10. A Brief Glimpse of The Other Side...

I've said a few harsh things about the town. Usually with good reason, though.

If you were to ascribe a personality to it, you'd probably be looking for a cross between John McCririck, Roy 'Chubby' Brown and Ann Widdecombe: shabby, boorish, fearsomely conservative, with a bit of fairground flash and clangour tossed in for the craic.

The local paper, The Cacksea Clarion, is the love-child of a union between the Daily Mail and Hello! , with a strand of eBay spliced into the genes. 4x4s cram the car parks like tanks at a Red Square parade. Flagpoles make popular garden accessories.

Favourite pets are Rotties and Staffs, and those little snuffly, yappy things that look like a ferret eating its way out of a gonk (don't ask me what they're called, but they're always clad in tartan jackets, so they obviously originate from Scotland: the awful result of miscegenation involving a sporran, a haggis and a set of bagpipes).

To serve the town's 30,000-odd inhabitants, there are 34 hairdressers, 4 nail salons, 3 supermarkets, 26 fast-food outlets, 9 fashion accessory shops, an SUV dealership, 3 tanning salons, 1 night club, 5 Pound Shops, 29 residential homes, 6 funeral directors, 12 estate agencies, 4 gyms, 15 churches, 13 amusement arcades, 7 sail shacks, 3 bait shops, 2 angling clubs, several dozen CCTV cameras and half a pier. Oh, and an equestrian shop. Everyone thinks it's a front operation for something.

The cinema is a showcase venue for the usual mainstream Hollywood toss: rom-coms, CGI Fridays, Jim Carrey love-ins, something with Tom Cruise and his latest wife/lover/girlfriend/ex. There are 27 pubs, only one of which is any good (and you know which one). Over a third of the Library space is taken up with DVDs and CDs. There are NO bookshops. Well¦ none selling new books. The Alldays shuts at 10.30.

Fashion role models are Grant Mitchell, the Beckhams, Eminem and Jordan on one side, Field-Marshal Montgomery and Vera Lynn on the other, Bruce Forsyth and Trisha somewhere in between. The number of chavs is in rough proportion to the number of Fiestas and smashed-up phone boxes. A few brave emo kids and Badly-Drawn skateboarders have secured their own little territories ' usually around the car parks, or wherever loud music is playing. In summer, jet-skiers invade in squadrons, like a lunk-head Luftwaffe. In winter, it's as wet, cold and empty as a lost glove.

It's a small town on the 'Middle England' coast. What else can you expect?

But lest I paint too bleak and generalised a picture¦ it has its good bits, too. Its points of interest. Its curious side-alleys and corner-ways, where you can always find something worthwhile. The places that make it liveable for me.

Mad Mack's needs no further introduction: Den's Den is at Number 10! Then there's that other oasis of sanity, The Bean Bag ' the wholefood shop by Mole's Motors. It's run by a Rastafarian called Jinni and his Welsh partner Fee. They used to be travellers ' pitching up here and there, doing some work, saving some money, moving on. Then one day they drove their ancient VeeDub into Cacksea, saw the shop vacant, liked it and (for some reason best known to themselves, but thankfully) decided to stay. In there, you can get ' as Jinni puts it '

"Everat'ing from a ounce a spice to a sack a rice¦ or the other way 'roun' if tha's what ya want.

Rice milk, Puy lentils, linseed, asafoetida, ghee. Cold-pressed olive oil in one-gallon cans. Raisins as big as teabags. Coriander fresh from the earth. Stoneground flour, houmous, organic wine, figs¦ and a smell, like old bibles and rain-washed gardens, that sharpens the air and makes your taste buds jump. By the doorway, there are shelves and racks of books, magazines, flyers and cards covering everything from hydrogenated fats and compost toilets to hunt sabbing, rebirthing and chakra-balancing.

Jinni and Fee have a bagging room at the back of the shop, where they'll weigh things up as you want them. They run a meditation group once a week in their flat upstairs, and Fee does Reiki and Indian Head Massage. Jinni, unassuming to the point of diffidence, is an excellent poet ' though he hasn't yet managed the nerve to do a reading. I keep on at him.

"Gimme time, man, he says. "I choose me time.

Fair enough. I won't argue with him because he's also a black-belt at Yoyo's dojo ' one of the only one's Yoyo's wary of.

"You've got to watch those quiet types, Yo says. "Besides, he swings a mawashi-geri like a fucking helicopter. I wouldn't want to be on the end of it.

There's a courtyard at the back of the shop with a few tables, and during the summer you can sit out there with a cuppa and a roll. I often go there then. It's a quiet place to look through the paper or think some thoughts ' the only sounds being the distant tinkling of spanners from Mole's yard, interspersed with coughs or a cry of "Cunt! at some recalcitrant nut or bolt.

Then there're the charity shops ' everything covered from cats to cancer. Most of my kit comes from these. It's not just about being skint a lot. They have some excellent stuff. Good books, too ' if you sort through the boxes. In amongst the Reader's Digest Condensed Editions and the Dan Browns, you can often find a Dickens, a Steinbeck or a Balzac. I've even found Bukowski and Hunter S Thompson before. Not a clue who handed them over. Me, possibly.

Porky's does you for everything vinyl and video, with the biggest collection of used LPs for miles. Every label, every band, every genre ' Diamond Dogs to Diamond, Neil. Frank Sinatra and Frank Zappa. Johnny Mathis and Johnny Rotten. Pink Floyd, Deep Purple, Black Sabbath, Green Day, Barry White, Simply Red. He doesn't discriminate. Taste is taste, however bad.

And then, the second-hand shops. Almost as many as hair salons. Some conventional ("Ahem, antiques if you don't mind), some off the wall entirely. In Belshazzar's, for instance, down in The Narrows, you can get a Victorian prophylactic (long past use-by), a stuffed skunk, a prayer mat with a compass, a glass eye and a set of dog's dentures. Don't even ask. Somebody does¦

But the biggest and the best by far is Billy's Hippodrome ' housed in the High Street in what was once the old music-hall theatre (hence the name). It's one of the oldest buildings in town, and one of the most striking ' rising from a drab row of tacked-on shops like a temple: a merchant's mausoleum in a broken-toothed churchyard. The architect must have been jointly influenced by the Pharos of Alexandria and too much opium. Above the entrance arch, stone fauns frolic in a pillared apse, from the dome of which Billy flies his flag of trade. Further up, the façade bulges outwards and is dotted with tiny windows, like a lighthouse. On the very top, where the lantern should be, sits a cupola, like a vast up-turned cooking pot that was stewing pigeon poo.

The archway and foyer are Billy's front stall, where he keeps some of his better bargains ' anything from sofa beds and garden statues to fridges and microwaves. Moving in past the old Ticket Booth ' now Billy's office ' the place opens up like a cathedral. The nave is stacked with double layers of bureaus and suites, while the two side aisles house bookcases, wardrobes, cabinets, dressers, pianos, tables, recliners and desks. A clerestory of windows runs down to the stage, and on a bright day the dust motes rising off the old furniture swirl in the light like universes. The stage is where Billy keeps his special stuff: older, heavier, pricier. Here, you might find a Second Republic French closet wardrobe ' big as a bedsit bathroom ' bulking up next to a Georgian bureau-desk and a 50s walnut cocktail cabinet. There's an old Bechstein grand in one corner ' possibly the theatre's original ' and a full-size slate-bed snooker table, which still gets plenty of use (though the balls tend to collect in certain areas). You won't find much veneer here. No chipboard or plastic. Nothing comes flat-packed. This stuff's solid as a forest, and so heavy it might even be rooted like one.

A staircase to the side of the foyer takes you up to the old Circle, which houses the more exotic items. Billy's laid it out like a sultan's den. Fine Turkish rugs cover the floor and the walls. Satin drapes plunge and loop around plush chaise-longues. Tall, baroque hall-stands rise in the corners, topped with vases of fluted crystal and slender porcelain figurines. A glass-topped coffee table, broad as a rowing-boat, holds a chess set in green and white marble. Flashes of rose-light and bronze catch against surfaces and in mirrors, giving the place a museum glow. A Chinese screen, depicting the four seasons in delicate strokes, folds its way across an alcove. There's even a garment draped over it ' though not the one you'd expect. It's Billy's old demin jacket.

You could almost believe someone lives there. Which is interesting, because someone does. Fold back the screen and you'll find a very cosy domestic arrangement. Sofa bed, table and chair, TV, stereo, wardrobe, bookcase, heater. Along inside the alcove, a small electric cooker, a sink and a fridge. It's one of those small-town secrets that everybody knows, but nobody knows ' if you catch my drift. It's been Billy's home for a couple of years, since he got divorced and sold his house.

"There's something about the place, Al, he told me one evening over a beer and a game of lop-sided snooker. He spoke very softly, almost reverentially. "It's the history or something. You can feel it in the air. It gets into you. Like fag smoke. Like, right in the blood. And it suits me. Being alone with it. I wouldn't want to live any other way now.

I watched him chalk his cue ' eyes darting about at the different groupings of balls. He's a striking figure of a fellah. About fifty, wiry as a pipe-cleaner, hair in a thinning grey ponytail, big silver earring, scuffed cow-poke boots, jeans as faded and thin as blotting paper. He looks more like Neil Young than Neil Young does. He took his shot and watched as the balls scattered off and regrouped. A red dropped into a pocket.

"My great-gran on my mother's side, bless 'er¦ she used to sing here, you know¦ way back. Played the piano, too. Taught herself. So there's that connection I've got. Family. They say that when someone's been part of a place, their spirit gets into the wood and the stone ' so they're always there, in a way. I'm happy to go along with that.

He took a swig from his can, then put a line on the black.

"It's funny, but some nights¦ when I'm sitting up there, quiet like¦

He arched his eyes towards the Circle, louring up in the dark like a mouth beyond our pool of light. He was just about to play his shot when he glanced at me a moment. Then he chuckled and put his eye to the ball again.

"Well¦ you know¦ probably just the wind in the rafters. Full of sounds, these old places.

The balls cracked together and the black disappeared like a bat down a well.

"Eight, he said, grinning.

.

I wouldn't mind living in a place like that ' spooks or not. Plenty of space. Pick of the furniture. Quiet-ish. Bit of a bastard to dust, I suppose, but you can't have everything. So I envy Billy in a way. A friendly way, of course. Work he likes in a place he likes with an atmosphere that keeps him rooted in his own past. A lucky man.

Lucky indeed.

'Cos none of those things, really, are things that I feel. I suppose I should say that I like what I do. It's the only thing I've ever wanted to do. But I've never really made anything of it. When I think of the hours of slog and sweat ' the lie-awake nights, the fretting and cursing ' for what I've got in return. Not just money, I mean. Satisfaction. The thought of a job well done and worthwhile. Years of scraping a pile of slush for the occasional coins in the cracks ' a half-decent line, a story that ends, an acceptance that covers the gas bill.

Sometimes it feels like a curse. Voodoo. Sometimes I wish I could purge it out. Exorcise it. Take some drug that'll reset the switches. Psyche me for something more practical. Anything. Well¦ almost.

But then there's the times like I've said¦ when something appears there, out of the ether, and goes on the page and is good. And when that happens, there's no real substitute. You just wish it would happen more often.

In the meantime, you just carry on ' 'cos there's no option and no alternative. You carry on, you strive and you hope. And you wait for the day when it starts to change.
And you seek reassurance by looking around you, and observing the lives of others ' which is what you're supposed to do, anyway.

And you think¦ it could always be worse. You're not sure how. But it could.

Could always be better, too¦

(this one's for Bob, Tim... and Billy, of course...)