Down The Garden
It's Like A Jungle Sometimes...
They claim deals are done on a handshake down the garden. I’d suggest counting your fingers…
Classically, anything beyond a wedding band and a watch is considered ‘gouche’, and while I tend to agree, in principle, I’m guilty of sporting a gold chain. Not only that, it’s a reasonably heavy one, and this gets worse, that chain’s adorned with pendants… How do I get away with it? I’m not sure that I do, but I know how I justify it, that’s through being old and stuck in a time warp between 1973 and 1980. The first of those would have been when I encountered a gold rush, knocking around in South London.
The girls, in particular, wore so much that I was left to ponder how they stood under the weight of it all. This applied to black and white females. As did Burberry kilts, coats, scarves and anything else bearing their famous check. Burberry was oblivious to what was going on, but on becoming aware, rather than being appalled at their gear being sported by riff-raff, they began producing items that bore their check on the exterior. Unbrellas serve as an example. That’s how ‘classy’ Burberry is, but the same can be levelled at Aquascutum. Years later, when Lady Di appeared, my initial thoughts were that she’d been hanging around East Street Market. So insular was I that I had no idea that those South Londoners were aping ‘Sloanes’. Mind you, those Sloanes weren’t laden with a dozen 9ct belcher and rope chains around their necks. That aspect, the least appealing of that ‘look’, was entirely their addition. ‘Gate bracelets’ abounded. Men also wore gold bracelets, which were referred to as chaparritas. I’d presumed that to be an actual brand, but it’s Spanish for ‘short’. Those Jamaicans loved a chaparrita.
I’m not suggesting Tom was invented in 1973; just that I’d never seen it worn in such abundance previously. Long before I’d seen men sporting ‘Sovereigns.’ I think girls, in a bid to remain feminine, wore half-Sovereigns. Both, for my part, were kind of hideous.
The more advanced male may have swerved the ‘Sovereign ring’ for a ‘Kurgerand’ one. I don’t know if they were any more valuable, but they were slightly less common. I mean that in terms of ‘common place’. Come on, Mick, at least be real about it. Fine, I meant it in both ways. For reasons I’m unable to fully fathom, I hated those rings and, truth be told, wasn’t overly keen on those who wore them. They brought out fags called Soveriegn. Presented in a gold coloured box, those were some cheap cigarettes.
Despite my reasonably heavy gold chain that’s adorned with various pendants, I’m not a big fan of men sporting ‘Tom’. Like all else, though, it depends on how it’s worn. A subtle flash of gold’s not the worst thing in the world, but those drawn to gold rarely seem to have mastered the art of subtelely. One often gets the sense that these cats have declared all-out war on it. A war incidentally, they appear to be winning. In much the same way that being overweight was once a sign of wealth, wearing too much Tom has long since become the mark of, if not a dole-ite, somebody that’s still haunted by poverty. If not financially, most certainly spiritually. Who, but a mentalist, would wander around, shouting at the world about how much money they’ve got?
I’ve got a hunch that those who go in for all that wind up real skint, real quick. The irony, of course, is that these individuals always view themselves as ‘streetwise’, but nothing could be further from the truth. While I’m unashamedly working class and proud of the people I come from, it doesn’t mean I have to embrace or condone every form of behaviour from those born sans silver spoon. These garish individuals are a blight on working people the world over. Sorry, not remotely sorry…Many moons ago, the comic Chris Rock famously proclaimed a distinction amongst black Americans. The same applies to the white working class, and has done so throughout history. Nothing exemplifies these differences more than their attitudes towards jewellery.
A normal man may long for a nice watch. A Rolex, for example. Eventually, he takes the plunge and lays out for it. All things being equal, that timepiece is passed down to one of his children, and they treasure it accordingly. Someone at the other end of the scale gets themself a Rolex and instantly deems it not good enough. That’s when they set about getting it ‘loaded’. This entails adding diamonds and other precious stones on the face and everywhere else that they’re not meant to be. A ‘Fully loaded’ Rolex is a truly repellent sight to behold. In my simple mind, a Rolex is a masculine timepiece. Cartier, a feminine one. Tarting up a Rolex like that goes against the watch’s essence, but it is, of course, their money to waste and they’re free to waste it in any way they see fit. That’s not the issue; the issue is the pride that they take in being so, so fucking crass. Next thing you know, Harry Enfield’s shouting “Loads’a money!” I appreciate the Enfield reference might be considered outdated, but it’s timeless… (see what I did there?)
I had a gold ring, one my Nan had ordered for me from a catalogue, when I turned eighteen. It featured a Trojan in what may have been an Onex stone. I loved it. That, though, would have been severely frowned upon by those geniuses down ‘the garden’. This lack of sentimentality or possibly humanity brings us to the second date. That, for those with short attention spans, would be 1980 and my first trip to ‘The Garden…’
Below, an absolute masterpiece by Adam Sandler. That’s right, masterpiece…
There’s a famous scene in the film ‘Marathon Man’ in which ‘The Dentist’. A character played impeccably by Sir Laurence Olivier visits NYC’s diamond district. I’ve been there, and the place is pretty much as it’s depicted in the movie. It also exemplifies the difference between NYC and London. New York’s an open city, London a closed one…
Though that analogy is less true today than it once was, as ‘The Garden’s retail game has massively expanded over the last couple of decades. Historically, however, to get a deal down ‘the Garden, you had to have ‘someone down there’. This meant knowing which of the multitude of bells located on a wall, beside a door, nestling between shop fronts, to press. Once entry was gained, you’d climb a dilapidated staircase and ring on another (security) door. On your identity being established, via the door’s ‘spy-hole’, you might be granted access to an unsalubrious workshop. Only once inside would they finally deign to rob you. I may be doing them a disservice as they’re not all bad. As stated, all that’s changed, as nowadays, they’re perfectly happy to rump you in the comfort of their ground-level shopfronts. Saves you all those stairs, I suppose. The development of the retail side isn’t the only change, as finding Salt Beef around there now is becoming progressively more difficult, and soon, may become impossible…
I did know one guy who worked down there, whose heart was so big that it almost made up for the lack of one, from the rest of EC1N’s population. Anyone familiar with Arsenal’s boys will know who I’m talking about. The wedding band I’m wearing now was made by him, and may he rest in eternal peace, as Cowboy, that was one cool dude.
The keyword in the paragraph above would be ‘deal’. Let me disabuse you of any notions you may have of receiving any favours from those ‘down the garden’. I live less than a mile from that viper’s nest, and to get my watch serviced, I’d either go full-blast and take it to Rolex. Or, to a shop we found in Thame, South Oxfordshire. The first option, whilst more expensive, gets you a certificate, which helps should you ever want to sell it. The Thame option, while not guaranteed to be above board, carries significantly less risk than giving it to anyone ‘down the garden’. What you ask, can they do to it? Taking parts out to use on another job’s an old favourite. Those parts are replaced with generic ones, and you’re charged for Rolex ones. So you wind up paying for inferior parts that you didn’t need, at Rolex prices. Look, you know when you take your car to the garage and get the overwhelming sense that you’re being fucked? That’s nothing compared to how you feel when dealing with those down the garden. At least with a mechanic, there’s an outside chance that they began life as a human being. A few years ago, I made the mistake of trusting those down ‘the garden’ with an ICW pilot’s watch, and that kettle has never been the same since. Bastardos!
‘The Garden’ is essentially capitalism in its starkest form, filled with men whose days are spent lying, scheming and chiselling anyone and everyone they come into contact with, over things that nobody in the world needs. People may want what the garden’s selling, but they don’t need it. Any of it. This may sound hippyish, but it’s coming from someone who, with each passing day, grows just that little more conservative. Despite which, were I forced to spend more than an hour amongst the running dogs of avarice, I’d turn into a full-on leftist nutjob. As, in truth, I have never encountered a more materialistic collective than the gentlemen plying their trade, ‘down the garden’.
There might well be the odd artisan who’ll look you square in the eye and enquire, “You sure you want to do this, I mean, you’re sort of going against the watch’s very essence?” If those guys do still exist, they’ll be very few and far between. The ‘expertise’ down there now dictates that wearing your watch tight ‘stretches’ the bracelet. How the pressure from your flesh stretches stainless steel, I’m not entirely sure. What actually ‘stretches’ your watch’s bracelet is the jangling that’s caused by wearing it loose. The (buried) headline here is, if you’ve you’re looking for Tom, tread carefully in the garden.
As horrific as the gents down there may sound, there are far worse people; they’re called Bankers. The Lords of Easy Money are located a mile from the garden, in the City of London and a few miles further eastwards, in Canary Wharf. At least with Hatton Gdn, it’s your choice to go and get rumped. You’ve no say in the matter with bankers. They’re at liberty to destroy global economies, and when they do, their pals in government bail them out…
Here’s one for all those slick cats, pulling strokes, down the garden…