‘Perhaps eminent historians will study
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The city that privatised itself to death: 'London is now a set of
improbable sex toys poking gormlessly into the air'
Bit by bit, the
capital has been handed over to pinstriped investors ‘reeking of lunch’. Are
Londoners resigned to a grey cloud of commerce, or can they reclaim a hopeful,
collective future?
Ian Martin
Tuesday 24 February 2015 / http://www.theguardian.com/politics/2015/feb/24/the-city-that-privatised-itself-to-death-london-is-now-a-set-of-improbable-sex-toys-poking-gormlessly-into-the-air?CMP=fb_gu
I wonder what in 100 years from now it will
be, London . The
city that privatised itself to death. Abandoned to nature, maybe, the whole
place a massive, feral version of that mimsy garden bridge over the Thames currently being planned by the giggling classes.
Poor London ,
the ancient and forgotten metropolis, crumbling slowly into an enchanted urban
forest.
Imagine. In 2115, all the lab-conjured
animals in Regent’s Park Jurassic Zoo are free to roam, reliving their
evolution. A diplodocus there, grazing in the jungled Mall. Look, a stegosaurus
asleep in the ruins of Buckingham
Palace . High above the
forest canopy, a lone archaeopteryx soars, where once hundreds of drones glided
through YouTubed firework displays.
Perhaps eminent historians will study London in the early 21st
century, see how its poorer inhabitants were driven out, observe how its built
environment was slowly boiled to death by privatisation. And they will wonder
why people tolerated this transfer of collective wealth from taxpayers to
shareholders. And they will perhaps turn their attention to Eduardo Paolozzi’s
fabled mosaics at Tottenham Court Road underground station.
Back in 2015, a debate has bubbled
briefly, after some of these lovely, publicly owned mosaic murals were quietly
dismantled as part of the station’s thorough £400m Crossrail seeing-to. I say
“debate”; it was really only that polarised quackbait thing we have now: Click
If You Think The Mosaics Are Great, We Should Save What’s Left Of Them v Smash
Them Up They’re Ugly, Anyway Who Cares It’s Just Patterns On A Wall.
Arguments about the aesthetics of
Paolozzi’s mosaics missed the point, it seemed to me, which has less to do with
the merit of the art itself and more to do with what, in the long run, it
turned out the art was for. Paolozzi’s legacy had stood intact for three
decades. Not just as 1,000 sq m of charming, optimistic art, but as 1,000 sq m
of commercial retardant.
You can’t paste an ad on to a wallful of
public art. You can’t fix one of those irritating micromovies over it, telling
a vacuous five-second story about investments or vitamins or hair. The Paolozzi
mosaics went up as decorative art, just as privatisation was about to explode
like a dirty bomb all over the public realm. What survives at Tottenham Court
Road station is a brave, forlorn little seawall set against a stormtide of
corporate advertising.
Part of Eduardo Paolozzi’s mosaic at
Tottenham Court Road underground station. Photograph: Sarah Lee
1982 it was, when those mosaics were
unveiled. British Petroleum had already been privatised. British Aerospace,
too, and a slew of others. The right to buy had been introduced a couple of
years earlier. Still to come: BT, ports, buses, British Leyland, British Steel,
Rover, gas, electricity, water, the railways. All those non-coloured Monopoly
cards? Wait, wait, you can’t privatise those, they’re public utilities, clue’s
in the name, oh, too late. It was a free-market frenzy. Everything we owned was
being flogged off by pinstriped bastards reeking of lunch.
“What survives at Tottenham Court Road is a brave little
seawall set against a stormtide of corporate advertising”
I say “we”, although the greatest trick
Thatcherism ever pulled was this redefinition of “us and them”. Suddenly,
people in your own family were voting Tory. Mrs Thatcher’s chief information
officer, Rupert Murdoch, was telling us that the firemen and the dustmen were
our enemies. That the women of the NUT and Nalgo were the mad, selfish
defenders of a doomed elite. The Tory government went after the local
authorities, telling us that government itself was our enemy. You were just
going: “Hold on a minute, if you’re the government …” and then they shouted:
“Oh, God, look! The Falklands !”, hired more
expensive PR guys and carried on privatising. All through the reign of Margaret
the Baby-Eater. Through John Major’s steady-as-you-go age of dinge. And into
the sunlit uplands of Blairvana where, ingeniously, the government launched a
full-scale privatisation of the future: the public finance initiative. Of all
the Tory policies adopted by the Labour government, none was Torier than PFI.
This policy wore a black cape and a top hat. It twirled a moustache and
cackled. “Oh, you’d like a hospital? Allow me to build one for you, no charge.
Just rent it back from us for, let’s say, 50 years, plus service charges;
exactly, minister, why worry, you’ll be out of the cabinet and on our board
soon enough. Waiter! We’ll see the pudding menu now …” Instead of snapping this
brittle cack in half and binning it, Labour embarked on a massive PFI
expansion. Now our children owe billions to PFI shareholders, and it’s no
consolation at all to think that our grandchildren will, too.
But there was a time when “we” were
winning. The “we” I always understood to be “us”, that is. The collective us.
Before the privatisation of air and space. Let me tell you, little ones, about
how popular music and the bright optimism of collective space came together
long ago in London ’s
heady, soot-laden, pre-privatised air of 1967. Song of the summer was Waterloo
Sunset by the Kinks, with its odd blend of keening melancholy and positivism.
Nostalgia for a doomed postwar world, exhilaration for the coming of a new
post-industrial one. Terry and Julie, facing the future unafraid. Wherever you
went, it floated into earshot on a tide of treble from someone’s transistor
radio.
And if you were Terry and Julie gazing at a
Waterloo sunset
in the summer of 67, you’d have seen the Hayward Gallery under construction.
The beautiful, brilliant, brutalist Hayward ,
part of a people’s South Bank that had started with the Festival Hall in 1951
and would end triumphantly with the National Theatre in the 1970s. And we did
gaze at it, thinking: “This is us.” This is us, building something amazing, for
us. Several eminent architects worked on the scheme, but oversight belonged to
the GLC architects department. Imagine that. A time when most architects worked
in the public sector, designing a world of public space and collective
aspiration, a world of affordable housing with statutory space standards. Crazy
days, when a giant yellow Aviva ad on the NT’s western wall was unimaginable.
Then, suddenly, architecture, like
everything else, was privatised. The 1980s saw deregulation, not only of the
financial markets, but also of the professions. The number of local-authority
architects plummeted under a regime of cuts; the harsh winter of recession in
1990 finished them off. From now on, space and air would be shaped and primped
by the private sector. Architecture was redefined: no longer frozen music, but
petrified Thatcherism. The client’s brief was to choke as much value out of a
site as possible, and the model was Broadgate. That shoulder-padded yuppie
citadel, which unlocked so much subsequent property value in east London . It seems so weird
that it’s old enough now – 30 years – to be listed as a historic building
itself, even as it continues to grow, ever more offices cramming in, and a
fortune being made from it, somewhere, by tanned people with watchful lawyers.
Very few people now remember what was there
before – Broad Street
railway station and its environs. The station architecture wasn’t particularly
distinguished, but that wasn’t the loss. It was the space, 32 acres of nationalised
space and air, once managed by us as a part of a nationalised industry.
Broadgate looks great in photographs,
particularly in night shots. The little central public space, the little public
ice rink. Lovely. But this space was and remains a concession, a “planning
gain” to sweeten the deal. Look, nobody’s suggesting that Broadgate should have
been a 32-acre ornamental garden, as attractive as that sounds. Wait, actually,
yeah: public gardens would have been fantastic, come to think of it. However,
of course the city needs offices. And Arup’s Peter Foggo, highly regarded in
the profession, designed much of Broadgate. It looks pretty good, which is why
the architectural historians want to save it.
But it has nothing to do with us, does it?
It’s privatised space and air. Broadgate became a template for capitalism.
Broad Street station, British Rail, everything we owned at the time was sold
off cheaply to developers, who then sanctimoniously sold us back this narrative
of humane regeneration and philanthropy. Hire an eminent architect, stick a
public garden in the middle, bosh. Done. We swallowed the lot. Loadsamoney,
planner-friendly, enlightened patronage. Suddenly entrepreneurs were “patrons
of the arts”. Of course they were. That’s where the money was.
Broadgate: ‘a shoulder-padded yuppie
citadel’. Photograph: Bloomberg via Getty Images
And as more of what used to belong to “us”
was sold off and developed by “them”, the hunger for floorplates and square
footage and award-winning design and river views became insatiable. If they ran
out of land to build on, no problem. They would now literally monetise thin
air. The principle of “air rights” development in London was nailed by architect Terry
Farrell’s Embankment Place .
A client could commission a great design saturated with Farrell’s trademark
postmodern wave-it-through-planning magic, acquire the air rights above Charing Cross station and whack a massive office block on
the roof. Ingenious. A private incubus squatting on an anaesthetised public
space.
“If they ran out of land to build on, no problem. They
would now literally monetise thin air”
Bit by bit, the city has been handed by us
to them. It’s now acceptable for the privatised space of a shopping centre to
be patrolled by private security. There are enforceable dress codes, which is a
laugh, considering those ill-fitting security uniforms. No loitering – another
hypocrisy, as that’s pretty much 100% of a security guard’s job. They’ll all
have Tasers soon. A 2011 London Assembly report – Public Life in Private Hands:
Managing London’s Public Space – said the mayor of London was concerned that “there is a growing
trend towards the private management of publicly accessible space. Where this
type of ‘corporatisation’ occurs, especially in the larger commercial
developments, Londoners can feel themselves excluded from parts of their own
city.”
That’s Boris Johnson there, the
freewheeling ultra-Tory ox. Like me, like us, he’s having an emotional reaction
to witnessing the very fabric of the city, and the air around it, and the
economy around that, being aggregated into some vast equity milking parlour by
the very arseholes who smashed everything to bits the last time. Obviously, the
mayor simply wants them to behave in a more gentlemanly fashion, whereas some
of us want them roughly arrested, electronically tagged and confined to their
extinct volcano lairs, but it’s nice to know we’re on the same page.
Oh, man, and just look at London ’s privatised skyline. It would be
hilarious if it wasn’t so cartoonishly tragic. This one looks like a Nespresso
machine. And that one, a cigar, is it? Potato? Full nappy? The utter
capitulation of London ’s
planning system in the face of serious money is detectable right there in that
infantile, random collection of improbable sex toys poking gormlessly into the
privatised air. Public access? Yeah, we’ll definitely put a public park at the
top (by appointment only). Oh, absolutely, we are ALL about community
engagement: members of the public are welcome to visit our viewing gallery in
the sky, that’ll be 30 quid, madam.
The great modernist architectural mantra is
“form follows function”. I think we can safely call time on that one, don’t
you? What could possibly be going on in that skyscraper? What would compel it
to resemble a Shewee? Are you kidding? Architecture, you’re drunk, as usual, on
one gin and tonic.
Oh, I know there are those who say it
doesn’t matter that all this towering sequestered air belongs to them and not
to us, that ownership doesn’t alter the way the world looks. Really? REALLY?
I’d rather be the us who built the South Bank, than the them who built that
skein of phlegm, the Shard. That scaly talon, that giant middle finger presented
to us all. I loathe its banality. The view from inside is better (no visible
Shard), but it feels as if you’re inside some giant advert for double glazing.
I loathe its monstrous, bullying scale. It’s Gulliver big. End-of-level-boss
big. Its stupid anything-goes-now size mocks us.
And how I loathe the rhetorical guff, as
empty as that “ultra-prime” floorspace at the top of the building itself. Its
architect, Renzo Piano, calls it “a vertical city”? Really? It’s not Milton bloody Keynes, is
it? A city must contain members of the public. That’s basic. Well, there aren’t
many members of the public in the Shard, and they’re easily identifiable.
They’re either there for drinks and dinner or they’re there for a meeting.
They’ve either got a table reservation or they’re wearing a lanyard. Cities
don’t have guest lists. The Shard is not a city. Where’s the school, the
hospital, the weird newsagent’s that sells tinned pies? Where’s the social
housing, the dodgy pub, the library? Come on.
Renzo Piano’s Shard, a ‘giant middle finger
presented to us all’. Photograph: Mark Yeoman
Yet the orthodoxy prevails. London must attract
investment. It mustn’t upset the capricious bankers and fickle wankers of
capitalism, the lease-for-lifers, the buy-to-leavers. A low, grey sky of
resignation about privatisation has settled over us. But if history and
economics teach us anything, it’s that we have absolutely no idea what happens
next.
On the current track, maybe life does
become unbearable in the future, when the last remaining cubic centimetre of
public space – a trembling pocket of air perhaps, in a cellar at the Emirates
British Library – is finally acquired by a friend of King Charles III. At some
point, there’ll be no more space left to squeeze and monetise. The city’s
overlords will own everything. Qatari, Saudi, Russian, Indian, Chinese, some UK hedge funds
named after Shakespearian characters – all air will be their air.
Architecture, you’re drunk, as usual, on
one gin and tonic
In the future, the thin, sad air inside the
last maglev night bus to Upminster, infused with metabolised alcohol, will be
theirs. The dark, luxury air in the silent bedrooms of empty riverside
apartments, their identical curving blocks clustered in threes and fours, grim
and silent as gill slits, will be theirs. The once sacred air of St Paul ’s Cathedral Spa
and Pamperarium will be theirs.
Then – who knows? Maybe when London is pixellated into
billions of stock-marketable units of sequestered air, boing! The world cracks
and changes. Iceland
acquires the north pole, discovers tons of diamonds and becomes the richest
nation on earth. Ghana
puts the first woman on Mars. Scientists announce they can convert rising sea
levels into environmentally sustainable “brinergy”. The global petrochemical
industry suffers a fatal prolapse. Its sheiks and warlords, the fawned-upon
princes who once did as they wished – buying up most of Streatham in the morning,
beheading someone for sorcery in the afternoon – well, they’re dust and shadow
now. Maybe the global property market follows oil down the plughole. London ’s last human
inhabitants head north, their hovertransits stuffed with electronic belongings
and omniplasma, to affordable housing, a temperate climate and a hopeful,
collective future.
Or – who knows? Maybe the world economy
goes tits up again, only this time we punish the rich instead of the poor. London ’s part of a future
that casts off the yoke of privatisation. Under new management. Ours. Imagine
the London
skyline repurposed as a collective landscape. A skyline where form no longer
follows function, but where change of use might confer beauty.
Suppose those ridiculous blobs all over Waterloo ’s sunset had
different occupants. So a child points to the Shard and asks you what it’s for,
and instead of trying to explain it’s half-full of dicks in haircuts “doing
business”, you’re able to say it’s subsidised housing for key workers. Does it
now magically become “architecturally beautiful”? Yes. YES.
And she points to the Gherkin and says:
“What’s that?” and you say: “It’s a university.” What a beautiful world that
would be. Maybe we can stop everything heading for a privatised wilderness.
Let’s renationalise air.