Almost a Punch-Up at the Pop-Up

Being the parents of a teenager has its advantages; Daughter keeps us in touch with life in London and we occasionally find ourselves in some very unusual situations……

D and I spent a Sunday evening squatting on low wooden benches under the A12 flyover in Hackney Wick, eating strawberries and popcorn.  It was Daughter’s idea and she somehow convinced Boyfriend’s Parents to leave the comfort of their suburban home in North West London and join us in what I have recently learned to call an Undercroft. Daughter’s Best Friend came too (the baker of birthday cake: see post no. 1). Boyfriend couldn’t make it; he had a previous arrangement with a hot computer game.

We were there to see ‘The Wizard of Oz’ in an outdoor pop - up cinema; one of many events planned as part of a six week programme entitled Folly for a Flyover. (Produced by Assemble CIC in conjunction with CREATE 2011 and The Barbican Art Gallery).

For once it wasn’t raining; in fact, it was so warm that I almost took my coat off, so as it was already the back end of July, we decided to risk walking along the canal without benefit of umbrella.  After abandoning the cars in Cadogan Terrace near Vicky Park, we joined the tow path via the access ramp that runs adjacent to that delightfully named pub, The Top of the Morning. We picked our way with care, because much of the tow path turned out to be under reconstruction in honour of the Olympics.  Indeed, we gazed in awe at the emerging embryo stadium as we passed respectfully by.  We moved unnoticed amongst the hoards of cyclists; caught between the equally unattractive options of either diving to the side into brambles, or throwing ourselves into the canal to avoid their wheels and handlebars as they weaved unnervingly swift and silent around us.  Later, we joined them again as they ducked deftly under the temporary structures erected expressly to prevent access to the public.

“I can hear a band!” Boyfriend’s Mum pointed in the general direction of distant music.  Sure enough.  A brass band was playing somewhere nearby.  We were not alone either; I could see many more groups of people like us popping up in all directions, climbing under and over fences and cordoned off bridges, all drawn by the distant strains of what sounded like the theme from ‘Star Wars’ which suddenly got a lot louder once we had scrambled up one grassy embankment, crossed a scary road and slithered down the other side to where hundreds of people had gathered to have a beer and a bagel, listen to music and watch Judy Garland do her stuff. It was delightful.

A friendly, freckly, red haired youth handed over our reserved tickets with a smile and suggested that we claim our seats ‘soonish’ as the show was a sell out and seats were not numbered.  There were six of us, so we decided to take his advice and spread our coats, blankets and picnic on an ideal bench where we could eat our ice creams, watch the band and enjoy the spectacle of canal barges and little row boats skimming the water as the sun slowly set behind a distant housing estate.  After frequent trips to the bar below, where the customers were now eight deep, we mellowed while we waited for ‘Showtime’ and watched the seats filling up around us with groups of excited young people, many of whom had dressed up for the occasion; I even saw a Toto look – alike.  Dog, that is.  ‘The Wizard of Oz’  was made in 1936 and I marveled at the staying power of this old classic.  Did all these ‘studenty’ types know the film, then?

Suddenly, a chill wind rose and the atmosphere changed.  Someone announced that the film would begin in five minutes time and that all the people occupying seats would have to vacate the ‘auditorium’ to have their tickets checked.  There was a sort of hesitant stampede, reluctant and urgent by turns, no one could quite believe what we had been asked to do and in such a hurry.  We had to abandon our belongings and pick our way down to the water’s edge where a young man was waiting to tear our tickets in half.  He looked cross.  It was Freckles.  As D and I shuffled towards him, there was an impatient surge of people pushing behind me and I fell over a low bench.  “You can just go to the back of the queue for pushing in like that!”  Said Freckles, and to show he meant business, he refused to look at my ticket or those of the rest of our party.  While others argued, I’m afraid I took advantage of the diversion and scarpered back to our seats, keeping a low profile, to hold the fort.  A group of young women who had been propping up the bar all evening were squatting on our coats and swearing blind that they had been there all the time.  Did they think I was gaga?  I felt the paper thin veneer of civilization peel away.  I was mad, and I wasn’t going to take it anymore.  My inner harridan, buried deep in my working class soul, rose up and sent them packing as they complained loudly to all who might listen that I was a bossy old woman.

(Har.ri.dan  | ’haridn |  noun  a bossy old woman ORIGIN late 17^th cent. (originally slang): perhaps from French haridelle ‘old horse’ )

Luckily, the others arrived in time to support me just as another group of young women tried to bully me out of the seat I had fought so hard to keep.  There were six of them and they wanted me to ‘shove up’ to accommodate them all.  As there was plenty of room further along I stood my ground, well, kept my bum firmly planted, actually.  “I’ve had this seat for an hour and a half and I’m not giving it up now!”  I heard myself hollering.  For once, D, whose middle class soul shrivels with embarrassment whenever I show my true nature, backed me up. One of them actually put her hands on my shoulders to make her point: she wanted my seat and she felt entitled to it.

I’ll save for another occasion my treatise on the unlooked for consequences of the ‘I’m special’ generation having reached their majority, because just then, the film started.  Dorothy sang and the audience, including my otherwise unsentimental Daughter, swayed in time to the music.  I was only slightly distracted by the constant stream of people who’d drunk too much beer running back and forth to the portaloo; its banging door echoing loudly somewhere out of vision:

“somewhere over the rainbow … “  (clang! clang!)

At the moment of transformation from sepia to full colour, there was a collective gasp as everyone, from baby boomers to digital natives, fell under the spell of a good yarn; united by Hollywood magic.  We sang along and clapped all the set pieces with enthusiasm.  As the Good Witch Gwenda – she of the pink net frock – reappeared at the end to show Dorothy the way home, the picture froze for a couple of frames and from then on the film was out of sync. Enchanting.

Later, we walked back along the canal in total darkness; no moon that night.  We pretended we were following the Yellow Brick Road and that the now rather ghostly looking Olympic structure, mirrored perfectly in the stillness of the Grand Union Canal, was the Emerald City.  We all agreed that it was probably the closest we were ever likely to get to the London Games.

Boyfriend’s Parents have now challenged us to come up with something else that they have never done before…..!

The hunt is on.