Urban Decay (revised)

A rainy winter evening adds atmosphere to the city. A simple walk from Charing Cross to the Strand and then to Covent Garden reveals clues to the city’s former glory. If you were to close your eyes, you could visualise what Victorian London would have been like. The deserted small alley-ways lit dimly by street lamps, Victorian buildings built very close to each other, wretched streets where urine has been thrown from a window of a building. You can open your eyes now, times have changed.

Neon lights signal coffee bars, restaurants, and nightclubs. A meal for two excluding wine amounts to the same as the daily wage of a teacher, nurse, or social worker. This city is for the rich. There are countless numbers of these places across central London. They are located a mere five minute walk from the tourist trap of Leicester Square. Rich Londoners go there and spend their money, and get drunk. They show off their branded clothes, mobile phones, business cards, and eventually return home. London is one big fun fair for them.

A terrible smell surrounds the city. You can smell the dried stains of blood and vomit when you leave the tourist areas. The city is rotting from the inside. It is infested with rats. The poor are the ones who suffer, but it is the rich that are exploited by the rich, tricked by the allure of branded products and high tech gadgets they waste their money on unnecessary things. Run down looking buildings are disguised as eloquent places to socialize, and the trendy flock there. The poor wait on tables serving arrogant and pretentious customers only to go home to eat rice and vegetables, the same thing as the day before. The poor pray to the heavens hoping that God is watching over them. Maybe he is. Let there be no doubt that someone is watching over the wealthy in the form of wickedness. The rich know this and wherever they go they always check that their car has remained where they left it or if their wallet has been taken. However, some can be complacent.

Whitechapel in the East End of London is an interesting area; the financial district of London was expanding into this run down and poor neighbourhood. The authorities call this social regeneration, crap; the local people are not the beneficiaries as they do not receive jobs in the new expanding corporations. Nearby there is the London Hospital. It is part of the National Health Service. The elderly and sick face long waiting lists for operations. This is the residue of Thatcher’s Britain, years of neglect led to deterioration. Whitechapel is home to high-rise council housing. They are filled with poor people. These homes are health hazards with rat infested floors and communal toilets where one could find used syringes. Thanks are also due to the Labour party, the champions of the working class. They had the nerve to call this social regeneration.

Shamsu lived in his parent’s overcrowded house. Also in this house lived his three brothers and their wives. His oldest brother had a new born son, the pride of the family. At 22 years old Shamsu was jobless. He went to school in Stepney, close to Whitechapel, a predominantly Bangladeshi community. Lessons were taught in Bangladeshi, part of some crazy politically correct Labour policy that ensured that people were educated in their mother tongue. Shamsu left school with a mere two GCSE’s to his name; he was one of the better students. As rain turns to sunshine and clouds eventually disappear leaving a clear blue sky, dreams turn to wishes and hope eventually becomes despair. Shamsu’s dreams for the future evaporated as he grew older. He was 22 years old and had already given up.

Londoners live their lives on a day to day basis blinded of the urban decay. They read the newspapers that detail Prince William’s sexual affairs or Elizabeth Taylor’s marital hopefuls, but are unaware that their city is rotting from within. The city is one big illusion built for those who choose not to see the reality of desperation, and the rich who live in luxury.