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Mark Steel’s In Town
Mark Steel
On the way to a show in Skipton, in North Yorkshire, I noticed a road sign to a town called Keighley. So later, during the show, I mentioned this, asking the audience 'Is that your rival town?' And the room went chillingly quiet, until one woman called out with understated menace, 'Keighley is a sink of evil.'Based on his award-winning BBC Radio 4 series, Mark Steel's ‘In Town’, is a celebration of the quirks of small town life in a country of increasingly homogenized high streets. Steel's bespoke observations on the small, sometimes forgotten, towns of Britain goes right to the heart of British culture today, championing the very people who shape the places we live in now.‘As everywhere hurtles along a route towards being identical to everywhere else, it seems any expression of local interest or eccentricity is becoming a yell of defiance. Scrape away the veneer of Wetherspoons and Pizza Hut-inspired uniformity, and the march of Tesco's towards being reclassified as a continent, and Britain is as magnificently diverse as ever, and ready to celebrate each distinct community. The elements of a town that make it unique are what make it worth visiting; they change a journey from being functional to being an experience. For example, one drizzly dark February afternoon as I came out of the station at Scunthorpe, I got in a minicab, and the driver didn't even look at me, but kept staring straight ahead as he said, 'I don't know what you've come here for, it's a fucking shit-hole.'’Unearthing some of Britain's most unusual tourist attractions, and noting local quirks and habits, Steel's journey takes him through the backwaters of England, up to Scotland and across to Ireland, where he encounters a country united by a peculiar ingrained sense of pride, no matter which village, town or city, to give a refreshing take on Britain, its people and its places.
Mark Steel’s
In Town
COPYRIGHT (#ulink_9b0e0130-1d87-563a-a2d8-46955c48556d)
First published in Great Britain in 2011 by Fourth Estate
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.4thestate.co.uk (http://www.4thestate.co.uk)
The right of Mark Steel to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
IN TOWN. Copyright © Mark Steel 2011.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.
Source ISBN: 9780007412426
Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2011 ISBN: 9780007412433
Version: 2015-01-21
DEDICATION (#ulink_f0f86299-5b74-55cb-bbfe-cb1f368af352)
This book is dedicated to all the people
who’ve lived in history, in towns or other places,
without whom it would not have been possible.
Contents
Cover (#ulink_8ab0d351-a38e-500c-83f0-e4b8c43f9465)
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Introduction
Penzance
New Towns: Basingstoke, Crawley, Milton Keynes
Birmingham
Didcot, Oxford
Wilmslow
Wigan
Horwich
London
Outer London
Hereford
Norwich
Boston
Surrey
Merthyr Tydfil
Edinburgh
Orkney
Dumfries
Andersonstown
Colchester
Exeter
Portland
Motorways
Yorkshire
Nottingham
Coventry
Walsall
Lewes
Gateshead
Kent
Bristol
Conclusion
Bibliography
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by the Author
About the Publisher
INTRODUCTION (#ulink_fe9a61d5-7b15-5880-9a7f-e7d52097c7bb)
What’s the point in going anywhere if the place you go to is the same as the one you left? Who’d bother going on a holiday that was advertised as: ‘Visit the magic of the Seychelles, it’s IDENTICAL to your own house.’
Imagine if in Tunisia, instead of the background of the call to prayers, the mosques played Magic FM. Or if Paris didn’t have that slightly exotic drainy smell, because EU regulations had compelled the place to be cleaned with Jif.
Once, in the New York subway, a huge woman barged into me and yelled, ‘Hey, out my way asshole!’ And it was marvellous, because that’s what’s supposed to happen in New York. It was as exciting as when I was nineteen and went to Amsterdam and bought a lump of dope off a man in a woolly hat but it turned out to be mud.
After taking the trouble to go to the Lake District you want it to smell of cow pats, and at Blackpool you want everything to look as if it should be in a Carry On film.
Having toured Britain plenty of times, usually to talk to an audience for the evening, I find these local quirks compelling. For example, on the way to Skipton, in North Yorkshire, I noticed a road sign to a town called Keighley. Later, during the show, I asked the audience, ‘Is Keighley your rival town?’ And the room went chillingly quiet, until one woman called out with understated menace, ‘Keighley – is a sink of evil.’
There was something delightful about this, because it was an expression of specifically Skipton malevolence.
Similarly, I went to Merthyr Tydfil, a blighted town at the top of the Rhondda Valley that’s been shut down bit by bit. After the show the manager of the theatre told me, ‘People often come in and ask what time a performance is starting, so I’ll tell them, “It starts at seven-thirty,” and they’ll say, “Oh, that’s a pity. I won’t be able to come to that, as I’ll be drunk by then.”’
And somehow there was a warmth to hearing that, because it was a story of distinctly Merthyr despair.
Before appearing in Stockton-on-Tees, in the North-East, I was sent a message on Twitter by a local resident that said: ‘This town is where Joseph Walker invented the safety match in 1834. Before that, when we wanted to set fire to upturned stolen cars we had to rub two sticks together.’
And before my visit to Cambridge, someone sent me a message about the town saying, ‘This place is Hogwarts for wankers.’ It was a cosy thought, because it could only apply to Cambridge, and ought to be the slogan on the masthead of the local paper.
The elements of a town that make it unique are what make it worth visiting. But also, any expression of local interest or eccentricity is becoming a yell of defiance.
Because the aim of society now seems to be to make every city centre so depressingly identical that if our town planners were put in charge of Athens, they’d knock down the Parthenon and replace it with a shopping mall called ‘The Acropolis Centre’, with an announcement that there was much excitement, as the new centre would have a River Island and a Nando’s.
You could be dropped blindfolded into a city centre you’d never been to before, and guess correctly that there’d be a Clinton Cards just there, then a Vodafone, Carphone Warehouse, Boots, Specsavers and Next just there, with the anti-vivisection stall there, and on a Saturday you’d hear a ‘pheep’ and know the Peruvians were about to start on the pan pipes just there, and within the hour they’d have pheeped their way through ‘Mull of Kintyre’ and ‘I Just Called to Say I Love You’ and ‘Ob-la-di Ob-la-fucking-da’, as I believe it’s now officially called.
With equal confidence you could predict that just out of town there’d be a concrete expanse containing a giant Tesco, PC World, Majestic Wine Warehouse, Comet, Dreams, and an unfathomable junction with traffic lights facing in all directions that makes no difference anyway, as every turning forces you into the car park at Iceland and there seems to be no way of escaping except by reversing through the checkout at Carpet Right.
Somewhere in this world there must be someone who is immensely proud of having invented the multi-storey car park, which is often the introduction to a new town, as you sink into the trance that allows you to endure the shuffle through traffic towards this disturbing dungeon, where you descend and descend through a chilling gloom that would make Richard Dawkins say, ‘Bollocks to that, I’m sure there are ghosts down here,’ to level 5, where you think you spot a space but it turns out to be an illusion created by a snugly placed Fiat Uno, past levels 5a and 5b, so you’ve now forgotten what natural sunlight could ever be, like future generations forced to live in a bunker following a nuclear war, until you find a gap by a leaking pipe that leads to a line of green slime. At which point you’re unlikely to take a deep breath, like a nineteenth-century traveller, and exclaim, ‘Aha, and this is Taunton.’
Later you’ll have to queue at the one paypoint that hasn’t got a sheet of paper with a wonky ‘Out of order’ sign Sellotaped to it, which will be two floors away and up some steps that are so grimy that if you meet someone coming the other way it seems impolite not to murder them.
It’s not the ugliness of modern towns, in a Prince Charles sense, that makes them so dispiriting; it’s the soullessness. You know they’ve been plonked there as a result of some regional coordinating business advisory committee that’s copied the model of what’s been built in 3,000 other towns.
It’s as if they’re part of a new world, of call centres and chain pubs and clubs, in which the faceless corporation dictates how a town looks and lives and even, with its scripts for the staff of restaurants and call centres, speaks.
So the shops, the customs, the traditions and accents, the hip-hop lyrics, the football chants, the absurd rivalries that apply to one area are preserved almost as an act of rebellion, in place because the people who live with them have kept them going, and not because they’ve been placed there following a board meeting in Basingstoke.
This book is about some of those glorious human differences that comprise the heart of each town. It follows a series I made for BBC radio. Sometimes I’m asked how I select the towns to write about, but I’m not sure of the answer. I did feel a twinge of power when a butcher told me he’d gone to Skipton with his wife for a weekend after hearing one of the shows – for a moment I knew how Nigella Lawson must feel when she mentions that she sometimes has a gherkin with cheese on toast, and by ten o’clock the next morning some idiot’s bought the world’s supply of gherkins.
But as far as I’m aware I choose them fairly randomly, because the main point is that you can look at anywhere at all, and within a day discover enough history, grubbiness, madness and inspiration to realise that it is a distinct and unique cauldron of humanity.
For example, one drizzly dark February afternoon as I came out of the station at Scunthorpe, I got in a minicab, and the driver didn’t even look at me, but kept staring straight ahead as he said, ‘I don’t know what you’ve come here for, it’s a fucking shithole.’
And that’s made me remember Scunthorpe ever since.
Penzance (#ulink_3a85f66f-8122-526c-ba0a-9ae8d1da3c98)
In a spirit of rebellion, I’ll start at the end.
If you go to Penzance by train, you will get fooled, even if you’ve done it before. Less than three hours after leaving you get to Plymouth, and think, ‘Oh, we’re nearly there. I thought it took six hours to Penzance as that’s what it said at the station and it’s what the announcer said but it can’t take that long because we’ve gone 230 miles and there’s less than sixty left, so I’ll start collecting my things together.’
Then the train squeaks across the River Tamar into Cornwall and puffs to Liskeard at the speed of a family of refugees trudging through Somalia, stops at Bodmin and St Austell and places with no discernible buildings so the only reason to get off would be to study the station platform or the nearby flora and fauna, then the buffet bar shuts and the squeaks of the wheels get louder and you expect the next announcement to inform you that at Truro the train will be replaced by a mule and a man in a poncho chewing tobacco who mutters, ‘Head two days along the pass to Redruth and follow the track known as Devil’s Dump to Certain Death Passage, then take the right fork past Camborne.’
Penzance station is the end. It’s not like other terminals, where there’s a branch line to somewhere: the train rolls exhausted into a huge shed and stops in front of a wall. And the town feels as if it’s at the end, with a slight disregard even for the rest of Cornwall for making such a half-hearted effort at being west, an attitude of ‘Plymouth? That’s practically Japan.’ I can only imagine the contempt they have for Polperro, in eastern Cornwall, which boasts on its tourist website: ‘Polperro is easily accessible from everywhere in the world.’ There isn’t even a proper road into Polperro, so you need a couple of flights, a hovercraft and three days in a canoe to get there from the next village. So it seems unfair that a Bedouin tribesman in the middle of the desert might see this website and think, ‘At last, a holiday destination we can get to.’
There’s a sense that Penzance likes its isolation. Because it doesn’t feel as if it’s dependent on tourism, it’s a proper seaside town. There’s no pedalo hire and crazy golf, it carries on with its fishing and its High Street with charity shops and pubs that seem dark even in August, but then you look up and there are palm trees and a sunset over the Atlantic.
There’s even an endearing disdain for tourists, as expressed in the pamphlet How to be Proper Cornish, that tells us for example, ‘Though fish do form a large part of a Cornish man’s diet, not all fish is fit to be put on the table. Some, such as scad and ling, is only fit for the cat. Or for tourists.’
I caught a similar attitude when I hired a pushbike to cycle to the very very end, Land’s End itself, and the man in the shop answered my request with a grunt, but one that was in a Cornish accent, which was impressive and rude at the same time, as if he’d picked up a handful of balls and juggled with them so they spelt ‘Fuck off’. Eventually he fetched the rustiest, clankiest bike in the shop, almost threw it at me and said, ‘There you are – you know how to use it, do you?’ The bike and I clattered across the hills the ten miles to Land’s End, and it was thrilling, this sense of getting right to the far end of the country, especially as it was windy and thick with a deep sweet aroma of compost, and then everything is called the Last of its kind, so there’s a Last Inn and a Last Post Office and probably a Last Nail Salon and a Last Branch of Social Services, and as I descended through the village of Sennen and even past that I anticipated the absolute end, where there’d be nothing but a blustery cliff and I’d stand on a rock for a poignant moment, but instead I turned a corner into the Land’s End Experience, where there’s a tiny shopping mall with a sweet shop, a clothes shop, a cinema and a permanent Doctor Who exhibition.
Why? Who thought this would attract people to Land’s End? There’s only one reason for going to Land’s End, which is that it’s at the end of the land. That’s its unique selling point, whereas if you try to get people there for any other reason, the fact that it’s so far tends to work against it. For example if you lived in Leicester and fancied looking at a replica Cyberman before buying a shirt and some butterscotch, you still wouldn’t go to this shopping mall, because it’s at Land’s Fucking End.
I felt cheated, as Captain Scott would have if he’d arrived at the South Pole to find a branch of Caffè Nero.
But right at the end was the famous signpost, saying John o’Groats 874 miles, New York 3,147 miles, so I decided I’d take a picture of that. Except that I had a cup of tea, went out to the signpost, and it had gone. There were some moments of panic, the sort you’d have if you were at the Taj Mahal, bent down to tie up your laces then looked up and it had disappeared. Then I noticed a sign saying it’s £10 to have your picture taken there, and at half past five the people who take the money lock away the signpost and leave. It’s literally locked away, in a metal trunk, and secured in a hut. And that, I contend, makes it the most magnificently mean-spirited tourist attraction in the country.
It’s even worse when you consider that at the other end of this expanse of sea is the Statue of Liberty, resplendently marking its territory, and not, as far as I know, above a plaque saying ‘Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses – from 9.00 a.m. to 5.30 p.m. sharp when we close.’
