city. And with that he went back to the countryside.
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order Laura Kudrna And then you are supposed to switch it off for the day Except nothing is in order. Everything is exactly in its place Except the place is wrong. Though if you move the place, then there is nowhere to put the order. So destroy the order! Hijack the placements and plug your mobile into the kettle. Stick your travelcard in your door and exchange your keys for a pint. Embrace the dustmites and submit to mediocrity. Experience the casualties of this choice. Walk when you want to sit and sleep when you are supposed to be awake. And then let everything settle where it should, out of place, So it is exactly in order.
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an interview with manni pewlate Adam Wright and Iain Ramsay Following the success of our interview with Dr Elsie Van-Hundert, the creator of the LSE100 course, we've decided to conduct a series of interviews, appropriately called our ‘In Depth Interviews & Open Talks’ (IDIOTs). This year’s theme is ‘City vs Country’, so we asked a third year economics student, Emmanuel ‘Manni’ Pewlate, to do an IDIOT, and tell us a little bit about his banking internship he completed this summer. Q) For those plucky young first-years looking to get internships in the future, could you give us a little insight into networking? A) Networking is an age-old skill; I first started doing it at nursery school. I remember I would meet my dear friend Ali for an apple juice every Thursday, just after nap time. He managed to get me 10 minutes in the sandbox the next Tuesday. When it comes to networking, one must remember that it’s not what you know; it’s who you know. And believe me, if you 48 clare market review
were in the sandbox on a Tuesday, you were going places. Q) Would you be prepared to share any interview tips? A) Confidence. Confidence, confidence, confidence. Successful interviews are all about confidence. A little nepotism, granted, but mainly confidence. Go in to that interview as if you were going into battle. For instance, if they ask you about a time when you have led a team, be ready to tell them about that time Johnson dropped out of the wine society triannual tasting, and you had to step in at the last minute to lead the tasting of an Australian Shiraz. Because when life gives you lemons, you trade those lemons in for some grapes and you make the best goddamn Pinot Grigio that you bloody well can. Q) So, Manni, how was the internship? A) You know that feeling when your father gives you the keys to
his Merc? That was the feeling I had walking into the office on the first day of my internship. Pure unbridled joy. Despite being rejected from Oxford – bloody socialists probably let in some comprehensive-schooled son of a coalminer instead of me – I had finally ended up where I always knew I was meant to be. Q) Were you put off banking after the Libor scandal hit the headlines earlier this year? Did you have a problem with banks lying and manipulating the rate in order to make themselves more money? A) No and no. Look, society doesn’t scream out every time I find a lady in a bar, take her home, make average, emotionless love to her, only to wake the next day and discover she’s so ugly even Keynes couldn’t stimulate her; it’s called distortion
and it happens everyday in our society. Don’t get me wrong, the London Interbank Offered Rate, or ‘Libor’, serves a purpose. But I’m beginning to fear people will forever associate the acronym with negative connotations. Heck, it already sounds too similar to ‘Labour’! And we all know what that stands for: Landless assholes blighting our unemployment rate! Am I right?! Q) Wow, the first part of your answer came across as incredibly sexist and could offend many people, would you like us to remove it from the interview? A) We all know sexism is just a myth made up by a bunch of feminists who spend most of their time burning bras and duelling with dildos. Go ahead and print it.
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Q) How about the Occupy movement that was held outside St Paul’s? What were your thoughts on that? A) I’ve seen it all before. You want to see poor people wearing masks and shouting about percentages? Just go into any Morrison’s on Halloween and head over to the reduced-to-clear shelf. Honestly though, did those people not have jobs to go to? Or appearances to make on Jeremy Kyle? And let me tell you another thing, while those commie bastards were camped outside St. Pauls it took me twice as long to get my grande skinny latte from the local Starbucks. Q) Aside from your work and studies, do you have any hobbies or interests? A) Ah yes, after a hard day on the trading floor I love to go home, settle down with a baguette from Pret a Manger, whip out a rich Merlot and some ripe stilton and write some Maggie fan-fiction. We call ourselves 'the story Tories'. My latest short story is set in 1992; economic growth is prospering and Maggie has another 5 years in power having won the recent election. It's written in the first person – the reader is a maverick
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LSE economics graduate who has an unquenchable penchant for older women. Maggie is increasingly working late nights in her ongoing fight to help the less well off, and she and I – well I don't want to ruin the plot twist; you can read it for yourself in a few weeks. Q) If you could change just one thing about the LSE, what would it be? A) Well they should remove the double-yellows outside the library; I have to park my father’s Merc about a half bloody mile away. Oh, and let’s also start charging the Hare Krishna guy for a campus licence – how is the local Pret a Manger meant to compete with free food?! Honestly, bunch of communists if you ask me. Q) That was two. A) Yeah, sorry, I’m not great with numbers.
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LDN 2012:
AN EMOTIONAL JOURNEY Katie CARR 1 week–6 years before LDN2012 London feeling: varies between mild disinterest and loathing. Since the announcement that London has won the bid to host the 2012 Olympics, it is rare for a week to pass without it being hashed over in the news. Most stories deal with the financial estimates of the Games, which seem to increase exponentially over the six-year period. ‘How can we host an impressive Olympics during this recession?’ people are asking. Well, the answer seems to be fairly simple for the organisers: ignore the financial crisis and carry on regardless. Quite how Danny Boyle will manage to spend £27 million on the opening ceremony, when it is to be dominated by a whopping troupe of 75,000 volunteers, is anyone’s guess. We all know fireworks are expensive, but come on… 52 clare market review
Although the prevailing background grumble around the London Olympics is dominated by financial irritations, another thing to whine about is the tube. Is it really essential to shut off the Northern line service to Tottenham Court Road (one of the busiest in London) for 8 months? And does it really take that long to ‘revamp’ escalators? Maybe it would be a little quicker if there was someone actually working on the revamping operation. The Olympic grump is only exacerbated by the likes of Matt Baker (that annoying one from Blue Peter/The One Show, who seems to be able to do everything like an expert – whether it be gymnastics or milking a goat) getting BBC coverage of him ‘trying out’ all of the Olympic sports. The entire city looked on with bated breath, waiting for him to fall flat on his face when
he attempted the pole vault but - surprise, surprise – he was an expert at that too. Excellent. And just in case London needs anything else to grump about, the logo and mascots have been revealed. There are no words. Well, maybe just two – Wenlock and Mandeville. WENLOCK and MANDEVILLE?! 1 week before LDN2012 London feeling: oh no, Boris has started blaring out a load of garbage on the tubes. All the tired, over-worked commuters are trying to fight their way through the dysfunctional tube system – a delicate procedure, typically requiring one to hurl oneself at the train full of people milliseconds before the doors close – except now Boris banter comes booming out of the loudspeakers, reminding everyone that the tubes are due to be ‘busier than usual’ in the upcoming weeks. Great. Thanks Boris. As if the hundreds of volunteers with their enormous lanyards on, even when they are nowhere near the Olympic site, haven’t already alerted us to that fact…
1 day before LDN2012 London feeling: where is everyone? Oh, this is quite nice. In the morning rush to work, the tubes are all but abandoned. And – shock, horror! – you can walk down Oxford Street without getting severe concussion. Even the queues in Starbucks are nonexistent. Actually, this is really very nice. Can’t every day be the day before the Olympics? Everyone seems to be looking forward to seeing what ridiculous stunts Britain can pull at the opening ceremony tonight. The
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Bean and 007) into one hell of an opening ceremony. even the Queen seemed to have a sense of humour for the night! and david Beckham…well, he was a sight for sore eyes.
best outcome seems to be that Brits come across as harmless lunatics – floppy-haired Hugh Grant–esque lunatics, perhaps. The worst outcome, well, it’s best not to dwell on that.
Yes, it was a sparkling extravaganza, featuring sheep, sheepdogs and a cottage with billowing smoke in the middle of the arena. amazing. and just when london thought it couldn’t get any better, the pro athletes chosen to light the flame gave the opportunity to ‘the future athletes’, bringing Britain to sobs of pride. These quickly turned into full-on howls in my household as that glorious cauldron was displayed in full bloom. apparently the average tax payer contributed just over £5 towards the ceremony. money well spent, I’d say.
LDN2012 opening ceremony
LDN2012
london feeling: oh em gee!
london feeling: completely addicted.
danny Boyle has somehow performed a miracle and has managed to turn all of Britain’s ‘best’ bits (industrialisation, women’s votes, the nhs, music and, most importantly, mr.
The Beeb has become regular viewing in every household: Breakfast before work, the live web-commentating at work, and prime viewing time in the evening.
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Team GB seemed to start off rather shoddily, but no one was complaining with the US mens swimming team in full view. The whole nation was on its feet when Phelps set his record. I felt like a mother proudly watching her son when Phelps, beaten, showed Chad LeClos around the victory lap. What a moment. Once we did have a gold, there was nothing stopping us. Rowers and cyclists became heroes – even dressage became exciting! And then the big ones started coming for Team GB: Wiggins, Ainslie, Rutherford, Ennis, Farah. It was Team GB’s moment to shine – and shine they did. The ‘Mobot’ became as famous as the 'Bolt'; Ennis was on the cover of absolutely everything; Boris hanging (with flags) mid-zipwire over Victoria park became the joke of the day and, as it turned out, a great PR move. Even Jake Humphrey started to get quite endearing. Not Clare Balding though – she’s still as irritating as ever, and doesn’t appear to know about anything other than horses, the mere mention of which seems to make her come over all hormonal.
LDN2012 closing ceremony London feeling: another whopper. Completely, stark-raving bonkers. Best moment? Without a doubt, Boris shaking his stuff to the Spice Girls. Priceless. I’m still not quite sure why Russell Brand appeared as Willy Wonka, or why Fat Boy Slim was DJ-ing from inside the head of an enormous blow-up octopus, or why there were men with light bulbs on their heads. But it all just seemed to work, no questions asked. It was one big country-wide party, just as everyone wanted – even One Direction were welcome. And even I started to get a little teary when the cauldron flame was put out with Take That in the background and Darcy ballet-dancing out front. LDN2012 aftermath London feeling: can’t remember life before the Olympics. Well, MPs have predictably been spouting a whole load of guff about a ‘legacy’ which we all know won’t happen. But more to the point, Britain has been left Volume CVII, Issue 3 55
with a gaping hole that only the Olympics could fill. What are we to do with our evenings now? What are we supposed to do when we’re bored at work? What is there to talk about? The truth is, Britain feels bereft. I feel bereft. I miss the thing I hated only 2 weeks ago. Now that is a legacy to be proud of.
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SURVIVAL GUIDE TO
FRESHERS’ WEEK This guide aims to provide you with a few handy tips & suggestions to help you survive Freshers’ Week. From things you need to know to places to go, we hope to help you avoid fresher recluse syndrome. So first up here are some moneysaving tips:
FRESHERS’ ETIQUETTE
CLASSIC HANDSHAKE OFFER A LIGHTER
WARM EMBRACE
BEER CHEERS
Methods for greeting There are several methods to befriend a fresher, each of which has its advantages. The situation you’ll find yourself in will determine which type of greet to use.
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• Scrap Starbucks: start getting your coffee from Wrights Bar on Houghton Street for only 60p! • If you are skint, don’t starve! Visit the Hare Krishna dude outside Waterstones at lunchtime who will feed you for free in return for a smile. • Cycle! It will save you a load of cash and is good for you which is always a bonus. • Use the library. Some books can be really expensive. • Shop late or on Sundays! Get the reject food for cheap. • Booze at your pad before a night out. • Invest in a printer: it will save you money, time and will probably make you instantly popular. • Freegle! Sign up to your local freegle group online and inherit people’s unwanted stuff for free!
su Freshers’ Week mondaY: The Three Tuns (houghton street), a pub that may become your 2nd home whilst at lse. The su are putting on a welcome party. TuesdaY: ministry of sound, with pre-drinks at the high holborn residence WednesdaY: Proud Galleries, Camden. Best of hip hop & classic r‘n’b; anticipated to be a mega night. ThursdaY: Cheapskates @ moonlighting club in soho... Cheap drinks and lots of dancing! embarrassing and amazing. frIdaY: Crush @ The Quad (houghton street), lse’s ‘famous’ club night – don’t expect too much, but it’s a great way to meet fellow freshers. saTurdaY: Group trip out to nandos/Pizza to feed that hangover sundaY: film night @ high sundaY holborn residence.
alternative Freshers’ Week mondaY: heaven on Charing Cross road is one of london’s most electric gay clubs. £8 to get in, but open until 5:30am. electro-pop/fun. TuesdaY: Troy Bar near hoxton square hosts an open-mic night every Tuesday from 10-1am (£4 entry) – much better than x factor! WednesdaY: strongroom live @ The strongrooms studios (shoreditch). Big beer garden and free music = winner! ThursdaY: Gaz’s rockin’ Blues @ st moritz Club in soho, the place to go for the best ska, classic r‘n’b, jivey kinda music. frIdaY: Corsica studios (elephant & Castle) 10pm-6am...serious party time. saTurdaY: The Village underground, ‘500 festival’. It’s best to book in advance. although expensive (£25) this night is deemed to be an amazing event with live music, djs, limbo, graffitti hour.... basically a gigantic party. sundaY: day of rest.
don’T Be sCared of The CITY
grace Fletcher Volume CVII, Issue 3 59
ever tried drawing a map of central london from memory? here is elli’s attempt. see if you can 60 do Clare better.marKeT reVIeW
maP of london: a memorY Game elli graham
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WhaT’s on: Clare’s GuIde To london If reading maps isn’t really your cup of tea, below is a list of upcoming events in london for the month of october 2012 and beyond. our editorial board thought long and hard for their favourite pastimes and activities in Central, and here is just a collection of our top picks. more is available on our website, but we like being green and saving paper and what-not.
shoPPing
Vintage markets like Portobello road market, Brick lane, Spitalfields, Camden Passage off upper street, hammersmith high street, sunday upmarket, old Truman Brewery (vintage sales), Brick lane Tea rooms (every sat & sun).
y ekl sit e w vi w. for ates revie t d up arke k rem co.u cla
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bars & clubs
The roxy, KoKo (nme fridays), slim Jims, Vibe, Joe’s, Your mum’s house (The nest, Thursdays), dalston superstore, Circus, mahiki, fabric, Propaganda (fridays), Brazilian nights @ salsa Charing Cross every Tues 5-2am, don’t you want me baby? @ The roxy 9.30-3.30am.
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Contributors Featured Writers Rory
Maya Linstrum-Newman
Rory is a performance artist, artist, writer and actor. Lover of experimental and avant-garde world/ independent cinema, living in a cultural vacuum. Can often be found watching something arts-related or participating in arty projects.
Maya made the brave decision two years ago to leave the picturesque town of Newport, South Wales in order to pursue the joint hobbies of ukulele-playing and getting delinquent teenagers accused of crime off the hook, often simultaneously. Her writing, like her hair colour, is a by-product of an epiphanic midlife crisis.
Hayley Fenton Hayley Fenton is only tends to write about herself in cover letters and CVs; those boring but sadly necessary documents. She will, however, tell you about the time she tried to dress up as one of the Dolly Sisters, and almost fainted trying to squash her waist down to 17 inches. It was great.
Chloe Kiliari Chloe Kiliari is a small girl from a small island in the process of growing up in a big city. Some people say that she is a heartless cynic and others that she is a hopeless romantic. In all honesty, she could never be someone all the time and so selfishly insists on being ‘herself ’.
Clare 64 clare market review
Sam Williams Sam read Politics and Philosophy between 2009-2012. When not struggling through Plato, Wittgenstein or Rawls, he enjoys walking, playing rugby, listening to electronic trance music and, very occasionally, dabbling in writing. He is now working at a small and techie brokerage firm in New York City.
Anil Prashar Anil is a worryingly indecisive young man who loves to write about topics that he dare not discuss in public. His pastimes include eating Magnum White ice creams until he feels fat and then exercising until he can no longer walk properly. Friends frequently question his self-control.
Contributors Featured artists Emily Boon Ying Tan
Thomas Rees
Emily is a Suffolk-based illustrator and designer. She is passionate about producing work that targets social issues and looks to bring fresh concepts that will change and improve life for all. She is part of the Just Us collective of 2012, so keep an eye out for her future projects.
Tom ‘Trees’ Rees likes to paddle in the light-hearted side of illustration. Once in a while he’ll venture deeper, wading in up to his nipples. Yet the sea is cold and nipples get hard, so he never outstays his welcome. He always returns to the rock pool depth where, “What patterned shirt should this bear wear?” are the only questions that need answering. www. inkytrees.co.uk
Lucy Freegard Lucy is currently trying to make it as a freelance illustrator. She likes to focus on storytelling and narrative illustration. www.lucyfreegard.com.
Paniz Gederi Third-year Management undergrad and the current president of the LSESU Visual Arts Society. Her main inspiration is Vincent Van Gogh – especially his painting ‘Starry Night’.
Chloe Oldfield Chloe is a wanna-be psychologist studying at Warwick university. She can be found running, baking, pondering or running, maybe two at once. She also likes the odd bit of art.
Katya Radkovskaya Katya enjoys photography, fishing and mushroom-picking and wants to take over the world some day.
Lucy Sherston Lucy is a Visual Communication student in Leeds. Her aim is to create emotive illustrations that portray feeling and character. She wants to learn more about the world and is influenced by discovering different ways of life and other cultures, as well as life’s little simplicities.
Elli Graham Elli Graham is an LSE Anthro Alumni, wig-maker, carnival dancer and amateur tour guide. She enjoys Korean BBQ , televised rhythmic gymnastics, and post-art exhibition visits to the gift shop.
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And finally...
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See you soon for Volume CVIII...
by
Ben Burrows
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Dear Reader, P lease send your art and writing for the next issue of Clare to submissions@claremarketreview.c o.uk by 2 November 2012