PSPOS: Protecting Public Space from the Public

First published in sp!ked

The petty policing of public spaces is inhibiting community life.

A couple of weeks ago, Walthamstow town centre was apparently in the grip of a crisis. For four hours, following reports of a ‘huge riot’ involving 200 young people, this busy part of north-east London came to a standstill as police lined the streets. It wasn’t until later that the police released a statement admitting that ‘there has been no riot’ and that officers were only responding to ‘calls about a fight’, which meant that ‘several police resources [including riot vans] were deployed’. The teenagers ‘were not committing offences but their presence in such numbers would be alarming to members of the public’, the statement concluded. By this time, wobbly video footage of girls fighting (over a boy apparently) on pavements strewn with yanked-out hair extensions were doing the rounds on social media.

You might think this bizarre event was a one-off, that the police wouldn’t usually go into full riot mode because a handful of girls, egged on by their mates, were scrapping in the streets. But you’d be wrong. The powers granted under the Anti-Social Behaviour, Crime and Policing Act 2014 effectively allow local authorities to outlaw any activities they judge to have a ‘detrimental effect on the quality of life of those in the locality’. The scope of this law, and the summary justice it allows the authorities to exercise, is unprecedented. It allows the authorities to target particular individuals or entire populations in an area subject to a Public Spaces Protection Order (PSPO). PSPOs usually focus on those deemed an ongoing ‘nuisance’, such as the homeless, who have been targeted by councils that have introduced orders for drinking alcohol in public, busking without prior approval or for simply sleeping rough. But now anything, from skateboarding to walking your dog, could be enough to leave you facing an on-the-spot fine of £100.

There is something perverse about protecting public spaces from the public – and therefore the public from each other. It deprives public space of its content and the public of spaces in which to meet. Our over-anxious, mistrustful culture has encouraged an accumulation of petty restrictions and protections, from PSPOs to vetting anybody who comes near a so-called vulnerable person. Local authorities claim to speak on behalf of citizens, but in reality they have little to no relationship with ordinary people, with the exception of those they deem vulnerable, a nuisance, or both.

When Hackney Council targeted the homeless for sleeping rough in hipster-hotspot Broadway Market, homeless charity Crisis attacked the council for demonising the homeless because ‘they may have suffered a relationship breakdown, a bereavement or domestic abuse’. Homeless Link also described rough sleepers as ‘extremely vulnerable’. After much criticism, the council backed down. But were campaigners right to be so emotive? In the debate about PSPOs, both sides play the vulnerability card. But this only serves to reinforce a state-endorsed fear of ourselves and each other – depriving us all of the opportunity to interact freely.

Some campaigners reserve particular criticism for ‘privately owned public spaces’ (POPS) – those shiny new additions to our neighbourhoods that have prompted the launch of some PSPOs. But these developments are often welcomed by residents for what they bring to otherwise run-down areas. The privatisation we should really be concerned about is that which isolates people from each other and inhibits community life.

Putting the brum back into Brummie

This age of reason and Enlightenment, Was a most thrilling, optimistic time, To be alive.

I had the misfortune of growing up before Birmingham’s redevelopment and the establishment of its now rather good nightlife. All I remember about the takeover-threatened Cadbury is drunken nights with friends who worked at the factory, counter to Bourneville’s Quaker dictates to his once resident workers. And yet, even though Birmingham’s most ‘beautiful bits’ seemed to pass me by, after years in industry-lite London – failed financial centre of the world, and still the country’s only genuine ‘world city’ – I’m forever grateful to my home city for its grubby dynamism, the glimpse it offered of the possibilities thrown up by urban life. This is the Birmingham that comes shining through in Bowman’s book.

This is Birmingham is an exhilarating, beautifully illustrated and lyrical trip through Birmingham’s past. It’s a celebration of the nation’s now-and-then second city, and more importantly the Brummy contribution to modernity. It examines from an almost mythical eighteenth century, a time when ‘cities did not exist’ and ‘there were no machines’, to the sudden ‘burst of ideas and energy’ that made the world that we live in today. It may be designed for eight year olds and overs, but it manages to convey in a few short pages the story of how what happened in Birmingham not so long ago, transformed people’s lives forever. The city, we discover, is more than a bleak drive-through. It’s a sleeping giant that once played a leading role in the making of the world.

In the driving seat, an apt metaphor, given the city’s love affair with the motor car, were the ‘Lunar Men’, or ‘Lunaticks’ as they dubbed themselves. The Lunar Society met when the moon shone brightest, as that was the only way they could get home safely from their highbrow gatherings. They were, like most modern day Brummies, inventive, practical souls – but more than that, they were men of ideas. They were important figures of the Enlightenment period with an impact that was diverse and profound, from the beginnings of steam power to literally lighting up the world when they pioneered street lighting. Josiah Wedgwood was a Lunar man. His famous ‘Am I not a Man and a Brother?’ coin is a reminder, to those of us that toured his factory on school trips, that he was not only a notable ceramicist and industrialist but an opponent of slavery.

Their ideas inspired great public works: ‘An aqueduct was laid to Wales, So all would have enough to drink, And wash in’. A fact that impressed me as a child, as it took three long hours to get to Towyn where my grandparents lived, and there were we drinking their water! No wonder the locals daubed rude words about the English on the bridges. But however much that particular aqueduct was put to national (or at least regional) advantage, the whole of humanity would benefit from wider applications. Which is why the story behind the ‘optimism and inspiration’ of Birmingham’s particular Enlightenment – the Lunar men and their ideas about science, politics and society, and how the city, the region, and in turn the nation became the ‘workshop of the world’ – makes for a great children’s book, inspiring wide-eyed wonder about where the lives we lead today actually came from.

With this in mind, Birmingham City Council could do worse than order a copy for each of its primary schools. It is not only an important corrective to the notion that Britain’s second city is a grey and miserable place you pass through on the way to somewhere more interesting. It’s also a counter to the equally daft ‘eco-miserabilism’ that children are bombarded with, to no apparent practical end other than to detach them from the past gains of humanity. Much better to foster an appreciation of what their future-oriented ancestors once did for the betterment of humanity, and how their legacy lives on today. We don’t set a particularly good example. For adult Brummies a vague sense of disappointment, embarrassment even, is mixed in with a sometimes fierce, if none too defensive, pride. There is the desperate resort to the banal and tangential that even Bowman indulges: Brummies once manufactured ‘the nibs for nearly every pen’ in the world. The city is the home of Balti and Bhangra and to ‘nearly half of Europe’s bluebells’. Everyone’s heard of the Bull Ring, and Spaghetti Junction is a landmark of sorts. The canals? There’s more than in Venice ya know!

While resorting to this sort of thing is more than forgivable for a children’s author, and an interesting distraction for kids and adults alike, it cannot disguise the fact that Birmingham lost its raison d’etre a long time ago. Consequently, the city fails even to live on its past glories. While there’s still a misplaced romance about Manchester’s satanic mills (did they do anything else?) and an undeniable if slightly shaky swagger about the Mancunian present, Birmingham, annoyingly, not only fails to convince with its shopping lists of useless facts and trivia, it also fails to draw on its world-shaping heritage as well. No matter how hard it tries, Birmingham is a deeply unfashionable city.

Industry, particularly the motor industry, isn’t what it used to be. As Bowman puts it, from the Lunar Society’s ‘chariot’, the ‘world’s very first powered, And functioning land vehicle’ – ‘Birmingham embraced the car, And its accompanying shopping malls’. Countless people I know have worked with cars in one way or another: at ‘The Rover’, for instance, or servicing cars for the family business like my dad and his dad before him. Equally, while the custard factory that once ‘made all the world’s custard powder’ is now a part of an apparently thriving cultural quarter, it’s hard to imagine great artists and composers like Dvorak flocking to Birmingham, never mind lavishing praise on the city as they once did during its industrial heyday.

Birmingham may be putting itself forward as city of culture, something which (when the word actually meant something) it clearly had a good case for, and its great civic buildings are a lasting legacy. But today this speaks to the sense of a city desperately searching for a new purpose in life, and running away from its old associations. Cars and consumerism, whatever the economics of the matter, are not the sort of things you’re supposed to boast about anymore. Cities – oddly – are expected to embrace their polar opposite, and celebrate the ‘local’ and ‘community’, rather than the wealth and mobility that allow people to escape these things. The ‘muge soaring, roaring carriageways’ and the ‘many miles of motorways’ that Bowman wants us to love are no longer an asset, they are a liability.

The heights of a more ambitious age described so vividly in This is Birmingham are quite alien to us today. This isn’t surprising in a society that has turned its back on the great achievements of the industrial age and become estranged from its past. In its place is the search for what Bowman describes as the ‘beautiful bits’ of Birmingham, the café society, the park bandstands, the shops and markets. Or what Brian Travers of UB40-fame describes in his salute to the book as a window on ‘our city full of secrets’. But it is no good looking in the more picturesque nooks and crannies, you won’t find Birmingham there.

As Bowman herself tells the young reader, the biggest secret of all is that Birmingham created the modern world. And then forgot. We should be putting this right and rediscovering the promise of ‘this’ Birmingham, and inspiring younger generations to shape their city and their world in the inquiring and industrious spirit of the Lunar men before them.

This rotting metropolis

In this 1988 adaptation of Katsuhiro Ôtomo’s own influential cyber-punk manga classic, the likes of Mad Max, A Clockwork Orange and Blade Runner quickly come to mind. But most striking of all is how the themes of this futuristic nightmare resonate with our urban present. I suppose that’s always the point with films like this but the temporal collapse is more apparent than ever for this reviewer at least.

It takes a while to get my bearings. But it’s pretty clear from the off that things are deteriorating pretty badly in this towering but decaying dystopian cityscape. The authorities are cracking down on juvenile delinquents engaged in petty crime amidst the barricades. It’s all quite exhilarating in fact. There are high speed chases, a newscaster announces that ‘terrorists have bombed the commercial district’; a bar tender tells anybody who’ll listen ‘with demonstrations and terrorists nowadays prices have gone up’ but ‘business is business’. There is even an Olympic stadium under construction and quarrels on the Executive Committee (aka the Greater London Authority) about its funding. ‘Instead of rebuilding the city’, complains one member, we ‘spend our whole surplus on that Olympic monstrosity’. 

It is AD 2019, 31 years after World War III, when Tokyo met its mushroom-shaped end (in the year the film was released). In its place (or somewhere near it) is Neo Tokyo, a city of random explosions and nihilistic violence. The story centres on the revengeful young Tetsuo – once ‘bullied by everyone’ but now with a maniacal glint in his eye. Like the little terror I saw arrested under the Prevention of Terrorism Act last week at Wood Green tube station, he finds himself detained under the convenient pretext of being engaged in something more sinister. To cut a long story short (without spoiling it) Tetsuo becomes a ‘test subject’ for the authorities in their quest to capture the ‘pure energy’ of the elusive Akira. Like the religious fanatics and the demonstrators in the street, the mad scientist wants to harness Akira’s ‘limitless power’.

But this is a film shot through with a knowing cynicism about the pursuit of knowledge and power and, of course, politics. ‘You’re forgetting who the real enemy is: it’s the politicians who got us into this mess in the first place’, says the colonel, as his troops train their guns on him. It is a world like our own where the catastrophic consequences of the human folly of the past stand as a warning to young idealists. As far as the colonel is concerned, ‘We’ve progressed quite a way since that Holocaust’. When he complains that ‘The people lost their pride in our great achievement a long time ago. Now all these fools care about is indulging themselves’, he sounds like a former lefty turned New Labourite berating the stupid consumerist masses for their failing loyalty. Though not seduced by Akira he shares with the scientist a visceral disgust for the city and its inhabitants. ‘I’m surprised you feel anything for this rotting metropolis,’ says the latter. 

To some extent, once you’ve seen one sci-fi downer on our collective urban future you’ve seen them all. And yet there is enough going on with Akira, visually and intellectually (if you ignore the clichés and the sci-fi mysticism), to keep it engaging. Perhaps its unique selling point is that it depicts a city that is both pre-and post-apocalyptic, cut off from its destructive past but consequently in fear of its future. Neo Tokyo is all too familiar.

Disparity and Diversity in the Contemporary City: social order revisited

Billed as a ‘look at classic urban themes as they are manifested in the contemporary city, focusing on social reproduction of inequality, the meanings of disorder, and the link between the two’, this scholarly intercourse between sociological heavyweights promised much, but delivered little in the way of insight. Indeed, the indecipherable verboseness of the respondent only confirmed this reviewer in his prejudices against the ‘mainstream sociology’ against which this esteemed figure claimed to be railing.

Paul Gilroy, Anthony Giddens Professor in Social Theory at LSE, was responding to the annual British Sociological Society lecture given by Professor Robert Sampson, Henry Ford II Professor of the Social Sciences and chair of sociology at Harvard University. Sampson’s empiricism was apparently beyond the pale for a man who has invested so much in the cultural turn that lead him to conclude decades ago that There is no black in the Union Jack.

Far more intriguing for Sampson was the colour-coding of the streets of Victorian London, that featured in Charles Booth’s poverty maps. Booth describes some of the city’s streets in the 1880s as filled with the ‘Lowest class. Viscious, semi-criminal’. In one case, he says the ‘appearance of the neighbourhood has changed more than its character’ as their remain ‘pockets of filth and squalor, with rowdy residents and broken windows’. With reference to examples like this, Sampson convincingly demonstrated that the poorest areas tend to be spatially distributed today much as they were then, and that this suggests the persistence of poverty over time.

And yet I found his drawing of parallels with today’s politics of ‘broken windows’ and ‘rowdy residents’ a bit of a stretch. Similarly when he asked, rhetorically, which ‘mechanisms sustain the heirarchy of places’ his account of why the experience of poverty is particularly persistent amongst minority populations was less than convincing. Sampson’s argument that ‘socially perceived disorder strongly predicts later poverty’ is a peculiar distortion of the observation that minority groups tend to live disproportionately in poorer areas.

He is effectively saying that personal prejudice now, rather than the consequences of systematic discrimination in the past and the continuation of the conditions of poverty in the present, are responsible for this material inequity. While it is no doubt the case that people ‘act on their perceptions of order’ and that ‘social perception forms a meaningful aspect of neighbourhood relations’, interpersonal perceptions do not determine the distribution of poverty. Likewise, Sampson’s research may help enrich understanding of the racialised patterning of poverty across the city, and how ‘collective meanings of place’ deem certain neighbourhoods as ‘morally liable’, but these observations do not point to an ‘under-appreciated cause’ of urban decline in the US, as he claims.

Though Sampson’s analysis was flawed he at least sought to engage with the problem under discussion. The frustration of listening to Gilroy was his refusal to ackowledge that there might exist ‘social facts’ (as Emile Durkheim once called them) beyond the particularlities of time and place. He insisted, for instance, that Sampson could only tell us anything meaningful about the ‘particularlities of US city life’ implying that his was a wasted journey. While sweeping generalisations about ‘universal patterns’ should not be made ligthly, Gilroy seemed to be constitutionally averse to the very notion of making any generalisations at all. Whether you’re talking about Chicago or London, the late 19th or the early 21st century, whatever their ‘surface manifestations’, countered Sampson, ‘certain mechanisms and processes are the same’.

And yet for all Gilroy’s faux-radicalism and militant methodological parochialism, it was Sampson’s failure to interrogate the bigger political picture that made his explanation, in the end, so unsatisfactory. Indeed his self-imposed confinement to theorizing at the level of ‘intersubjectivity’ rendered his indifference to the the integrity of the human subject, acting on the world rather than being shaped by the negative ‘perceptions’ of others, all the more striking. His focus on the psycho-geography of ‘race and place’ was to ignore the profound impact of the promotion of the idea of multiculturalism, and its role in the promotion of the social divisions, and in the ‘colouring’ of the intersubjectivities, that so concerned him.

Before Their Time

In the foreword to Before Their Time: The World of Child Labor, US Senator Tom Harkin describes photographer David L Parker’s work as ‘intimate, respectful, and engaging’. Indeed, that some of the otherwise downtrodden subjects are smiling is only testament to his capturing of their ‘full humanity’ he concludes. And yet this sits rather uncomfortably with Parker’s own description of children and their families as but ‘victims of economic exploitation’. Yes, Parker is right to note how the grand-sounding rhetoric of the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child – signed up to by developing world governments a little too keen on signing away their sovereignty – is a practical irrelevance for the children featured. But does book has little to take us beyond such empty rights-talk.

The propensity of moral campaigners over here to project their anxieties and discomfort with the modern world, onto those parts yet to feel its benefits, are evident. Parker’s concern that these ‘at risk’ children are not ‘safe, healthy, and educated’ is a rather odd point to make when they are also living in absolute poverty. On the other hand, neither are they modern slaves. Are the circus children really in a ‘slavery-like situation’ and do domestic workers live in ‘virtual slavery’? The qualifiers speak volumes. Indeed the specific hardships these children inevitably encounter are swept up in a general sense of forboding about the dangers children face, not least from the ‘unscrupulous adults’ who apparently prey on them.

As the often striking photography in this book documents, children around the world engage in a variety of labour-intensive occupations. In agriculture and animal husbandry, mines and quarries, in textiles and manufacturing. But the images are distorted somewhat with a rather indulgent and misanthropic coffee-table commentary that is very contemporary. (By chance in the course of writing this review a ticket came my way for the opening of The Changing Face of Childhood at Dulwich Picture Gallery, featuring work by the likes of Van Dyck and Gainsborough. The rosy depictions of a privileged childhood in these 18th century portraits also expressed the optimism of the age. It wasn’t a society alienated from its own achievements as ours is. Of course one features the offspring of aristocrats, the other the progeny of poverty. But even allowing for this, the treatment of childhood is quite different.)

The children perched on fishing platforms in Indonesia are exposed as the ocean cuts off their ‘escape’ from the ‘bosses [who] often subject the children to physical and sexual abuse’. The children searching for conch shells in the towering mangrove swamps of Nicaragua seem entangled and isolated. There are few adults around. And given what they tend to get up to that’s probably best. At least that is the implication. It is difficult to know what conclusion you are supposed to draw when child labour is made to sit next to images of imminent child abuse. Its all the same apparently, an indictment of what adults do to children in Nicaragua, Sierra Leone, Nepal, Morocco, Mexico, India, Bolivia and Turkey – the world over.

For some, their spirits are yet to be broken by hard labour, while others seem to be peering out at the viewer awaiting our intervention, to be ‘saved’ by the kindly campaigner, NGO, aging rock star or displacement-activity-seeking politician. The little girl making firecrackers in Guatemala looks like an ordinary little girl. Others look hardened as if they’ve lived too much already. The Bangladeshi boy hanging out of a leather tanning drum may as well be up a chimney. Whereas the sinister-looking leather tanning machine in India looks ready to devour anybody that goes near it, much like the mechanical monster in the film Metropolis.The Indian boy welding (on the front cover), the steady gaze of his Guatemalan equivalent surrounded by the tools of his trade – each suggests a maturity beyond their years.

There are the burnt-scarred arms of the Guatemalan boy from the firework factory. The dry and scabby hand propped up against the soft cheek of a tiny Nepalese carpet-weaving girl. The Indian boy working at his lathe seems routine enough until you notice his unmade bed in the corner of a small room, metal filings littering the floor. The picture of the Indian ‘textile factory’ is particularly charming if only because the children are care-free and child-like, apparently playing – weaving in and out – amongst the adults. The frame is split in two, a little boy peers to the open upper level (a supporting adult hand on his back) where a boy and girl seem to be hiding from him. The adults in the other photographs tend to be anonymous, passive and apparently undifferentiated from the children. Or tourists. A facelss man in chequered shirt and newly shined boots; a sleazy sex tourist looking away nonchalantly as he fondles the leg of a Thai girl with her back to us.

A Mexican boy in sports cap and trainers sits engrossed in a magazine. He is sat at his stall full to bursting with ‘adult’ titles, from the comical ‘Busty’ to the more familiar Playboy. ‘In many cities boys sell newspapers’ says Parker menacingly, incongruously. They also work on market stalls, in bicycle repair shops and garages. Oh, and child prostitution and trafficking are rife too. But surely drawing a moral equivalence between sexual exploitation and a paper round is absurd? The wistful pose of a Mexican girl selling bags a few pages later suddenly seems straight out of a glamour shoot; and the young boys hoisting nets are, in a quiet moment, seemingly reclined suggestively.

The mind plays tricks. But it is Parker’s commentary, and his eye for the ambiguous, that colours the interpretation – that encourages the viewer to see victims of abuse where more often than not they’re just children working too hard, too young and for far too little. But they aren’t alone. The young Indonesian garbage picker (like his contemporary in Nicaragua) has a basket on his back, but then you notice there are a sea of baskets attached to the adult backs stretching out behind him. Everyone pitches in not because the adults mistreat the children but because their shared experience of poverty dictates it.