Two and a half years of lockdown later I found myself back on Blighty’s breezy shores. Brighton hasn’t changed much but if anything it has slipped slightly further down the scrungy, bohemian, dissolute tube. I have never seen so many worn puffer jackets and threadbare jeans on hard-faced, hard-swearing individuals and the craziness quotient (measured by people speaking loudly to themselves) was at a record level.
The sartorial picture seems to have forbidden the wearing of socks, even when the trousers are what we knew as “ankle swingers” back in the day. It’s still difficult, however, to know how many inside leg sizes you have to cut back on to achieve trousers which are half-way down your buttocks while still managing to be half-way up the shin. Where socks are worn, white flannel seems to be back in fashion which is so Essex 1970s that I felt transported to a different era.
Where Brighton truly scores is in the number of pubs and it was a delight to spend an evening in the wonderful Mash Tun. Reminded me that one drunken night in the Basketmakers (known colloquially as the Basket Weavers) a group of INTO colleagues agreed we should start an app where we entered scores and a description for every pub in Brighton. Needless to say, the idea petered out when even that battle-hardened crew couldn’t really remember too much about the five they went to on the first night of the project.
It was enjoyable to return to good old-fashioned jay-walking without fear of getting some sort of ticket. It is de rigueur in Brighton not to wait for the green man to flash which is probably because some green painted weirdo is always likely to usurp the electronic one and assault you. My only disadvantage was that I could not remember which way to look first to make sure that I wasn’t under the wheels of the many buses that thunder up and down Western Road.
It all came while I was still a bit jet-lagged from the flight. Being met by English accents from the cabin crew was disorienting and reminded me how used I have become to people not pronouncing their ‘t’s and have a nice day replacing please and thank you. British Airways just doesn’t seem to update itself and there is something very comforting about that.
But what is it with the plastic money? The feel of a polymer bank note is unpleasant and troubling after nearly three years of only dealing with the linen/cotton mix bills in the US. You can’t decently have the conversation about paying your bills in the UK with “fifty folding” anymore and my own wallet can’t really cope with the springy, spongy resilience of the new notes. Don’t get me started on pound and two pound coins – I’ve got totally used to small denomination paper as a means of carrying cash that doesn’t shred every pocket in your trousers.
Restaurant culture is also very different and as I waited for an eternity to order one night I reflected on the determined, upbeat sunniness of California waiters. For the first time I had reason to think that a lower starting wage and the possibility of a bigger tip was something worth considering. When it came to the bill at the end of the evening it was explained to me that the bill contained a 10% gratuity that was “not mandatory”. Coming from a place where 15% is worth spending and 20% not uncommon I was glad to take it as a bargain.
What there is to love, is the pre-prepared egg and cress sandwiches in the M&S/Waitrose/Sainsbury food halls, Walkers Cheese and onion crisps and chocolate covered rice cakes. The US has either passed by or not reached these simple delights and every lunchtime order is beset with questions of white or brown, mayo or ketchup, large or larger. There is a lot to be said for self-selection of a basic set of carbohydrates and some relatively low-calorie sweet stuff to fill the midday gap.
Trains have not got any better and my four hour journey from Norwich to Manchester was spent standing up in close proximity to strangers who thought that mask-wearing was for the Lone Ranger, Zorro and Kendo Nagasaki. While the Famous 41 travelling fans of King’s Lynn FC were amusing and drank enough to sink several battleships (probably more given recent news about the Russia’s flagship Black Sea missile cruiser, the Moskva), it was less than wholesome to have people keeping the toilet open throughout the journey to give themselves some breathing space. I decided discretion was the better part of valour and avoided negotiating railworks and strike action on the route from Manchester to London on Easter Sunday – my tip is to use Blackberry Cars if you need to do the same.
In between there was a wonderful Old Trafford moment where Cristiano Ronaldo rolled back the years to score a hat-trick and secure victory over Norwich which made my visit worthwhile. The fact that Norwich are bottom of the league and my team shuffled, strained and faltered means nothing when the result is a close fought victory. Thanks Cristiano and I share the world’s sympathy for the devastating loss of your son this week.
Despite the lack of mask wearing and acceptance of rampant COVID rates there was a strong reminder that the UK has still not really caught up with being open for business. Along with hordes of tourists I trawled Oxford Street and several other major London shopping haunts on Easter Sunday to find only shoe shops and, bizarrely, American Candy retailers taking money. Most of the visitors were as bemused as me to find that not even MacDonalds had opened its doors to allow people to celebrate the resurrection with Big Mac.
It’s also a reminder that despite my best efforts, along with the Shopping Hours Reform Council, back in 1994 the UK remains unwilling to allow shops to serve customers when they want. Easter Sunday means shops over 3,000sq ft have to be closed and there was further regression in 2004 when legislation meant they had to close on Christmas Day even if it wasn’t a Sunday. All this despite a 2014 poll where 72% of people said they should be able to shop when its convenient for them.
It reminded me of the Thursday night in December 1994 when one of our ASDA PR coups was to open Clapham Junction store for 24-hours immediately before Christmas – the first superstore to take advantage of deregulation. People came from all over London and CEO Archie Norman was spotted packing bags at 2am in the morning as one of the PR team, Julie Eaton, whizzed products over the scanner. As Frankie Valli didn’t sing, “oh what a night, late December back in 94”.
It was a fine moment to rank alongside getting the Lord’s to table an amendment to the Shop Hours Act in 1994 to ensure that Good Friday did not have the same licensing hours in shops as Easter Sunday. The British Retail Consortium wouldn’t engage so I spent a lovely afternoon in the Lord’s tea room briefing a Labour peer who took up the challenge. Without the change people wouldn’t have been able to buy alcohol in stores on Good Friday before 10am and that would be dumb.
I even managed to complete the shopping task of a case load of UK chocolate, Malden Sea Flakes and a sunscreen that is not available in the US then get a COVID free test before I flew back to the sunny climes of California. Having got my second booster the week before going I gave myself the best chance but the trains, planes, pubs and 74,000 at Old Trafford must have tested my good fortune to the limit. A good trip all round and I’ll be back.
Image by Hands off my tags! Michael Gaida from Pixabay
