Kim has got
a British passport. She can also claim South African citizenship and was born in Korea. She
spent her childhood attending international schools throughout Europe, Africa
and the Middle East. She’s ended up living in Peckham, down the road from me, while
working in journalism. I think it’s romantic in a way. She could be anywhere in
the world but she’s here in South London.
You’d know
she’s got a British passport because she’s currently waving it at the bouncer,
breathlessly pleading to be let into the venue. She’s also five foot nothing,
so it doesn’t take much to get her this drunk. In her globalised American lexicon, she’ll
say that she’s “pre-gamed” too hard at her house before stumbling onto Rye
Lane. A whirling Tasmanian devil in high heels, leaving destruction in her
wake. She relents, then sways from side to side behind me as I negotiate with
the bouncer as apologetically as I can.
“Get her
some chips and she can come in”. Chips, wonderful chips. Chips cure all.
It’s one of
those nights that almost doesn’t happen, and everything thereafter feels like a
bonus. We’re at Canavan’s Pool Club at the top of Rye Lane. Its entrance is
squeezed between the old iron mongers and a chiropodist. It’s a proper venue, a
world away from the cocktail menus and supposedly Good Honest Burgers that have
started to pop up in Peckham, even more so than before in the last twelve
months.
The young
crowd slowly sways up toward Rye Lane, a mass of Moschino and Reebok Classics.
They seem to pass by and it makes us anxious, afraid that we’ll miss the best
bits of the evening, so we hurry along too, wolfing down the suggested chips
from Rooster Hut.
With dollar
signs inked onto the back of our hands by the woman at the desk, we make our
way in. Immediately we’re struck by an authenticity that would blow the mind of
Time Out clutching tourist. Signs handwritten in highlighter pen telling you
not to put your drinks on the DJ booth and exposed wires dangle from the
ceiling. Downstairs, toilets are filth, looking like something out of a
childhood scout hut rather than a cutting edge venue. A few centimetres of mystery
liquid pool on the floor and leave the cubicles damp to the point where you
think the stalls themselves might collapse, tear away from its foundations like
soggy cardboard.
I come back
upstairs and big geezers with shaven heads and gold teeth loiter half way to
the pool tables. Scary demeanours give way to false, overly friendly ones as
soon as you stare too long. “Yeah, of course! Let me give you my work number” one winks and nudges,
handing over a brick of a Nokia. Its screen hums out bright green light over
us.
Kim, maybe
slightly more sober now, manages to introduce me to Gianluca, who’s Italian. He
would be with a name like that. Turns out he went to many of the same international
schools as her, but speaks with what sounds like a New York accent. He wears a
leather jacket and he’s one of the only people I’ve ever seen in person to look
good in one. I spit out a reel of words which includes references to pizza, my
barber who shares his name, and AFC Fiorentina. He smiles back politely and
it’s enough of a connection. We proceed to have a great night.
The
overriding feeling of the evening in Canavan’s is that there’s a community here. The mix of
people seems far more diverse than other clubs, even those in Peckham. It’s inclusive
of class, creed or colour. Accepting of all, just as long as you want to dance
or play pool between midnight and 4 in the morning. I can’t lie, I’m totally
sozzled; but I’ve put my can down on the baize three times before the bouncer
raises his voice with any aggression. And then we leave, all smiles, almost
embracing the bouncers who wouldn’t let us in a few hours earlier.
You see, I
love Peckham, I really do. To some, Peckham is still a byword for the
undesirable side of London. The one that people are vaguely aware exists, but
don’t know all too much about. For those who’ve never got on a Number 12, they
must assume that Rye Lane more closely resembles Syria than the rest of London.
“Moths are like butterflies, but from Peckham” read a recent tweet. Read
certain lifestyle blogs about the bars on Rye Lane and they’ll use terms like assault on the senses, refer to a scruffiness that they seem to be glad is
rapidly disappearing.
Certainly,
in parts, the pavement is a carpet of chicken bones, bleached plastic hangs in
ribbons from the trees and every dog’s a Staffie. Literally turn the corner
though, and you’re in a leafy boulevard full of Persian restaurants and yummy
mummies pushing prams. There’s no tube either, so it feels almost like a
village rather than such a big town in Zone 2. You’ve got the largest Nigerian
community in the UK. You have seemingly thousands of art students with
thought-provoking haircuts riding their fixies to either UAL or Goldsmiths. Numbers of
the white working class remain also; old London families swept into new builds.
St. George’s Crosses and Millwall flags hanging stubbornly outside while so
many of their peers have retreated away down the Old Kent Road. You can walk a
few streets though, and you’re amongst the gated communities of Dulwich.
There’s another culture, another way of looking at things around every corner
here.
The morning
after and I’m feeling empty and restless. It’s like my skull is made of egg
shells and might crack into quarters, then tiny pieces, then dust at any time.
The day is mostly spent in bed. I have a fish finger sandwich in order to cheer
myself up, but as it starts to get dark I’ve still not eaten anything properly.
Like I do far too often, I leave the flat and stumble to the bastion of south
London cuisine, Morley’s Fried Chicken.
I ask for
a number 18, but my attention is taken more by a woman sat at the till. She’s not
buying anything, just talking to the young man serving. She laments that her
friends are being evicted. They couldn’t pay their rent she says.
Another pang
of guilt hits me, almost as hard as the hangover. Even though I hardly live in
a luxury apartment – my rent is £500 a month- I am part of the new wave of
occupants into Peckham. I can’t trace my family back to dock workers at Surrey
Quays, nor do I speak Yoruba. I’m not even one of the art students; I catch a
Thameslink train each morning to work a 9-5. Relatively middle class. A
blow-in. For all the community spirit I experienced last night, I still hope
people ask “where do you live?” rather than “where are you from?”.
“But still”
she sighs “you’ve got to keep moving forward”. She says it in such a
non-committal way; I’m not sure if she will, or even if she intends to do so.
“Not
necessarily keep moving forward” offers the man behind the till. “But you have
to evolve. Adapt to the environment as it changes around you.”
I chew
barbeque wings and wonder if that’s a perfect analogy for Peckham in 2016. This
weekend has been subdued. My first since having learned the news that high-end
estate agents Foxtons will be opening a branch just yards away from Canavan’s
on Rye Lane. Franchise coffee outlets lurk in the background, waiting to pounce
and replace the unique stores throughout the town centre.
The first
place a lot of people new to Peckham want to visit is Frank’s, the bar on top
of the multi-storey car park. Even that has changed since last summer though.
Whereas you used to have to lead unsuspecting visitors through a gate swinging
off its hinges to the dimly lit back entrance last time round, the front stairwell
is now painted, brazenly, entirely bright pink, providing the background for
Facebook profile pictures London-wide. Nothing demonstrates the change in
Peckham more than the fact that the multi-storey where GMG and Giggs’ Black
Gang used to film their music videos is now home to an art space and Campari
bar. It’ll host an event on behalf of Proms later this month.
When
Margaret Thatcher bought her house just off the South Circular, it was to help
demonstrate that Barratt Developments could be upmarket, even in somewhere as
unfashionable as South East London. Today, the property is worth well over
£2million. Even sites as sacred to the community as Bussey Building are not
immune from the wandering eyes of property developers. The obvious is that
Peckham is in fact, trendy. Young professionals will throw themselves at the chance
to live a stone’s throw from Bussey and Canavan's and John The fucking Unicorn.
The
commuters blowing into the 'new Dalston' will strive for convenience. While regularity on the Overland and the
Thameslink would be a godsend, how will Peckham Afro Foods Ltd react when City workers demand the same
coffee order back home as at the office? Whereas the existing communities have blended
and created something truly unique in Peckham, young people can no longer
afford their parents’ rents and mortgages. The community is due to be replaced
with temporary, transient one without the same emotional investment. There for
a few years then back to the Home Counties when things get tough or it’s time
to bring up children. The recent BBC documentary Last Whites of the East End
showed us how the white working class was leaving inner London for pastures new, and in doing so, raised the issue of White Flight to a wider audience. As rents continue to rise, seemingly undeterred by Brexit or other factors, they may not be alone. The worry is that Irish,
West Indian, Nigerian and Polish Flights might soon be as a big an issue, and who knows what will be left. I urge you to see Peckham, in its current incarnation, while you can. But you have to evolve.
@JJReid13