RND/ to consider the unique emotional properties of the light – of existential depression – seen in classic urban designer comedy cockney docudrama series “Minder” – knoworrimen, guv?
Suffering from mild existential depression, you decide to re-watch the entire TV series of Minder (again.)
Being from the borough or ‘manor’ as it were – various shots of Londinium most ancient resonate to / in the core of your distributed neural network. In which your dear old mum (gawd bless er) used to drag you half way around its sprawling necropolis every week when she dropped you off at friend’s houses before leaving for work.
Oh such sights, sounds and signs of your past – a sudden intensity of ambient existential depression – experienced as a constantly slightly-worried child, waiting impatiently in cold flats of strangers for your mum to pick you up, take you home for tea and a cuddle.
Consider these feelings something to do with the quality of thin drab light inna Endland: expressed here in Minder, it’s that slow 70s feeling of washed out ‘naffness’ (crapness, disappointment) – a distinctly indistinct and largely unremarkable story of misplaced human endeavour, of endless financial struggle set against a backdrop of unremitting anonymity. Highstreet blues, brown carpets with 70’s ‘horrible orange’ curtains – old dirty brick hyper-Ballardian flyovers . Imposingly apathetic, brutalist inner city architecture contrasting heavily with suburban blandness, working class back alley abandonment.
In which to watch Minder means to immerse oneself and accidentally get lost in in psychological space where the urban rooftops recede infinitely into distance; a minor fringe universe of dodgy deals and back handers (of all sorts), populated by cheap cigar smoking spivs, ex contender ‘ard geezers’ for hire – each on quiet, ask no porkies no receipts available instant finance. Middling class twits poncin’ around in some upper class, gangster owned nighclub – mugs / wallies each and all. Endless corrugated galvanised iron cups of weak, tooth staining tea, zero future prospects.
A forever saddening, half twilight world direct from hand to mouth to inside jacket pocket, say no more around houses, depends who’s asking my son – lightly torn posters of that fit tennis bird scratching ‘er arse on the wall of a second hand car dealership hut. Truly ‘orrible bacon and egg butties, slathered with HP Sauce on white bread, bring the van around the back, Terrence, import-export no VAT, get yer’ collar felt by the filth today, as yet another day dawns lonely and grey. Enough to make you spit. As though life itself was in remission, the final permanent sentence for your average punter.
In short, a distinctly overcast outlook – a long stroll down a degraded memory palace to and of nowhere-anywhere, forever – a desperate laundry list compiled by ‘er indoors – dusty bunches of ‘ooky mockney cliches for a ‘pahnd (£); era displaced tunes of some mis-tuned joanna down some dodgy rub at the end of the frog (“Do what, Arfur?”, etc.
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