It was a grey Wednesday in December, and I pulled a sickie. I lay in bed and watched daytime TV for as long as I could, but eventually I had to do something. Much against my better judgement, I went into the West End to do some Christmas shopping. There seemed to be so many people in London that the city seemed in danger of bursting, like a champagne bottle with its cork half-popped, the pressure building, building up until sooner or later, it would inevitably blow its top. It had overflowed long ago, excreta oozing from its pores to form the suburbs and the new towns, a commuter belt of the dross, the slower-moving particles being deposited on the banks of the stream. Now it seemed as if the place was primed and ready, about to blow up at any moment. Sooner or later, something was going to happen. People swarmed all over it at dozens of different speeds, like ants under a paving slab; suited executives rushing from place to place, becoming frustrated at the lumbering tourists who stopped every two minutes to look at the map; housewives up into town for shopping, wide-eyed but systematic, making sure they weren’t missing anything; packs of kids skiving off school, dashing in and out of traffic. At first I weaved my way through the crowd, moving all the time, looking as if I had places to go, people to see. It’s a city survival technique. Don’t ever let anyone know you’re lost. Never show signs of vulnerability. Don’t show too much of an interest in your surroundings. Keep staring straight ahead. This was going to be a quick mission. Go in, get the presents, get out again, no messing. A lightning raid. But it was doomed to failure. The sheer number of people meant that quick movement became almost impossible. I was swamped by it all, and didn’t have enough energy to get out of the flow. The herd gathered me up and swept me in and out of shops, washing past ideal gift ideas and unique handcrafted shite. I just wanted to buy some presents for my family that wouldn’t look as if I’d got the first thing I’d seen that was vaguely cheap and vaguely relevant to their interests. In and out of department stores I drifted, feeling only half alive. I found myself moping along Oxford Street, trying without success to rouse some Christmas spirit within myself. A depressing epiphany tapped me on the shoulder. I am a consumer. Just like all the others, I fall for advertising. I might not believe in active liposomes, but the products I buy reflect the lifestyle choices I make and the brand identities I feel represent me. My spending habits are logged in some vast computer in a warehouse on a new town industrial estate somewhere, being analysed to see if I’m a likely candidate to be relieved of even more of my money. I can be pigeonholed by a market researcher. I can be targeted by direct marketing. They probably have a code that describes me and fifty thousand other young single urban males. Some poor sod somewhere is entering my data, just like I’m entering his. That’s what it all comes down to in the end. Data. It has to be entered, compiled, analysed, circulated. We can categorise everything, calculate anything. All we need is the data. That’s all there is, if you think about it long enough. Trust me, I get plenty of time to think about stuff like that in my job. It was nearly half past six. Depressed by my inability to find any suitable gifts, I bought myself a big bar of chocolate. Hoping to release enough serotonins to clear the gloom of the day, I munched away, but I quickly reached the point where my comfort food was beginning to make me feel sick. Everywhere I looked, couples were enjoying each other, being close, trying to swallow each other whole. They kissed, they canoodled, they smooched, they embraced, flaunting their togetherness, reminding me how alone I was. The cold and the damp oozed over me. The water from the puddle I had stepped in had soaked through my shoes to the socks, and was working its way up my legs. Having cold, wet feet makes you feel empty in a way that nothing else can. I went down to Soho and found a pub. Pubs in the afternoon are wonderful places. The only people there are the unemployed, the retired, and students. You don’t have to fight your way through a crowd of wankers to reach the bar, you can put whatever you like on the jukebox and actually hear it. There’s a certain timeless air to them, centuries of tobacco and beer seeping out of the big, solid timbers. The pub is a refuge from reality, a place where you can postpone your problems with a game of darts or pool. And beer.
No man is a failure who has friends.