One's Association

Simian Mobile Disco tell us to forget our about the scene – it’s the beat that counts. And I have to agree. To dance to one’s own drum is a beautiful thing. At a time when conformity has overpowered the individual, the rare moments of a unique aesthetic, personality or conversation are a moment treasured.

After a rather lacklustre fireworks display courtesy of Tower Hamlets Council a friend and I were heading for some deep fried complex carbohydrates, the cold having exhausted the meagre nutritional value of the maize snacks we navigated the crowds on. Like ourselves, much of the throng were layered up, hats, scarves and gloves, mismatched or of a theme; the general consensus had decided to forget style in favour of warmth, most apt seeing as the winds were comparable to those of the Siberian tundra. There were some who had decided to play Russian Roulette with hypothermia in dogtooth jackets and fine knit jumpers, khaki trousers rolled to the ankle so the contrasting socks could be seen with their of-the-minute brogues or ridiculously lame canvas boots. Obviously frozen like an Iceland profiterole, they tensed their body and walked in the manner of Herman Munster. Forget about your scene style and focus on the accelerated beats of your over worked heart as it keeps your body warm.

Attired in my trusted blue duffel, anaconda-length scarf and aran cardigan I was comfortable, I didn't care if rather jumbled together my main concern was steering clear of the icy winds. My friend was in layers of block colours; snap him in half and he would be a Technicolor tree stump. He too was warm enough and so we were a pair of warm disappointed residents.

Ghetto maybe annoying and visually repellent – although in hoodies, puffa jackets and heavy denim they definitely looked warm – but their presence was unwanted. We steered clear when we could but at times it was unavoidable; holding tighter to possessions we stood straight and gave the air of being unafraid. It was as we munched on the chips and mayonnaise that an adolescent girl, her overly relaxed hair shining like a nylon lining in a high street suit, knit cardigan open to reveal a heaving bosom and Argos jewellery straining her lobes an instant collection of vignettes rushed through the head, bodies lying splattered and lacerated on the floor in a gangland random attack being the theme.

"You guys look well good, really like what you’re wearing. And you look, like well warm too."

I wasn't choking on the blood spurting out of a shot neck, it was the chip lodged in the throat. I was ashamed to have considered this girl a soon-to-be criminal if not already. However her association could only lead to such a judgement. But I should know better, however such actions are a safeguard; many a time has such a judgement kept me safe when a resident of Acton (aka crackton) and now Bethnal Green.

One cannot help wondering, if this girl was with another group of youths, non-ghetto, an unthreatening ensemble of darkly hooded faces in black jersey could she be the embodiment of a free creative who focuses on the beat of individuality rather than the scene of acceptability. Gangs of the ghetto, much like the plaid army of Shoreditch exists to congregate with conformity. It fools you into thinking that one will be accepted and cared for as long as in a similar aesthetic with a similar mindset.

Lies, it's all lies. A beastly uniformity that will hold you down and ruin any personality you have as it squashes it with ridicule. Scenesters, be it Shoreditch, Dalston, Soho or the ghetto are nothing more than a bully. Everyone wants to be accepted and liked but one has to be liked and accepted for who one is. It’s not easy and will not happen quickly, but when a meeting of individuals occurs, a respect for each other’s creativity is the most wondrous thing. It will console when struggling, feed when hungry and warm when cold. Just like my trusted blue duffel.