Boxes of Delight

Red telephone boxes are as much a part of the national landscape, mental and physical, as power pylons or steeples, or at least they used to be.  They used to be a ubiquitous and pleasing feature of cities, towns, villages, hamlets, crossroads and random stretches of ‘road’ in places so rural you’d wonder that Christianity had reached that far, never mind telephony.

Originating in an age when it was far from the norm to have a telephone in the home unless your surname was ‘Bell’, or you were a character in a costume drama, the original function of these architectural and technological delights was to allow people to telephone other people.  But barely had the bright red paint dried before the role of these local landmarks evolved.

The first step in the evolution of the telephone box was its emergence as a dramatic character.  A person goes into a telephone box and rings another person.  So far, so normal.  But an empty telephone box with a ringing ‘phone?  That’s the start of the sort of plot only rivalled by somebody stepping off on to a deserted railway platform to be informed by a ‘suitably’ ‘characterful’ ‘station master’ that no train has stopped here for twenty years.

As more and more homes got more and more ‘phones, the telephone box moved from being the place you went to to make a telephone call to being the place that you went to to make a private telephone call (you could tell an adulterer in times past because they always had lots of loose change), ironic considering that they were constructed out of steel…and glass, and illuminated. 

As technology advanced, telephone boxes took on roles unconnected with calls, booty or otherwise.  The normal place for displaying business cards is, of course, the newsagents’ window, but thanks to the advancement in printing technology and in particular to business card printing machines being made available in service stations and other haunts of lorry drivers and travelling salesmen, and hence by extension to their service sector, prozzers were able to create professional looking business cards cheaply and in volume, and distribute them around telephone boxes.  Telephone boxes took on something of a festive atmosphere, if your idea of festive is a business-card blizzard of smutty invitations, as the interiors of telephone boxes began to look a little like top shelves, festooned with graphic graphics.  Accordingly, a trip to a red call box could resemble a visit to a red light district.

These temples of communication also provided other sorts of relief in times of extremis.  Many a chap, decent chaps, honest chaps, the sort of chap who would shudder to relieve themselves against a tree, well, an oak, well, a listed oak, would of an evening be profoundly glad to happen across a telephone box to answer not a ringing handset but the call of nature.

There was, of course, a protocol to be observed in such cases.  Firstly, one always avoided any tramp that might have taken up residence overnight in a traditional telephone box.  (BT (Bastard Telecom) modified the design of telephone boxes in the 80s, changing them into telephone ‘kiosks’ in a move which perfectly encapsulated a shift from a public service GPO monument to humanity that would serve not only as a tool of communication but shelter from the storm, to a profit-driven monster, putting into service a plexiglazz monstrosity that had a gap all the way around the bottom, presumably to allow the elements to penetrate and so discourage overnight guests.  Or possibly to provide adequate drainage.)  The protocols, famously illustrated by a small sign illustrated by none other than Quinten Blake that used to delight, inform and repulse in equal measure, were that if one was relieving oneself in a telephone box, one always faced away from any observer(s), and always held the handset firmly and confidently gripped in the unemployed hand.  Just a chap, making a call, and if you happen to notice that a chap has his chap (or indeed his penis) in his other hand, then any shocked observer could take comfort in the certainty that urinating is just about the least offensive thing that the occupant of the telephone box can be doing in such a pose.

The telephone box has so often doubled up as a crisis WC that rumour has it that in the days when telephone boxes had telephone directories in them (a forerunner of today’s telephone box libraries, though exclusively stocked with books with lots of characters and not much plot), serious thought was given to printing the directories on soft paper, possible perforated.

The rise in the increase of mobile ‘phone ownership coincided with a decline in courtesy to others and of inhibitions about sharing private details with total strangers.  People making a telephone call no longer sought a soundproof booth but instead favoured busy public transport or hitherto quiet and peaceful spots to make their telephone calls.

So it was that the telephone box fell into disuse.

As a telephone box.

They ceased making money because even though nobody was using them, they still had to be cleaned and occasionally de-tramped.  Slowly telephone boxes started to disappear, airbrushed out of the landscape.  (Sadly, not everyone thought to check to see if mobile ‘phone coverage extended to all the sites now marked not with a proud, glittering. Illuminated, slightly pee-smelling red box, but with a square of concrete.)

Of course, if there were any justice in the world, a succession of small plaques would be sunk into the otherwise anonymous concrete squares that, like the footsteps of telephony prehysteria, now dot the land.  A small plaque to commemorate a huge event, for instance that such-and-such a person ‘phoned their mother and father to inform them they had become grandparents from this site in 1965; that Debbi Broke Up With Darren using this ‘phone box in 1984, that in the same year, Darren confirmed to Debbi’s best friend Mandy that Debbi was a right slag anyway, and did Mandy want to go to out with him? And that in 1993, a profoundly relieved Jeff profoundly relieved himself on this very site.

The ‘problem’ with traditional red telephone boxes is that they have more individual panes of glass in them than the average cathedral, and so are devilish hard to clean, even if not be-tramped.  Naturally, as soon as Bloody Terrible stopped cleansing telephone receivers and started cleansing the landscape of character, the nation revolted.  Anyone who produced rural postcards of a sheep standing by a dry stone wall next to a red telephone box realised that sheep and stone alone just don’t do it.  The middle class mobilised.  In 4x4s.

As a result, many villages have successfully held on to their red telephone boxes (usually the same places that have held on to village greens).  Of course, they may not have managed to hold on to their indigenous population or village youth that has been priced out of the place by second home buyers, but at least the centre of the village still has its crimson totem to modernity.

Now though, more than ever, we know that telephone boxes can fulfil duel functions.

Telephone boxes have, famously, become village libraries, a phenomenon that started in 1994 when a lady in Masham left three copies of Catherine Cookson on a shelf by mistake, started a national trend, and has been too embarrassed to ask for them back since.

And there are yet more modern social uses.  Because it’s not just the internet that’s slow in rural areas. Ambulance response times being what they are in the countryside, there’s been a couple of reactions.  The first is a very practical approach to dealing with any accident involving threshing machinery.  Following the screams and panicked shut down, people pack anything still twitching in frozen peas and then hey ho for the nearest hospital.  Everyone then gathers at the local pub to wait for an update on successful re-attachment.  The first time anyone mentions ‘micro-surgery’ it is the law that somebody must say ‘was it his cock that got cut off’?  Followed by ‘I don’t make the rules’.

The second reaction is the most modern incarnation.  Village defibrillator.

On the face of it, this is a great idea.  With more and more people having more and more unrealistic expectations of their ability to do stuff, like running marathons, staying upright on a bar stool or enduring another fucking day on public transport, it’s a wonder that everyone doesn’t carry around their own defibrillator, like an evacuee carrying around a box on a piece of string that he or she imagines contains a gas mask bust in fact only contains an apologetic note from their mum explaining that their mask has in fact been sold for gin.

Defibrillators are appearing in more and more places.  Like pubs.  And surely that can’t be healthy.  Naturally, if a beloved boozer keels over and pegs it half way down a pint of what the landlord laughingly refers to as his best, then this will lead not just to blokes reading about the demise thinking ‘that’s the way to go’, or indeed the regulars all doing the sort of mental calculation that would boggle Turing to determine when would be the decent time to take up residence on Fatty’s recently vacated bar stool.  It leads to a few charity nights and the proud purchase of a defibrillator for the pub.  Of course, it’s only a short jolt to think that once the locals work out that the thing is rechargeable, they can incorporate it into their evening with, in descending order of idiocy, options including: 1) answering pub quiz questions after having paddles applied to both temples and being ‘zapped’, 2) playing ‘how high can you go’ on the voltage charge, noting that some wag has written ‘Frankenstein’ on one of the settings; 3) playing ‘Jason Statham’ by trying to improvise an anti-bad guy weapon and propel other people across the room by paddling their nipples with electricity; 4) playing doctor by bellowing ‘clear’ and then zapping an unsuspecting drinker in the arse and, of course, the winner, 5) the ‘electric boogie’: suck a lime, tequila shot, lick salt off of a live paddle.

But the latest incarnation of the telephone box as a home for the village defibrillator is something else.  Especially when you consider that only people trained in the use of the defibrillator may use it.  That’s probably a good thing, the last thing you need to see is some idiot spitting on some paddles for improved connectivity and electrocuting himself.

However.  Village life is interesting.  It is easy to start an argument (I refuse to use the term feud, we’re not, as Ross Kemp remarked in ‘Ultimate Force’, Americans) in an English village.  Defibrillators are expensive kit, so presumably only accessed by trained community members, these are the people you do not want to piss off, especially if you are lardy.  So.  It’s important to keep those keymasters trained to use the defibrillator and trusted with a key to its cabinet, on side.  The last thing you need to do if you like your beer, fags and lining your arteries with cheese is to forget to return those pinking shears you borrowed off the stuck up bloke who lives in ‘the Old Rectory’ and which you secretly used to trim your toenails.

It’s right that what was once an electronically powered beating heart of the village should once again be an electronically powered beating heart restarter of the village.

As to what’s next for the village telephone box?  It’s either going to be the recharging point, take off and landing pad for the village delivery drone, or home to the village three dee printer that will print your grocery order for you using protein goo and dye.

And, of course, it’s the perfect shape to operate as the village teleport kiosk once that technology is perfected, it’s even got the dial mechanism to enter the co-ordinates.

The art of the loaf

The art of loafing is nothing to do with twisting some seeds into your dough, calling the result ‘rustic’ and charging three quid for it, rather, it is dedication to relaxation.

Not that I have anything against work, industry and achievement, as long as it’s done properly, for instance the production of traction engines rather than the industrialisation of penguin genocide.

Don’t worry, this is not going to be another bloody post extolling the virtues of the shed.  But I will just point out that, generally, anything produced in a shed is likely to improve the world.  Brass clockwork novelty delights are made in sheds.  Destructive ideologies are not.  They, like bummers, are made in prison cells or public schools.  Workshops too turn out useful components and a number of workshops combined can turn out, for instance, charming cars.

Things start to go wrong when you industrialise on a factory scale, because not long after you get fed up with all the whinging and move production somewhere with a far more relaxed attitude to the minimum wage, where quality control can be enforced through the occasional execution.  The downside to this is that your workers will occasionally either try to smuggle themselves out of the country in the boot of the car they have just built, or record an impassioned plea for better conditions on the ‘phone they are boxing up.

The British Empire was, of course, founded on outsourcing and foreign labour.  We exported the British brand, and the pox, around the world and imported all sorts in return, like a lingering sense of entitlement and assumption that everyone should speak English.

Actual work can be measured thusly: do you start with a task that has measurable goals?  Do you end with a sense of a job well done and a well deserved pint?  Then that’s work.  Anything else is just dicking around.

In the twenty first century, it’s getting harder to relax.  Otherwise, why would there be a whole industry dedicated to helping us do so?  Time was, relaxing was easy.  You toiled until you were shaky with fatigue then drank cider until you were lying down.  Uncomplicated. 

Now, we think we are relaxing when we are in fact not.  For instance, sitting in front of the television might be considered by some to be a form of relaxation.  And it is, if you are watching a DVD of; a flickering fire, a lady playing the harp or a blank screen.  Anything else is too much stimulation.  Soaps now frequently end not just with a drum roll and an actor holding an expression in a manner unencountered in real life outside of anyone pictured straining for a shit, but with a help line for people affected by issues.  And ‘documentaries’ that are ostensively intended to make us feel better about ourselves by chronicling the dysfunctional lives of those with for instance amusing mental health issues, an addiction to biscuits, being fucking clueless about how to organise a wedding, a predilection for acts of self pollution involving Pot Noodle or just being chavs, simply result in the viewer being made to feel simultaneously uncomfortable and sad.

Mobile ‘phones have put an end to the micro-loaf, those few minutes where one might reasonably be expected to not think about very much at all.  No bugger looks out of train windows any more, they are all either playing games or updating their status to from ‘on platform’ to ‘on train’.

Loafing takes effort.  First off, you need a free afternoon in the week.  Then, you need to get into your pyjama trousers AND to be comfortable answering the door in them if required.  Then, you need find somewhere comfortable to lie horizontally that is not a bed.  Finally, you need to go through all the tedious things you should be doing instead, and realise that they are either not that urgent, not that important, or will be so much better achieved after a rest.

After a while, you will wake up.  With luck, the light will have drained from the sky meaning a) your attire is socially acceptable and b) you can now uncork dinner and move to phase two: unwinding.

The sound of the 21st Century

I used to be very uncomfortable with the idea that I might harbour prejudices. Then, as I grew older, I became more comfortable as I realised that most of my prejudices are not just knee-jerk irrational dislikes, but actually informed and reasoned feelings that save me a lot of time; if somebody is from a particular social group I’ve developed an opinion of, chances are I won’t like them and frankly, I don’t have the time to find out if I’m right or wrong. These days, I’m so comfortable with my prejudices that I become irritated that they are not shared. Somewhere along the line my prejudices have turned into views. This is dangerous, a prejudice is something you keep to yourself. A view is something you find yourself expressing, often at an inappropriate moment, usually just as everyone else at the party stops talking, occasionally just before everyone stops talking and, although they resume talking to one another, nobody resumes conversation with you.

My prejudices are fairly straightforward and, although I freely admit they are to a greater or lesser extent ugly and poisonous, they form a useful social shorthand. There are over six billion people on this planet and simply not enough time to meet each and every one and form an opinion of their character. That’s why it’s so very convenient that so many of them are foreign, as this immediately excludes them from being the sort of person I’d like to spend time with, unless it’s to order food or drink from, or liberate natural energy resources from.

Some prejudices are still very much in development. Take my dislike of vegetarians for instance. For years I disliked vegetarians because on the whole they are so affected that they are further up their own arse than sage and onion suffing goes up a goose at Christmas. There are two sorts of vegetarians, the sort who don’t eat meat but do eat fish, and cheese, and veal and bacon and pork. Okay, not the last three but for fuck’s sake, if you eat an animal, you’re not a vegetarian. Then there’s the other sort, who don’t even wear leather shoes. Are these people insane? Sweaty feet in plastic shoes and not having immediate access to steak and kidney pie is no way to live life in the 21st century.

But now I’m starting to wonder if it’s more affliction than affectation. I mean it can’t be easy being a vegetarian, certainly not when I back you into a corner and start having a go at you for being immoral on two counts, firstly because the only way to ensure animal welfare in the food business is to buy more free range organic stuff and secondly because anyone who has any kind of special diet bollocks that if not medical, for instance if you won’t eat lamb because your guru once got his dick caught in a sheep or something, is immoral in a world where people are starving. Don’t eat meat? Great, sit in the fucking corner while we FedEx your roast dinner to some poor starving sod in the Congo.

Having developed a rich and diverse suite of prejudices and a side helping of petty resentments at things that irritate me, I’d have thought that I had my full quota of things that make me seeth to a degree quite out of proportion to their actual irritation value; but I’ve acquired a new one. It’s the sound of the 21st Century, the beep. Not the ringtone, which, Christ alive, is irritating enough and let me tell you that as somebody who uses public transport the only bloody use for a fucking novelty ringtone is to allow you to locate the offending phone and then batter it to atoms with a hammer, before doing the same to its owner. The beep is everywhere, it’s the missed call, the text message and then it beeps every few minutes as a reminder. My prejudice? Thinking that the lazy sods who just let it bleep on rather than reach into their bag and get the phone are always either fat, or soon will be.

Mobility

Why is it that with so many many many options for communication, what people actually say is dross.

The other morning on the commute (not quite hell, but I wouldn’t be surprised if one day Virgil and Dante were in the seat across from me, Virgil explaining that this is the Hell of the Procrastinators), a young woman spent the entire journey, and I mean 20 minutes, telling her friend that if the friend left the friend’s boyfriend, she’d ‘f**king dump her, right, because, right, it’s not right to treat people like that, right’.

I suspect that she’s actually shagged the friend’s boyfriend and that this is exactly the sort of thing that comes up during break-up conversations and our shouty mouthy phone fool doesn’t want that, as the last thing she needs is an assault from a former friend, powered by 20 bottles of WKD blue, holding the last two, broken, in each hand and about to try out some moves she learned from ‘Tekken’.

What struck me, other than that somebody can spend so much time on a conversation of so little import, was the poverty of the language on display. I think that this girl must have had a lexicon of about 200 words. No kidding, in her personal dictionary the entry for ‘right’ must be chuffing enormous, because it appears to cover just about every conversational possibility.

I’ve little doubt that to her, this was, right, really important right. I also suspect that I now know why mobile phone executives can afford such large yachts.

Right (!), off to what the Council term the ‘recycling centre’ but which I am still pleased to call the dump, to get rid of accumulated sacks of garden waste. This will be a bit tricky, as some of them have been in the back garden, basically composting in the rain. Oops. This means I’m going to have to try and transport sacks of stuff that are one step away from being declared ‘wetlands’ and protected as a habitat for damp and twigs.