Over Here

Dear Norwich International, This Isn't Working Anymore

willaverill@ntlworld.com — Fri, 06 Jun 2008 07:52:00 GMT

Norwich Airport has done it again, threatening to raise the airport tax from £3 to £5 hot off the heels of controversy over lax security and an alarming reduction in the number of passengers using the airport. The Fine City's Airport is self-destructing, continuing to make one bizarre and nonsensical decision after another, with no reasonable business plan, wasting what little goodwill it has left and alienating it's current supporters. It's like the Brittany Spears of airports. And I have to admit, I'm falling out of love with Norwich International.

I write this with a heavy heart, as I am a big time fan of Norwich Airport. With my family and friends back in the States, I've traveled a couple times a year back to Kansas, and struggled confused and overladen through all the major airports between here and London--Stanstead, Gatwick, Heathrow, Luton, and the NIA. Like Big Brother contestants, each one has it's own personality, none of them likable. Stanstead is a crotch-grabbing, track suit-wearing, gold chain-swinging, Burberry cap twisted just a little to the left-toting Superchav, smacking your shins with over sized fluorescent carry-on luggage while blathering away on a mobile phone in a voice so loud it could only belong on Jeremy Kyle. Luton fancies itself a mortgage broker, stiff and seemingly respectable, but always with the vague sense that there's something lurid brewing underneath. The Gatwick bustles like a night-shift gigging cabbie--loud, impatient, slightly aggrieved that you're bothering it with something as loathsome as your custom. Heathrow, mother of them all, reminiscent of the Prime Minister--heaving at the seams trying to hold together something everyone knows isn't working while being surrounded by assholes, and responsible for overseeing a complex system that ludicrously overcharges for everything.

Norwich seemed to offer relief from these things. It's small, as friendly as a British airport can get, and as there's very few other actual customers, you've got lots of time to sit and think. So Norwich Airport and I started seeing more of each other. The first few trips were bliss--in and out easily, no problems with luggage, and they even let me get through passport control one time when they could have sent me packing back to Kansas. But then, after we'd been seeing each other for a while, Norwich Airport started to change. I began to feel she wanted more than just my time--she wanted my cash, too. The first indicator of this was when she started charging me £3 just to get to the gates. This may not seem like a lot, but here's the thing--THEY ALREADY CHARGE AIRPORT TAX IN THE PRICE OF THE TICKET. So this is like a Super Plus Double Ungood Tax. If it was included in the price of the ticket, I probably wouldn't be complaining about it, but since you have to go through an actual machine and you can see your money being eaten up right in front of you so the airport can put in a few more 'Chewable Toothbrush' machines in the men's room--well that just hurts, frankly. And £3? Sure that's not a huge amount, but it's the cost of the beer I was going to get to calm my nerves before the flight, that means Daddy travels with rage. Suddenly, I began to wonder if Norwich International really cared about me, or was just using me for my pocket change.

Then I found out you could bypass the £3 charge, and almost the entire security system, by just hopping the fence and jumping on a plane. While NIA told me this was a one off, that it wouldn't happen again, and that it loved me the most, I was starting to lose trust. But NIA was only getting started--she tried to blame me and all the people of Norwich for not using her enough, saying we would just as easily turn on her for Chavstead or Gatwick. These mood swings, combined with £8 bacon rolls and the fact that the men's room is ALWAYS being cleaned when you need to use it, made me consider breaking it off. And then, two days after I booked my latest flight to Kansas, she tells me it's gonna be a fiver from now on. Does her greed know no bounds? Damn you Norwich International Airport, I tried to love you. But it was never enough, was it? It was never enough.

So, sadly, this is both an article, and a break up letter. Norwich International Airport, we were good for a while. But I've changed, and more importantly, you've changed, and I think our priorities are in different places now. I think it would be better if we spent some time apart. I'd like to see other airports--and I know that's not what I said a few months back, but Heathrow just got a whole new terminal, and he didn't ask me for a dime for that ***. You want me to pay £5 so you can get a new fruit machine for your hideous bar/deli complex. And that's not right, and it's not how I roll. So goodbye, Norwich International, it's been a good run.

Gotta run for now, I'm all choked up.

-W

Flashmobilized

willaverill@ntlworld.com — Mon, 02 Jun 2008 12:31:00 GMT

If you happened to be around the Market at 2p.m. on Saturday, you probably noticed something weird.

Lots of frozen people.

This 'flashmob' was called Norwich's Big Freeze, organized through Facebook, and attended by nearly two hundred people; their goal was simply to stand still for five minutes. Part performance art, part social protest, the result was a good natured chaos in front of the Market, as some stood still, some tried to figure out why they were bothering, and a few people just pushed their way through the partially frozen crowd, irritated. One of those frozen people was me. That's right. I was flashmobbed.

I first found out about it through a friend on Facebook. The events listing on the 'book made it look like a lively chance for a little social pranking. The idea was simple enough in theory. From the time the city hall clock chimed at 2p.m., everyone involved in the group would stop exactly as they were when they heard it, and for five minutes stand absolutely still. The hope is that this will draw attention, amusement, and consternation in equal measures, and hopefully pull people out of their world for just a few minutes on a nice Saturday. There was no overt social protest, I have my own thoughts on it being something of an good-natured ridicule of the hurried nature of modern society, but that's just me. Mostly, it's a small group having some fun with the community at large.

It's a little hard to explain--a good example of a flashmob freeze from New York can be seen in this You Tube video. Our mob was similar, however, the New York crew were definitely more organized. For though there was a pre-mob meeting at one o'clock at the Chapelfield Gardens, it was sparsely attended, and the majority of mobbers weren't aware exactly how the starting and finishing was supposed to work. Because of that, there was a little time lag getting started and stopped that kept it from being completely crisp. That being said, it was a great moment after we'd all frozen, and suddenly people who weren't involved started to realize that something was going on. The usual bustle and noise of that part of the walk ebbed into an uneasy quiet, peppered with questions like 'What's this about?' 'Why they doing that?' and my personal favorite, 'Should we nick that fag he's rolling?'

Five minutes of stillness is nearly unbearable for an attention deficit kid like myself, and I did, I confess, have to move ever so slightly, as I'd frozen with one foot up at an odd angle. Therefore, over the course of a minute or so, I gradually eased the offending foot down, feeling in equal measures shame and relief. The kids next to me, wearing pirate hats, didn't particularly enjoy being frozen, and would ask every thirty seconds or so if their five minutes were up, and rather than everyone moving on abruptly, we all kind of gave up after someone started clapping.

Overall, though, it was a great time. Out of nowhere, Gentleman's Walk in front of the market took on a carnival-like atmosphere, and a bunch of people with little else in common all stopped in to stop and make a point (whatever that point may be) for just a short while. While it may not change the earth, and maybe didn't even change the day, it created a different and unique moment, stamping the power of stillness and quiet on a usually crazy and busy area at one of the most hectic moments of the day. And though I did, to my shame, have to wiggle a little in my stillness to survive, I left feeling uplifted, inspired, and amused. I will most definitely be flashmobbing again. Before that, though, I'm getting a new watch...

Shameless Plug

willaverill@ntlworld.com — Sun, 27 Apr 2008 08:43:00 GMT

Alright, so I've been out of it for a little while; but I'm back now. Rest easy. That's right, just relax. Now take off your shirt. No, no, I'm kidding. You'll get fired, and be forced to walk Rouen Road late at night trying to pay the rent. And then, when we bumped into each other, it would be awkward.

The reason I've been out of it, is that I've been preparing for the gala Evening with Axis of Evil--at the Norwich Arts Centre on Friday night (May 2nd). It's a mere Seven Pounds, and will contain swearing puppets, hick poets, and vikings with really bad ideas. It's more fun than you can swing a monkey at!

Speaking of bad ideas, and lest you think I'm not on top of the throbbing pulse of Norwich's seedy underbelly, this is almost too good to be true. The Norwich Constabulary are attempting to combat kerb crawling (i.e. Picking Up Hookers) by offering offenders oppurtunities to attend a one day "Change course" for a mere Two Hundred of your English Pounds.

In my continuing role as voice of the people, I'm going to sum up the major points which you'll encounter in the Change Course.

1. Don't drive down Rouen Road or Ber street at around 10mph after 10p.m.
2. Don't slow down and pull over quickly when you see single women.
3. Don't, and this is the most important one, don't roll down your window and ask them to perform sexual acts on you for money.

See, kids, there you go. It's just that simple. I just saved you Two Hundred Pounds.

If you need a simulation (and I said Simulation, not Stimulation, you dirty bird), I suggest purchasing Grand Theft Auto IV, in which you can also practice not kerb crawling for hours at a time and in the comfort of your own home.

Now why don't you use that money I saved you to help stimulate the economy of the Axis of Evil by coming to see our show. Hope to see you there!

Hey, City Council, Kiss my A$$.

willaverill@ntlworld.com — Tue, 01 Apr 2008 07:13:00 GMT

I'm not gonna lie to you.

This is bullsh*t. On multiple levels. Is the government so lazy now that it's going to rely on CCTV, which has completely rid the country of the crime and anti-social behavior problem, to parse out parking justice? For those of you just tuning in, the City Council is going to start using CCTV to police the roads, looking for parking infractions. In addition to it's 32 'civil enforcement officers' (read 'meter maids'), the eyes of the CCTV will now be pulled off serious crime and onto checking to make sure you're up to date at your Pay and Display at Norfolk Hospital (Side tangent--which dumb b*stards idea was it to put Pay and Display at a Hospital? Someone should be brought before a Tribunal for this. 'Sorry I couldn't be here for the last few minutes of your life, Nan, I was having trouble getting the ticket to come out the machine. You have to put the coin in just right, see, and....SHE'S FLATLINING!). And the most beautiful part of the whole thing--they say it's not about the money.

C'mon, guys, if you're going to fleece us, at least be honest about it. It is about the money. Was that so hard to say? Now we can move forward, together. It's about the money, and the control, and being able to cover a larger revenue-raising area with the same number of civil enforcement officers, who, if you've ever tried to hold down a conversation with one, are ironically uncivil--but then, life has dealt them a harsh blow, being on roughly the same branch of the social food chain as football referees and Hitler.

Apart from the sinister Orwellian undertones running through the whole 'society caught on camera' thing, the devil of this law is in the details. In order to appeal your case, you're going to have to go before the Traffic Penalty Tribunal (I'm picturing stern looking meter maids in safety orange robes dispensing dour trafficky one-liners as they mete out penalties). If you own a car, you're probably aware of this, but you have to park it--a lot. And unless you're willing to record the specific details of your situation EVERY TIME YOU PARK, you're not going to remember what the specifics were three months ago when you over-ran two minutes at the Pay and Display by the Toys R Us. But unless you want the hassle and cost, and there's sure to be some cost, of going before the tribunal, you'll pay it and move on. The onus then becomes on the citizen to prove they're innocent, rather than the government to prove the citizen's guilt, in a system where we no clue how the process works. The city probably won't make any money, as they'll now have to pay the tribunal's wages and support the cost of dealing with the huge influx of penalties, and we will have added a whole new layer of government which will have the grand sum effect of achieving nothing but costing car owners more.

I hate the parking department in this city. I hate it because parking is badly marked, permitted areas are confusingly signposted, Pay and Display machines are kept in constant disrepair, and the Frequently Asked Questions on the ticket you get are snide ('If you have received this ticket, and believe it to be in error, you are wrong.' I'm paraphrasing a little bit, but only a little). Add to this the fact that they could start just showing up in the post at random, and the whole thing goes from 'Typical Annoying Bureaucracy One Sort of Learns to Put Up With Because, Hey, It's England' to "We Just Stepped Into a Terry Gilliam Film."

Also, they can now serve tickets after the motorist has driven off, so Rita can start a bunch of tickets, not worry about completing them, and then finish them off at the end of the day, long after the offending car has hit the road. One of the reasons for this was that back in 2006, the Council had to write off thousands of pounds of tickets because they were incorrectly printed. Rather than admit they'd messed up and correct the problem, the response is typical of local authority--change the law so they'll have more opportunities to make the same mistake over and over again. So it goes. I'm off to check on my car, and see what it's done wrong now.

Lates,

Me

24 Hour Party People

willaverill@ntlworld.com — Wed, 12 Mar 2008 10:44:00 GMT

Flashback November 2005--We were all a few years younger and prettier then, the housing market was still booming with no sign of decline and irritating middle class real estate magnates were annoying the crap out of the rest of us with reality t.v. shows like 'Property Ladder', 'How Renovated is your Property?', the 'Property Owner's Den', 'I'm a Property Owner, Get Me Out of Here', and 'Property Property Property Property, Oh, Man, Property'.

November 2005 was a bountiful year, there was a Yankee cap for every chav who mulled outside Top Shop, a matrix-stylee jacket for every emo, and tight high-cropped tops combined with skin-tight jeans caused exposed rolls of fat squeezed out from the outfit creating the 'Muffin Tops' craze which my wife found so appalling, especially when I wore it out in public. The Puppet Theatre was still being funded, and the Puppet Man was still in his early experimental stages and hadn't yet reached his 'Elvis' phase. It was a time of innocence, when you could still by a liter of petrol for less than a pound, and the old timers gathered in pubs to smoke like chimneys and talk about how much better it was in 2001, or even '97. At the risk of overgeneralizing, everything was much, much better and simpler then than it is now.

Then came the 24-Hour Licensing Laws.

I, personally, thought it was a welcome relief. Say you go out on a Saturday night with friends, hit a pub, start having a good conversation, and would actually like to continue it beyond 11p.m. in a place that doesn't vibrate with bad drum and bass so much it causes massive structural damage to the building; it might be nice to have a place open till 1 or 2 where you don't have to outshout "Build Me Up Buttercup" blaring at 130db.

The licensing proposal spoken of in hissed, angry, but always quiet tones, the kind of voices hushed against doom, which whisper words like 'Cancer', 'Nuclear Winter, and 'A New Jeffery Archer Novel'. The news was bleak--surely, if the 24-hour licensing laws were enacted, the nation was doomed. The media proclaimed certain disaster--egged on by evil, mustached publicans, the youth, criminals, seedy characters, and shifty hedge fund managers would now be able to indulge their devilish appetites twenty-four hours a day. Every day after these laws were enacted there would rioting on the streets, crime was expected to be increased by two thousand million percent, no one would go to work, and the property market would collapse due to poor construction by drunk builders. The 24-Hour Licensing Laws were worse than Hurricane Katrina, the death of Pope John Paul II, and the war in Iraq combined. This was sure to be the end of society as we know it.

I for one, was ready for the apocalypse. I rushed out to the pubs the day the law was enacted, ready with my baseball cap turned sideways to help the youth loot, burn, and overturn cars, to join in the rioting and mayhem that was sure to follow, and to craw from pub to pub till six, as they removed their doors and opened twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. This. Was. Liberation. Day.

And then, nothing happened.

The grand result of the hype, the panic, the press? One or two pubs, which already sort of stayed open a little later than they should of (but hush, hush) officially changed their opening hours. And just on weekends. There were no riots. I had to turn my cap back around, and still had to take it off in Orgasmic. It was, like my love life, a lot of build up that was over before it got exciting. Society carried on, unawares, and as far as I have been able to tell, in the three long years since that fateful November, 24-Hour Licensing Laws haven't made any difference at all.

And now they're up for renewal, and once again there's panic in the streets. Apparently, while crime has not increased significantly overall, it's spread out over time, and while the Norwich papers have been filled with disturbing stories of people getting punched late at night, it's difficult to say whether the licensing laws are responsible for that or not, as so few pubs actually chose to stay open as late or later than clubs. There were rumors of a mythical 24-hour pub in Norwich somewhere around December of aught five, but no one in my peer group was able to find it, and they are the kind of people who would. Other than that, the pubs seem to be regulating themselves fairly well, and it's nice to have the option available to get a late night drink at a place not named 'Thump', or 'Throb', where people might make fun of my muffin tops.

Till Later,

W

The Unparkables

willaverill@ntlworld.com — Tue, 04 Mar 2008 13:34:00 GMT

UPDATE: 6th March. After the crack investigative journalism of the Evening News, my scathing Blog o' social indictment below, and probably some actual work on the part of the folks of Mile Cross, the City Council has postponed their strongarming of Gresham Road. This just goes to show that social activism is alive and well and living to Norwich. I'd also like it noted for the record that I retain full television rights to the story, which I plan to make into a moving made for TV movie of the whole incident starring Jonathan Rhys Meyers, Billie Piper, and featuring a soundtracak from Andy Ingham from X Factor. It's going to be sort of the next Billy Eliot, only with less ankle warmers, and more ankle rails.

So check this out. Apparently the City Council is going to charge the good people (I'm calling them good people, they may not all be. Heck, one of them is a bus driver. But they're taking courses, so he's bound to get nicer.) of Greshem Road in Mile Cross £500 to access their own driveways when they come through to fix up the road. If they don't, the council's going to put up ankle rails so they can't access the concrete drives anymore. The kicker? They've got two weeks to come up with the money. That's half the annual Council Tax bill they already pay in a fortnight. You call it city government, I call it extortion.

Who else gives you two weeks to come up with the money or they ankle you? The Mafia, that's who. Have they been given time to plan or seek alternative quotes for how much it would cost for them to lay down a 'properly constructed crossing' themselves? No. Pay up or no parky parky--you don't like it, tough. I'm thinking the whole thing shakes down like this.

A Little Scene on Greshem Road
(Bob, an ordinary resident of Greshem Road, is watering his lawn when he's approached by two City Council people. Please read the City Council Members in this section with Chicago gangster accents. It's the mise en scene of the piece.)

City Council Thug #1--That's a nice parking space you've got there.
City Council Thug #2--Yeah, real nice.
Bob: Thanks.
CC #1--Don't mention it. You ever think about what might happen if it weren't there no more?
CC #2--Yeah. Gone in da Night. Poof.
Bob: Seems pretty secure to me.
CC #1--We're doin' some construction in this area see?
CC #2--Big trucks. Kerbs. Secure footpathery.
Bob: I see.
CC #1--I don't think you do see, Bob. I don't think you get it, pal. I think we need some help with the building costs. £500
CC #2--Can I get a little help here?
Bob: Doesn't my council tax already pay for this, old chums? (I'm using a Briddish colloqualism here for authenticity)
CC #1--Don't yank my chain, Bobby, this is a special fee, one time deal. To keep you from any liability.
CC #2--You don't want liability, do you Bob?
CC #1--See, you create a pothole here, or, god forbid, something happens to an underground utility line....
CC #2--God forbid. Boom.
CC #1--That's gonna be your fault, Bob. And you don't want that.
Bob: I don't suppose I do. But can't I have a friend of mine, who's a builder, put in the kerbs?
CC #1--Bob, Bob, Bobby. We're the COUNCIL. This what we do. We take good care of the roads.
Bob: Empirical evidence would suggest otherwise.
CC #2--Don't get smart wid him.
CC #1--Tell you what, Bobby. I have really enjoyed our little talk, but we got a lot of these to do. You just make sure you deliver the £500...
CC #2--In small unmarked pound coins.
CC #1--To us, so's we make sure the construction guys don't put down ankle railings all up and down here.
Bob: But won't that increase street congestion, and make it impossible for emergency vehicles to get through?
CC #2--Exactly, Bob.
CC #1--And you wouldn't want to be responsible for that.
Bob: Why do I get the feeling that you wouldn't get away with this if it was somewhere in the Golden Triangle?
CC #2--We got a wise guy, boss. You want I should whack him?
CC #1--Nah. He'll pay in the end. They'll all pay in the end.

(City Council Thugs cackle gleefully, Bob shakes his head. They have Bob where they have everyone else--right in the end. He is a broken man, as shaken as Lincolnshire in a quake, as cracked as the pavements in the Larkman.)

All I can say to the residents of Mile Cross is good luck, and I'll be there to support you in the revolution.

Till next time. --W

First Post!

willaverill@ntlworld.com — Tue, 26 Feb 2008 09:15:00 GMT

I've been sitting here for ten minutes trying to figure out how to start this thing, and I'm still no closer. I'm terrible at introductions and I'm terrible at beginnings, so that's kind of a double whammy from the get go, in addition to making me great fun at parties and social gatherings. The 'Hello, My name is Will Averill, and blah blah blah' intros seem like the false and stilted frame of AA meetings and those terrible Road to Management workshops where a tired and overpaid consultant spews golden nuggets of business wisdom like 'There is no I in team" and lunch is a strange brown thing wading uneasily in what appears to be gravy.

No--that's definitely not the way I want to start this. I want this to be light and chummy, yet informative--the Blue Peter of Norwich Blog Introductions. Hi! I'm Will, my good friends call me Willie, which means something much, much dirtier in your country. I like running, and theatre, and beer, though not necessarily in that order. I'm married, and yet she still likes me, so I must be doing something right. I grew up in Lawrence, Kansas, in the United States, a fairly liberal university town in an otherwise conservative rural area. I moved five years ago to Norwich, a fairly liberal university town in an otherwise conservative rural area. It was, as you can imagine, a terrifying transition. I moved to Norwich to be married to my lovely wife, because that is what two people do when they're young, in love, and trying to avoid the wrath of the Home Office.

See, this isn't so bad so far...

I work at a job for a bank, which pays the bills, and write, which does not. I read books and do comedy shows. I am left-handed, and I think that's kept me from realizing all my dreams. I never make excuses, but the odds have been stacked against me since birth. I'm proud to be American, but enjoy nothing more than being smug around American tourists cause they're so dumb. I'm a big fan of my adopted home of Norwich and its history, most of which is buried under Chapelfield mall. I find the Think! ad campaigns way over the top and am currently trying to devise a set of drinking game rules to them. And finally I believe that just because you can add 'u''s to words, doesn't mean you should.

So that's me. As for what I'm doing here? As a transplant to the city of Norwich, I find myself constantly fascinated by the little things--signs, placards, people--that those who have lived here all their lives may take for granted. I want to use this blog to explore some of the strange and weird history from Norwich's past, as well as looking at the current state of things, and failing those two, just goofing around. So that's pretty much it.

Pleased to meetcha.