mixture of (on the one hand) indifference/hostility or (on the other) intimacy/inclusion. If they’ve brought along a sleeping bag, or a bottle of wine, say (as they often do), then it’s almost like they perceive their slightly-raised selves as part of the drama. This is my show now, see? This is my life. This is me .
(ia) Eating
Many Outsiders come to eat. It stops them from being bored, it gives them something to toss (or to think about tossing), it keeps their hands busy, and it’s an explicit slight to the High and Hungry One. To come here and eat is the number one indicator of real hostility (they say the smell of fried onions from the vans has been driving the Illusionist almost wild with frustration).
It’s a curious fact, but I often see packs of women in late middle age standing around and devouring fast food with a far greater sense of malicious gusto than almost anybody else from any other sex/age group (apart from the schoolboys–but then these testosterone-fuelled imps are a law unto themselves).
These aren’t old slags–uh- uh - but polite-seeming women (Matrons. Mothers. Grand mothers). The sorts of people who would normally not even dream of consuming a hot dog (let alone in public, and from some shonky old van ), but who come down here and queue and pay and and scoff with a real sense of vindictive glee . Stand and eat and smirk. (‘Oh my God , Jemima! You’ve got an awful slick of chilli sauce on your pash-mina. Lucky I’ve got a handy pack of Wet-Ones in my bag…’)
‘We are London’s mothers,’ their smug, munching faces seem to announce, ‘and while our fundamental instincts are to provide and to nurture, in your particular case we simply don’t care . You’re a stranger. A nothing . We despise what you’re doing, what you’re attempting to do, what you represent. We despise your Art , your Magic, your deceit, your pretension . We despise what you are .’
I read (in some random newspaper article a while back) about how Blaine lost his own mother when he was 21. And I might be going out on a limb , here, but I can’t help wondering whether this wholesale matronly rejection might not really sting that lonely magician a little ( some where).
Well get me , coming over all empathetic, eh? !
(ib) The Bridge
The real troublemakers like to stand on the bridge. On the right-hand side (at the southern end of Tower Bridge) is one of the best views available (Blaine is at eye level, here, but about twenty-five yards away). This is the place where the crazy-angry types like to stand and aim their laser pens, or hurl their eggs and their other consumables (no chance of the beefed-up security wrangling you here–too many stairs, too many exits, and then there’s always the opportunity to clamber into a waiting car and scoot etc.).
Their aim (like their fruit) is generally rotten. There’s a spot down below on the embankment (not even in the park ) where their missiles tend to land, and usually it’s outside the cordon, slap-bang in the middle of the ‘Outsider’ contingent.
Egging their own people. But still they keep throwing–
Weird , huh?
(ii) The Insiders
The Insiders must legally submit to being filmed (like I said before), both by the maverick Korine and by the TV people at Sky (who have a million dollar deal and access to Blaine 24 hours a day).
And you know what? The Insiders fucking love that shit. That’s partly why they’re here. They’re dizzy, fuckin’ extroverts. They just wanna come on down, pay homage, dance around, show off and be a part of the fiesta.
Yup .
They’ve brought along their knapsacks and their fold-up chairs, their phones and their cameras. They’ve brought along their binoculars, their banners and their bunches of flowers (the gerbera is currently the Number One flower of Insider choice. I can only guess that this is (a) because of their cheerfully lurid–almost fluorescent–colours, (b) because of the big flower-head,
(ia) Eating
Many Outsiders come to eat. It stops them from being bored, it gives them something to toss (or to think about tossing), it keeps their hands busy, and it’s an explicit slight to the High and Hungry One. To come here and eat is the number one indicator of real hostility (they say the smell of fried onions from the vans has been driving the Illusionist almost wild with frustration).
It’s a curious fact, but I often see packs of women in late middle age standing around and devouring fast food with a far greater sense of malicious gusto than almost anybody else from any other sex/age group (apart from the schoolboys–but then these testosterone-fuelled imps are a law unto themselves).
These aren’t old slags–uh- uh - but polite-seeming women (Matrons. Mothers. Grand mothers). The sorts of people who would normally not even dream of consuming a hot dog (let alone in public, and from some shonky old van ), but who come down here and queue and pay and and scoff with a real sense of vindictive glee . Stand and eat and smirk. (‘Oh my God , Jemima! You’ve got an awful slick of chilli sauce on your pash-mina. Lucky I’ve got a handy pack of Wet-Ones in my bag…’)
‘We are London’s mothers,’ their smug, munching faces seem to announce, ‘and while our fundamental instincts are to provide and to nurture, in your particular case we simply don’t care . You’re a stranger. A nothing . We despise what you’re doing, what you’re attempting to do, what you represent. We despise your Art , your Magic, your deceit, your pretension . We despise what you are .’
I read (in some random newspaper article a while back) about how Blaine lost his own mother when he was 21. And I might be going out on a limb , here, but I can’t help wondering whether this wholesale matronly rejection might not really sting that lonely magician a little ( some where).
Well get me , coming over all empathetic, eh? !
(ib) The Bridge
The real troublemakers like to stand on the bridge. On the right-hand side (at the southern end of Tower Bridge) is one of the best views available (Blaine is at eye level, here, but about twenty-five yards away). This is the place where the crazy-angry types like to stand and aim their laser pens, or hurl their eggs and their other consumables (no chance of the beefed-up security wrangling you here–too many stairs, too many exits, and then there’s always the opportunity to clamber into a waiting car and scoot etc.).
Their aim (like their fruit) is generally rotten. There’s a spot down below on the embankment (not even in the park ) where their missiles tend to land, and usually it’s outside the cordon, slap-bang in the middle of the ‘Outsider’ contingent.
Egging their own people. But still they keep throwing–
Weird , huh?
(ii) The Insiders
The Insiders must legally submit to being filmed (like I said before), both by the maverick Korine and by the TV people at Sky (who have a million dollar deal and access to Blaine 24 hours a day).
And you know what? The Insiders fucking love that shit. That’s partly why they’re here. They’re dizzy, fuckin’ extroverts. They just wanna come on down, pay homage, dance around, show off and be a part of the fiesta.
Yup .
They’ve brought along their knapsacks and their fold-up chairs, their phones and their cameras. They’ve brought along their binoculars, their banners and their bunches of flowers (the gerbera is currently the Number One flower of Insider choice. I can only guess that this is (a) because of their cheerfully lurid–almost fluorescent–colours, (b) because of the big flower-head,
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