I’ve long had a strong notion that forms of anarchism are the only way forward for humanity (and, consequently, the animal kingdom too). ‘Small is Beautiful’ as someone once said (Michael Schumacher?) and, of course, it won’t be the first time these types of societies have existed. St Kilda’s is a famous example where people were more or less forced to live communally; whole loads of tribal societies before they’ve been slaughtered and corrupted by ‘pioneers’ lived lives of mutual dependence and bounty sharing; Housing Coops and Worker’s Coops exist and thrive throughout the world and even in Liverpool (check out the Gingerbread Housing Cooperative as an influential example).
There was no such scheme that existed anywhere ever that was anything like Clays Lane Housing Cooperative, a vast brick spaceship of a place that seemed to get darker when the streetlights came on. It loomed balefully, and had an energy fed with positive aeons and the possibility of being built on an old rubbish tip leading to it finally reaching for the stars one night after the biggest methane bubble in the world finally popped. That’s exactly what summed up the aspirations of many who lived there; they were all put on hold until after the bubble.
Any sociology student, or psychology, or social anthropology, or even a student of economics could have got a PhD out of Clays Lane easily. We didn’t talk a lot about diversity then, it hadn’t yet become a buzz-word, but diverse was certainly what it was. Rastafarians, Welsh, Chinese, Australian…you name it. For reasons, sometimes for reasons not always straightforwardly explained by mere Sociology, there were a great many Scots, who were, very often, among the most creative and politically committed members of this 500-strong community designed to be run for and by itself.
Each courtyard bore the name of a Rochdale Pioneer, those adventurous yet prudent northern political aspirants who’d started the whole Cooperative movement off back in the 1840s. Smithies, Daly, Holt and so on, they were commemorated by folk trying to follow their lead. They had no idea of what they had set in train.
If the local council (Newham) could have found a bigger dump to allow Clays Lane to exist then they were keeping it for some scheme that they cared even less about (East London Pigeon and Orphaned Horse-Fondlers Association, perhaps?). Set amid an industrial drizzle, a semi-nuclear funk, an environment of marshalling yards, overhead power cables, potential suburban methane bubbles and other waifs and straifs of the disenfranchised like NELP students and ‘Caravan Dwellers’, it was like East Berlin transported by JG Ballard in a novel about secret medical experiments in controlled un-health. Fling in the usual booze and funky cigarettes and this was a group of people that may hit problems.
Maybe Clays Lane was too diverse? Was that a contributing factor to its ultimate demise? Just too many different type, classes and cultures to throw a universal blanket over?
It was true that some had different motivations for living there than others. To your middle-class types maybe studying to be doctor’s or whatever, it was a chance to live on the wild side at the same time as taking advantage of the cheap rent to save up the deposit on that little gaff in Muswell Hill. A once in a life time, highly affordable opportunity to witness at first hand how the other half lived. There were loads of these types but, to give the their due, they were also the type who would chip in with rent collecting duties, attend meetings, etc, so I think they felt they were giving something back (middle-class guilt?).
Other middle-class types were in the Revolutionary Communist Party (RCP), still others in the Socialist Workers Party (SWP). As if this wasn’t factionalism enough, one other little chap seemed to be all alone in the Organ of Communist Youth (OCY), at least I never met another one. Being a pseudo-lefty and feeling sorry for this fella, I encouraged his Friday night visits, a decision that soon had me jumping from the roof in bids to end it all. If anyone or group is going to put ‘ordinary working people’ off joining in the good fight, it is all of the above. Grim-faced and humourless (“nothing funny about the revolution, Dave”) they’d stalk the courtyards demanding folk join in their struggle. The OGY was a party devoted to Enver Hoxha, for Christ-sake. A dubious figure of tyrant tendencies who went about murdering members of his own government. In Albania for fuck-sake, just to make the whole thing super-sexy. No wonder the wee guy had all the sense of humour of a bee that had just stung himself!
I managed to shake him off eventually only for us to be re-united when I’d re-allocated to Liverpool, as indeed had he. Our eyes met when I almost managed to pass him as he was selling the party rag at the top of Bold Street. It was then I knew that God was a revolutionary communist, but at least he had a wicked sense of humour.
Myself? I was in old Ecology Party, much to the bewilderment of my hard-line left brother. Bill Burr, the great American comedian talks in one of his shows of those moments in your life that you feel are so cringe-worthy that you just want vigorously shake your head free of them. The night I chaired The Ecology Party meeting in Clays Lane Community Centre to discuss the planet and green policies towards solutions was one of those for me. Thing about chairing a meeting is that you have sufficient knowledge of your subject matter so that you can guide the debate fairly making sure all views are heard and discussed. I became very quickly flustered and in the process gaining the ire of my then girl-friend, Lesley, for referring to an obvious Stalinist making a contribution as ‘comrade’ (not very impartial, I know: especially for someone seen to be on the other side.)
The RCP had gathered in numbers at the back of the meeting which was quite well-attended. They were their usual sullen, disparaging selves; snakey whispers and confounded sneers as the official ‘class traitors’ banged on about renewables. The atmosphere became increasingly tense and hostile; then RCP lot had obviously come to break it up and this particular chair-person was just not up to stopping them. I think a future party leader, Caroline Lucas, was there that night and my credibility was shot to buggery. I ended up having a wee fling with one of the RCP lot (a sympathy fuck?). She’d practice her yoga on her futon fully naked, knowing full well (she told me afterwards) that I had a perfect view of her through her sky-light (well, it wasn’t totally perfect as I had stand on a box!)
