Becontree. Photo: Getty
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Will Self: forget the wilderness, true adventurers should head for the housing estate

Public relations flacks should understand this much: any old Prince Harry can take a well-organised trip into the wilderness, but the true contemporary adventurer strikes out for the known.

Waiting for the District Line Tube out to Becontree, I gazed at the poster curving up the sooty wall. “Wake up to the Wild”, a slogan daubed on a stylised piece of driftwood read, and beneath it, hovering over an illustration of a rocky, sandy beach, was this come-hither: “With one of the largest tidal ranges in the world, Guernsey’s coastline offers a new experience each visit.”

This I didn’t doubt – I’ve been to Guernsey and walked its entire coastline (not difficult: it takes a long morning), but then surely visiting anywhere in the world a second time entails a different experience? Also, to make even this strictly accurate claim about Guernsey’s “wildness” seemed to be stretching things; true, it is the thinking person’s Jersey, but with a population density of 840 non-taxpayers per square kilometre – most of whom, so far as I could see, spend their days roaring along the lanes in their Porsches – it’s hardly the Yukon.

Or Becontree, for that matter. This humongous east London council estate was built in the interwar period, and in 1935 it housed 100,000 people in 26,000 homes. The largest public housing development in the world at the time, it was a byword for mod cons that didn’t altogether work, and a civic pride that kept every privet hedge clipped at precisely the same height. I’d never been to Becontree, unlike Guernsey, so I was intent on remedying the deficiency. The Channel island’s public relations flacks should understand this much: any old Prince Harry can take a well-organised trip into the wilderness, but the true contemporary adventurer strikes out for the known.

For this kind of expedition it’s a good idea to have a qualified guide, and mine was one of the pre-eminent: Nick Papadimi­triou, the self-styled “deep topographer”. I’ve known Nick since the mid-1980s, and seen him change from a markedly eccentric urban wanderer into a still more markedly eccentric urban wanderer. His has been a life spent kicking his heels along neglected suburban verges and rummaging through the 50p-or-less boxes outside remote charity shops. At his council flat off the Finchley Road, Nick has spent 30 years assembling an astonishing archive of London’s hinterland, the fruit of which was his amazing book, Scarp (published in 2012), an account of his intense – even mystical – relationship with a landmass called the Middlesex Tertiary Escarpment.

I liaised with Nick in Parsloes Park and we strolled through the leafy roads of Becontree and into Valence Park, where we found Valence House, the only manor house still extant in Barking and Dagenham and now a rather fine local museum. The best thing about walking with Nick is that he resists anything as obvious as a defined route or objective; he is the arch-flâneur, impelled from one place to the next because he wishes to compare the concrete flanges of manhole covers, or the kinds of trident fencing used to segregate waste ground. At Becontree we were both taken by the ornate stone cladding that had been added to many of the houses, together with uPVC window frames and sections of aluminium siding sprayed white to resemble clapboard. Where one of the semis had not been altered, we admired the granolithic façades and curved, recessed porches, which together gave the buildings a curiously organic feel.

The museum was full of interesting stuff, such as a Neolithic wooden idol dug up from the Thames mud, but it being four in the afternoon on a weekday the place was closing. We didn’t mind; Nick had a vague desire to visit the riverside at Dagenham Dock, so we trudged back south through streets teeming with manumitted schoolkids, stopping for a tea at the Castle Green Leisure Centre before crossing the A12 by a footbridge. Alongside an arterial road being hammered by lorry traffic, we observed a particularly rich collection of wild flowers. Nick, knowing his botany, reeled off the names of the plants; I, being an ignoramus, immediately forgot them. Nick speculated about whether the meadow had been seeded, or if these had been dormant seeds germinated once the earth had been churned up preparatory to the establishment of the SUSTAINABLE INDUSTRIES PARK (“Over 125,000 Square Metres of High-Quality Business Space”), a phenomenon that thus far consisted solely in this stentorian hoarding.

Towards Dagenham Dock, the roadway grew quieter and the air of desuetude greater – off to either side stood lowering steel hangars and semi-defunct industrial buildings; buddleia burst from walls; two men struggled with a giant socket wrench and a gianter lorry wheel. Hemmed in by corrugated iron walls, we were funnelled towards a couple of enormous dumps (or “waste treatment centres”, as they’re now euphemised), and it became clear we couldn’t gain the riverside in this direction. Nick didn’t mind; he’d landed on a small traffic island, and so began to rhapsodise, “Isn’t it amazing – perfect in its way, and utterly without a discernible function.” He was right: the lozenge-shaped island was marooned at the edge of a roundabout that no one much ever circumnavigated. With its filthy-white bollard, tidal wrack of automotive wreckage and beaches of compacted dust, it offered me an experience quite as novel as anything Guernsey could. I liked it so much I went back again the following day.

Will Self is an author and journalist. His books include Umbrella, Shark, The Book of Dave and The Butt. He writes the Madness of Crowds and Real Meals columns for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 11 June 2014 issue of the New Statesman, The last World Cup

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The filmmaker forcing the British Board of Film Classification to watch Paint Drying for hours on end

The film does what it says on the tin.

Would you watch paint dry for several hours? If you work for the British Board of Film Classification (BBFC), you might not have much choice in the matter. As a protest against problems he sees within the organisation, British filmmaker and journalist Charlie Lyne has launched a Kickstarter to send the BBFC a film he’s made called Paint Drying. It does what it says on the tin: the film is a single, unbroken shot lasting several hours (its length is determined by the amount of money raised) of white paint slowly drying on a brick wall. Once Lyne has paid the fee, the board are obliged to watch it.

“I’ve been fascinated by the BBFC – and censorship in general – for ages, but it was only when I went to a BBFC open day earlier this year that I felt properly frustrated by the whole thing,” Lyne told me. “There was a lot of discussion that day about individual decisions the board had made, and whether they were correct, but no discussions whatsoever about whether the BBFC should have the kind of power it has in the first place.”

The 2003 Licencing Act imposes the following rules on cinemas in the UK: cinemas need licenses to screen films, which are granted by local authorities to the cinemas in their area. These licences include a condition requiring the admission of children to any film to normally be restricted in accordance with BBFC age ratings. This means that in order to be shown easily in cinemas across the country, films need an age rating certificate from the BBFC. This is where, for Lyne, problems begin: a certificate costs around £1,000 for a feature film of average length, which, he says, “can prove prohibitively expensive” for many independent filmmakers.

It’s a tricky point, because even Lyne acknowledges on his blog that “this is actually a very reasonable fee for the services rendered”. The BBFC pointed out to me that its income is “derived solely from the fees it charges for its services”. So is the main issue the cost, or the role he feels the BBFC play in censorship? The Kickstarter page points out that the BBFC's origins are hardly liberal on that front:

The British Board of Film Classification (previously known as the British Board of Film Censors) was established in 1912 to ensure films remained free of 'indecorous dancing', 'references to controversial politics' and 'men and women in bed together', amongst other perceived indiscretions. 

Today, it continues to censor and in some cases ban films, while UK law ensures that, in effect, a film cannot be released in British cinemas without a BBFC certificate.

It might be true “in effect”, but this is not a legal fact. The 2003 Licensing Act states, “in particular circumstances, the local authority can place their own restrictions on a film. Film distributors can always ask a local authority for a certificate for a film banned by the BBFC, or a local category for a film that the BBFC has not classified.” The BBFC point out that “film makers wishing to show their films at cinemas in the UK without a BBFC certificate may do so with permission from the local authority for the area in which the cinema is located.” There you have it – the BBFC does not have the absolute final word on what can be shown at your local Odeon.

While the BBFC cannot officially stop cinemas from showing films, they can refuse to categorise them in any category: something Lyne says mostly happens with “quite extreme horror films and pornography, especially feminist pornography made by people like Petra Joy and Pandora Blake, but it could just as easily be your favourite movie, or mine.” This makes large-scale release particularly difficult, as each individiual local authority would have to take the time and resources to overrule the decision. This means that, to get screened easily in cinemas, a film essentially needs a BBFC-approved rating. Lyne adds, “I think films should also be allowed to be released unrated, as they are in the US, so that independent filmmakers with no money and producers of niche, extreme content aren’t at the mercy of such an expensive, censorial system.”

Does he think Paint Drying can make that a possibility? “I realise this one small project isn’t going to completely revolutionise British film censorship or anything, but I hope it at least gets people debating the issue. The BBFC has been going for a hundred years, so it’s got tradition on its side, but I think it's important to remember how outraged we’d all be if an organisation came along tomorrow and wanted to censor literature, or music. There's no reason film should be any different.”

Anna Leszkiewicz is a pop culture writer at the New Statesman.