Archive for the Croydon Category

South Croydon, Referenda & Ken Stealing My Ideas

Posted in Croydon, London Mayor 2012, South London on February 28, 2012 by Wolfgang Moneypenny

Yet more evidence that Ken is just stealing my policies but timidly watering them down so as to be virtually pointless… You need to be braver than this Ken. London is an engine of inequality that needs breaking up, but only I’ve got the balls to say so.

Embracing The Big Society

Posted in Central London, Change We Can Believe In, Clapham, Croydon, FreeSouthLondon, General Election 2010, Greater South London, South London, Tories, Tory Government, Waterloo with tags , , , , on May 21, 2010 by Wolfgang Moneypenny

Comrades, it is with not a little difficulty that I have decided to make the best of a bad situation.

I have decided to embrace the Cameron administration’s fuzzy “Big Society” idea. And I make no apologies for using the word, “idea”. In its vaguest possible sense.

Anyway.

I am embracing “Big Society”. I shall conveniently ignore the fact it’s essentially a wishy-washy PR cover up for an intensification of the neoliberal accumulation & centralisation of wealth and power. Rather, I shall make like a village idiot and throw myself spreadeagled into the warm bossum of what will now be, I am sure, an explosion of volunturism to replace essential public services.

If you believe in something enough, it will happen. Yes?

I and my three beautiful wives will be available in four of South London’s busiest train stations (London Bridge, Waterloo, Clapham Junction & East Croydon) during the evening rushhour Monday to Friday, selling our handjob services to relieve stressed commuters after a hard day’s slog at the core abstract furnace of hypercapitalism. With the money we scrape together we will subsequently try our best to fund numerous services in our glorious half-city, including care of the elderly & benefit payments for the mentally ill.

I am willing to be whatever South London needs me to be…

It's BIG SOCIETY time!!!!

The East London Line

Posted in Croydon, East London, FreeSouthLondon, London Underground, North London, South London with tags , , , on April 22, 2010 by Wolfgang Moneypenny

Oh my god. The poor semi-savage beasts of Crystal Palace feel so isolated, so withdrawn from the centralised hub of London that the sorry bastards are planning on holding a stree party to celebrate a new train line that goes to… bloody Dalston?! If this isnt proof of the desperate situation in South London I dont what is…

Come on. Thime to get serious. We need revolution, or we need euthenasia. Which will it be?

Crystal Palace. Once glorious. Now terminal.

The South London Gumbo

Posted in Art, BNP, Croydon, FreeSouthLondon, Indigenous Culture, Protest, South London with tags , , , , , on April 16, 2010 by Wolfgang Moneypenny

Yesterday in Croydon at the BNP counterprotest, I was in conversation with a charming young revolutionary by the name of Phil. We discussed what South London would be like without immigration… Far less interesting.

It got my brainbox chugging away. We live in a SLUMBO. South London’s Ubiquitous Multicultural Brilliance Operation. Like gumbo – the famous Louisiana stew of countless geographically-displaced gastronomical influences – our half-city is meltingpot of intoxicating vibes & influences.

BNP, Croydon & Me

Posted in BNP, British Empire, Croydon, FreeSouthLondon, General Election 2010, Protest, Riots, Video with tags , , , , , , , on April 16, 2010 by Wolfgang Moneypenny

Today I attended a counterprotest outside the UK Immigration Control crib – Lunar House in Croydon. Countering what? I hear you ask…. Countering a protest/electioneering dampsquib/whatever by British Imperial goon squad, the BNP.

Whilst it was initially tense, with a brief bit of scuffling…

…it has to be considered a bit of a failure, a non-event, for the BNP. They had less protesters, made less noise and went home earlier. As we used to say at school, PUSSY’OLES! This was like two rival football crowds. We outsung them. Had more “fans”. And, I fancy, will ultimately win the league. The league of political outcomes.

They chose Lunar House to make a very negative statement about immigration. But I LOVE immigration. I believe in and adore multiculturalism. Open the floodgates! South London benefits from immigration, South London needs immigration. South London IS immigration.

And if the BNP represents Britain in any way – even just as a freakish extreme – then my resolve to lead South London to independence from THAT vision of Britain is stronger than ever.

However, as brattish & British & essentially racist as the BNP may be, I have tried to understand them. I can understand the fact they are miserable, confused, scared little cunts. That’s okay. In the roar of the furnace of postmodernity, we all lose our “roots”, what we hold onto, so I can see how they’ll cling to something, anything, desperately, pathetically. Like a tired old two-century-old nationalism of a fake relic-state.

And I essentially still feel the same sadness for them, shamefaced little teats of sourest milk. But my tolerance lessened today.

Today, some of the incidental behaviour of BNP protesters made me realise that Nick Griffin is the acceptable face of the BNP.

The Acceptable Face

He’s the acceptable face because so many of the others aren’t. Sieg heil-ing, gauntlet-running, ignorant fuckers. Bother boys. Of course, a handful of the counterprotesters are of a similar hooliganistic leaning (see the above video) – and someone needs to point out to the red flag brigade that there isn’t working class anymore and the four-decade-rotted death of their simplistic Marxism!

My hat might be from an era of Enlightenment scientific teleological thinking, but my politics aren’t.

But I fear the deeply-troubled cunt-looking-for-bother is far deeper ingrained in the BNP, making them as a whole group – if not as a half-polished political turd – still very compareable to the likes of the National Front. FreeSouthLondon is predominantly made up of frustrateted young males who feel disenfranchised. But we’re not absolutely reprehensible cunts. Same socio-economic blah-blah-blah. Why the difference?

And another thing. Fascist spies. Coming over to our group photographing our faces, presumably for websites like Redwatch, the purpose of which being to hunt the ragtag smörgåsbord of antifascists. Well. Sods. I, the great Wolfgang Moneypenny, am not scared of you. Here I am, my beautiful face:

Cor!!!

Come and find me at the FreeSouthLondon Anarcho-Situationist Commune. We’ll settle things man-to-men. I’ll take at least eight of you slags at once. And as you fuckers lie bust-up, semi-conscious, quivering like cardiac-arresting pigs-in-mud, I’ll smear my pre-ejaculate over your lips as a revolutionary coup de grâce.

EDIT: Channel 4 News report on the protest and “nazi principles” within the BNP: http://www.channel4.com/news/articles/vote_2010/bnp+members+ampaposhold+nazi+principlesampapos/3616387

War In My Heart: Childhood Memories of Sport #3

Posted in Art, British Empire, Change We Can Believe In, Croydon, Football, FreeSouthLondon, Indigenous Culture, South London with tags , , , on April 13, 2010 by Wolfgang Moneypenny

(Last week I started exploring how three separate and seemingly unimportant childhood experiences of sport went a long way to forging me, both politically and as a man. To complete the trilogy, it’s attending an especially profound game of football…)

Comrades. This is difficult for me to write. In today­­’s article I go back to the night I realized South London needed to change. The night I realized weeds needed purging. The night I realized the wonderment of an international influence. And the night I realized my love of the nocturnal flip of huimanity…

After this event, football was never the same for me. It expanded. It grew. It matured. It became erect. Glorious. Huge. Profound Multifaceted. Interesting!! Interesting enough to hold my interest, my fascination out of the simplicities of childhood and into the complexities of adulthood.

At the age of 13 I went to a football match in South London with my dear old mother and a few other children.

Crystal Palace v Manchester United. 25th January 1995.

I was at this game. Aged 13. My George Best-obsessed, United-supporting mother had managed to get hold of some tickets – amongst Palace fans, in their dreary hole of Selhurst Park. Their bitter jealousy of United electrified me, made me proud. I was only young but I knew resentment like that was a compliment. I was always slightly embarrassed by United being the best supported team in the land, but always exhilarated by them also being the most hated. Ridicule is nothing to be scared off, it’s a source of energy to nourish you soul’s most outlandish excesses.

I really feel the paranoid arrogance of that identity helped forge the person I’ve grown up to be, for better and for worse.

The Palace fans’ hostility towards United manifested itself most spectacularly, most venomously, most complimentary, in their seething jingoistic hatred of Eric Cantona – the figurehead and catalyst of United’s recent and long awaited success (strange to think nowadays in these times of absolute sporting hegemony, but they hadn’t won the English league championship for twenty-six years, between 1967 and 1993).

That was the night of the Cantona “incident”…

…the splendid kung-fu attack, the madness, the red mist, the Kicking Of Racism Out Of Football. It happened after he’d been sent off for what I believe was a second bookable offence – a nonchalant little kick out at some anonymous waste-of-cultural-space Palace player. He was walking off the pitch, Matthew Simmons, mouth bomber jacket wearing Palace fan, ran down the stand to hurl abuse at Cantona, who then landed not only the above flying kick but also this rather tasty jab to the face…

… This was followed a predictable moral panic, a lengthy ban (9 months), rumours of transfers to continental clubs or even retiring from football, and of course the brilliant “Seagulls” line:

My favourite experience of the night came after Cantona’s event. Myself and two similarly young friends stood on our seats amidst the increasingly hostile Palace fans and heartily sang “Oooh-Aaah, David May!” and then, “UNITED! *clap clap clap* UNITED! *clap clap clap” repeatedly. In response HUNDREDS of enraged Palace fans turned their backs on the game to respond “SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!” A number of policemen rushed over to shut us up as we were on the verge of sparking a riot. To feel such hatred was an incredible buzz (an ecstatic feeling that I’m still yet to better).

But I was disappointed at the role South London had played in this farcical but exhilarating spectacle. South London’s representatives on this knight-of-nights had been the cultural rump, the baying mob of great unwash’d and the frenzied village idiot – namely, Crystal Palace, their fans, and the high priest of provincial cuntness, Matthew “should’ve been aborted” Simmons. I wished South London had a big football club. Not even a United, but something bigger. Something that would dwarf even FC Barcelona. A monolithic mothership of a team.

Alas, no. But I have grown up, grown wiser. Realised there is more to life & death than football – well, perhaps not – but certainly there is more to life than having a huge hypercapitalist football club whoring its soul and other orifices out for loose millions in your patch..

But because of the pettiness of South London on 25th January 1995 – showcased lest we forget in what was probably the most famous match of the entire decade! – this was the night, ultimately, that I realized South London needed an El Salvador. A revolutionary, heroic figure, a lone warrior, a Cantona-esque je ne sais quoi embodiment to flying-kick the unacceptable face of South London, so that it’s many other faces – for it is a multifaced beast – can represent themselves

Ladies & Gentlemen. This was the night Wolfgang Moneypenny was born. Wrenched in a splatter of gore from the vagina of possibility.

Let us harness what is good about South London with what is great across the rest of the world. Whatever we choose, it will be inherently South London.

My position on international influence is a bipolar one. Reject – visciously, loudly – anything forced on us. Embrace – warmly, energetically – anything we so desire.

And when we do have our independence, I call on the as yet hypothetical Minister for Sport to make Eric Cantona the Republic of South London’s first national team manager.

Nicholas James Albert McArthur

Posted in Art, Croydon, Diaspora, FreeSouthLondon, Indigenous Culture, Video with tags , , , , , on April 6, 2010 by Wolfgang Moneypenny

My good friend, the artist Nicholas James Albert McArthur, has produced a video of his artwork. We met at college, and have remained comrades ever since. His is one of the finest members of the South London diaspora. I salute him. And after viewing his work, I’m sure you will too.

Or, for a better hi-res version, view it on vimeo.

Monster On Nice Roof

Posted in Art, Croydon, FreeSouthLondon, Indigenous Culture, Punk, South London with tags , , , , , on March 13, 2010 by Wolfgang Moneypenny

Jamie Reid, famous for his Sex Pistols artwork, grew up in Croydon. Indeed, he attributes the influence of the place and his South London politically active family as big influences on his work, both positively and negatively.

I have never been one to blindly, uniformly throw compliments the way of my half-city. Yes, of course, South London is brilliant, beautiful, bouncingly boomtastic and all the rest. But it has a dark heart. Truculence oozes. Regret judders. Solitude consumes. Just as the Catholic church has the Virgin Mary as mother & virgin, I present to you South London in its most exhilaratingly revolutionary form: both Good and Bad. Gorgeous and Grotesque. I take delight in this tense sense of unself.

Reid’s artwork addresses one such element of light and dark. The comfort/horror of suburbia that as intrinsically part of South London as Brixton, Greenwich and anything else you can think of…

Thirtyfour years since Reid addressed this, we still await a final solution to the suburban question.