The New Year should have its Scrooge, and I am here and now volunteering for the post. This meaningless non-festival of made-up exultation leaves me colder than a January puddle. It has no redeeming features. What is it even about? In one of my childhood home towns, poor old Portsmouth, it is the tradition to blow the hooters of all the ships in harbour (not very many nowadays) as the year turns.
I have never heard a more dismal, pessimistic noise. It sounds like a great sea creature coming to the surface and dying, just over the horizon, a miserable thought. And quite right too. How much more fitting than the silly tipsy cheering of the shivering crowds in other cities, as they watch the futile fireworks and toast the turn of the calendar. Towards what?
There are people who, around this time of year turn out lists of wondrous material achievements and supposedly pleasing prospects which lie before us. There will be more electric cars, apparently, as if that is a good thing. On the contrary, innocent pedestrians and cyclists, such as I am, fear these silent killers. Their sole function, it seems to me, is to make motorists feel less selfish because the filth and noise these things create have been outsourced to a distant power station. Even the revival of the railways, which I at first welcomed, turns out to mean that travelling by train is more and more like travelling by air.
Now, when I make these accurate points, people accuse me of wishing to go back to the 1950s, a decade which — to me — has all the allure of an overflowing ashtray next to a plate of bad food. I have no such desire. I do not wish on New Year’s Eve to be transported back to the age of custard, chilblains and Giles cartoons. What I feel, when I pause to think of what lies ahead, is that we have an unerring ability to choose the wrong future. Architecture, of all the arts, seems to me to mock at us for this mistake. For it is the most powerful art of all, and it also persists long enough to remind of us of what we used to be and what we might have been.
Wander, as I love to do on autumn days, through the great cities of continental Europe, and you will begin to sense something very disturbing. Of course, there is plenty of loveliness in their ancient quarters, though it often finishes abruptly, up against some modernist cuboid or a swooping, perpetually growling motorway junction. And there is, increasingly, a frenzy of newness, as if there is a collective will to obliterate as much of the past as possible.
In the Netherlands, especially, there seems to be an almost hysterical desire to build tall, straight, featureless boxes at every opportunity. The Hague seems to suffer from this worse than anywhere else. How ruthless and crude it all seems in a city which once breathed Edwardian calm, with its stately parks and its foolishly optimistic Peace Palace.
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