Rising East Online

Politics is Personal

In Praise of Hezza and Especially Presca

—Captain Nemesis

In the Brasserie Sassy, Nemesis and consiglieri noodle quietly. Roman Aclef and Bill Dungsroman discuss Lily Gilders’ performance as Undulanta the Snake Charmer in La Vache Qui Rie, Olivier Messaien’s sizzling operatic sex-farce. They dislike Ben Elton’s libretto - too spiritual for Messaien’s urban jungular rhythms. As Robespierre asked, where are the Neiges, Danton? No villain, he.

On the next banquette, someone is wearing Eau Sofage, aka parfum de couch potato. Or should that be Eau Chavage, as worn by everyone on Big Brother?

Perked up by these heady scents, Nemesis says: perception is a rum thing. Do not judge a teapot by its colour, it is only by eating it that you will discover whether or not it is chocolate. Berlioz, for example, is a term that some might apply to the Leyton Orient defence while for others it is a derogatory measure of a want of Downunderness. ‘Sup Blood’ means one thing to toothsome Transylvanians but quite another to young chaps who are friendly with one another (It all depends on whether there is a comma – Ed).

Thus with John Prescott. To some a language-mangling, cocktail sausage-gesturing, ocean-going ex-waiter inflicted on politics by the Labour Party in a moment of inimitable folly, to Nemesis he was one of the few politicians of the last 20 years who really did do something for East London other than claim that an incomprehensible array of projects and schemes represented the acme of regeneration. Another, of course, is Michael Heseltine. Well, Nemesis doesn’t need to bother readers with the answer as to why this is the case – obviously both of them know.

However, just in case a careless Googler alights on this page languidly seeking sex or drugs, and gets caught up in the excitement, the answer is the channel tunnel rail link and Stratford’s international passenger station. Without which no Stratford City, no Olympics, no this, no that. And more to come. It is conceivable that Mr Brown, following his remarkable starring appearance in Waiting for Gordo, will join them by announcing Crossrail – he has after all been thinking about it for ten years and that is long enough even for a deep thinker such as Giordano Bruno. Bruno, of course, was burned at the stake by a kindly Catholic Church to speed up his arrival in the afterlife.

Obviously, there will be those who think that Great Representatives of the People, such as George Galloway MP, stand at the very forefront of political success. George’s courage in wearing a red leotard on TV stands as an example to us all. But Nemesis sticks with Mr Mash-Up and Prezza Hezza. After all, the whole thing has taken barely 25 years! And it will bring John Lewis to Stratford! And we will be able to hop on and get to Ashford in no time! (Weird?! - Ed.)

Contrast the Thames Gateway Bridge at Beckton. First proposed by Abercrombie in the mid 1940s, it is only marginally less mythical than unicorns or Lord Black’s innate modesty. EGGS (the eastern gateway grade separation) hangs forlornly in mid-air in Beckton waiting for its bridge to plug into. Now, it may be a strange thought to want to go to Bexley or indeed for Bexleyites to consider heading north in a direct manner. But a bridge will undoubtedly be a simpler means of achieving this than fashioning a coracle from old copies of Metro. In West London, like it or not, five Heathrow terminals will have been constructed in the time it has taken the great political minds of our time to fail to make a small bridge happen. In West London, of course, crossing the Thames is a simple matter because they have lots of, er, bridges.

And so it goes on. Those of us who derive pleasure from observing greatness at work are already squirming with delight at the political proximity of the words ‘housing’ and ‘place’. Most of us are what our leaders call ‘local people’. Obviously not global people like them, local people are quite human if somewhat postcode-delineated. Local people think they live in places. Places have many aspects including a range of public services, ideally something pleasant about the environment, possibly a pub or restaurant, and churches and so forth for those inclined to faith or moral pyromania. Housing is just that: houses and flats. Hence, where local people actually live is in housing which is cheaper. Foolish, foolish local people.

Naturally enough, there is much talk of housing. And of low carbon and zero emissions (a scientist writes: local people will not in future be permitted to keep large pets because they fart which causes climate change). Sometimes – akin to a guilty start – there is mention of place. But such mentions are seldom accompanied by anything as common as detail of increased spending on public services. This is known as tossing the CABE and is ubiquitous having been successfully tried out in Scotland where leaders come from.

The more sceptical among us are refraining from over-excitement at the news that local authorities may be allowed to build housing again. Given how good at it they were last time round, they were encouraged to build in vast quantity. By no means all of it has been demolished and there is at least one place in England dominated by public sector housing which has a fine historic character making it a charming and delightful place. Wherever it is.

Unless of course out there somewhere in government is a John Prescott of place who will triumph over probability while almost certainly being ridiculed for personal characteristics. Could that person be Hazel Blears?, is the obvious question. Time to lie down…

Captain Nemesis is your pilot through the murky waters of Thames Gateway.

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