14. Another Glimpse...

Sunday 18th December 2005

Sherlock. Yoyo. Denise. Billy. Suzy and Trina. Lemon. Mole. Jinni and Fee.

These are the people who make it worthwhile for me. Living here, I mean. The folks who dance to a jazzier beat ' who play out their lives in a different key. The folks who, in a population of over 30,000, have faces.

The characters, in short.

Even the Beasley Boys ' out in their ill-fitting trousers and anoraks, scouring the pavements for dog-ends, minstreling in the Plains for Saturday pennies ' help to make the place interesting by giving it colour. By creating distraction in the day-to-day sameness.

Likewise, the premises these people keep. Give me the quirks of Mad Mack's any day over the soulless corporate chain pub. If you want your scotch in a pint glass, you can have it. If you want a beetroot and mustard sandwich, you don't need anyone to check with the kitchen.

Holland and Barrett or Jinni and Fee? What can I say? 'Haven't got enough? Settle up next time.' 'Bag a bit heavy? We'll drop it 'round.' 'Not sure if you'll like it? Give it a try ' you can always bring it back.' (unless it's yoghurt, of course¦ you have to draw the line somewhere!) Not a choice, really.

Mole, as I've mentioned before, is no businessman. If he thinks you're a bit skint, he'll ask you what you can afford ' then undercut you. He loves working on motors. It's all he knows. He approaches the work like a sculptor approaches a block of stone ' not as a chore, but as a creative challenge. Push a rust-bucket Cortina with shot gears and a cracked head into his yard and you'll see love kindle in his eyes.

Billy takes a similar approach. He operates his own interest-free lease-buy scheme for most of the dearer stuff ' and some of the cheaper stuff, too. No paperwork. Just a handshake and a bit of eye-contact. He claims those are all he needs to tell if you're worth the risk. A firm grip and a full-on ' you're okay. A handful of dead haddock and a squint ' get thee to MFI, sonny! As he says, "I can't see someone sleep on the floor for lack of a bit of bunce, can I?

Quite.

Hardly going to keep the cogs of capitalism greased, these practices. But then, ain't it supposed to be about giving the customers what they want? That's what Billy and Mole and Denise and Jinni and Fee do. Starbuck's would argue they do the same thing. It's just the motives that are different.

So for me, it's people like these who make a community ' however much a dive-hole it otherwise happens to be. Local people ' people you know, drink with, smoke with, malarkey with, live with ' who do their own thing and keep local money right there, where it belongs. Not as smart and stylish and monied as the corporations, but not as bland and impersonal either. And offering a bit more variety and flexibility into the deal.

Not everyone agrees, of course. Some people would gladly see half-a-dozen small shops swallowed up by some bloated hyper-monster, offering everything under one carapace. Some see the likes of The Bean Bag as belonging to a shabby, tapped out, hole-in-my-sock past; Mole's as a reminder of the terrible dark ages before 4x4s with ambience adjusters and fuck-off chrome bull-bars the size of farm gates ('dealer-wheelers', as they're known locally). They're the same people who desert the place in herds at the weekend for Bluewater, Lakeside and other sinks of chain-store chunder. The same people who are the first to moan that their High Street is drab¦ as if they'd ever used it enough to know.

Am I starting to sound bitter and twisted? Ah well¦ it's that time on a Sunday night, between the pints and the shorts, when I feel it the most. The disillusionment. The pissed-off-ness. The sense that all's wrong with the world and no one else realises it.

But it'll soon be a New Year, won't it. Time to shuck off the miseries. Be positive. Put the good things into view. Except that tonight, I heard something that's stoked the boilers a bit¦

Sherlock and I were sitting with Suzy and Trina for a change. The bar, our usual perch, was a bit crowded, and we're not the types to make noises about prior claims and historic associations. People can sit where they want to sit. So we sat with Suzy and Trina. Apart from anything else, it shows what social beasts we are.

We went through the usual scrapbook of subjects ' plus talk about their upcoming nuptials. Denise has offered the pub for the reception, which has been gratefully accepted. So that'll be one for the books, you can bet. They haven't fixed a date yet. Sometime in the spring they think ' when the trees are budding, the daffs are blooming and the council tax bills are dropping onto doormats. On the subject of which¦

"It's going to be a steep one this year, said Trina, who works for the Council and knows. "Bit of a black hole to fill¦ and the government's capped them, too. So something's going to give.

We drank our drinks, dwelling on this particular piece of uplifting news. Trina, considering everything, seemed particularly glum, though. Something was on her mind. Finally, Suzy nudged her, almost sending her drink flying.

"You might as well say, Suzy said. "It'll come out soon enough anyway.

Trina knocked back her wine and reached inside her carrier bag for a top-up.

"Fuck it, she said. "This is all confidential at the moment. If anyone finds out I've pulled the tab... She took a mouthful, then sighed and sank back into her corner. "But, to be frank, I couldn't really give a flying fart.

We pulled ourselves in closer, heads down, like a bunch of Labour back-benchers at a Tony Blair benefit night.

"It's all to do with this Com-Intern fiasco, Trina went on. "The gelled-haired spotty boys the Council brought in ' at great expense, I might add ' to handle benefit payments and collect the Council Tax. Con-Intern would have been more accurate. Seems they'd have been better employed rounding up cattle. Bit like getting Bill Gates to come and install your double-glazing.

I admit, I was wrestling with that image. It must have showed.

"Windows, Al?

Ahh!

"Exactly¦ most expensive workman, bit of confusion over the job requirements. Trina took another swig of red. "Anyway, to say they didn't do the job is like saying George Bush is a nitwit. So that was a tidy bundle down the river. Plus, the Council lost out on vital Government grants for failing to haul in the revenue. Result? Budget hole as deep as a lake.

Sherlock took his hat off and turned it around ' a sure sign of agitation. "Why am I starting to get the feeling that I'm going to need to get myself a life-jacket?

Trina grinned sardonically. "Well, a small dinghy might not go amiss. But like I said, the Council Tax won't be enough to soak all this up. So, where else do they get the money from?

We looked at her. Sherlock had an unlit rollie dangling from his lips and a lighter paused in front of it. "Is that a rhetorical question?

Suzy wiggled in her seat, nudging her bum against Trina's. Trina nudged back.
"I wish it was. But the answer's quite easy, really. The one big asset the Council's got is property. All kinds. Playing fields, school buildings, nurseries, shops, theatres. So, according to my little friend in Estates, it looks like there might be a bit of a boot fair coming up. And Cacksea'll most likely have a nice big trestle table all to itself.

I chuckled. "What have they got around here that's worth anything? The bogs on the seafront? That'll cover the pitch fee.

Trina skewered me with her eye.

"You can laugh, Al. You'd be surprised, though. The Sports Pavilion. The kid's adventure playground by the park. Small gems, but gems all the same. A whole necklace string of shops. The Esplanade Theatre's a sparkler, too. And then, of course, there's that big fat ruby ' Billy's Hippodrome.

I was tipping my glass, but I stopped and gazed at her over the rim. A nasty thought dropped into my head.

"I always thought Billy owned that place, Sherlock said.

He didn't ' though he'd been there so many years that it seemed like he did. He was as much a part of the fixtures and fittings as his own stock.

"He rents it, Trina said. "Always has. Been a good tenant, too. Always up to date.

"So, he should be alright, then, I said.

Trina shook her head. "Come on, Al. The thing is, the rent hasn't been reviewed for ages ' which is just as well, considering that Billy doesn't exactly turn a mint. What's the first thing a new owner's going to do? Hike it up to market value. They're going to want a decent return on their investment. He'd be squeezed out.

"Except, said Suzy, leaning in, "that ain't what'll probably happen.

"Right, said Trina. "If it does sell, Billy probably won't figure much in the deal. The buyer'll have bigger steaks to grill. So will the Council.

I wasn't sure if it was the beer or not, but I was starting to feel a little queasy ' not to mention a little confused. But then, it doesn't take much to confuse me lately, sober or otherwise.

"The thing is, Trina went on, "I wouldn't be a bit surprised to find that a 'buyer' has already been earmarked. Someone with enough cash to buy the place ' which is a nice big wedge in the Council's vaults ' and plenty left over to, as they like to say, evolve it.

We just looked at her again. The nasty thought in my head was beginning to evolve, too.

"What we have to do, said Trina, "is look at the bigger picture. Okay, it's a crummy town. But things are starting to happen. Money's moving in. People who can't afford to live in London, but need to be within reasonable commuting distance. We've seen the effect of that already. Building projects, tarting-up initiatives. And look at the new places that have opened up recently. A wine bar. A bistro. Boutiques. An art gallery. Who spends in these places? Certainly not the likes of us. There's money about. I mean, the average family saloon in town's more like a soddin' armoured personnel carrier now.

She took a large sip of her wine, then stared thoughtfully into her glass.

"The place is slowly becoming gentrified. So imagine what you could do with a renovated music hall building. A shopping arcade. A farmers' market. All the stuff the monied types want. So, the Council does very well out of it. Cash from the sale, evolvement at someone else's expense, revenue from new businesses, more monied types moving in¦ and on¦ and on¦

She finished her wine then and put her glass down on the table.

"But of course, she said, "This is all pure speculation at the moment. Who knows what'll happen?

Hm. Pure speculation. But it looked pretty clear, all the same. It's funny¦ they say you often don't see what's right in front of your eyes. You need to leave a place a few years and then come back. When you're there all the time, you don't notice. And you slag a place off¦ without thinking it could always be worse.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Well¦ maybe our own latest rich fellah might play a hand in it all, he said.

Trina smiled at him, then shook her head. "Nice thought. I think it'll need a darn sight more than Lemon's little bundle, though.

Suzy sat forward and pointed at our empty glasses.

"Refill, anyone?

Good idea, I think.