Although habitually immersed in a book during the journey, without fail I will pause upon reaching Westminster Bridge to gulp down the still surreal sight of Big Ben, Parliament, London Eye and the grey-brown Thames that unequivocally ground you in the physicality of London and continue to defy any blur of blasé. The global icons that embody London are largely here in this short sprint of the bus across the bridge and the immediate panorama open to the eyes. The cultural tourism route doesn’t dry up prematurely though; for the bus bends its way up Whitehall, past Downing Street, around Trafalgar Square, across Piccadilly Circus and the final furlong of Regent Street. In terms of world-renowned symbols of a particular locality, this route must surely rank pretty high amidst everyday commutes that people embark on all around the country.
Like a voyager from the mothership I spring forth towards the top of Regent Street, directly opposite the aircraft hangar that is Apple’s flagship emporium of gadgetry. For a company whose wares seem to be progressively concerned with the diminutive, it seems strange to me that they should require such a gargantuan warehouse in which to display them, aligned and mounted on their sparse plinths to be goggled at and fondled . What seems equally strange is the routine sight of hordes of people eagerly waiting for the doors to this magical kingdom of apps and gizmos to be opened at the stroke of 9am. The small army of sales staff are positioned in formation along the expansive floor and grand staircase of the shop, waiting for the rush and fondling frenzy to begin.
It all serves as apodictic, the deified status that Apple has in our society, the mythology that has sprung up regarding these palm-sized jujus of data that we covet. If religion has been replaced by consumerism, then Apple is surely its high priesthood; so ingrained in the belief system of popular culture are its technological commandments. For many it seems like a trip to this iVatican is like a kind of pilgrimage such is the symbiosis between the way one relates to their iPod, iPhone or iPad, and more out-dated spiritual codes and guidelines.
Further along I reach the intersection of Oxford Circus, where the manic consumerist river of Oxford Street splices its way across Central London. As I cross over this junction an head upwards towards Portland Place, my attention is momentarily yet routinely caught by a small elderly man, of an uncertain ethnic persuasion (although I believe he may be Turkish or Eygptian), who stands around on the lip of the mouth where tube commuters are burped up from underground. He holds a tatty laminate A4 sheet labelled 'INTERNET' in one hand, and holds out flyers - presumably for a nearbly web cafe - in the other. I feel a sort of kind-hearted bemusement whenever I see this persistant yet quite obviously futile commercial venture; a lone vessel bobbing up and down amidst the raging waters of the titanic marketplace all around him. I also feel a sense of hopeless endeavour considering the omnipotence of the internet nowadays, rather as though he were trying to flog items from his car boot outside Harrods.
Moving up towards Portland Place, one passes a smattering of generic outlets and franchises that homogenise the country, cut-and-pasted throughout every town centre shopping district. A Caffe Nero, a McDonalds, a Garfunkels restaurant (a benile tourist feeding trough), a Pizza Express and a bland All Bar One (a car showroom of a place) with wine bottles stacked around the wall as though waiting to be dispatched from a warehouse.
At the apex point is the conical spike of All Saints Church that you move towards past all the tyrannical consumerist fluff as though it were the tip of the Enlightenment triangle, perfectly positioned to lure shoppers towards their dematerialising redemption. A perception eroded somewhat as you curve around alongside the Langham Hotel to reveal the real source of enlightenment - the BBC Broadcasting House. Its mock-radio aerial seeming to callously mimic the lesser point of All Saints before it. Like the forces of Apple technology animating the aspirations of the many, it is the all-powerful presence of the broadcast media that has long usurped spirituality in the role of being the predominant beacon of our times.
Sunk here in his canyon of commerce, purchase power and avarice, this modest church looks as redundant and forgotten as the small man peddling the internet to the tide of the connected, all of whom are already in compulsive servitude to his product.
Further along I reach the intersection of Oxford Circus, where the manic consumerist river of Oxford Street splices its way across Central London. As I cross over this junction an head upwards towards Portland Place, my attention is momentarily yet routinely caught by a small elderly man, of an uncertain ethnic persuasion (although I believe he may be Turkish or Eygptian), who stands around on the lip of the mouth where tube commuters are burped up from underground. He holds a tatty laminate A4 sheet labelled 'INTERNET' in one hand, and holds out flyers - presumably for a nearbly web cafe - in the other. I feel a sort of kind-hearted bemusement whenever I see this persistant yet quite obviously futile commercial venture; a lone vessel bobbing up and down amidst the raging waters of the titanic marketplace all around him. I also feel a sense of hopeless endeavour considering the omnipotence of the internet nowadays, rather as though he were trying to flog items from his car boot outside Harrods.
Moving up towards Portland Place, one passes a smattering of generic outlets and franchises that homogenise the country, cut-and-pasted throughout every town centre shopping district. A Caffe Nero, a McDonalds, a Garfunkels restaurant (a benile tourist feeding trough), a Pizza Express and a bland All Bar One (a car showroom of a place) with wine bottles stacked around the wall as though waiting to be dispatched from a warehouse.
At the apex point is the conical spike of All Saints Church that you move towards past all the tyrannical consumerist fluff as though it were the tip of the Enlightenment triangle, perfectly positioned to lure shoppers towards their dematerialising redemption. A perception eroded somewhat as you curve around alongside the Langham Hotel to reveal the real source of enlightenment - the BBC Broadcasting House. Its mock-radio aerial seeming to callously mimic the lesser point of All Saints before it. Like the forces of Apple technology animating the aspirations of the many, it is the all-powerful presence of the broadcast media that has long usurped spirituality in the role of being the predominant beacon of our times.
Sunk here in his canyon of commerce, purchase power and avarice, this modest church looks as redundant and forgotten as the small man peddling the internet to the tide of the connected, all of whom are already in compulsive servitude to his product.
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