The House of Zuboff

The House of Zuboff

i) The Manvers Hotel

I awoke to the soothingly educated voices of John Humphreys and some beleaguered PR bloke from one of the huge multi nationals – Humphreys in his usual self defacing candour mastering the art of being both somehow smug and self defacing. His superiority more than implicitly evident as the official blurted uncomfortably as he was casually interrupted, patronised, interrogated and humoured - all at the same time. The content was irrelevant, ‘Global Warming’ or some ‘counter terrorism’ threat but all that bothered me was the warming glow of the coffee percolator. I checked the ash tray full of usable dog-ends enough to provide the first obligatory nicotine fix of the day. Radio Four had been for some months now my only friend and contact with a wider world – an escape from the intermittent moaning and inane banter from the guests at Margaret Smiths low-life Bed & Breakfast - courtesy of the benevolence of the Department of Work and Pensions.

January’s malaise had given forth to February’s disquiet. It was time to move on and although I’d planned this for some months the perverse spirit of ennui had made trips to the outside world a rare phenomenon, on occasion I had made it to Parikh’s Superstore, Euston to purchase the duty free tobacco they sold under the counter to ‘special clients’ like myself. Today was to be different, I made my way downstairs to the ‘Breakfast Suite’ to enjoy a meal of rank sausage, eggs that looked like they had been burnt in a sacrificial rite and some cardboard cleverly disguised as bacon. Judiciously I decided to avoid the toast after swatting some inject with our complimentary copy of the ‘Daily Mail.’ I even had the courtesy to grunt a few pleasantries at ‘Brummie Frank’, his face bloated and lined by years of cheap Sherry. In fact it beared some semblence to a map of London’s underground system. I returned back to my room and Mr Humphrey’s relative sanity after the conversation turned to Brummie Franks views on ‘Asylum Seekers’. “They eat their children y’ know,” he spat out between mouthfuls of counterfeit Frosties, “animals,,,,,,,not civilised like us…says ‘ere in the Daily Mail”, milk dribble adding to the collection of stains the speckled his blazer.

Looking round the room, the 1950’s utility furniture that had long outlived what utility it still had, the thick hospital style sheets on the spring burst mattress – I was surprisingly somewhat sad to be leaving. Everything was ready I was all packed to go. As I was two weeks rent in arrears I would not be returning my key or collecting by deposit as I ‘Passed Go’. If my wily old landlady asked any questions, I’d just tell her I was off to visit a sick relative up North somewhere. The place I was going to I’d be travelling light and so I’d be leaving the majority of my wardrobe for her disposal.

ii) National Express

The well travelled (excuse the pun) details of London’s underground system and grime of Victoria Bus station I will spare any details of. That excepting, I did manage to fill a Tescos bag with some rather juicy dog-ends to help be get be through the day and tedium of waiting for the link ups between journeys. London was at ‘Terror Alert 3’ which apparently wasn’t that bad so the delays were mercifully shorter than expected. As I boarded the National Express coach to Oxford the steward did enquire what was in the bag of course ‘Oh, strictly hand luggage this one I mused and snatched it away from his prying eyes – the other bits a suitcase falling to bits at the seams and my battered Spanish Guitar were placed in the luggage holder. I even managed to get a single seat; although I’m sure the reek of the discarded butts still filled the carriage much to the other passenger’s discomfort.

Some hour and a half later I was unpacking my remaining worldly possessions at Gloucester Green, gazing at Oxford’s spires and making my way over to the Woodstock Rd. to meet the No. 20 bus for Chipping Norton. As I waited, I imagined that I was as least as inconspicuous as any of the other backpackers or travellers that seem to be Oxford’s sole inhabitants. Asking directions I was met with a Mid-West American drawl, “Sorry can’t help you, Sir.” They were all here - it seemed all the citizens of the world, Japanese, Yanks, Polish, French, Spanish and Italians with their digital cameras in hand. Taking pictures of Oxford scenery, perhaps enrolling for bogus courses in the city’s burgeoning ‘education industry’ currency for certificates – the ‘Oxford’ image still invoked enormous credos, if the reality was a little bit different.

I felt myself gripped with an overwhelming sense of disbelief, I’d finally arrived and god knows heaven knows what I was walking into. The months of atrophy and boredom, the endless days of nothingness were over for me now. I had enrolled at a place I’d only heard whispers and rumours about, this was no college or institution. Hopefully this was the start of something good, new and special and a change for me to kick start my life into something that meant something. Out somewhere in the Oxfordshire countryside past Kidlington and Begbroke there was a place. A throw back to Greenwich Village, San Francisco 1969 – a wild place of wonderment – a little publicised commune of sorts, it seemed an anathema in England. Had I made the right step forward or was I letting myself into something unfathomable, dangerous even. This was a rural wilderness was miles away from the Californian sands from where Professor Zuboff’s novel utopia aspirations were spawned! Anyway life was bound to be more exciting here than the Manvers Hotel. I paid my fare and sped down the winding roads to a new destiny……………………..was this to be the new ideal, a ‘Summer of Love’ for these unloving times?

I got of at the stop just after Yarnton Woods. The centre was signposted almost subliminally. I took a deep, deep breath and made my way down the long and winding drive to the undiscovered world of Professor Zuboff.

Steve Thomas, Euston - Jan 2007