‘All the world’s a stage,’ if we are to believe Shakespeare, who admittedly does come across as a pretty knowledgeable sort of a chap. Much to my surprise it seems that Londoners do not agree with his stage direction, or for that matter his belief that people should extend their communications skills beyond grunting. Grunting, as we know, is something that bus drivers can only aspire to.
The city in which celebrities choose to give birth on TV, have their wedding vows printed in magazines and give press interviews on their deathbed apparently has a limit. That limit has come surprisingly in the form of Google’s new Street View service, which has turned the city of London into a stage.
Londoners this week were outraged that Google had jeopardised their privacy by launching a service whereby people at home could observe every street in the capital whilst the locals performed mundane tasks. Channel 4 on the other hand were outraged that Google had managed to turn the entire city into an over crowded version of the Big Brother house, just with better haircuts.
The only mistake that Google really made was not telling Londoners that they were going to be apart of the world’s biggest reality TV show. Had the people of London thought that this was all some kind of audition the only complaint would have been that they had not been featured for long enough, or not at all. Their attempts to make sure that they had their 15 minutes of fame would have given Google and us armchair spectators some far more interesting footage. Which would be a breath of fresh air to workers in the office blocks where Facebook is banned.
If I knew that Google was auditioning Londoners I would walk, rather than run to my garbage bin every morning in my pyjamas in an attempt to impress any talent scouts watching at home. Given I wear pink pyjamas covered in piglets it is unlikely that I would be picked up for any TV work, other than maybe a cameo in The Muppets.
Google could have spiced things up further by promoting the fact that Simon Cowell and his X Factor judges would be trawling the images for his next star/puppet. If they are interested in doing this they should do it before Danni Minogue’s Botox induced facial paralysis spreads to her eyes. The latest photo on her official website would indicate that this is imminent.
Revenue from a public phone vote covering categories such as the worst dressed homeless person, the best vomit and teenage girl most likely to give birth in nine months would have ensured that the service paid for itself. It would also pay for the fleet of security vehicles Google will need to take more of these images in future. Google’s press office (run by Americans I would guess) didn’t think it was an issue to reveal to the knife wielding population of London, that Google had a number of spy cars with cameras on the streets taking these shots. My money is on the next version of Street View only covering a select number of the less dangerous areas, that or Google investing in some really long lenses.
There will be some people who are genuinely worried about their privacy, who would be relived to see the Street View service discontinued. I have in mind the middle-aged couple which I overheard panicking recently on a BA flight coming into Heathrow Terminal 5. The landing video announced that passengers would be filmed on arrival at the new terminal. The woman was in quite a state at the thought of being filmed like a common criminal, until her husband put down the copy of the Daily Mail he was studiously reading and reassured her that only foreigners would be filmed. I wondered at the time what they had to hide (and whether in fact they were the two people on the planet best suited to each other.) I guess we all have something we want to hide, such as the flowers in a vase on my dining room table which look suspiciously like the ones in my neighbour’s flower box. It’s times like this I could really embrace Google’s policy to blur the faces of people caught on camera. Alas the piglet pyjamas would be a give away.
As it stands the things I am most distressed about are: realising that my mother will know I am lying when I say I am keeping my front garden tidy. Also on Street View there appears to be a good looking guy walking past my place and had I been given prior warning of this phenomena I would have placed a bear trap outside my front door.
I do find it interesting though that Google has managed to launch this service in other countries without journalists or would be Daily Mail readers self combusting. Hell, they even launched it in Australia without much fuss. I can only assume this is because Australians were just relived that someone other than Baz Luhrmann had decided to bring an interpretation of Australia to the world.
Most curious of all is why anyone who has spent time on the streets of London would want to use this service in the first place. A friend of mine recently gave me directions to her flat. They went something like this: ‘Come out of the tube, walk past the Cock pub, you’ll run into an army of charity collectors, go past McDonalds, keep going as far as KFC, and then we are the flat above the betting shop.’ If all the world really is a stage then just maybe this is one play that should never be adapted into the movie.
Showing posts with label Big Brother. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Big Brother. Show all posts
Monday, 22 June 2009
Sunday, 19 April 2009
Unpopular kid at school
The museums of London are just like those kids in the playground who no one wanted to play with. These little fellas were so desperate to attract play mates they would have done just about anything to make themselves popular. If you ever wondered what happened to these sad things you can tune in and watch them on Big Brother.
I make this comparison to museums after my recent visit to the V&A. I should say upfront that the V&A is my favourite of all the London museums. Admittedly for an entirely unscholarly reason: the homemade beef pies in the café. The fact that they have resorted to baking us treats should tell you that they are a tad on the desperate side for friends. Baking is the adult version of doing someone else’s homework. I must also admit I wasn’t opposed to it then and I am certainly not opposed to it now.
It isn’t just the pies, which gives away the museum's desperation.
The museums are in an unusually tricky situation, most of the great unwashed British general public go to the museums because they are free. I don’t judge as we have already established I go for the baked goods.
In the face of economic downturn back in the 1980’s the British government managed to democratise culture, art and history. It was as if Marie Antoinette’s ghost was their financial advisor; ‘Let them eat cake Prime Minister.’ Or in this case pies. Let the Londoners go to galleries and they will forget that they can’t afford bread and milk. If the working classes survived their impoverished childhoods they grew up with a very well informed opinion on whether modern day architecture is influenced most by the Greeks or by the Romans. This is incredibly useful if you get stuck for something to say to the person next to you in the benefits queue outside the Post Office on a Monday morning.
So after years of telling people that museums are free, or in other words, ‘I’ll pay you to be my friend and hang out with me’, it is then very difficult to be taken seriously. This is despite housing some of the most magnificent wonders in the world, such as my beloved pie and various other priceless artefacts.
The first sign that the V&A is desperate for friends is the decision to have a donation box at the front entrance. Their first mistake is using the word ‘voluntary.’ Not just because most people walk straight past it without putting their hands in their pockets but because most people born of the X (Factor) generation cannot pronounce such a big word, let alone know what it means.
I watch as everyone walks past the sad little empty box, everyone except for the people who seem least likely to be able to afford to make a donation: an elderly man and woman who has a bible hanging out of her handbag (circa 1973.) Maybe they didn’t read the sign outside, took one look at the architecture and thought they were walking into a church. I watch the same couple put £1 into the box for a museum map. I hope by this stage that they have realised that they are not in a church and that they are not buying a map to heaven, but rather to the men’s room.
The security bag search is also somewhat on the pathetic side. I walked in with a relatively large bag, not only because I am a woman and my gender mandates it, but because I am also carrying a laptop and more shopping than I expected to lug around London on a Saturday afternoon. Behaviour also mandated by my gender. I sling my bag on the table in front of the security guard begging to be searched. I take some pleasure in disappointing security workers by not carrying corrosives. The security guard takes one look at the bag, then at me and says, ‘No, it’s OK.’ I again was left with the impression that he didn’t want to stretch my friendship with the museum too far. OK, his leniency may have been influenced by me looking like a walking Gap ad rather than a threat to national security.
Once inside, like most visitors, I headed straight for the museum gift shop. Why look at a Venetian fresco when you can look at a Venetian fresco reproduced on a tea towel?
The shop itself takes up a significant part of the ground floor. I can just see the architect saying to the Director of the museum, ‘Now if you want the punters to come, you will have to give them a reason to hang around. I suggest we downsize the Chinese Pottery section in favour of a wall to house overpriced pretentious postcards.’ Never mind the centuries of priceless artefacts, the pencil sharpener in the shape of a pyramid will be a bigger hit and make us more popular with the cool kids.
Perhaps the most obvious sign that the museums are desperate for friends is the instruction printed on my map (the one I didn’t pay £1 for): ‘Please keep mobile phone use to a minimum.’ Only to a minimum? If there is one place on the planet where you should live in fear of phone confiscation it is a museum. Especially a museum that looks a little bit like a church. But at the V&A they don’t want to rock the boat, so you and your phone can roam freely and piss off as many people as you want, just as long as you hang out there a little bit longer. I long to experiment whether you can also talk with your mouthful and run with scissors in here.
Admittedly my beloved V&A doesn't come across as desperate as the Science Museum: on a Friday night they serve cocktails. I can only assume that this came out of a brainstorm where the thing most commonly associated with science for most people was being drunk in the back row of the science lab, after testing, and re testing the beaker labelled ‘100% alcohol.’
As I head to leave this particular Saturday I smile sympathetically at the two women standing in a booth near the exit. They are selling memberships to the V&A. How silly do they think I am? Actually maybe the last laugh is on me: my pie was £6.99. Maybe like all the geeky kids at school they will end up millionaires.
I make this comparison to museums after my recent visit to the V&A. I should say upfront that the V&A is my favourite of all the London museums. Admittedly for an entirely unscholarly reason: the homemade beef pies in the café. The fact that they have resorted to baking us treats should tell you that they are a tad on the desperate side for friends. Baking is the adult version of doing someone else’s homework. I must also admit I wasn’t opposed to it then and I am certainly not opposed to it now.
It isn’t just the pies, which gives away the museum's desperation.
The museums are in an unusually tricky situation, most of the great unwashed British general public go to the museums because they are free. I don’t judge as we have already established I go for the baked goods.
In the face of economic downturn back in the 1980’s the British government managed to democratise culture, art and history. It was as if Marie Antoinette’s ghost was their financial advisor; ‘Let them eat cake Prime Minister.’ Or in this case pies. Let the Londoners go to galleries and they will forget that they can’t afford bread and milk. If the working classes survived their impoverished childhoods they grew up with a very well informed opinion on whether modern day architecture is influenced most by the Greeks or by the Romans. This is incredibly useful if you get stuck for something to say to the person next to you in the benefits queue outside the Post Office on a Monday morning.
So after years of telling people that museums are free, or in other words, ‘I’ll pay you to be my friend and hang out with me’, it is then very difficult to be taken seriously. This is despite housing some of the most magnificent wonders in the world, such as my beloved pie and various other priceless artefacts.
The first sign that the V&A is desperate for friends is the decision to have a donation box at the front entrance. Their first mistake is using the word ‘voluntary.’ Not just because most people walk straight past it without putting their hands in their pockets but because most people born of the X (Factor) generation cannot pronounce such a big word, let alone know what it means.
I watch as everyone walks past the sad little empty box, everyone except for the people who seem least likely to be able to afford to make a donation: an elderly man and woman who has a bible hanging out of her handbag (circa 1973.) Maybe they didn’t read the sign outside, took one look at the architecture and thought they were walking into a church. I watch the same couple put £1 into the box for a museum map. I hope by this stage that they have realised that they are not in a church and that they are not buying a map to heaven, but rather to the men’s room.
The security bag search is also somewhat on the pathetic side. I walked in with a relatively large bag, not only because I am a woman and my gender mandates it, but because I am also carrying a laptop and more shopping than I expected to lug around London on a Saturday afternoon. Behaviour also mandated by my gender. I sling my bag on the table in front of the security guard begging to be searched. I take some pleasure in disappointing security workers by not carrying corrosives. The security guard takes one look at the bag, then at me and says, ‘No, it’s OK.’ I again was left with the impression that he didn’t want to stretch my friendship with the museum too far. OK, his leniency may have been influenced by me looking like a walking Gap ad rather than a threat to national security.
Once inside, like most visitors, I headed straight for the museum gift shop. Why look at a Venetian fresco when you can look at a Venetian fresco reproduced on a tea towel?
The shop itself takes up a significant part of the ground floor. I can just see the architect saying to the Director of the museum, ‘Now if you want the punters to come, you will have to give them a reason to hang around. I suggest we downsize the Chinese Pottery section in favour of a wall to house overpriced pretentious postcards.’ Never mind the centuries of priceless artefacts, the pencil sharpener in the shape of a pyramid will be a bigger hit and make us more popular with the cool kids.
Perhaps the most obvious sign that the museums are desperate for friends is the instruction printed on my map (the one I didn’t pay £1 for): ‘Please keep mobile phone use to a minimum.’ Only to a minimum? If there is one place on the planet where you should live in fear of phone confiscation it is a museum. Especially a museum that looks a little bit like a church. But at the V&A they don’t want to rock the boat, so you and your phone can roam freely and piss off as many people as you want, just as long as you hang out there a little bit longer. I long to experiment whether you can also talk with your mouthful and run with scissors in here.
Admittedly my beloved V&A doesn't come across as desperate as the Science Museum: on a Friday night they serve cocktails. I can only assume that this came out of a brainstorm where the thing most commonly associated with science for most people was being drunk in the back row of the science lab, after testing, and re testing the beaker labelled ‘100% alcohol.’
As I head to leave this particular Saturday I smile sympathetically at the two women standing in a booth near the exit. They are selling memberships to the V&A. How silly do they think I am? Actually maybe the last laugh is on me: my pie was £6.99. Maybe like all the geeky kids at school they will end up millionaires.
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