Waiting for Starbucks

Doing time in Tottenham... Ryan Crabbe tells of life in N17, one of London's least fashionable postcodes.

The Tottenham Soup Incident happened early one Friday evening in Spring. I was waiting for the 76 to Kings Cross, when a car containing a man, a woman and a young girl suddenly pulled up just in front of the bus stop, before the man got out and entered the UKAY kebab house. The fact that the car seemed to arrive out of nowhere, before coming to an abrupt stop, struck me as a little odd. But aside from that, I thought little more of it until I heard a booming voice shouting behind me, 'Gimme da fuckin' soup. Just gimme da fuckin' soup!'

I looked around and saw the guy from the car, who was a good six foot at least, leering menacingly across the counter, pointing his finger aggressively in the direction of the kebab-jockey behind it, who was leaning backwards, just - but only just - out of reach. 'Just gimme da fuckin' soup,' car man repeated.

At this point, the woman and child whom I instantly recognised as the mother and daughter begging team from Seven Sisters station, got out of the car and started flapping around agitatedly. 'Just gimmie da fuckin' soup,' car man shouted again, his hackles rising.

This time, the kebab jockey,   hastily ladelled some soup into a styrofoam container, fitted a lid on it and handed it over the counter. Car man, who was now purple with rage, snatched the container with his left hand before slamming his right fist down on top of the refrigerated glass display counter, completely smashing it. Remarkably, there was no blood whatsoever, and after bizarrely proclaiming at the top of his lungs, 'Oim half Oirish... Oim half Oirish.' Car man, followed by mother and daughter, jumped back into the car and drove off as kebab boy calmly jotted down the registration number.

It was just another instance of low-level violence in Tottenham, but no less entertaining for that!

Indeed, I have to confess that, before moving to area two and a half years ago, I was a little apprehensive of its lawless reputation. I suppose even now the area still carries with it the stigma of the Broadwater Farm riots. I mean, I'm not denying that stuff goes on. Less than twelve months ago a man was stabbed to death on the next street along from mine, and a young woman was shot dead as she sat in her car on the High Road, the victim of a seemingly random and motiveless crime. But hey, this is London and bad shit happens whether you're in Tottenham or Tooting. But thankfully, the only violent incidents I've witnessed since I've lived here, have been low level incidents like the one mentioned above, as well as mouthy macho stand-offs and curiously, lots of street wrestling. No fists or anything, but just men wrestling on street corners, whom you have to make a detour round on your way to the papershop.

It was just another instance of low-level violence in Tottenham, but no less entertaining for that!

But aside from that, I have to report that life in Tottenham is on the whole, really quite dull. House-buying guides have flagged this rather flat and featureless part of north London, as the next big thing, due to its close proximity to Stoke Newington and Crouch End. Yet, aside from spotting the odd, nervous-looking, white, middle class Guardian-reading type in the post office, there's little obvious sign of creeping gentrification. In fact, the high road in Tottenham can certainly lay claim to being one of the most shabby and utterly charmless in the whole of London, boasting an excess of pound shops, late-night-opening mobile phone outlets, budget supermarkets and over-lit, functional, identikit pubs. In fact, if anything, things seem to be going the other way. As I write, the Inca Lounge nightclub with its Tiki tableaux is about to be demolished, the massive former men's outfitters Davis (see sidepanel) remains derelict and local MP David Lamy recently fought a high profile and ultimately unsuccessful campaign to stop the local branch of KFC from closing.

Now just contrast that latter fact with the situation in Crouch End, where in the Nineties, locals fought a similarly unsuccessful KFC-related campaign, only theirs was to prevent the fried chicken merchants from actually opening in the first place!

More recently, those same snooty Crouch Enders tried to stop Starbucks from opening on the Broadway. Well, damn their eyes... out here in Tottenham, the arrival of a branch of Starbucks remains a distant dream. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a huge fan of chain coffee shops from America, but it would sure make a welcome change to milky tea in Percy Ingles.

Still, in other respects, things are looking up. For instance, a couple of years ago, Tottenham was awarded its first blue plaque in honour of Luke Howard, who gave name to the various types of cloud formation; Cirrus Stratos, Cumulus Nimbus etc. This now sits proudly above another plaque announcing 'Drivers Wanted' outside the mini-cab office in Bruce Grove. And it would simply be churlish for anyone to deny the attractiveness of the whole area surrounding Bruce Castle Museum Park and Tottenham Cemetery, which is adjoined by rows of quaint rustic cottages. Meanwhile, enthusiasts of utilitarian architecture should pay a visit to the Tower Gardens conservation area where they'll fine some fine examples of early-20th Century social housing. And there's open countryside on the doorstep, in the form of Lee Valley Park, where you can follow the river all the way down to Bow.

Yet despite all of this, Tottenham remains a cultural desert. In fact, I was first alerted to this shortly after moving into the area: when I was sitting out in the garden, my next door neighbour popped his head over the fence and announced that he was 'just burning some books'. Well that certainly explained the smoke and blackened bits of paper that were floating over the fence, but left many other questions unanswered. Why, even my favourite Christian rapper has been conspicuous by his absence outside of Seven Sisters station this past summer, thus depriving commuters of his righteous take on Gangsta rap, with lyrics like, 'I used to be a bad muthafucka, till I seen the light --and now I fight, the good fight,' etc.

I wonder whatever happened to him...

But then there's always the Two Brewers on Scotland Green. This old boozer was threatened with closure two or three years ago, until it was bought for a song by Geoff, a lean Liverpudlian who lectures Computer Studies at South Bank University during the day. His decision to introduce a range of Belgian beers seems to have been the last straw for all but one-or-two of the old regulars. Nevertheless, word seems to have gotten about the availability of a good drop of Kreik, Chimay and De Koninck, and the place now attracts a small band of scruffy bohemian types, interspersed with a smattering of rueful property pioneers, drinking to forget perhaps, that they may have too readily believed the hype about buying in Tottenham. On recognising a kindred spirit and fellow lost soul, they'll often enquire as to how long one has been in the area in terms of time served.

'Two-and-a-half-years,' you might reply, as I did. But whatever the answer, I can guarantee you it will always be followed by the same reaction: a deep intake of breath through pursed lips, then a purposeful shake of the head followed by a period of earnest contemplation of the beer glass which is always half empty and never half full. A reaction which ultimately signifies an empathy shared between two people thrown together by adversity, not to mention the grim recognition that it might be a good few years yet, before Starbucks deigns to grace the High Road.

© 2003 Poke-in-the-Eye Publishing. Originally published issue 1 of Nude (Aug/ Sept 2003)