Home of the Lola

Between a picket line and a hard place

Lolie — Sun, 05 Sep 2010 13:32:56 +0000

A Tube strike, you say?

It’s that time again, if the delightful gentleman at my home station calling me a ‘lazy c*nt’ for going on strike is any indication. My crime, at that particular moment, was walking past a poster with strike information while wearing uniform, so I was clearly asking for it. The fact that I had headphones on and was clearly not on duty didn’t seem to matter, either.

And yes, there’s an element of hypocrisy right off the bat here, because I had plenty of nasty things to say about striking Tube workers before I was one of them. Let’s be honest though, most of us feel a certain amount of jealousy that they have the one remaining union (sorry ASLEF, but you guys just don’t do it for me) in the country that can stand up to management and get results on everything they want.

It’s not always about pay either, often the strikes are about safety conditions or protesting the privatisation that has cost us all a bloody fortune. It’s unfortunate that the RMT (who have kept me in a job this past year while I sorted out various medical issues) are fronted by someone as problematic and dogmatic as Bob Crow, but paying my dues every month doesn’t compel me to have a drink with the man, and so I live with it. Just like I live with working almost every weekend, extreme shifts and dark and miserable conditions – it comes with the job.

The issue I have this time is that we’re striking over job cuts. Now I understand solidarity, and how we have to come out over station job cuts or there’ll be nobody to come out for us (although the Rep who quoted Martin Niemoller at me a couple of weeks ago needs a smack upside the head and a large cup of perspective). The problem is that I’ve also been on the corporate seminar day where it was pretty much confirmed that these 800 jobs ‘going’ is a done deal. It’s worth disclosing as well that they’re not sacking or making 800 people redundant – most of them are being ‘displaced’ to a slightly lower grade in a different location.

So I voted ‘no’ when I got my ballot papers, but to be honest, setting them on fire would have done about as much good. The most militant are the ones who bother to vote for the most part, and they ALWAYS vote to strike. What are my options then?

You can’t cross a picket line. I know enough to know that. And yet it chafes, because even if I decided to do it the consequences are massively to my disadvantage, though I won’t go into them here. We’re effectively intimidated into supporting every strike, into losing a day’s (or three days’) pay whether we agree or not. Where’s the chance to voice dissent, to tell the union that they’re being too heavy-handed? Yes, strikes are about the only effective weapon in our arsenal, but you don’t start a fight with an Uzi when there’s a chance of settling it with an air-rifle. (Oh, I can’t do gun metaphors, call the NRA if you need a better one).

I’ll be at home on Tuesday, losing the equivalent of a monthly 1-5 travelcard or thereabouts. I just wanted to say, I suppose, that not everyone relishes the disruption and that we’re not all bloody-minded about it. I don’t want to get screwed over by management more than anyone else, and I’m fortunate enough to be in an industry and a union where that rarely happens because we’re able to stand up for ourselves. My own centrist politics (and private sector background) aren’t always going to agree with the Union’s actions, but there’s really not that much I can do about it.

// they chalk it up to my anger, and never to their own fear //

Lolie — Sun, 13 Jun 2010 15:59:56 +0000

God, I used to abhor the word feminist.

It caused so many arguments with my feminista friends, and later my girlfriend, who were striving to become our generation’s Betty Friedan or Germaine Greer. I think it was that annoying indie maxim of not wanting to be part of the larger group (because I was just smarter than that, I didn’t need an -ism for my brand of common sense etc). To quote the over-quoted Groucho Marx I “[didn't want] to join a club that will accept me as a member”.

As I’ve just told DIVA magazine, I suppose it was the sense of too many labels at once, and the preconceptions that come with them. To me, growing up, feminist meant ‘man-hater’ and I already felt I was struggling not to alienate male friends and family members who assumed lesbian meant that too. I mean, I like boys; just not enough to have sex with them. But for a long time, I’d have rather you called me pretty much anything but a feminist; it just had nothing to do with me.

But the reason I’m comfortable with it now is that I understand both LGBT rights and women’s rights as campaigns for equality, for access to the same opportunities and protections. It’s about similarities and reclaiming common ground, not about hate and fighting or supremacy.

I was scared of the word feminist for too long, but I’m happy to be called that now. All it means is that I expect women and men to be treated equally, and what’s so scary about that?

“I’m an engine driver, on a long run”

Lolie — Sun, 06 Jun 2010 21:53:17 +0000

Let’s not kid ourselves, the Underground is like a cult. Our uniforms that attract stupid questions like magnets, the head nods to anyone else with the logo, shared exasperated glances across crowded platforms, jumping gratefully into the cab when faced with the crammed and smelly nightmare of a crush-loaded rush hour train. Trying to learn an impassive expression to hide behind when people start staring in the wake of vague announcements. Listening to the trains rattle and hum, even though it isn’t my line, almost hoping something goes a little bit wrong just so you can see what really happens when the shit hits the fan.

It takes some getting used to. The first day in the depot was like the world’s most unsettling (and lame) amusement park. Huge signs everywhere bellowing their instructions to dress up like a radioactive satsuma or be mercilessly killed, eardrum-piercing whistles telling you the huge lump of metal right next to you is about to come shrieking and clunking out of its shed. Dirt, God, so much dirt. Lifting seats, unearthing secret compartments and the well-hidden gizmos that make it almost impossible for anyone to go hurtling towards death and dismemberment. Diagrams full of dancing coloured lines that mean nothing at all, suddenly transformed into vital veins and capilliaries that your mind learns to trace instantly. Now when the train cries out its dismay or sudden impotence, the sound alone is enough to tell you exactly where it hurts.

Not that you treat these metallic monsters as wounded children, motors and electricity don’t care how much you want to make everything right. Fix them as they demand or stay stuck forever, what do machines care if they grind to a sudden halt? Forty years these particular ones have been rattling along the same tunnels, trapped in a continuous shuttle from North to South and back, returned to the yard at night to be poked and prodded by men (yes, only men it seems) who have brake grease in every line of their flesh. So many things that can go wrong, one component enough to cripple the system, both on the trains and all those miles of tracks, not to mention the hundreds of signals. It’s frankly a miracle that it doesn’t go up the wall more often.

Strange vocabulary assimilated in hours, it’s only when you talk to a civilian about the combine, the pipe, or getting juiced that you realise they’re not quite getting it. Trash-talking the other lines like playground rivals, which you swore in the first week you’d never be sad enough to sink to. Collecting an anthology of macabre one-unders, unable to avoid the fixation that seems to grab everyone who hasn’t experienced it. The stories never come from the actual driver involved, but some are legendary, and you unconsciously store them for down the pub or for the day when you’ll be the seasoned pro scaring a newbie.

It’s not just a job, as trite as that might sound. It’s a whole bloody lifestyle.

*This was originally posted on my old LJ, but since I’m getting back to my actual career at the moment, I thought a reminder of when I was fresh-faced and easily impressed was in order.

// you’ll wake up and say My God I Should Have Told Her //

Lolie — Wed, 12 May 2010 09:05:10 +0000

Borrowed from JoshWeller on Twitter. Sums up the feelings of this transport worker nicely. Honestly, I finally succumbed to a nap yesterday afternoon (we’re using the word ‘worker’ loosely here) and woke up to this little catastrophe. Despite my own flirtations with Conservatism in the past few years, even I couldn’t vote for these twats.

// And the Chicago Cubs will beat every team in the league //

Lolie — Tue, 04 May 2010 13:05:58 +0000

I know I was just raving about my unbridled love for New York City, and I’d hate for you to find me fickle; but damned if I’m not utterly, ridiculously in love with Chicago, Illinois.

Not sure I could sum it up in just one reason why, and hell, I only ended up here because of a colossal letdown and changing plans for an already booked trip elsewhere. Then it turns out to be just about the best part of my entire time away, so it just goes to show that I know nothing, clearly.

It’s a beautiful city – the dramatic skyline to rival New York, but on wider streets that call to mind Parisian boulevards. A perfect mix of space and spectacle, in other words. It goes without saying that the world-famous architecture is a treat for the eyes, but more than anything the order of it all is bizarrely soothing. Legend has it that we have Mrs O’Leary’s cow to thank for burning most of the city down in 1871, thus allowing them to plan and create the aesthetically pleasing neatness that forms the city today.

The best view of it all comes from the famous Sears Tower (and if you call it the Willis Tower, you’re just a dumb tourist. If you want to hear how Chicagoans feel about corporate rebranding of institutions, get them talking about those New York interlopers – Macy’s) Seeing the city from the 103rd floor is really seeing it – and it’s the 5th highest building in the world, after all. Not a problem for someone like myself who has absolutely no fear of heights. Never troubled me, in fact I’ve hurtled off a bridge in my time without worrying too much about it.

Turns out that bravado evaporates when faced with the simple task of stepping out onto perspex over 103 floors of um, nothing. Now I understand why people describe vertigo as such a violent reaction, having never experienced it before I thought they were a bunch of exaggerating wusses. I won’t doubt their agonies again because that was a purely physical reaction as my feet ignored my mental commands to step forward. Perhaps it was the lack of feeling anchored/tied to anything, but my knees locked in defiance and my stomach performed a triple somersault that would make any 12 year old gymnast green with envy.

Of course, once you actually force yourself out there, the feet register a solid surface underneath them and the freaking out storm quells. I tried not to be too jealous of the people who could not only look down while standing out there, but in fact roll around and act like they weren’t a million miles up on just a piece of fortifed…whatever. A humbling experience, to be sure.

It’s addictive as a place to explore though – the fact that Chicago sits on the shore of Lake Michigan just might be its most attractive feature. The sand and the fresh air is delightful, even with crashing waves to set the scene. Still, it’s fresh rather than sea water and I must admit the boat cruise I took was the highlight of just about everything. The guy taking the tour said I looked ‘blissful’ and I’d really have to agree.

Sunday brought my most ‘American’ of experiences – the baseball game. I’m not going to rewrite history here, I didn’t even think it was a sport in the true sense of the word before I saw it for myself. Whether it was the easy camaraderie on the El to the game, or the warm welcome from the stadium staff, but by the time my new cap was in place and my ‘Cubbies’ scarf was tied around my neck, I was beginning to get the bug. This was not, after all, just cricket without the crumpets.

I was surprised to discover the rules aren’t any more sophisticated than rounders, though all the statistical side of it is a tad too nerdy for me I’m afraid to say. The hecklers became apparent after a few beers, and I knew I had found my people when they started casting aspersions about the Astros’ relief pitcher’s wife. But for the accents and the action on the field, it could almost have been Anfield on a spring Saturday afternoon.

Alas, my Liverpool luck seemed to have travelled with me, and those darned Astros sneaked a 3-2 victory on the day. The Cubs might suck, but they’re my boys now and I’ll be keeping an eye on their scores while squinting at the jargon that comes with this funny, insular little sport. I wouldn’t have had such a perfect weekend without such amazing hosts, so many heartfelt thanks to Mr & Mrs ‘Flippet’ for their awesomeness.

Chicago, I think we can safely say I’ll be back.

// because you think that being a girl is degrading //

Lolie — Mon, 03 May 2010 09:09:47 +0000

I really don’t know where to start with this acquittal in a rape prosecution. Granted, it’s not your typical ’she was asking for it with what she wore’ defence (the one that you know, isn’t a defence at all). No, a jury decided that since skinny jeans are notoriously difficult (though not impossible) to remove single-handedly, the woman must have ‘helped’.

This is one of the issues that leaves me feeling like I can’t sit back and ignore feminism, or claim not to be a feminist. As long as this is a threat, as long as this most heinous of crimes continues to go largely unpunished (seriously, the conviction stats make me want to cry) then women have no hope of being equal. Not that I’m suggesting every man is a would-be rapist, but if we continue to blame women for a crime that was committed against them then we’re going about it entirely the wrong way.

Is that poor woman supposed to feel guilty that she didn’t shove on a skirt that day instead? Would her attacker have been punished more appropriately, or would that kind of clothing simply become ‘easy access’? Damned if you do, damned if you don’t – it’s not hard to see why so many rapes go unreported. If I lived in Australia today, I’d have considerably less faith in the criminal justice system.

// Something everyone needs and so few people have… Healthcare? //

Lolie — Thu, 29 Apr 2010 09:31:12 +0000

Get your clicking fingers ready, ladies and gentlemen, because the Addams Family is smart enough to acknowledge its cultural history right there in the overture. There’s no buzz quite like an excitable full house, and the Lunt-Fontanne was positively crackling with energy.

And well it should have been, since what we got over the ensuing two hours was well-performed fun. Nathan Lane is almost peerless when it comes to holding an audience in the palm of his hands, and I’d be hard pressed to find a weak point in the cast. For me, the highlight has to be the immensely fabulous Bebe Neuwirth, her infamous froideur making it seem somehow inevitable that she’d one day play Morticia. When you think about it, it makes an almost cosmic kind of sense.

Her sensational tango (complete with garters on display), split-second comic timing and inimitable deadpan stole every scene she was part of, which isn’t easy when surrounded by the talents of Lane, Carolee Carmello and Jackie Hoffman. She elevates Sergio Trujillo’s choreography in a way that makes her every movement seem like some sort of elegant ripple in liquid silk. My God, I’d kill any one of you to get back in time and see her do Velma on stage.

Sure, this musical isn’t going to be winning the Pulitzer any time soon (unless they really break with convention next year) but if it’s going to be silly, high camp fun, at least it’s original. I’m sick to the back teeth of jukebox musicals, the greatest offender remains Mamma Mia, with its non-book wedged in between songs that don’t actually fit any kind of narrative.

Even more amusing than the one-liners and pidgin Spanish is the fact that while the critics have been lining up since Chicago to take pot-shots, the show appears to be a critic proof smash. I seem to recall that the Barbican production of Les Mis was slated back in 1985, and you tell me – how’s that show doing these days? In a time when everyone on their wife (including yours truly) is lining up to voice their snarky opinions, it’s sort of refreshing to know that people can still make their own minds up (unless we’re talking about We Will Rock You, in which case you forfeit your right to an opinion).

You won’t come out onto W 46th St feeling like your world has been changed, nor will you be grasping for tissues like you might be after Next to Normal, but you will have a bloody good time. And with the price of tickets what they are, doesn’t that count for something?

The Addams Family is playing at the Lunt-Fontanne Theatre, W 46th St, New York, NY. Tickets are available through Ticketmaster.com

// I don’t know how we can tolerate this kind of suffering anymore //

Lolie — Mon, 26 Apr 2010 09:59:37 +0000

In case you were wondering, this rate of death and unnecessary suffering in horse-racing is why I refuse to bet on the so-called sport. It saddens me on far too deep a level that this rate of pain and waste of life is barely remarked upon in the face of a quick flutter or making a few quid online.

Racing, particularly with the outlandish jumps involved in some of the more treacherous courses is incredibly hard on the horses, and when animals as majestic and powerful as that are being run into the ground or carelessly broken, isn’t it going too far?

// Oh, how you promised, and oh, how I lied //

Lolie — Sat, 24 Apr 2010 11:12:30 +0000

This is possibly the least fair review in the history of theatre, but I couldn’t let the ‘biggest’ ticket of my trip go unremarked upon, if for no other reason than it reminded me that Stephen Sondheim is actually human.

Because Christ all freakin’ Mighty, I hated A Little Night Music.

Sure, you could blame my impossibly long day since the timezone shift had only elongated it. But for a professional insomniac being up until the equivalent of 4am isn’t much of an excuse. Perhaps I was in some form of diabetic coma from the ‘candy floss’ cocktail I’d drunk as part of my ‘ironic’ dinner stop at TGI Friday’s. What it ultimately boils down to though, is that this show is the theatrical equivalent of tinfoil on a filling to me, and no amount of rest or sobriety could have changed that.

Not that Catherine Zeta-Jones did anything less than a bang-up job, you understand. She owned that stage like she had the title deeds in her back pocket, and there wasn’t an eye in the house that wasn’t magnetically drawn to her. Her singing voice is honeyed and she brought a genuine, crackling sort of sex appeal to Desirée. No real complaints there, but then I never doubted she had the theatrical chops for it. Haters gonna hate just because she’s rich and successful, but she wasn’t my problem with the production.

The smug, self-satisfied tone and meandering pace of the show were my first irritations. Though I’m usually a sucker for Sondheim’s tripping, skipping melodies the over-adherence to waltz structure seemed to spark a restlessness in me. Hugh Wheeler’s book may well be a faithful adaptation of the Bergman film but the clunkiness of it wasn’t helped by the confusing roadtrips most of the accents took. I believe most of the cast were going for ‘generically European’ but we got everything from Tennessee to Wales and a few mysterious ones in between. I suspect Americans may not be so attuned to the nuances of accents, but it was entirely distracting for me.

Much has been made of the stripping back of this revival – the chamber orchestra and minimal sets that make a lot from an item of furniture or two. Now I don’t know if Trevor Nunn is getting lazy now that he has ‘enough awards to make his own chess set’ but there was just nothing particularly inspiring or original about it.

As much as Karen Murphy stole every scene she appeared in during 9 to 5 I felt bad for her attempting to fill the impossibly grand shoes of Angela Lansbury. (Is the Lansbury a Dame yet? She bloody ought to be, five Tonys!) Thought Murphy’s ‘Liaisons’ was beautiful in many ways, I felt she struggled to hold the audience in the palm of her hand in quite the way that Mme Armfeldt should. Not her fault, after all when Judi Dench has to (rarely) miss an appearance they usually just cancel the show rather than letting her permanent understudy Penny Ryder go on.

Most damning of all perhaps is that I couldn’t quite sit through the whole thing. When I took the same flight at the same time in September it was barely an effort to stay awake through the adrenaline rush of Next to Normal, but the boredom from this was lulling me into the distinct sensation that I was about to topple from the edge of the mezzanine. Even the luminescent gorgeousness of CZJ couldn’t keep my interest and when I’m ready to walk out on the hot ladies, you know something has gone badly wrong.

I’d say take it all with a pinch of salt, due to the aforementioned mitigating circumstances, but ultimately I wouldn’t even go back to give it a second chance on a freebie. Let this be the low point in the Sondheim oeuvre for me, I’m content enough with Into the Woods and Passion for it not to matter. If you can’t resist a movie star on stage and have a higher threshold for vain characters preening and getting themselves into messes, then by all means spend the money. Don’t say I didn’t warn you though.

A Little Night Music plays at the Walter Kerr Theatre on W48th Street and at the moment is booking through until August.

// afraid of feeling nothing, no bees or butterflies //

Lolie — Fri, 23 Apr 2010 08:53:35 +0000

If you knew me, back when I was criss-crossing the globe to further the cause of um, carbonated beverages, the most frequent words you’d hear me say would have been “I could live there.”

I said it about everywhere from Panama to Perth (the Auswegian one, not the Scottish one, because while I’d brave the Outback in a second I have no intention of ever returning to the country of my birth). I’d come home with a little bit of sunburn on my ears, a new Starbucks city mug in my bag and the kind of bleary-eyed optimism that only comes around through a combination of jetlag and the unlimited free vodka in Business Class. The postcards would arrive three weeks after my return with exotic stamps and inappropriate images and one day I honestly thought I might say “to hell with it” and not check in for my return flight.

My very first trip to New York, back in 2004 was the closest I’ve come to that scenario. Would it surprise you at all to know that I spent a grand total of 4 hours in the city (plus the journey from JFK and back) before catching my connection to Miami? All I saw that night (because after midnight is absolutely the time to see it) was neon and weaving crowds that seemed to go on for ever. I’d barely scratched the surface and already I was intent on killing for a green card.

Of course, nothing can compare the the Aristotelian confluence of events that led to the now infamous “En Why Oh Nine” last September. The perfect shows, the perfect company and the most insane four days of my life outweighed the pain of a prematurely closed show and a broken toe. If you’re going to visit the city of your dreams, I can thoroughly recommend doing it just like that, except of course it can never quite be replicated.

So when I landed again at Newark, I steeled myself for disappointment. It couldn’t possibly compare and someone as jaded and cynical as me couldn’t get caught up in that kind of enthusiasm all over again, right? While I normally wail and gnash my teeth at the prospect of being proven wrong, on this occasion I couldn’t have been happier.

Because this time it felt a lot more like home.

Maybe because I knew my train and subway connections without having to look them up or ask; perhaps because the sun was shining in that lovely non-oppressive way it has in the spring; or maybe just because when something is right, it feels right.

I used to have a map of the world on the wall of our spare room in the old flat – with purple dots to mark the 47 countries I’ve already visited. Suddenly my Pokémon-esque quest to get ‘them all’ seems less urgent, in the face of repeat visits to places I love that will transform me from willing tourist to semi-local. And Manhattan, honey, you’re top of that list.

(Over the next few days you get the Broadway reviews and my brief affair with the jaw-dropping amazingness that was Chicago, so don’t wander off too far.)