"I hope it snows tonight." After the recent white paralysis, I had to disagree with the bloke next to me at the bar.
My enthusiasm for the snow had been melting with the infinite flakes themselves - I love snow when it first arrives, but after a week or so its welcome fades and dies like a West Ham supporter's dreams.
But my opinion was changed for me when my newfound acquaintance said that if it snowed, he, as a homeless person, would have to be housed for the night. Apparently, it's the rules.
Officially, there are only a handful of homeless in Brighton. Unofficially, and in reality, there are many, many more out there, facing the city's weather and violent thugs with arsonist tendencies.
Brighton's image as a tourist destination is a huge priority for the council, which goes to great lengths to protect it. That's why they gave into the binworkers' strike, and it's why they're redeveloping London Road.
It's also why they surreptitiously 'relocate' Brighton's homeless to cities and towns with which they have no connection whatsoever. These extraordinary renditions take place without a murmur of publicity.
But Brighton's homeless have their defenders. One such, a full-time carer for an elderly relative, manages to get out each morning to collect spare food from the city's fast food outlets and then distribute his well-gotten gains to bodies slumped in doorways, garages and lock-ups.
The effort and commitment required to do this in all weathers, given the man's domestic commitments, is nothing short of Herculean. It's an inspiration to know that people like him exist.
Other supporters include the thousands of citizens - and tourists - who buy the Big Issue or donate spare change.
My Big Issue selling friend says he's half way to getting the funds together for his own place. In a few months, Brighton's official homeless figures will fall by a significant percentage if he is successful, but the unofficial numbers will remain a mystery, hidden by the carpet under which the council sweeps them on a daily basis.
Friday, 22 January 2010
Sunday, 17 January 2010
like moths to a lamp
So the third pub I visited yesterday was The Great Eastern. I was not in the best frame of mind, having witnessed a frustrating 0-0 draw with Hull.
I was ordering drinks when my friend got chatting to the bloke next to me. The guy spotted my Spurs scarf and said something jokily to my mate to the effect that I was bigger than he was and that he hoped I wasn't going to hit him.
I said, also joking, not unless you're a gooner or a chelsea fan - then added: "You're Chelsea, aren't you." He asked how I knew and produced a CFC season ticket.
"Just a knack," I said. The guy he was with was a Spurs fan as well, but pretty soon afterwards five other CFC supporters arrived. We stayed for a bit and had a laugh with them, then I and my partner in crime moved on to the Druids.
Recently in the St James Tavern, a couple of young lads came in and I said to one of them:"Do you support Arsenal?" The bloke insisted we must have met before and refused to believe that I can spot Chelsea, Arsenal or Spurs fans just by looking at them. These are people wearing ordinary civvies with no scarves, hats, badges or replica shirts.
I said the same thing once to the passenger sitting next to me on a flight back from Germany.
There are certain 'types' which help me to spot them.
But apart from my football-orientation radar, or FODAR, I suppose I'd better call it, I also seem to attract CFC and AFC wherever I go.
I can be buying a pint almost anywhere in the UK and the bloke next to me will be Arsenal or Chelsea.
I even found a couple of them sitting on the next table at breakfast at a B&B I was in on an awards-judging trip.
That wouldn't be so remarkable were it not for the fact that we were 150 miles from the nearest Premiership club, in Cornwall, and it was January and we were the only ones there. Once again, I guessed they were gooners before there was any firm evidence for it other than London accents.
It's difficult to describe the 'types' - as there is more than one 'type' associated with each club.
Arsenal fans can be looks-obsessed trendy youngsters, and are often black. There's an 'older' type of Arsenal fan, too, often distinguishable from 'older' Chelsea fans. CFC can be other than the usual Phil Mitchell stereotype, but they are there too. Spurs fans aren't too fussed about looks, are often grungy or bohemian-looking with long hair and non-designer stubble. They look as if they have something to say for themselves, they don't go with the mainstream flow. I always find that the Spurs wit is that bit more artful than the banter of the other London teams. As Crassus told Lavinia (? Spartacus's wife):"You tread the ridge between truth and insult with the skill of a mountain goat!"
So what to do about this curse? Well, (deep sigh) I'll guess I'll just have to live with it. After all, it's led to some lively conversations.
I could always give up drinking in pubs or going to football, but that's not gonna happen any time soon.
I was ordering drinks when my friend got chatting to the bloke next to me. The guy spotted my Spurs scarf and said something jokily to my mate to the effect that I was bigger than he was and that he hoped I wasn't going to hit him.
I said, also joking, not unless you're a gooner or a chelsea fan - then added: "You're Chelsea, aren't you." He asked how I knew and produced a CFC season ticket.
"Just a knack," I said. The guy he was with was a Spurs fan as well, but pretty soon afterwards five other CFC supporters arrived. We stayed for a bit and had a laugh with them, then I and my partner in crime moved on to the Druids.
Recently in the St James Tavern, a couple of young lads came in and I said to one of them:"Do you support Arsenal?" The bloke insisted we must have met before and refused to believe that I can spot Chelsea, Arsenal or Spurs fans just by looking at them. These are people wearing ordinary civvies with no scarves, hats, badges or replica shirts.
I said the same thing once to the passenger sitting next to me on a flight back from Germany.
There are certain 'types' which help me to spot them.
But apart from my football-orientation radar, or FODAR, I suppose I'd better call it, I also seem to attract CFC and AFC wherever I go.
I can be buying a pint almost anywhere in the UK and the bloke next to me will be Arsenal or Chelsea.
I even found a couple of them sitting on the next table at breakfast at a B&B I was in on an awards-judging trip.
That wouldn't be so remarkable were it not for the fact that we were 150 miles from the nearest Premiership club, in Cornwall, and it was January and we were the only ones there. Once again, I guessed they were gooners before there was any firm evidence for it other than London accents.
It's difficult to describe the 'types' - as there is more than one 'type' associated with each club.
Arsenal fans can be looks-obsessed trendy youngsters, and are often black. There's an 'older' type of Arsenal fan, too, often distinguishable from 'older' Chelsea fans. CFC can be other than the usual Phil Mitchell stereotype, but they are there too. Spurs fans aren't too fussed about looks, are often grungy or bohemian-looking with long hair and non-designer stubble. They look as if they have something to say for themselves, they don't go with the mainstream flow. I always find that the Spurs wit is that bit more artful than the banter of the other London teams. As Crassus told Lavinia (? Spartacus's wife):"You tread the ridge between truth and insult with the skill of a mountain goat!"
So what to do about this curse? Well, (deep sigh) I'll guess I'll just have to live with it. After all, it's led to some lively conversations.
I could always give up drinking in pubs or going to football, but that's not gonna happen any time soon.
Thursday, 14 January 2010
A worm of robins
It's got to be one of the worst collective nouns - a murder of crows sounds tasty; even a pride of lions, though familiar, conjures up images of big cats lounging about following a satisfying feed.
But 'a worm of robins'? It's pathetic, and it's insulting to these cute, dainty, flighted creatures beloved of every child. Can I think of anything better - hmm... how about a redbreast of robins, or simply a breast of robins, or a redness of robins...?
In any case, a worm of robins is the sight that greeted me this morning as I opened my curtains. They were darting in and out of a large bush which overhangs a garden wall opposite my flat.
Until this morning, the bush was covered in snow, but last night's rain washed it all away. Thinking about it, I've hardly heard a bird tweet in the past week - in fact, I've hardly seen a bird at all.
After more than a week of slipping, sliding and shivering, Brighton is starting to wake up. The schools are open again, the buses are running and the snow is almost gone.
Towards the end of the White Days, people started to get used to the cold conditions and accept them as almost normal. People started to venture out sans hat, scarf or gloves because the temperature outside was 2 degrees above freezing, and therefore comparatively mild.
We all started to realise why - whether this is a myth or not - the Inuits have 32 different words for snow. We learned the kind you can walk on (crunchy snow) and the kind you cannot (glass snow); the kind you from which you can free your car (soft slush) and the kind which keeps it stuck (thick, hard ice).
We learned which of us could march fearlessly along slippery pavements as if there were no snow, and which of us, yet young, plodded tentatively like pensioners scared of breaking a hip.
And we learned where we could keep warm. If not at home, then the pub - congratulations to the Ranelagh for its warm fire, and the Collonnade for its central heating.
Pubs have suffered during these bleak times, but, as usual, the brighter members of the licensed fraternity have come into their own. Congratulations to the St James for its warming apple rum punch.
Despite their efforts, prices continue to keep customers away - a pint of real ale is now commonly £3 or more. It's possible to cook a very tasty meal for that, and I recently bought three litres of cranberry juice at the Co-op for £2.50.
Regular drinkers may care to note that two pints a day in a pub, while roughly speaking within the unit limits set by government health chiefs, will cost you £180 a month. People looking to economise will either knock booze on the head or pick up a couple of tinnies from the supermarket to take home and watch in front of the telly.
I've been working recently for a property firm which sells pubs - and it reports booming sales - mostly to developers or entrepreneurs who want to turn them into flats, restaurants or shops. Pubs are doing themselves out of business, though of course they will blame the taxman.
The recent cold spell will be the death-knell for many pubs, coinciding with the month of January, when people are looking to tighten the purse-strings.
Next time round, we may remmeber which type of snow we can walk on, but we will have lost some of our favourite places to keep warm.
But 'a worm of robins'? It's pathetic, and it's insulting to these cute, dainty, flighted creatures beloved of every child. Can I think of anything better - hmm... how about a redbreast of robins, or simply a breast of robins, or a redness of robins...?
In any case, a worm of robins is the sight that greeted me this morning as I opened my curtains. They were darting in and out of a large bush which overhangs a garden wall opposite my flat.
Until this morning, the bush was covered in snow, but last night's rain washed it all away. Thinking about it, I've hardly heard a bird tweet in the past week - in fact, I've hardly seen a bird at all.
After more than a week of slipping, sliding and shivering, Brighton is starting to wake up. The schools are open again, the buses are running and the snow is almost gone.
Towards the end of the White Days, people started to get used to the cold conditions and accept them as almost normal. People started to venture out sans hat, scarf or gloves because the temperature outside was 2 degrees above freezing, and therefore comparatively mild.
We all started to realise why - whether this is a myth or not - the Inuits have 32 different words for snow. We learned the kind you can walk on (crunchy snow) and the kind you cannot (glass snow); the kind you from which you can free your car (soft slush) and the kind which keeps it stuck (thick, hard ice).
We learned which of us could march fearlessly along slippery pavements as if there were no snow, and which of us, yet young, plodded tentatively like pensioners scared of breaking a hip.
And we learned where we could keep warm. If not at home, then the pub - congratulations to the Ranelagh for its warm fire, and the Collonnade for its central heating.
Pubs have suffered during these bleak times, but, as usual, the brighter members of the licensed fraternity have come into their own. Congratulations to the St James for its warming apple rum punch.
Despite their efforts, prices continue to keep customers away - a pint of real ale is now commonly £3 or more. It's possible to cook a very tasty meal for that, and I recently bought three litres of cranberry juice at the Co-op for £2.50.
Regular drinkers may care to note that two pints a day in a pub, while roughly speaking within the unit limits set by government health chiefs, will cost you £180 a month. People looking to economise will either knock booze on the head or pick up a couple of tinnies from the supermarket to take home and watch in front of the telly.
I've been working recently for a property firm which sells pubs - and it reports booming sales - mostly to developers or entrepreneurs who want to turn them into flats, restaurants or shops. Pubs are doing themselves out of business, though of course they will blame the taxman.
The recent cold spell will be the death-knell for many pubs, coinciding with the month of January, when people are looking to tighten the purse-strings.
Next time round, we may remmeber which type of snow we can walk on, but we will have lost some of our favourite places to keep warm.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)