A Battle Of Ideas about Generation Y

The weather outside may have been blustery and wet but the atmosphere inside the Barbican last weekend was a rousing whirlwind of sharp wit, impassioned opinion and fervent discussion. The 9^th Battle of Ideas certainly did not disappoint with its latest weekend long series of debates, covering everything from technology, education and healthcare to politics, the law and culture. The complex layout of the labyrinth-esque Barbican Centre was fit setting for the gnarly, polemical subject matter within.

I was lucky enough to attend the whole weekend as part of a film crew with WORLDBytes, a volunteer-led “citizen TV channel” dedicated to advancing knowledge and broadcasting new ideas on challenging issues. My team were shooting two strands of debates: “Institutions in Crisis” and “Generation Wars”.

A particularly spirited debate we filmed on Sunday, and one I have heard discussed regularly by my peers in their mid twenties is that of the baby boomers and their impact on our future. “Honey, did we bankrupt the kids?” offered some vehement opinion as to whether us young people need to buck up our ideas and get on with it as generations before us have with whatever lot they were dealt, or if our parents really have left us to inherit a bleak future of debt-driven austerity and dwindling resources.

3 of the 4 speakers (Francis Beckett – author of What Did The Baby Boomers Ever Do For Us, Shiv Malik, who wrote Jilted Generation: how Britain has bankrupt its youth and Holly Pattenden from event sponsor Statoil) were adamant that the failings of the baby boomers had left us in a dire state and the young are now paying the price.

Even my parents would agree that many lucky baby boomers lived and worked in prosperous times and are now riding the contented cruise ship of retirement while their progeny are struggling with high unemployment and a debt-ridden economy. But surely one generation cannot be the sole cause of the unacceptable level of inequality that reigns in UK society today? In a shocking report by the United Nations Development Program the UK has the fourth highest gap (beaten only by Portugal, the US and Singapore) between rich and poor out of a list of 23 developed countries. Or at least what we would traditionally have viewed as developed. This has not been caused by a bit of frivolous spending by our parents. This is the result of decades and decades of a system failing the majority of a country.

Source: The Equality Trust, citing U.N. Development Program Human Development Indicators, 2003-6. - See more at: http://inequality.org/inequality-health/#sthash.hC7gpMg8.dpuf

 As a generation Y-er myself I am in no doubt that times are tough for us; what with unemployment in the under 25s hitting 1.09 million recently and entry level roles – even kitchen porter jobs! - requiring significant (and often unpaid) “experience” to even get a look in. However, should we really be wasting our time looking for a scapegoat? And is the culprit really as close at hand as our dear ma and pa? The baby boomers did happen to benefit from prosperous times but they also worked hard to make the most of it. The economic decisions of our parents’ generation is a convenient red herring distracting us from the major issue, and one which is not easy to solve. The entire monetary system has been on the road to implosion for a lot longer than 50 years so in my opinion we should be looking not outwardly for someone to blame, but inwardly at own attitude and our own actions as the future generations.

Firstly: Action.

Until recently I, along with most of my peers, fatalistically accepted our lot and continued to fight against hundreds of other ambitious graduates to nab that precious (and exploitative) 3 month-full-time-unpaid internship to obtain that coveted resource: experience, I now feel somewhat frustrated and significantly disappointed in our acceptance and passivity.

As one silver haired baby boomer in the audience pointed out, young people today appear to be simply parroting the doom and gloom of our elders rather than making our own statements about our future. Every new generation has had challenges to overcome whether it was the post-war rationing of the 50s, high inflation of the 70s, or the dubious fashion of the 80s, but, as is a rite of passage for young people, there was always a process of diverging from the belief systems of one’s parents. Why are we not doing so?

Regardless of decisions made before we were even a twinkle in our parents’ eyes by governments, bankers and corporations, we need to be taking the world into our own hands and claiming ownership of the future however bleak it may seem. Rather than philosophising about the pitfalls of the past and despairing of our helplessness we should be creating new opportunities and, more importantly, new systems to replace those failing us. As the future generation of such a resourceful and innovative species, surely we have the capacity to do something? If we don’t like the hand the current societal structure has dealt us, we should be doing more than just talking about it; we should be coming together to change it, just as many dissatisfied new generations have done so before us.

Secondly: Attitude

The attitude of the youth today seems to be under constant scrutiny by our elders, the media and indeed ourselves. A commonly voiced opinion seems to be that we are a bunch of idle whiners with inflated egos and a misguided sense of entitlement.

The widely read blog post “Why Generation Y Yuppies are Unhappy” certainly seems to agree. It blames our high expectations and subsequent dissatisfaction on the message ingrained into our psyche by baby boomer parents still riding the wave of prosperity that we are each special and can be whatever we want to be. We grew up unprepared for the real world having (apparently) envisioned a success-filled one of flowers and rainbows and unicorns (see below)

“Follow your passion” is the catchphrase for our generation, upping the ante for career aspirations and making a secure career seem old hat compared to the fulfilling career we believe we are all entitled to.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think we should be striving for anything less, as why should we not expect to be as successful as (if not more than) our parents? It has been the trend for decades now. But perhaps we do need a bit of a reality check. A survey carried out every year since 1966 by psychologist Jean Twenge demonstrates a trend of “ambition inflation” in young people. Over the past four decades, the number of students describing themselves as having “above average” academic ability, drive to achieve, and mathematical ability has risen dramatically. Yet, nearly 50% of students in the 80s said they studied for over six hours a week, while only a third of the class of 2009 did. (Read the BBC article Does Confidence Really Breed Success?)

Ay there’s the rub. Such high opinions of our own abilities but apparently such little desire to put in the same effort as previous generations to fulfil the even higher expectations. It’s not the aspirations that are too high but the attitude that is too lax. We should feel capable of great things and we should continue to strive to find a fulfilling life, whether through a career or other. But we need to remember it’s not an entitlement, there are lots of people as special as we think we are and it’s certainly not going to be an easy ride.

We also need to focus less on individualistic goals and perpetually trying to bang our heads against the brick wall, glass ceiling or whatever barrier this society is proffering. Surely we should be proving our worth, exceeding our high expectations and making the world our oyster. And a new oyster at that. We need to be spending less time on self-analysis and scapegoating and more time on collectively questioning the situation we are in and exploring how we can equip ourselves to change it for our own benefit, and indeed those generations to follow. If this involves an overhaul of politics, economics and power as we know it then we should be talking about it, not just passively accepting the path delivered to us by our forefathers. And let Russell Brand be our leader as he says it all way better than I ever could!

Thorpeness through the ages

The House in the Clouds

It’s been voted the weirdest village in England and one of the 100 worst places to live, but to me it will always be a place to escape to, where childhood and imagination can run free. Originally created as a private fantasy holiday town by a rich railway designer, Thorpeness does have an oddly artificial aesthetic with its mock Tudor houses, man-made lake with Peter Pan theme and the famed House in the Clouds. And despite being home to at least 400 permanent residents, it can’t escape that slightly depressing seasonal feel that many British seaside towns exude. That said, the older I get the more I come to enjoy and appreciate Thorpeness in its out of season stupor. But maybe that’s just because I go there now to escape the endless bustle of London with the distinct intention of not seeing a soul. Apart from the fish and chip shop staff of course…


Childhood summers spent in Thorpeness were a thing of storybooks though. In fact I’m pretty sure I modelled a lot of activities on my favourite books. Hours spent messing around in boats on the Meare (Swallows and Amazons style), jumping from island to island to see how far we could jump before we got dunked in the muddy waters (Gladiators? Ok, maybe TV had an influence too), taking over entire islands to govern ourselves and attack invaders with water balloons (a less dystopian take on Lord of the Flies perhaps?). Then there was the birth of The Fabulous Four. With “the summer house” as a clubhouse (and it was only years later that I realised a garden shed with windows and space for one armchair does not warrant the label of “summer house”), a secret code for entry and a penchant for gambling (with stones from the beach – these were innocent times after all) we gave The Famous Five a run for their money. Except of course the biggest mystery we ever stumbled upon was an abandoned barn with piles of discarded bodies (or upon closer inspection; mannequins) inside.

100 years of fun have been had on Thorpeness Meare

Another game for the Gladiators fans among us (and this one was actually invented by our parents can you believe!) was the Boardwalk Gauntlet. One of our favourite walks weaved through a reedy marshland with some rickety boards a foot wide underfoot to keep you above the bog. Walking this route was far too mundane for The Fabulous Four of course. Cycling was the real challenge. And the penalty for losing balance and sliding off the boards? A nice faceful of stinging nettles or, if you’re lucky, just some brambles. No wonder our parents had to bribe us with ice cream every time they wanted us to join them on a dogwalk!

Imaginative games aside, Thorpeness is the perfect summer haven for parents and children alike. Parents can leave their children free to roam the village safe in the knowledge no harm will come of them, and for the kids there are unending sources of entertainment. From tennis tournaments, quizzes and bingo organised by the Yellow shirted reps at the country club to mud fights on the Meare, swimming in the sea and making dens in trees. Not to mention Thorpeness Regatta, when competition is fierce to get your name on the board in the boathouse for skilful rowing, sailing, canoeing or kayaking.

If Thorpeness is a good place for children, it’s a great place for teenagers. During the summer months hundreds of young people migrate to the east coast for the holidays. Some of my fondest (but also maybe bleariest) memories involve sitting on the sea wall facing The Cross Keys pub in the neighbouring town of Aldeburgh, along with 30 other 14-17 year olds. Unable to actually enter the pub we made do with sitting outside it, feeling grown up enough to be out at night with the opposite sex and within spitting distance of the alcohol within. It became a rite of passage to throw up on Aldeburgh beach after drinking too much during your first foray into Peach Archers or Malibu. Cycling back to Thorpeness after said Malibu was the teenage version of the Boardwalk Gauntlet, only this time it involved pitch darkness, a crumbling coastal path and 5 other tipsy teenagers. The scars tell a thousand tales.

Beautiful skies along the coastal path from Aldeburgh to Thorpeness

Post University and irresponsible drinking, Thorpeness has taken on a different role in my life. No longer graced with long summer holidays and socially maxed out from life in London I take off to Thorpeness for the odd weekend of peace and quiet. The order of play goes something like this: tennis followed by a pint of Aspall’s at The Dolphin, a brisk walk along the shingly beach, greasy fish and chips on the sea wall (good at any age mind you), a game of boules at the pub, perhaps. On my most recent trip I even found myself playing bridge with my parents late into the night, which I’m not sure I should be admitting so freely. I fear I have slipped too far.

Thorpeness is undeniably a strange place as any visitor would tell you. But it is also a charming place that seems to have succeeded in keeping time and modernity at bay. It has maintained its quintessential Englishness despite at times seeming twee, and I hope it will continue. I like to think my children will also one day spend their summers inventing games in trees, messing around in boats and swimming in the sea without relying on playstations or iPads to entertain.

Brixton Come Together

As soon as you emerge bleary eyed from the claustrophobic gloom of the underground you are hit with the familiar sounds and smells that make Brixton truly unique. Sizzling jerk chicken and buttery popcorn infuse with the aroma of the incense that burns constantly outside Iceland. I always wonder if the smiling stallholder sells as much incense as he burns. The delightfully eclectic hustle and bustle of the high street never ceases and nor would I want it to. Whether it’s eager evangelists preaching to the masses, a scruffy man drumming some makeshift bins, fervent activists calling for action or steel drummers serenading shoppers there is always something to grab the attention.

Last weekend was no exception but this time the hullaballoo was emanating from St Matthews Church and the call was for Brixton to Come Together. And come together we did in celebration and support of the local community and the wealth of arts, music, food and culture this colourful borough has to offer. Merry making aside the serious issue raised by the festival was water waste and management, especially pertinent in light of the devastating drought currently being suffered in Northeast Brazil. There was food for thought scattered informatively round the site as well as food for the hungry belly on offer by local businesses, not to mention food for the soul. This came in the form of a great line-up of live music running midday to midnight all weekend and continuing into the wee hours at various after parties.

My weekend highlight was Prince Fatty Soundsystem’s set, dropping some delicious dub with the talented (but puzzlingly un-horselike) MC Horseman dominating the mic to ensure everyone was on their feet for a hangover skank on Saturday afternoon. For me this was the moment when Brixton really came together. Despite the distinct social and cultural groups that have come to inhabit Brixton over the decades tribes faded into insignificance as leather-clad punks loosened their knees, hemp-wearing hippies swung their dreads, middle-aged mothers moved their hips, dreadlocked rastas jiggled their beanies and art students in tie-dye got their groove on. Even the odd Claphamite sipping a gin and tonic could be seen swaying cautiously to the beat.

The enormous effort involved, joy shared and awareness made over the weekend was as great as any festival and Brixton pulled it off for free. The success was due in no small part to the organisers, artists and caterers, but to complete the package a large dose of community spirit, unbridled enthusiasm and a passion for what makes Brixton a place many love to live in was the secret recipe to make “Brixton Come Together” do exactly what it said on the tin.

“I’m Still Standing“

Surviving Bestival 2013

Packing for a festival is difficult at the best of times. (Correction: packing for a British festival is difficult. Packing for a sun-soaked festival off the coast of Croatia or Spain is as easy as suncream, swimsuit, tent.) However this year we found ourselves packing for Bestival having hardly even unpacked from our recent jaunt through Eastern Europe. Luckily the clothes required for an outdoor festival on a windy island off the coast of England in the early reaches of autumn with a forecast of rain are polar (like the pun?) opposite to those just donned for the last month in 32 degree heat.

My very organised and professional boyfriend had secured a slot to DJ at the Hidden Disco over the weekend. On Saturday to be precise. Or so we thought until at lunchtime on Thursday upon re-reading an email we realised his slot was at 1pm the next day. Doh!

What ensued was a frenzied whirlwind of unpacking rucksacks, repacking rucksacks and a whizz round Lewisham’s finest locales to find a nautical themed costume (you can’t come to Bestival without some sort of fancy dress!) and some blank CDs to create a last minute set list to supplement the vinyl collection. We managed to leave the house eventually and had a fairly smooth journey despite the fact that about 48,000 people (crew, artists and traders included) had already made the trip to the Isle that Thursday.

Bestival Hoards

Smooth journey behind us, finding a camping spot in the dark while a tide of drunken, wonky-walking youths surged the other way towards the main action was a voyage in itself. It was particularly disheartening when every other person that was still able to string a sentence together had only the words “good luck” to impart as wisdom. And luck indeed we needed if we were to find a spot that wasn’t about 5 fields away from the actual festival site. It’s at times like this, when carrying multiple tents, bags and jellyfish costumes past rows and rows of pitched tents, that one realises quite how massive Bestival is. 50,000 punters have got to sleep somewhere I suppose!

Despite the shaky start, Bestival can’t help but inject the party vibe into even a weary traveller’s veins. The energy hits you in the face on arrival and I am yet to meet a Bestival-goer that doesn’t treat their fellow revellers with respect and a blast of mutual merriment. Even the weather can’t dampen spirits. Friday dawned wet and windy but we were still woken at 7am by an incongruously cheerful voice affirming “I F**king hate camping” while queuing for an all day breakfast bap.

The show must go on however so we set off in search of the hidden disco to report for DJ duties, hoping that the small bit of blue sky visible would elongate into a legitimate summer scorcher. The best-laid plans however were scuppered by the very hiddenness of the Hidden Disco.  The irony wasn’t lost on us as we frantically scoured the site for secret entrances concealed in phone boxes or behind trees. Nor was it lost on the half dozen security guards and stewards we appealed to who proffered some imaginative variations of “How should I know, it’s hidden!” when faced with our dilemma. Despite the various obstacles we “found” it eventually. Found being a loose term since it wasn’t even hidden at all! Perhaps this was a purposeful ploy, with the thought that if people assume it isn’t the Hidden Disco it makes it all the more elusive…but anyway. Fortunately the sound system was so crisp and loud the music succeeded in pumping away any remaining cloud and we were basking in some early September sun. A great start to the weekend.

DJ Duct on the decks at the Hidden Disco

 Although a more regular small festival-goer, (preferring not to spend half my time waiting for people to meet us, waiting again for people to pee, and traipsing from one stage to another through crowds that would give London rush hour a run for its money), the plethora of non-musical entertainment, playful installations and general mayhem on offer makes Bestival a giant adult playground that entertains far beyond the huge line-ups offered. The most impressive feature by far was the port stage – an enormous old navy boat shipped in to provide an almost endless supply of heavy electronic music day and night with a host of DJs, dancers, fire-breathers and circus acts creating quite a spectacle and one hell of a party.

The Port Stage at sunset

I don’t feel as though I saw that many of the headlining acts but I wouldn’t want you to think it was because we were spending all our time waiting for people, queuing for loos and traipsing between stages. We were in fact navigating through mazes, hanging in hammocks, riding toboggans, exploring the ambient forest, painting naked men, getting married in the chapel, heckling comedians and making friends via the medium of walkie-talkie. This latter pursuit is not one offered by Bestival and we had to provide our own equipment, but I have half a mind to suggest they add it to their repertoire as it was genuinely the source of a good few hours of entertainment. On channel 7 we chanced upon a voice that stood out from the drone of security babble and a beautiful friendship was born from opposite ends of the festival site. Most of the talk was pure nonsense but a number of comically ingenious songs were exchanged eulogising sausages and also burgers(?) . Clearly no one was feeling so creative on sloppy Sunday afternoon. The radio-wave bond was so strong we made a plan to meet by the “Big L” of Bestival but the crowds for Elton John scuppered this plan so alas we will never put a face to those crooners on the other end of channel 7.

We did of course see some music over the course of the weekend but I was left with a confirmed conviction that smaller festivals are where the best performances are seen and heard. Not only are the artists less famous so still perform with the enthusiasm and energy that makes live music so invigorating (Snoop Dogg you we more S.H.I.T than P.I.M.P) but you also have a chance in hell of actually seeing the performer at close range without standing at the front for a few hours before they come on.  

All things said, Bestival you did us proud. As did the punters whose nautical costumes did not disappoint. We saw it all from sailors, pirates and deep-sea divers to flapping seagulls, flashing lighthouses, glowing jellyfish and even a team of David Seamans made an appearance. The level of innovation and effort made by the Bestival massive matched if not surpassed that of the festival curators’ who had clearly spent thousands on creating this marvellous maritime madhouse. I might have just about recovered in time for next year…